Thirteen in the Medina

by Flora McGowan

  ‘Nope, not Spanish,’ Hugh admitted defeat.

  ‘Let me try,’ suggested Carole, as she bustled up to the front of the bus. ‘Bitte Herr, dieser Bus…’ and we watched, open mouthed in amazement, as the man meekly stood up, folded his magazine under his arm and allowed the older woman to escort him off the bus. For several minutes they seemed to partake of an animated conversation accompanied by much pointing of fingers this way and that, as if giving directions before Carole reappeared, announced, ‘All sorted,’ and resumed her seat on the bus.

  My guide book, second hand from a charity shop, but useful none the less, although sometimes a little out of date, was spot on with the description of our next hotel, situated right on the coast, in Rabat. At first I was surprised to find it listed; described as “small but expensive” it also turned out to be situated next to one of the Royal Palaces – apparently there are twelve in Morocco (and in the space of the two weeks we passed eight, but who’s counting?).

  As we waited in the foyer to be given our room numbers and keys, and Keith had declared he needed to change some more money from English sterling into Moroccan currency, a couple of tall, slim young men in military uniform walked past. I watched closely then grinned at Karen. She grinned back.

  ‘Nice view,’ she commented.

  ‘Hmmm,’ agreed her husband, as he gazed out the panoramic window towards the sea.

  My room was on the ground floor down a corridor to the right of the foyer. Keith’s room was next door. We agreed to meet for drinks before dinner. It was nice having a traveling companion again.

  I opened my door into a light and airy room; it was not overly large but the furnishings gave that impression. The furniture was light wood; the curtains, nets and blinds cream and beige. I drew them back, opened the French windows and stepped out onto a small balcony. Despite being on the ground floor of the hotel, my room must have been situated at the back or side of the building, there was a large drop outside, the view partly obscured by tall trees and what appeared to be building rubble to the right; to the left another wing of the hotel itself jutted out. Not a spectacular view, but still my own balcony, complete with a mini table and two substantial wicker armchairs.

  The porter knocked on the door with my case, which he insisted, with suitable hand gestures, on bringing into my room for me and laying on the case rack. Then he gave a nod of the head in salute as he left. He may even have clicked his heels, I’m not sure.

  I unlocked the case to retrieve suitable attire for dinner in a posh hotel. I had a brief vision of Keith changing his trousers for a garish pair of shorts. But shook my head, he wouldn’t? Would he?

  I laid my calf length olive green floaty skirt on the huge double bed and a gold lace top. They seemed to complement the room.

  To the left of the bed was the bathroom. I say “bathroom” but it was in fact a succession of little rooms, in the first of which was an inset sink in the left-hand wall, surrounded by bubble bath and shower gels, skin softeners, hair conditioners, soaps and shower caps; all the usual freebies in miniature designer bottles. Along the right-hand wall was a large wardrobe containing a monogrammed hotel bathrobe and slippers, with drawers for my clothes. A huge bath filled the entire length of the left-hand wall in the second room. A further room contained a separate shower cubicle, toilet and yet another sink.

  I laid out some of my own toiletries on the shelf by the bath, inserted the plug, ran the taps and made ready for a long soak to ease the strain of travelling out of my limbs.

  Actually, I did not stay in the bath that long; it was only the second day of travel and it had not been that arduous. Besides, the thought of what someone like Keith could be up to in a smart hotel, and how he would dress for dinner agitated me somewhat, and I found that I could not relax, so I left the warm water, dried myself, dressed and unpinned my hair ready for the evening.

  Which was just as well. Keith was early, pounding on my door like he was a member of the security team demanding entry for inspection. He bounded in full of puppy-like enthusiasm and flung himself on my bed.

  ‘This is great,’ he cried. ‘I love this hotel! Have you seen my room?’ I opened my mouth to give the obvious answer – no, of course not, but I expected it to be much the same as mine – but he was off again. ‘Gosh, I thought the last hotel was nice but this is… this is…’

  ‘Great?’ I finished for him.

  He laughed. ‘I bet you’re used to all of this,’ he said, waving his arm around at the large bed, the easy armchair, the desk with the state of the art TV screen above it.

  ‘No,’ I laughed with him. ‘I have been in some nice hotels, and this is very impressive I agree, but I have also stayed in some not so nice places.’ I sat next to him on the bed. ‘In my experience,’ I continued, ‘we get to stay at these fabulous hotels for just one night, so don’t get too used to it. The hotels where we get to stay for two or three nights will probably not be so impressive, believe me.’ I smiled at him, his sheer pleasure was infectious. ‘Just make the most of it,’ I urged.

  He nodded in agreement then got up and wondered off to inspect my bathroom and shower room, just to check whether they were more luxurious or less so than his. Whilst he was doing his inspection I did my own quiet appraisal of his attire. He was dressed in a smart pair of black trousers with a spotless white shirt, that looked like it had come straight out the packet. He completed the look with a narrow black tie. I need not have been worried that he might have embarrassed me, and I was a little ashamed at the thought; I should have trusted him a little more.

  It was nice to have him back to myself and out of Diane’s clutches.

  ‘Right, to the bar!’ he announced, inspection over. I picked up my camera, evening bag and cardi (just in case – a habit from our not so pleasant climes, plus when travelling alone a cardi is useful to mark a chair as it indicates “this seat is taken”), and allowed him to escort me down the corridor.

  The bar was poolside and reached through sliding glass doors in the centre of the immense panoramic window in the foyer. We walked through a patio area down some steps and found Bob already seated with Nancy and Hugh. Beyond the bar, down further steps was a large kidney shaped pool surrounded by loungers and beyond that, down yet more steps, the sea.

  I could see Karen and Graham on the beach and so, surprisingly enough, were Carole and Gordon. She was having a little paddle and he was just standing there watching, hands pushed deep into his pockets. Even from this distance his stance looked woebegone.

  ‘Come on,’ I urged Keith. ‘Let’s have a paddle. The drinks can wait.’ And I led the way down to the beach. At the bottom of the steps I removed my sandals and Keith reluctantly removed his shoes and socks (I was further impressed at his attempt to dress correctly).

  The sand was soft and still warm between my toes. The air was likewise, and I regretted bringing my cardi, but you never know, the night air might get colder, later; it pays to be prepared.

  It was still early evening and light enough to see the view in all directions. Further up the beach to one side Phil and Ann were strolling and to the other, there was a raised bank of sand, and a wall beyond which I could see more men in military uniforms guarding, presumably, the Royal Palace. It seemed strange to think that Keith and I from a town in Dorset could be staying in a country hotel cheek by jowl with a Royal residence.

  I paddled in the water carefully so as not to splash my skirt. Keith was snapping away using the camera on his phone.

  ‘Don’t take any pictures of the palace or the soldiers,’ I warned him, ‘just to be on the safe side.’

  Keith slung his arm across my shoulder companionably and sighed. I inwardly agreed it was bliss, a warm pleasant evening, a nice paddle in warm water, good company, what more could you want?

  ‘Beer!’ Keith squeezed my shoulder. ‘Come on, you’ve had your paddle.’

  I took my own photos of the fading sunset; Carole, being very pally, offered to take one of me and Keith t
ogether at the water’s edge, then we trudged slowly back up the beach to the steps.

  At the base of the steps was a little footbath set into the lowest step and I tried to clean the sand off my feet in the shallow water before replacing my sandals. Keith wiped the sand off his feet as best he could with his white socks whilst shooting me little glances that spoke volumes, as to how he thought my escapades at the water’s edge had led him astray and ruined his perfectly cultivated look for the evening, then we mounted the steps to the bar.

  We sat at the table next to Bob, Hugh and Nancy and ordered beer - Casablanca – it seemed appropriate. Ann and Phil soon joined us. The general talk was how nice the hotel was, how clean and fresh the rooms appeared, how long the bath, how powerful the separate shower.

  After a while Carole and Gordon appeared and suggested it was time to eat. En masse we drained our beers and made our way towards the restaurant, which was partially situated outside but shaded by verandas. Karen and Graham were already seated at a long table. There was a certain amount of jostling as the rest of us took our seats. I nudged Keith and he ordered us a bottle of red wine. Third night in and I was getting him nicely trained.

  As the waiter brought our bottle he stood back and paused for a second, as Diane and Larry made their entrance. Both were dressed primarily in white, Larry in a suit and Diane in an ankle length layered dress with a deep V neck, which was fitted to the waist and flared out below, looking like shades of Marilyn Monroe. Around her neck hung a gold chain that was knotted just below her Adam’s apple, the ends dangling down between her breasts.

  Most, if not all, the men in our party, plus the waiters, looked her way. I’m not sure what they were thinking but I was wondering if that was a suitable dress to wear in this country, where we had been advised, at least during the day, to cover up and not just as protection from the sun.

  Nancy gave a perceptible shake of her head while Carole tutted. Unperturbed, Larry took his jacket off and with a flourish draped it over the back of his chair, then, as Diane stood waiting, withdrew her chair for her, then eased her into place at the table.

  It seemed the waiters might have shared Nancy and Carole’s view of the couple, or at least, Diane’s attire; they were the last to be served for every course and Larry had more trouble than I had previously in attracting the attention of the wine waiter. When I thought Keith had stared for long enough I kicked him.

  ‘Ouch!’ he complained.

  ‘Sorry,’ I smiled sweetly, ‘just crossing my legs, my foot slipped.’

  For once (and it was only this once in the whole fortnight) the starter was prawn cocktail, followed by a grilled white fish and chips (sorry, French Fries, the Moroccans speak a lot of French), with a salad garnish. For once not a piece of beetroot, cauliflower or carrot in sight. There was cucumber with the salad though. However, the hotel slipped with dessert, and produced slices of melon. And bunches of grapes.

  The food was lovely, the atmosphere, for the most part, was peaceful. It was not however, 100% perfect. Tiny little flies, the size of pinheads, were everywhere, and I tried to discretely squash them when they landed on the tablecloth to stop them getting in the food. The hazard, I supposed, of eating so close to the sea.

  Half way through the meal Phil got a little irate with one of the waiters, and diners at the other tables raised their heads and looked our way as he raised his voice in complaint. Once again Nancy shook her head in annoyance and Carole tutted. Phil’s dinner was removed and then replaced, and Graham muttered that he had been complaining that his fish had not been properly cooked, but I think the general opinion was there is complaining about undercooked food and complaining.

  As I watched Phil drain his glass and pour another I wondered how much he had drunk already; there was the beer before dinner and when drinking that he had let slip that he had drunk whisky in his room earlier. That was something else new to Keith – most of these mature people carried bottles of booze in their suitcases; the likes of Keith and I had only brought across bottled water.

  The sea air was making everyone tired and before too long we were yawning. Still carrying my cardi, Keith and I bade our companions a good night. Larry and Diane had already left, after their grand entrance had backfired they had eaten in relative silence and their departure had gone almost unnoticed.

  No invites for Keith to the bar for a nightcap tonight, I noted.

  Keith followed me all the way back to my room and came in with me. He sat on the bed, removed his shoes and socks and started fiddling with his feet. I left him to it; I needed the bathroom – well the loo - at the very end of that row of facilities.

  When I returned the lights were low, just the bedside lamp glowing softly and Keith was sitting up in bed and appeared to have removed the rest of his clothes.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged, patting the bed beside him, and I thought for one awful moment that I made the wrong turn coming out the maze of the bathroom area and that I had ended up in his room and not mine. However, the sight of my suitcase with my clothes laid out ready for the next day reassured me.

  Slightly self-consciously I sat on the other side of the bed, slipped out of my skirt and eased my top over my head. I decided to leave my underwear on for a while and see what happened. Keith yawned again and stretched, and as he lowered his arms his right arm went around me and drew me to him. I settled down against him and laid my head on his shoulder. We lay silently for a few seconds.

  ‘I could get used to holidays like this,’ he said, his voice slightly husky. He twitched his legs. ‘You’ve got sand in the bed!’ he complained.

  ‘Well, it is my bed,’ I pointed out to him, adding, ‘you’ve got your own.’

  He grunted.

  I closed my eyes for a second. Yes, I think I could get used to this.

  I opened my eyes when the alarm went off. I was alone. I lay and listened. No sound came from the bathroom, any of them. Sometime in the night he had left me.

  Chapter Six – Wednesday - Rabat to Tangiers

  I lay still for a few moments until the alarm shrilled again. Slowly I climbed out of bed and padded all the way down to the shower. I needed a burst of hot water to put my thoughts into order. As I passed the sink with its mirror above I glanced across. Probably, I thought, it was a good job Keith had sneaked out sometime in the night; I would not have wanted him to see me quite like this first thing in the morning. I had to repeat that thought as I passed the bath, and glanced towards the mirror above that as well.

  I showered, dressed, packed my suitcase and put it outside the door for collection still feeling a little numb and on autopilot. Perhaps a nice cup of tea would make me feel better.

  I had learnt from experience than many foreign hotels do not provide tea and coffee making facilities. Another reason for making sure I had a bottle of water to enable me to have a drink first thing in the morning. For anything more – breakfast.

  The breakfast room was located next to the foyer lounge with its panoramic view of the sea. When I entered Bob was already there sitting with Hugh and Nancy. As is my normal habit I made my way to a table situated in a corner and deposited my excess belongings – rucksack, cardi – then went to peruse what was on offer. I poured myself some orange juice and selected an individual pack of muesli, added some fresh milk and returned to my table.

  Almost as soon as I had seated myself a young waiter in a spotless uniform appeared and asked if I would like some tea or coffee. I desired tea.

  ‘Moroccan?’ he enquired, as he took the tea cup from the table and placed it upright up for me in its saucer.

  It was first thing in the morning and I was not really fully awake – did he mean green tea? Or mint tea? Or sage tea? Whatever, when in Rome…yes, I confirmed, I would like some Moroccan tea.

  I had finished my muesli and was eating scrambled eggs and mushrooms when Keith appeared. He headed straight for my table. For a moment I had an uneasy sensation somewhere in my chest region and I wondered if I had indig
estion.

  Keith plonked his room key on the table, dumped his rucksack next to mine, grinned and with a chirpy, ‘Morning!’ headed off for juice and cereal. The young waiter presented me with my Moroccan tea in an individual pot and Keith ordered coffee.

  As he shovelled in cornflakes and what looked like Rice Crispies Keith announced that he had slept really well.

  ‘It must be the sea air,’ he observed.

  I agreed that I had also slept well, but omitted to mention so well that I had not noticed his departure sometime during the night. He did not mention it either.

  The food tables had included arrays of cold meats and various cheeses, with a selection of breads and rolls. I helped myself to a granary bread roll and an individual pot of honey, noting that this hotel served its conserves in individually sealed glass pots and not little plastic sachets.

  By now most of the rest of our group had appeared, with Diane and Larry more conventionally dressed this morning. There was a subdued air about them as they sat and conversed quietly. The last to appear was Gordon as seemed to be the pattern at breakfast; he was always last and sometimes barely had time to complete his meal before our coach was due to depart.

  It was a beautiful morning when we set out in the coach. The sky was blue, the sun was shining, and despite some doubts over the previous night, I was feeling good. As we traversed the highway heading north towards Tangiers, Abdul pointed out, in case anyone had missed all the young men in the uniforms frequenting our hotel, that there was a Royal Palace situated next door. He informed us that there are in fact twelve royal palaces in Morocco and that we were due to see quite a number of them over the course of the next few days.

  Our first stop was the Roman ruins of Sala Colonia, once a thriving settlement and later the fortified mediaeval Muslim necropolis of Chellah. Many of the buildings had been ruined during an earthquake in the eighteenth century. At one time, Abdul added, the site had been a royal burial ground.