Night Train to Marrakech

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'Dear sir,' he said in clear and comprehensible Arabic, 'this is not a nightclub. There are children here. This is not a nightclub.'

I had no idea what he meant.

The American gripped my shoulders and turned me toward him. 'Will you please tell this man we were sleeping?' He was young and remarkably tall, with large green eyes and a shock of blond hair that hung down over his face and that he kept combing back with his fingers. 'We were only sleeping,' he repeated, mouthing the words as though I were reading his lips. 'Comprendez-vous?'

I turned back to the conductor and translated: 'He says he was sleeping.'

The conductor was livid and, in his excitement, dropped once more into an incomprehensible Berber dialect. He began gesticulating wildly, his movements meant to indicate his sincerity. I was to understand that he would not be in such a fit over a sleeping couple. He had children, he kept saying. He was a father; he was a Muslim. There was more, but I stopped listening. My attention had fallen completely on the other person in the cabin.

She was sitting directly behind the man, purposely obscured by him: legs crossed casually, hands folded on her lap. Her hair was disheveled and her cheeks radiated heat. She wasn't looking directly at us, but rather observing the scene through the bowed reflection we cast on the window.

'Did you tell him we were sleeping?' the American asked me.

'I don't think he believes you,' I replied.

Though taken aback by my English, he was too shocked by the accusation to pursue it. 'He doesn't believe me? Great. What's he going to do, stone us to death?'

'Malcolm!' the woman cried out, louder than it seemed she'd meant to. She reached up and pulled him down next to her.

'Fine,' Malcolm said with a sigh. 'Just ask him how much he wants to go away.' He fumbled in his shirt pockets and took out a wad of tattered multicolored bills. Before he could fan them out, I stepped in front of him and put my arms out to the conductor.

'The American says he is sorry,' I said. 'He is very, very sorry.'

Taking the conductor's arm, I led him gently to the door, but he would not accept the apology. He again demanded their passports. I pretended not to understand. It all seemed a bit histrionic to me. Perhaps he had caught the couple acting inappropriately, but that would have warranted little more than a sharp rebuke. They were young; they were foreigners; they did not understand the complexities of social decorum in the Muslim world. Surely the conductor understood that. And yet he seemed genuinely disturbed and personally offended by this seemingly inoffensive couple. Again he insisted he was a father and a Muslim and a virtuous man. I agreed, and promised I would stay with the couple until we reached Marrakech.

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