It is the time of evening when the rays of the setting sun pass through an air already cooled by the first breath of night, while the mud walls give off the heat they have stored all during the day. Indoors it is like being in an oven. You must be outside, and feel the touch of the first shadows. And for a long time I lie idly stretched out staring up into the depths of the sky, listening to the last sounds from the zaouiya and the ksar: doors creaking as they swing heavily shut, the neighing of horses, and the bleat of sheep on the roofs. And the little African donkeys bray, a sound as sad as the protracted sobbing. And the sharp thin voices of the black women.
Nearby in the courtyard there is the sound of tambourines and guinbris, making an accompaniment to some very strange vocalizations. These seem less like music than like the cries uttered during love-making. Sometimes the voices die down and all is silent. Then the blood in the veins speaks, by itself.
Soon life starts up again. Mats, rugs, and sacks appear on the roofs of the slave-quarters. The ear still listens for muffled noises, kitchen sounds, arguments going on in low voices, prayers being murmured. And the sense of smell is jarred by the odors in the smoke that rises from the confusion of black bodies below, where the flames flicker joyously in the braziers. There are other silhouettes in the doorways of the holy men. It is all here, the daily life of the ksar, like something I have always known, and yet always new.
Over toward the right, behind the Mellah, there is a patch of wall that remains lighted up until very late. Its reddish surface serves as backdrop for the curious plays of shadow that are projected upon it. At times they move back and forth slowly, and then they seem to go unto a furious dance. After all other voices have grown silent and everyone roundabout has gone to sleep, the Aissaoua are still awake. As the night grows perceptibly cooler, the members of that enlightened brotherhood, the khouan, pound on the tambourine and draw strident sounds from the oboelike rhaita. They also sing, slowly, as if in a dream. And they dance beside the flaming pots of charcoal, their wet bodies moving to an ever-accelerating tempo. From the fires rise intoxicating fumes of benzoin and myrrh. Through ecstasy they hope to reach the final target of unconsciousness.
I hear something more. When even the Aissaoua have sunk into sleep, I still see moving forms. A breath steals across the terraces, disturbing the calm. I know. I imagine. I hear. There are signs and catchings of breath out there in the cinnamon-scented night. The heat of rut under the quiet stars. The not night's languor drives flesh to seek flesh, and desire is reborn. It is terrible to hear teeth grinding in mortal spasms, and lungs making sounds like death-rattles. Agony! I feel like sinking my teeth into the warm earth.
In the morning the west wind arrived suddenly. You could see it coming, raising high spirals of dust, black as smoke. As it moved towards us through the calm air, it made great sighing sounds. And then it was howling like a living thing. I had a fantasy of being lifted up and carried off in the enormous embrace of a winged monster, come to destroy us all. And the sand showered into the terraces with the steady, small sound of rain.
Excerpt from The Oblivion Seekers, Translated by Paul Bowles. City Lights Books, San Francisco, 1975