The Moroccan door stands slightly ajar, its hand-carved patterns so intricate that you momentarily forget why you are here. A covert mission. With a deep breath, you push open the elaborate door and step into the room. Before you is an exquisitely decorated Mediterranean parlor, and you are disarmed by the eccentric beauty of the Moroccan décor surrounding you. In the center of the room, a hand-painted octagonal table with Moorish designs stands between an embroidered ottoman and a throne fit for the shahs of Persia. You notice a cup of mint tea on the Moroccan table. Still hot, its steam distorts the delicate geometries just above the cup, like a ripple in the fabric of space. The ottoman beckons you invitingly, and you oblige. And for the first time in ages, you feel calm and renewed.
For the past two weeks you have traveled Morocco, across the desert from Marrakech to Ouarzazate. Thus far you have managed to stay one step ahead of your pursuers in this game of international espionage. In your adventures, you have witnessed the splendors of the world. But the Mediterranean parlor, with its arched motifs and vibrant colors, possesses another worldly ambiance that is at once familiar and exhilarating. It is familiar because you recognize the influences of Roman and Arab architecture from your last mission in Ankara. It is exhilarating because never before have you seen such a perfect synthesis and balance of style and decor. In your dangerous occupation, you have all but forgotten that mankind shines brightest in the spirit of cooperation, not in conquest or isolation. You sip the green tea meditatively. Clearly someone left it here for you.
Above you, Moroccan lanterns swing gently to the rhythm of your thoughts. Behind panes of stained glass, the still glow of the lamps casts prismatic shapes across the Marrakech tile floors and Berber rugs. In the rug you sense not the cold calculations of a trained machine, but the living expression of human craftsmanship. Since you joined the secret service, you have been trained to disregard the breathtaking subtleties of life, to think only of economic interests and the greater good of the „system.“ Here in Morocco, centuries of diversity and trade have defied this conformity. Through elegance and artistry, Moroccan decor whispers in protest of a homogenous world.
You place the leather dossier on the Moroccan table before you, its secrets safe for the time being. Then your eyes become fixated on the Moorish designs that embellish the table’s surface. Somewhere inside its painted angles, a code emerges. The message is abstract at first, but the undulating glow of Moroccan lanterns illuminates its mysteries like an encryption key. Nested within the patterns, you see the struggle of human history unfold on a geometric plane. Every war, every treaty, every negotiation between cultures and ideals is written in the abstract language of Moroccan decor. As the bridge between Europe, Africa, and Asia, Morocco has distilled the finest elements of the Old World and the New.
You inhale the light scent of mint from your tea and settle deeper into the seductive comfort of the Moroccan ottoman. The tension you felt just moment before melts into the opulent curves of the chaise, becoming one with a current of human emotions. The soulless economic system which has placed you at risk time and time again has no dominion here in the Moroccan parlor. This is the world as it was meant to be experienced, not how the analysts project it should be. Through an open window, you hear footsteps in the courtyard below. Your liaison has arrived. And the next adventure is about to begin.