Gianfranco Martana

Does a figure like that belong more to Morocco or to the imaginary through which we Europeans have learned to view it? Still, the risk is real: that our gaze comes to a halt precisely where the distance between us and them seems most obvious. Should one know a country better before writing about it? And yet, knowledge never arrives all at once, and in any case, it will never be complete. However, there is a distinction between using an image as confirmation of what we already think we know and using it as a starting point, as a question.

The story I’ve begun developing stems from another image that is perhaps overused: a man sitting on the sidewalk with a scale, offering passersby the chance to weigh themselves in exchange for a few coins. But I would like to write it during my upcoming artist residency in Marrakech, after talking with local residents, to understand what such a presence represents to them: the baseline of trade, a beggar in disguise, a remnant of a bygone era?

From these potential encounters, I’m not seeking approval or stamps of authenticity; rather, I expect different perspectives to invigorate my imagination, sharpen it, and, if necessary, shift it elsewhere — places I never thought I could reach.

(Photo by Ketut Subiyanto on Pexels)

I will spend the entire month of September there writing short stories set in Morocco and participating in the social and cultural initiatives led by my hosts. Lastly, it will be a chance to practice the bit of Arabic I’ve learned after a year of classes... I have a feeling it’s going to be a wonderful experience.

The novel’s opening scene instantly came to mind, where, among other things, I describe the locals, and I knew right away that I had to bear witness to what I had just seen. So, as soon as I got home, I added a sentence to the text I had already written. You can find it at the end of this short excerpt.

On that beautiful morning, then, those who worked at sea blessed their trade, and truth be told, the vast majority of the natives truly seemed forged by the sea, judging by the color and tone of their skin—from which a swipe of a finger could scrape off a streak of salt—by the nimble robustness of their bodies, by the practical nonchalance of their clothing, by the essential and precise gestures of a sailor facing a storm. [...] It is as though one day the land had sneaked up on them from behind and they had reluctantly adapted to the busy streets, to the far too tall shadows and bright colors of the new buildings climbing up the hill, to the muggy heat rising from the asphalt and concrete. All those earthly excrescences, which over time had grown denser and more brazen, seemed to press upon them to cast them back into the sea from which they came, thus ridding itself of their troublesome and ungrateful presence. However, there was no shortage of pockets of resistance: the sea infiltrated the mainland in the form of small boats and little “gozzi” left in storage on the sidewalks or in the gardens, where long ropes often lay coiled up like large, sleeping dogs.

I remember my first thought upon seeing it was: “Imagine the sheer anxiety of the locals when they found this unexploded missile in one of their fields.” From there, I began to imagine a tragicomic story narrated by one of the villagers. An early version of the story was published in Spain in the magazine «Papenfuss». Later, when I submitted it to the Italian magazine «Altri animali», something interesting happened: the editor who read it replied that they found the idea compelling, but they would only publish it if I developed it further. I told them I absolutely would, and a few days later, during a flight, I finally enriched the story with new episodes. When I sent it back, the response was, fortunately, very positive. Among my short stories, In Azat’s Field is perhaps the one that has received the most recognition. In fact, besides being published in Italian and Spanish, the Valencian version won the Short Story Competition Real Vila de Guardamar.

Unfortunately, like many literary magazines, it eventually closed down, but before that happened, I was lucky enough to be among the three winners of a contest held for the magazine’s readers. The prize was the publication, in issue 13, of En la cola (In the Queue), a tragicomic story about the impossible love between a customer and a supermarket cashier.