I had never been to Morocco, but I kind of had a feel for it. Warm and gold, with beautiful radiant light during the day. Very fine ornamental bars in the window, simple furniture, and the street outside full of foreign words. Perhaps there is tea and coffee and drugs, and an orgy in the other room with young boys being hung and ejaculating as they die. That’s what William Boroughs wrote about Morocco, I think.
So the place we arrived in was like that. And there was an intricate golden box on the table. It was resting on a red velveteen cushion, tired after a long day of being a box. The sun was setting outside and I knew our time would run out as the first rays of darkness hit us.
But my wife was desperate to keep a memory of the place (and her memory was not good in those days), so she grabbed the box before it was too late and held it close to her chest. To her breasts.
Outside, in the busy market, a ferryman was calling passengers. “Carcosa! Carcosa!” But I think nobody believed he could go there.
And when we were transported back, my wife still had the box. Let me tell you what was inside.