Reverting to the subject of "Beginnings" and linear
thinking mentioned earlier on this blog, an event that
can be called a "defining moment" springs to mind. It
is my visit with Paul Bowles, back in October 1995, in
Tangier/Morocco. This visit has had reverberations
since then and has been most influential, leading to
connections, events and friendships never envisioned
nor expected. Without any hesitation I can say the
event continues to influence my life. At a later time
I may dwell further on the subject but for now, I will
simply share the story as it happened and exactly as
it was posted on my VOYAGES website in the year 2000:
Moroccan Sojourn
A VISIT WITH PAUL BOWLES
If someone is really, seriously interested in Morocco,
they will sooner or later find out about Paul Bowles.
For the ones who have never heard of Paul Bowles, here
is a little summary: Born in NYC in 1910, he starts
writing poetry and stories as a young boy. He runs off
to Paris in his first year of college. / Returns to
Paris a short while later and meets Gertrude Stein/
Studies music under Aaron Copland/The two visit
Morocco together, on the recommendation of Gertrude
Stein./Adventures and misadventures in Tangier and
Fez./ He starts composing music, in particular he
composes scores for plays like Tennessee Williams'
"Glass Menagerie"/ Marries Jane Auer/ Continues to
compose music/ Travels a lot and likes it/ Feels too
tied to NYC due to the music and changes genres/
Writes " The Sheltering Sky" which is published in
1949 to some acclaim/ Moves to Tangier/ Tangier
becomes his home, and to my knowledge he is still
there.
At least, on the 9th of October 1995, he certainly was
there. This is one of those stories I like to hear,
and in this case tell, because it so makes the point
that if you really want something, if it is important
to you, it is bound to happen.
This is my story, then. I had planned a trip to
Morocco (my sixth). It had been a few years since my
last visit, and I longed to see Tangier again (which,
by the way, actually has a certain amount of charm,
even if it is debauched charm, and never struck me as
the "Armpit of Africa" some people claim it is). Then
it occurred to me that Paul Bowles lives there. I had
admired his books for years, and was as enchanted with
his style, and in effect with the author behind the
words, as ever.
So in a wishful kind of way, I went in search of a
little present and found a book I've always enjoyed to
give away (Alastair Reid's "Whereabouts - Notes on
Being a Foreigner") and a CD by Brian Keane that uses
Paul Bowles' "Sheltering Sky" as a theme. I carefully
wrapped these two little offerings intended for Paul
Bowles, all the while wondering how I could get up the
nerve to visit him - or even find him in the city.
Having arrived, I wandered the medina, the souks, sat
in outdoor cafes, hoping, wishing that somebody would
reveal to me how I could find Mr. Bowles. It is a
strange thing - most travelers to Morocco tell a tale
of woe about being approached by would-be guides and
toutes. Not this girl! I was hoping to be bothered by
somebody, but maybe I fit into the place like a true
local (at least that's what I flattered myself with) -
at any rate, help was not forthcoming.. At the Hotel
Rif where I was staying, the concierge looked me up
and down and told me in no uncertain terms that "Paul
Bowles is old and ill. And he only receives special
visitors…." Obviously, I didn't match his idea of
special, so I certainly couldn't depend on him for
help, either.
But what could be more fun than a good challenge? I
had explored my options, and the final approach -
though far-fetched - was based on a compilation of
interviews with Bowles I had read some time ago. In
several of those, his apartment of twenty-odd years
was described as being near the American Consulate in
Tangier. So, on an impulse, I got into a taxi and
asked to be taken to the American Consulate. The
driver stared at me uncomprehendingly and assured me
there was no American Consulate in Tangier. We went
back and forth a bit, and I finally was able to
convince him that indeed, some 12 years earlier, I had
personally been to that Consulate. At that remark,
something dawned on my driver, and with exclamations
of "Oh yes, I do remember!" he drove me through the
maze of Tangier. We came to a stop in front of a wall
with a boarded up gate, behind which I recognized the
former consulate. So, to my great disappointment, the
driver was right: there was nobody there I could ask
about Paul Bowles. That's when I told the driver that
in fact I was looking for the "American writer", whom
I believed to be living somewhere nearby. He had never
heard of this writer, but he could see the
disappointment in my face.
He told me to stay put while he got out of the taxi
and approached a gardener in front of an adjacent
building. They talked for a minute, when both of them
turned toward a Moroccan woman walking toward them at
this moment. The gardener must have known her; they
exchanged greetings and talked. Then, my driver and
the woman came back to the taxi. -. Something good was
up, that much I was certain. But to what degree good
fortune was smiling on me really struck me when I
heard this:.The woman was the maid of Paul Bowles'
next door neighbors. Moreover, she was just on her way
to the building, and would be glad to deposit me in
front of his apartment.
As you can imagine, I could hardly contain myself! We
arrived at the apartment building , she indeed took me
up a very rickety elevator that had no lights, and
left me at his front door. A tall, dark wooden door,
scratched, with a peephole and small name plate with
the inscription "Bowles" . The name plate was in an
odd place, high up near the left top corner of the
door. Sensing a bit of nervous hesitation on my part,
the woman smiled and knocked energetically for me.
Then she left. A young Moroccan woman - obviously a
housekeeper- opened the door. She asked me what I
wanted and I told her of my desire to visit Mr.
Bowles. "Write down your name", she asked of me.
Goodness, this was almost as bad as the concierge of
the Rif looking me up and down. I certainly had no
important name to present - I simply had been a reader
of Mr. Bowles' books for years, and in-between the
lines had gotten a glimpse of an author, a man, who
struck me as not only interesting but inspiring and
highly individualistic in his approach to life.
So here I was, trying to gain entry for a short visit
- but what could I really offer that might open the
door for me? In a flash, I recalled Mr. Bowles' own
irresistible desire to visit Gertrude Stein while he
was in Paris as a young man. On a piece of notepaper I
carried in my bag, I scribbled something incoherent
about his visit to Ms. Stein, and that because of his
own experience, he would understand how much I would
appreciate a few minutes of his time to pay my
respects to him.
The maid took my note, and a few minutes later came
back saying that Mr. Bowles would see me shortly. So I
sat on the stairs by his front door, patiently waiting
for the moment I would actually see this man whose
books I so enjoyed, and who had chosen to live in a
country that had held such an exotic fascination for
me. Barely ten minutes passed, when the maid returned
to ask me into the apartment. The foyer was small,
cramped; a shipping trunk by the wall with stacks of
newspapers. Several rooms opened up in front of me. I
could see round leather hassocks on floors covered
thickly with Berber style rugs and kelims. Paul Bowles
was in a small room in the back of the apartment,
obviously a combination of bedroom and work room. Then
I saw him: this elderly, almost frail looking man,
reclining on a narrow bed, covered by a blanket. He
was wearing a brown housecoat and I could see pajamas
underneath it. I saw heavily veined hands with two
gold bands on his right pinky finger. For some strange
reason, he looked exactly as I had imagined he would -
the white hair; there were the bright blue eyes, the
penetrating, observant gaze from a face that reminded
me of a classical Roman statue. As a matter of fact, I
could easily picture him strolling down the Via Apia,
wearing a white toga. During our conversation, his
facial features would change in a manner most
difficult to explain. Change not due to different
emotions running over it, but actually taking on
completely different aspects: what appeared to be a
dominant Roman look to his features changed
momentarily into something Japanese, then Indian, then
old woman -without being in the least effeminate-, all
the while retaining a patrician, completely
gentlemanly demeanor. Interesting, I thought to
myself, how he is so charming to a complete stranger
imposing upon him - I had read of him being described
as "prickly".
He greeted me, and I sat on the floor in front of the
bed, while he explained to me that he had not been too
well - a sweeping gesture pointed to an adjacent round
brass table that was covered with medicine bottles. He
told me that he often has visitors in summer, but
rarely does anyone visit Tangier in the fall or
winter. Besides, I was lucky to find him home at all:
he had just returned from New York City, where in late
September (1995) music he had composed decades earlier
was performed at Lincoln Center. He was the guest of
honor. It was his first visit to New York City in many
years, and he used it also to see a doctor. He already
had two bypass surgeries in his right leg, and things
were not getting much better. His health got more
precarious after the filming of "The Sheltering Sky".
We talked about the movie, about Bertolucci, about the
way his book was interpreted in the movie. A German
movie maker (Frieder Schleich) made a movie of three
of his short stories. We talked about a shooting that
had just happened at the Hotel Tafik, in which several
tourists were killed and I had encountered eye
witnesses that were moved to my hotel afterwards. He
had his own views of the event -certainly not the
conventional interpretation-, and he shared much about
the 'old' Morocco he knew, and the many changes that
he has seen over the decades. "But", he said, the Café
Hafa is as it always has been". I, too, had been to
this café, overlooking the cliffs, sitting on straw
floor mats outside, or by tables in the shade inside,
watching the dozens of cats the owner feeds every day.
He certainly was right about the beautiful setting
high above the Atlantic and the feeling of calm, and I
took his word that it has been the same for forty
years.
When I handed him my little presents, he seemed to
find a small delight in unwrapping the gift wrap.
"Oh", he said" Alastair Reid! I used to hear him on
special Voice of America broadcasts on the radio". He
had never heard of Brian Keane, or that a quote from
one of his books was used on the CD cover. "Nobody
sends me anything", he mumbled. At times , he seemed
fatigued, for which he apologized. "Normally, I take
my siesta after dinner. I am sorry I am not all
there." To me, however, he seemed like a keen observer
and careful listener. He described how he was living
off his memories, that at his age, he didn't have that
much to look forward to anymore. But his memories of
his entire life meant much to him. He made it so easy
for me - there was a smooth flow to our conversation,
and any slight awkwardness on my part was bridged by
his engaging manner. He appeared content with the
full, rich life he has lived, always on his own terms.
"There are people who break out of the routines of
life", he told me, " and who knows, they may be
admired for it."
http://soly.st/Morocco/Bowles.html
Addendum:
An excellent and comprehensive resource on the
subject of Paul Bowles (as well as his wife Jane
Bowles), including many photographs, please look here:
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