Short Story Essay: The Road To Marrakesh

The road to Marrakesh

The night before their departure from Anfa, Antonio lay on the creaking bed, staring at the ceiling of his room in the house in the Alt Baha. He wondered how Carolina would be managing without him and whether she and Lupita were still working the streets of Madrid as a duet. He missed Carolina more than anyone else, including Francisca, who still badly wanted to marry him. He liked her but remained unsure of a future with the woman. He wondered whether Carolina had sent the promised letter to his parents in Pedraza and what they might think of his going to Morocco. He even had a thought for his aging mare, probably enjoying its new, if temporary, life in the palace stables. He had trouble believing that from Jac, the …show more content…
It was urgent. He woke. Maybe the storm had stopped. Maybe some cool, fresh water awaited him. He stared head of him. It was Amanar, pointing to Tariq. His white faced figure lay flat on a bed. His eyes stared into the void above him. Antonio had lived through it, still parched with thirst, and all but dying for some water; but clearly Tariq hadn’t. Antonio managed to stand and drift over towards his friend and mentor. What would he do, now that Tariq had died? Antonio was alone with these Arabs; he couldn’t speak their language; he was doomed. His heart began to race and pound against the wall of his chest. He didn’t know what to do; how to react to this desperate situation. How could anyone have predicted that it would end like this? Was this the end? Maybe not. He would have to go alone to Marrakesh and achieve the mission’s objective. Somehow, even if it killed him. There was no way he could turn back. He could not and would not admit he had failed because his friend had died of thirst. If he did he would be branded as a coward, someone who knew not the meaning of honour. He had no option: he had to go on. God only knew …show more content…
‘That’s that problem solved but we still need to work out how we are going to sell our wares. And where!’ *** The next few months proved to be among the most difficult of their stay in Marrakesh. As hard as they tried, no one wanted to rent them a shop. They could not work out why. The only conclusion they could reach was that they were foreigners and no one wanted to trust them to pay the fees. They discussed the problem at length until Antonio came up with an idea: ‘We know we are going to be here for a time, at least six months so why not offer a property agent six months’ rent in advance. No one else would do that and we’ve still got plenty of Silva’s money to use.’ ‘We can but try,’ said Tariq, with no great enthusiasm. Two days later they were paying an agent a full six months deposit and had secured a well-appointed shop in the Plaza de Mellah, a market square right next to the Al Badi palace. They couldn’t have found a better place. They’d landed a tidy, double fronted store in the south eastern corner. They were just two of a number foreign market traders. Jews, Turks, Arabs and even a Portuguese occupied this small but open square. They were laughing: they would fit in like a hand in a