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Envelope in hand, I fell in with the djellaba-clad crowds and followed them out through the portals of Bab Agnaou in the kasbah walls. At the Square of Djemaa El Fna I made my way among turbaned dentists waving rusty pliers and squatting over miniature pyramids of blood-caked teeth -- remnants of sidewalk appointments during which molars were torn out of gums and the sandals of villager-patients thrashed the ground in pain. At the minaret of Koutoubia mosque I left the Arab and Berber medina behind and turned up Mohammed Cinq Avenue into the former French quarter of Gueliz. The air was warm and orange with early light. It was at that hour of the day that hope was still possible. Maybe, for a change, there would be a cloud or a shower, a respite from the sun that would mount the sky and sear the city, driving people into the shade until dusk arrived to wash cool and dark over the earthen alleys of the medina and the asphalt lanes of Gueliz.

The post office was cavernous and empty. Light flooded down in pillars from high windows. At the counter marked "Timbres" I bought stamps and stepped over to a table to affix them to my letter.

There was a tapping on my shoulder. "Wesh 'indik qalam?" Do you have a pen?

I turned around and found myself facing a young woman. Hair like spun ebony, shimmering with tints of henna, washed in feathery waves around a pert, well-formed face the color of honey. She was dressed in a trim black pantsuit and wore a white blouse; her nails were long and red. She appeared to be a Woman of Gueliz, a frank and modern Marrakechiyya. I handed her my pen. She paused.

"Actually, we have to address a letter in English. Can you help us?"

"Of course."

She dictated the address, and as I began writing, I sensed perfume. Next to her, in a green lamé djellaba, stood a taller girl with a broad forehead and pulled-back hair; her features were blunt but kind. She had lacquered fingernails, her feet were sheathed in yellow babouches, or pointy-toed slippers. Her dress was traditional, but she, too, was a Woman of Gueliz. The perfume and lacquer attested to that.

"Thanks for helping us," the one in black said. She made as if to turn away, but then hesitated. "You speak Arabic. Not many tourists speak Arabic."

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I told her I had studied the language in the United States and was in the Peace Corps working at a school for the blind. I had moved to Marrakech only a month before.

"Oh, is that so! Well, my name is Halima and this is my sister."

We chatted and I feigned composure, feeling vaguely that this conversation shouldn't be taking place. As far as I knew, talking with a strange man, not to mention a strange Christian man, was inappropriate for a Marrakechiyya, even one from Gueliz, where dress might be modern but where morals could be traditional. Moroccans in both parts of the city called Westerners "Nasara" (the singular is "Nasrani"), or Christians. The word conveyed a distinct and penetrating message of exclusion. Nasara were tolerated as People of the Book, but they had to know their place, which didn't include socializing with Muslim women. But something else disquieted me. In the kasbah, where I lived, no woman looked as assertively attractive as Halima. She spurred my imagination with the subtlety of a thousand-volt cattle prod.

Still, I searched for words that indicated my respect for the cultural differences between us; I hemmed and hawed and spoke of the beauty of the minarets and the --

"Right," Halima cut me off. She leaned toward me with an impish twinkle in her chestnut eyes. "Ever been to a harem?"

"To a har -- to a what?"

"Come with us!" They grabbed my arms and led me toward the door. We dropped our letters into the box and set out onto Mohammed Cinq. We hadn't taken more than 10 steps when it began.

"Pteew!"

"Qhab!"

"Aa l'qhab!"

"Aa n-Nasrani!"

Hey, whores! Hey, Christian! We were now trailing a wake of teenage boys. They spat at our feet, they dug matchsticks into the crevices of their algae-mottled teeth, they slit their eyes and hissed.

"Aa l'qhab!"

"Ignore them," Halima said. "Our men are donkeys and don't like seeing Muslim girls walking with a Christian." A stone sailed over my shoulder and cracked against the wall.

We left the avenue behind and entered a quiet neighborhood of walled-off modern homes. Halima opened a gate and we stepped into a garden of orange trees, in the midst of which was their house, a veritable palace of peach-pink stucco and glass.

"Father isn't home, so come in and meet the girls," Halima said. I let myself be led inside, thinking, Every step I take is a mistake and I should stop right here. But I went on.

Next page | Initiated into the mysteries of the harem