She of the Smokeless Fire

If artificial intelligence was prompted to write the most Neverman-esque ramble based on Uncharted archives, it would likely begin with Vic holding a beer in a faraway desolate location talking to a strange French chick. Fine. I’m predictable. Guilty as charged. But good luck keeping up from there, Claude. This story may begin as a prototypical Neverman tale, but only the jankiest a.i. hallucinatory slop could predict what happens next. Yes, tipsy Vic dances with a mysterious mademoiselle, but wait!, there’s more! This story has ski-less Finns!, fire!, more fire!, fig jam… which may or may not have been infused with hashish!, and: the mysterious mademoiselle may not actually be a woman at all! Not saying she was a dude! No. No she was a lady, absolument! Just not necessarily a human lady. 

Allow me to explain something to our less superstitious a.i. data gobblers… In this part of the world, North Africa, prevailing sentiment has it a creator god first made man out of clay. As one would. The powers-that-be (or, powers-which-were) then made a second entity. An entity made of smokeless fire.

Voilá! Colette. She of the smokeless fire. 

The Agafay Desert lies south of Marrakech in the dusty hills between mountains and ocean. “It’s a shit-pile of rocks” reads the tourist brochure, “but it is easier to get to than the Sahara”. While the pebble-quarry alone lacks allure, if you gaze above & beyond the moonscape you’ll find Atlas holding aloft the celestial spheres. These mountains are worthy of inspiring the ancients. It was across this scenery I tore about like a fucking lunatic banshee on holiday, climbing foothills on my all-terrain 4-wheeler to eventually reach a camel ranch. At the ranch I was served tea. With tea came dusk. With dusk came Colette. 

Where & when did she materialize? The shit-pile of rocks is barren; it would be easy to notice upright primates (or anthropomorphic fire entities) against the lunar backdrop. Colette I would have not missed. She absolutely was not among the sunburnt mis-adventurers brrap-brrr-brraaaaapping about on quads. Was she waiting at the camel ranch all along?, hiding?, patiently?, like a desert flower which blooms only with the departure of sun? 

Mystérieuse, non?

Before she arrived, I’ll be honest: I was a miserable little shit. I was saddle-sore & overheated, using my sweat to wipe the dust out of my eyes. And the umpteenth cup of tea left me over-caffeinated with a nagging bladder. I really did not care for the others in the motorcade; it was the full spectrum of asshole weekender: every shape, size & tongue playing Mad Max in the desert. Most were Euro-hippies with trust-funds or gutter-punks who stole their father’s pension money. Each tourist was either too slow or way too fast, always too loud, often strung-out on drug, and those who were too drunk were not sharing the contents of their cooler. I am looking at you: the pair of ski-less Finns. Veeti & Tauno. Tauno & Veeti. Two beefy red-bearded vikings with schoolgirl gigglishness. Veeti, who dressed like a Victorian era tomb-raider, and Tauno, who had gone troppo, dressing in the traditional Berber djellaba robes to resemble a wizard. When they brought out their cooler at the camel ranch, I offered all the Dirham coin in my pocket for one cold beer. Sorry-bro-my-man, they responded in English. There wasn’t enough to go around. 

Hands deep in my jean pockets, I sulked away. Or as the Finns would say, kadota kuin piera Saharan. I disappeared like a fart in the Sahara. 

Much of the hi-jinx between Veeti & Tauno were inside jokes made to each other in Finnish. When the Finns wanted to speak with the Moroccans they would speak French, the common local parlance. When the Finns wanted to entertain the masses, they would boast their bullshit humor loudly in English, the universal mutt language. 

Hahaha, Veeti would laugh as he popped open a bottle of champagne, saying, Tauno!, you are hairier than a Russian’s third testicle! Tauno would look carefully over his shoulder for any offendable Russians before saying, yes!, this is true! There was a time when nothing was hairier than the third testicle of a Russian. No longer! Now my hairiness surpasses even that! Ho-ho!, ah-ha!

It was schtick. Veeti the tomb-raider would scold his fellow Finn and Tauno would play along. Shit!, Veeti would announce in English for all the sunburnt to hear. I have stepped in camel shit! Tauno!, where were you? To not step in this camel shit first? If you had stepped here first there would be less camel shit for me to step into! Yes!, Tauno would say from under his wizard hood, this is true! Had I not lagged behind and stepped in the dung before you, your misfortune would be so much the less! Ha-ha, ho-ho!

28 hours later, jotting these notes while drinking a pisco sour in Marrakech, I find myself in a better mood. In retrospect, the Finns’ doofusishness is charming. But at the time, I was the aforementioned miserable little shit. After being disappointed with the Finns in Agafay, I distanced myself from the cool kid’s table and stood alone at the edge of the camel camp to gaze upon the fading light of the sun as it reflected off the Atlas snow-peaked mountains. 

This is when Colette appeared. 

Onirique. Out of nothing. As if the sun had to depart for her to ignite. 

With the camels groaning & gargling phlegm, Colette stepped into the waning light beside me, basking in the purple hues of the snowy peaks. Her eyes were teary. I realized I was holding my breath. 

Oh!, I said by way of introduction before gasping for air. Bonjour, she smiled. Fool that I am, I decided to try my luck with her language and quoted one of Paul Bowles desert tales. I said, la chaleur complique la vis. 

Simple enough. Right? Then why did her eyes widen in shock? The shock then turned to laughter. Not mockery, but not not mocking. Colette then explained to me, saying, “la vie”. Not “la vis”. La vie is “the life”. Instead you said “heat complicates the screw”. 

Ah. Ah ha. I guess I need to reconsult my Paul Bowles. She gave me a forgiving smile and left my side to join the ski-less Finns who were sitting around a table of mint tea and other fun refreshments. 

As I write these notes from the comforts of Kabana Cocktail Lounge, I cannot help but laugh at how quickly my demeanor improved. One interaction with Colette, even as fucking dumb as I acted, transformed me from miserable shit to delighted fool in the time it took for her to flash a smile. 

If I am going to keep telling this story I’m going to need another pisco sour. 

As the sun set last night, vans arrived to the camel ranch rendezvous point to transport the bone-rattled wanderers uphill & overhill & up again to a former French Foreign Legion outpost turned entertainment venue. Dinner & a show & then some. The hilltop fortress was already crowded with dozens of sunburnt wanderers before we fresh hell arrived. Having lost her scent, I darted between the bow-legged bodies until I spied the Frenchwoman enter a large tent. At the time, I had yet to learn her name, but it would not be long. Finding her sitting at a low table, I hurried my way to a neighboring table, sitting my dusty ass down on a floor pillow with an audible oof! as my legs gladly surrendered. Colette was distracted with the conversation of those damned Finns while I ignored those who came to occupy my table. Outside, the crowd thickened & swarmed as music began to play from a legion of speakers. Identifying the shepherd boy who served food, I ordered a Corona, a Coca-Cola and chicken tagine. A few juggling acrobats made their way to my table; I tossed miscellaneous coin in their direction and waved them away. I tore into my chicken & couscous with abandon, but it was far more food than I required. My neighboring table had been mostly vacated as Colette’s companions left for the dance floor. She alone remained. It was time to say something. Anything. 

Reaching out my chicken tagine dish to gain Colette’s attention, I asked, would you like a drumstick?

I never claimed to be a lady’s man. 

In my favor, if a woman ever offered me her chicken leg, I would swoon. Colette, however, naturally, turned down my offer. But she did engage. She was Colette. I was Vic. Vic Neverman, l’homme qui n’a jamais été. We shared origin stories & travel itineraries. She was laughing. Not when I intended, but it was my words which brought her laughter nevertheless. She invited me to her table as her entourage regrouped and ordered more tea. I brought my leftover chicken & couscous. When served tea, I sweetened my glass with what I thought was honey, but was instead something of a figgy jam. Tauno, one of the ski-less Finns, took my tagine dish and shuffled couscous into his mouth with his right hand (which is proper Moroccan etiquette; one should never use their ass-wiping left hand) and sucked the meat clean off the drumstick. After belching, he patted his stomach and said, Allah forgives. 

The tea was too sweet. Yet tangy. My lips became numb; foreign from my face. And then my face melted. My memory of the night blurs after that. My Corona lasted for hours. There was dancing to African house music in the courtyard. Dozens of dozens of us. Where did we come to? So far from home. Why were we where? Veeti was dancing like a maniac. Tauno was making-out with the breeze. Colette moved subtly, seductively, arms swaying like waves of flame. Her feet had become music notes which controlled the music bumping through the speakers. The masses around us moved as the stoned cobras of Djemma el-Finaa. 

l’intimité des étrangers!, I sang with the music, the intimacy of strangers!, we are no strangers to intimacy! L’intimité ne nous est pas étrangère! L’infini ne nous est pas étranger! L’infini! L’infini! No stranger to infinity. 

Spun dizzy, I climbed out of the dance pit, past the latrines and the kitchen to the darkest shade of the hill and steadied my world by gazing up. Everything down here was revolving. Only the stars remained fixed. L’infini! The only thing familiar on this moon was the stars. 

The freneticism of the rave simmered after a few months. Years. Epochs. Sometime after the fall of man, the crowds dribbled as a collective puddle to the fighting pit where a pyromaniac danced & blazed. The Moroccan fire-dancer ended his performance and, burping up kerosene, worked the crowd for baksheesh. A slow procession of delirious pilgrims returned to the vans & buses revving engines in chilling darkness of pre-dawn morning. I had not seen Colette since the dusty dance floor, but spotted her during the mass exodus. If I could find a seat aboard her bus, the night flight back to Marrakech would offer me a last chance at getting to know her. And so I followed. In my haze, I followed where she led. Beyond the sandy plateau which served as parking lot. A Moroccan halted me, redirecting to a vehicle. M’sseur, he insisted. This bus will deliver you home. Thanks, but…, I explained to him how I’d rather go thataway. I tried reasoning with the man. As long as it gets me back to the Marrakesh, I don’t care where in the city I am delivered. I moved again to follow Colette. 

Friend, friend, listen to me…, the Moroccan said, this is your path home. 

He was sincere. Interrogating the fog of memory all these hours later, I ponder the decision made. How much was lost by following his direction? How much was won? 

Am I not still astray? Even tonight, like the possessed Pepé le fucking Pew levitating after an alluring scent, I’m led along strange paths. Entranced, the scent brought me to Kabana Cocktail Lounge. 

In Agafay, I overheard the ski-less Finns discuss this bar. At the off-chance Colette would find herself here, I arrived at the Kabana rooftop with the sunset watchers. As patrons gathered along the viewing deck, I opted for a perch at the bar. I settle into my piscos and sure enough here come the Finns… Veeti looks like a yacht club commodore. Tauno is still in his unwashed djellaba, stinking of camel. They pace like caged lions at the bar as they wait for their table reservation. Two sunburnt Nordic blonde women, Neanderthal tall, chitter at each other in skimpy dresses as high up as my collarbone. The women accept champagne flutes brought to them by the Finns. I listen to the foursome banter in English. Veeti is blaming Tauno for his hangover. I swear to you!, Veeti says to Tauno, one of these days, I shall take you out behind the sauna!

The Finns do not recognize me. I keep an ear in their direction, but remain facing forward on my rattan bar stool, listening to the Cuban love songs played by the Moroccan jazz band. This tropical atmosphere is more Brazil or Miami than a desert town. The Old Medina feels continents away despite the sound of the muezzin announcing the last call to worship. 

No signs of Colette.

Marrakech is haunted. This much I am certain. No longer baffled with the medieval maze of streets, I can find my way home blindfolded through the souk passageways, across the Djemma el-Finaa, along the Derb Jamaa to my side-alley riad entrance. I’m past any cultural shocks & spooks. No, I am haunted by something much more personal. My first night in the riad, my toiletries were emptied into the toilet as I slept. Completely upended. Into a pool of my own mellowing piss. No one else was in the room. Nothing human. Something did not want me here in Marrakech. I had to find a new toothbrush.

There are legends of Aisha Kandisha, legends no one speaks of. The djinn are not to be mentioned. Not out loud. “The changed ones”, they’ll say. The entities born of smokeless fire. The folklore of Aisha Kandisha can be traced to the Phoenicians & the later Carthaginians who had sea ports along the coast of North Africa long before the Arabs brought Islam west. With the Phoenician trade routes came Babylonian myths of Umm al Duwais. I first heard of Umm al Duwais when I was on the Persian Gulf, listening to ancient pearl diver tales of a seductress who lured men into the sea. Aisha Kandisha is the Maghreb evolution of this legend. Beautiful, sultry, perfumed, Aisha Kandisha takes the form of a woman who appears out of the desert and lures travelers astray. The only sign of something wrong is her feet, which resemble the hooves of a camel. 

Two pisco sours followed by a couple drafts of Flag Spéciale lager and I have befriended the Moroccan bartenders of Kabana. They are led by an old haus herr, a German chemist who mentors the young Moroccans in the ways of mixology. When they stir-up a cocktail, they seek the German’s approval. Haus Herr takes a straw to sample the elixir and provides feedback in excellent Arabic. Or what sounds pretty excellent to my oblivious ears. 

When I ask my bartender, Mohammad, to create a cocktail for me with the essence of Morocco, he is up for the challenge. He chooses a French gin, Palmaráe, distilled with Moroccan spices. Sweet?, spicy?, Mohammad inquires my preference. Spicy, I say to him, like Aisha Kandisha. Mohammad’s hands pause and he looks sideways for support. His boss, the German, arrives at his side and says they do not speak that name in here. Apologies, I say, putting a hand over my heart. Okay, I say to Mo as I look at the fruit spread between us, how about raspberries?

What is this?, Veeti asks. I have forgotten the Finns. They do not recognize me, but are drawn with curiosity to my cocktail. It’s a new cocktail Mo mixed, I say, I call it “Smokeless Fire”. It’s tangy. A little evil. Veeti & Tauno order four Smokeless Fires for their table, thanking me with and lift of their glass, kiitos! 

Before you go…, I say to the Finns, do you recall?, we met last night in Agafay… They do not remember any Americans but Tauno does remember my chicken leg. Yes!, the Finns smile, you are the man of chicken! Are you friends with Colette?, I ask, the beautiful French woman? Which?, there are many beautiful French, they say with escalating laughter. I sort through pictures on my phone as their chuckles subside, but she’s not in any image. I describe Colette in detail, but the more I try to describe her the more I realize she’s indescribable. I only believe her French from her words. 

Veeti & Tauno are leaning away from me, closer to the dance floor, as I persist with my questions. I describe Colette with what little detail can be recollected. The teary eyes. The lower lip. The naked ear lobe. The feet of music notes. 

Ha!, Tauno laughs. Music notes? Ha!, Veeti laughs. Women have no such shoes. Ha!, Tauno laughs. Are you sure she did not possess the feet of a camel?

Everyone is laughing but me. I feign a smile.