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The back streets of the Medina, crooked, sometimes leading through short tunnels beneath the houses, sometimes up long flights of stairs, lend themselves to solitary speculative walks.
You will run into a Polish refugee who arrived ten years ago without a penny, borrowed enough to become a peanut vendor, and today runs a prosperous delicatessen and liquor store; an American construction worker who came to Morocco to help build the United States air bases, and has since become a freelance journalist; a Moslem who spent who years in a Spanish jail for voicing his opinions on Generalissimo Franco, and now is a clerk in the municipal administration offices; a tailor from Rome who has not amassed the fortune he had counted on and wants to go home; an English masseuse who was passing through Tangier twenty years ago on a holiday trip and somehow has never left; a Belgian architect who also runs the principal bookshop; a Moslem who taught in the University of Prague for seventeen years and now gives private Arabic lessons; a Swiss businessman who likes the climate and has started a restaurant and bar for his own amusement; an Indian prince who does accounting for an American firm; the Portuguese seamstress who makes your shirts; and in addition you will be hailed by a good many Spaniards, most of whom were born in Tangier and have never lived anywhere else.
When Bowles left New York City in 1947 to write The Sheltering Sky, he had already been familiar with Tangier for sixteen years.
On his first visit to Tangier in August 1931, Bowles was accompanied by his music teacher and friend the composer Aaron Copland.
Since I returned here in 1947 I have spent a good many hours wandering through these passageways (incidentally learning to distinguish the thoroughfares from the impasses), busily trying to determine the relationship between Tangier and myself.
I have not discovered very much, but at least I am now convinced that Tangier is a place where the past and the present exist simultaneously in proportionate degree, where a very much alive today is given an added depth of reality by the presence of an equally alive yesterday.
The Moslems account for roughly 70 percent of the population; they still sit in their tiny cafs, drinking tea and coffee, playing cards, checkers and dominoes, shouting above the din of Egyptian music on the radio. And even when the veil has been removed from the face of the last woman to wear one, so she can do her shopping sporting a rayon-satin evening gown four sizes too large for her, and the final old house with a fortresslike faade and one great studded door is demolished to make room for a six-family concrete dwelling with fluorescent lighting in every room, the town will still look very much the same.
With everything old being systematically destroyed (and the new European buildings are almost without exception eyesores, while the ones the Moroccans put up are even worse), how is it that Tangier escapes becoming an aesthetic nightmare?
Untold visitors have made pilgrimages to Tangier to meet him, perhaps inspired by reading some of his novels or short stories; and after his death most guide books for tourists mention something about Bowles's association with Morocco and his literary works.
Today there is a Tangier, with its mild, subtropical climate and superb beaches, eventually grew into a popular summer resort and now has more than one million people.
Today, where this thick vegetation grew, are the cracking faades of new apartment houses; the Moslems have discarded their frogged Oriental jackets and enormous trousers of turquoise, orange, pistachio or shocking pink, to don Levis, and secondhand raincoats imported by the bale from America; the population has augmented at least threefold, and I’m afraid the city would never strike a casual visitor as either quiet or attractive.
There must be few places in the world which have altered visually to such an extent in the past quarter of a century.
Paul Bowles remained in Tangier until his death on November 18, 1999, at the age of 88.