Larbi was a gardener and caretaker and lived and worked in and around his boss’s garage, sleeping on an old sofa, washing at the deep cement sink where the maid washed clothes during the day. He earned about 100 dirhams a month.

He had paid about 2,500 dirhams to his uncle for Latifa, his cousin. He was very happy about it, and had told all his friends and acquaintances around his boss’s house. He wanted to have lots of children, he told his boss. He asked for leave to go home and get married. It would take a week or two to organise things, because he hadn’t been home for a year. Once married he would bring Latifa back to Rabat and try to find new lodgings for them both. His life would change a lot.

So he took a taxi into town, waited at the station for the bus, and began the long journey south.

Once married he would bring Latifa back to Rabat and try to find new lodgings for them both. His life would change…

When he got to the souq nearest home, he stopped to buy a couple of sheep, a sack of flour, chickens, couscous, almonds, spices, tea and sugar, provisions for the long marriage celebrations. He did not wonder why no one had come to meet him in response to his telegram.

He was on the point of loading the protesting sheep aboard the little Honda van that doubled as a taxi, when he saw his uncle coming to him through the crowd.

“The marriage is off,” the uncle said brusquely. He was saying it for the second time before Larbi really heard him: “We got a better match for her.”

The uncle apologised. He didn’t mention the 2,500 dirhams and Larbi did not even think of them. Neither did he ask his uncle what he should now do with the bawling sheep or the cumbersome sacks that stood at his feet.

He just quietly got rid of them with the help of the taxi driver, and had himself driven back to town, where he slept on the ground until the bus came, furled up in the heavy wool djellabah that he had had made years before, before leaving the valley for the first time.

Once back in Rabat, he went back to living in the garage, and working at the flowers, and watering the lawn, as before. Sometimes he walks to the corner and chats with the men in the shops, about this and that.

It was post supper time, a Ramadan evening in summer. The taxi made its way with difficulty through the strollers, young people dressed to kill dawdled across the road, young women ogled openly. “Little better than whores,” muttered the taxi driver viciously, “Married men driving round trying to pick them up.” He indicated a Fiat 132 alongside, said “He has a wife and two kids,” and spat symbolically.

A man had a son of eighteen who was good for nothing and refused to work at school. So the man went to the fqih and told him the story. The fqih gave him an amulet in the shape of a book, with something inside it which the man took to be a verse of the Koran. “Tell him to put that around his neck,” the fqih said, “It’s fashionable for these young people to wear something around their necks. Everything will be all right. Above all don’t let him open it.”

From the next day on, the son became a model boy, he worked hard and began to do well at school. He even seemed to be happy. His father was amazed.

Six months went by like this. One day, the son left the amulet on the dresser, and the father decided to open it. Inside he found a forty centime postage stamp. The stamp, like most postage stamps in Morocco, bore the head of King Hassan II.