The Saffron Gate

  I had to close my eyes.

  When the echo of voices ended there was a sudden quiet, and I opened my eyes and drank in the sense that the foreign prayers had somehow reached inside me. Without thinking I crossed myself in the old, reflexive habit.

  And then I made my way down the narrow, malodorous stairs. I was impossibly hungry. I went back to the lobby, passing the doorway of the lounge.

  From the laughter and boisterous voices it was obvious Elizabeth and her friends were still there. The lounge appeared dark and blurred, formless and colourless after the brilliant beauty I had just witnessed. Like the prayer, I felt that the colour I had seen had touched me, and that as I passed the doorway surely Elizabeth and Marcus and the others would stop their drinking and gossip, and instantly grow quiet, staring at me in wonder. In that short time on the roof I felt as though I had become part of the mosaic of Tangier, a fragment of sound and colour.

  But as I walked past the lounge nobody turned, nobody noticed.

  Out on the spacious terrace — empty but for me — with its gently swaying potted palms and wooden furniture and views of the harbour, I ordered a pot of mint tea and a pastilla, which the server explained was a kind of bird — I couldn’t understand if he was saying partridge or pigeon — mixed with rice and chopped egg in layers of the thinnest pastry.

  While I waited, I laid my head against the tall back of the chair, listening to the far-off, muted babble of unknown languages, to the nearby cooing of a dove, to the even softer rustle of the palm fronds in the warm early evening breeze. It was lovely, Tangier, although, as I knew from both my reading and the boisterous Elizabeth Pandy, also dangerous and uncontrolled, a free port, ungoverned by any country. I was weary, and overcome with a listlessness that was not unpleasant. But I would not — could not — stop and rest in Tangier. I sat up, shaking off the languor that had set in. Tomorrow I would set out to find a driver to take me to Rabat, as the American on the ferry had instructed.

  When the tray was set before me, the server lifted the small brass teapot. He poured the tea in a thick amber stream, holding the pot high over the small painted glass in a silver holder. I expected the tea to splash out of the glass from that height, but he filled it with the foaming liquid without spilling a drop. He then dumped the tea back into the pot, poured it again, and repeated the process a third time. Finally he set down the teapot, picking up the glass with both hands, and extending it to me with a slight bow.

  ‘Très chaud, madame,’ he said. ‘Wait, please, for it to cool.’

  I nodded, holding the glass by the silver holder, and lifted it to my nose. The odour of mint was almost overwhelming. I took a small sip, and it was intensely sweet, and like no tea I had ever tasted, but it was delicious.

  I thought of home, on the outskirts of Albany. Of my garden and the silence of this time of evening. If I didn’t venture through the gate on to Juniper Road, days might go by when I saw no one, spoke to no one. I thought of the long, dark winter nights.

  It all seemed so far away. It was far away, geographically, of course. But it wasn’t just the distance. It was what had happened to me since those days, those endless, quiet days when I thought my life would always continue in that way. When my life consisted of small, certain pieces of a larger, but basically simple, puzzle.

  When I was certain that I always knew where each piece fitted.

  FIVE

  It was two years earlier — 1928 — when my father received a letter from a lawyer.

  ‘Read it for me, darlin’,’ he’d said, anxiety on his face. ‘I can’t think what I’ve done wrong.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong, Dad,’ I told “him, opening the letter and scanning it.

  ‘Go on, then. What does it say?’ ‘ I looked at him. ‘Dad. Mr Harding has passed away.’

  ‘Well,’ my father said, sitting at the kitchen table. ‘Poor auld soul. I knew he’d been ill some time.’

  Mr Harding had been my father’s last employer, the one who had been so kind when he had to terminate my father after fourteen years.

  ‘And why would a lawyer be writing to me about it?’ he asked.

  I licked my lips, trying not to rush. I was sorry, of course, that Mr Harding had died, but he’d been ninety-two.

  ‘You remember his car,’ I stated.

  ‘Which one, now? For he had quite a fleet of them,’ my father said.

  ‘Dad. The one you loved to drive the most. You always talked about it.’

  He lifted his chin, smiling now. ‘Ah. Yes, that would be the lovely Silver Ghost, wouldn’t it? Such a thing of beauty. Driving it was like floating on a cloud.’

  I well knew about the 1921 Rolls-Royce, with its British right-hand drive, its leather retractable roof, its drum headlamps and tubular bumpers.

  ‘A long, sleek white body with oxblood trim,’ my father went on now, smiling unconsciously. He picked up his pipe and tapped it on the ashtray; a clump of dottle fell from the bowl. ‘I did love to drive that grand thing,’ he said.

  ‘Dad?’ I stood, unable to keep my own smile from my face any longer. ‘Mr Harding has left it to you. It’s in his will, Dad. The car is yours.’ My voice had risen with excitement.

  But my father grew very still as I spoke. I waited for something — an exclamation, a burst of laughter, something — but he didn’t move.

  ‘Aren’t you happy about it, Dad? You just said—’

  He nodded. ‘I know, my girl. I know what I said.’

  ‘So why aren’t you —’

  Again he interrupted me. ‘It’s too late, Sidonie. The time for me to own a car like that is gone. You know I can’t trust my own eyes.’

  ‘You could still drive it in the day, when the light is bright,’ I argued.

  He looked at me. ‘No. No, Sidonie. Even with the spectacles, I know I can’t see well enough.’

  I sat down, running my fingers over the embossed letterhead. ‘But it’s yours,’ I said.

  ‘What would I do with it?’

  I sat straighter. ‘I could drive it, Dad. You could teach me, and I could drive it for you. Wherever you want to go.’ I was speaking quickly; thrilling myself at the idea. ‘Just think, Dad. We could go wherever we wanted.’

  There was silence.

  ‘Dad? I could drive it,’ I repeated.

  ‘No, Sidonie,’ he said, filling his pipe.

  ‘What do you mean, no?’ I watched as he tamped the tobacco into the round bowl with his thumb. ‘Of course I can learn to drive. It can’t be that difficult.’

  ‘It takes coordination, hands and feet. Feet, Sidonie. You have to be able to use the pedals — the gas and brake and clutch. You’d have to be able to bend your knees freely. I don’t think …’ He glanced at my built-up shoe.

  My mouth twisted. ‘I can learn,’ I said, loudly. ‘I want to. I want that car.’

  My father, looked surprised. ‘Well. It’s a rare day I hear that tone from you.’

  I knew my voice was loud. But it excited me — the thought of driving. I realised nothing had challenged me for so long. In fact I couldn’t remember the last time I had learned something new. Had felt proud of any accomplishment.

  I lowered my chin and tried to modulate my voice. ‘It’s just that … it’s been given to you, Dad. If you don’t want it, I’ll have it.’

  He shook his head. ‘As I said, you couldn’t—’

  ‘I could. And I will. You’ll see,’ I said. I thought, suddenly, of my mother, and how I hadn’t told her how much I appreciated all she’d done for me until she lay dying. ‘And Dad?’

  He was busy with his pipe again, but stopped and looked at me.

  ‘Can’t you let me do this for you? Drive you where you want to go? See you enjoy being out in a beautiful car? You spent most of your life driving other people. You’ve spent all your life doing things for me. Now I can drive you. Let me drive you, Dad,’ I said. ‘Please. Let me do something for you.’

  He didn’t answer, but his expr
ession changed, softened, and I knew then that the Silver Ghost would be mine.

  Once the car was delivered to our yard, my father did teach me to drive it, and I took pride in the fact that he was obviously surprised at how quickly I mastered it. It was true, as he’d said, that I had a certain difficulty because I didn’t have a lot of strength in my right leg, and the knee didn’t bend freely. But even though he saw that I could manage, my father still worried, knowing my foot’s reflex was poor.

  Immediately I discovered that I loved driving the Silver Ghost, and from the first time I took it out on my own. I felt a sense of power I had never before experienced. Behind the steering wheel I forgot my heavy limp; with the top down and my hair whipped loose, I achieved the almost forgotten pleasure of moving quickly. Perhaps it reminded me a bit of running.

  That first summer of owning the car I ventured out frequently, not only through the country, but also into the heart of the city, where people didn’t know me. The car drew attention, and I developed a new and rather proud smile, nodding at those whose eyes lingered on the sleek outlines of the car and then looked at me. I felt an undeniable pride in not only, owning it, but driving it proficiently, and suddenly I wasn’t just Sidonie O’Shea, the woman with the limp who lived with her father on the outskirts of the city.

  In the height of that steamy summer I drove deep into the countryside, waving at children walking along the ruts of the dusty back roads of Albany County. I’d leave the car at the side of the road and tramp through the tangled thickets and marshes, sometimes coming to one of the ponds that dotted the area. I sat at the edge of the water and sketched the bulrushes and the wild flowers. I watched the beavers in all their industry, the squirrels and rabbits working their way through the underbrush, the birds swooping and nesting. Frogs gulped and insects whirred around my head. I found new flora, wild plants I had no name for, and. I sketched them with quick, rough lines so I could identify them from the pages of the growing pile of botanical books in my room. By the time I returned to the car, my clothes would be streaked with perspiration, burrs caught in my hem and my hair damp and wild from the humidity.

  I couldn’t wait to get home so I could paint what I’d sketched. And there was a difference in my paintings that summer. Something about driving had made my wrists and fingers and even my shoulders looser, so that my brushstrokes were freer. The colours I chose were richer, deeper.

  Once, as I finished a painting of an Eastern Phoebe on its nest of mud and moss, I stood back from it, studying it. And what I saw so pleased me that I picked up Cinnabar and did a shuffling movement about the room. I think I was dancing.

  I know I was happy.

  When the first heavy snow of winter came, it was too difficult to get the car out of the yard, and I had to give up driving for those long, dreary months. I spent the winter longing for the throaty rumbling of the engine, the slight vibration of the wheel beneath my palms, and the newfound freedom the Silver Ghost had given me. I dreamed about driving her again.

  It was the very tail end of winter when my father told me he was going to the next county to watch a car auction. He said he would go with Mike Barlow.

  ‘No, I’ll drive you,’ I said, immediately standing, the old excitement surfacing. ‘The snow has melted enough; I looked at the yard this morning, and I know I’ll be able to get the Ghost out. Last week I took the tarp off and started the engine and let her run a bit. She’s all ready to go, Dad.’

  ‘There’s no need, Sidonie. Mike has said he’ll take me in his truck, and the roads are icy after yesterday’s wet rain and then the freezing. With your leg—’

  ‘Stop fussing about my leg. And I want to go as well. We haven’t been to an auction in months.’ I didn’t mention my desire to drive. Later, when I understood more, I would realise the thought of getting behind the wheel again had been akin to lust. I put on my coat, glancing at myself in the mirror over the sideboard and smoothing back my hair. ‘I’m taking you, and that’s all. It’ll be fun, Dad,’ I added.

  Something was different now; I had a new confidence.

  My father shook his head, his lips tight, but he put on his coat and his galoshes.

  I didn’t want us to leave with bad feelings, and put my arms around him, hugging him, then pulled away and smiled. ‘Wear a scarf, Dad,’ I said.

  ‘No man ever wore a scarf as warm as his daughter’s arms around his neck’ he quoted, and again I smiled.

  This time he smiled back at me, nodding.

  We both had to shovel the last mounds of slushy snow out of the driveway, and by the time we were done I was flushed and hot, and took off my coat, tossing it between us.

  ‘Sidonie. You’ll catch cold.’

  ‘Dad,’ I said, shaking my head but grinning. ‘Just get in.’ Nothing could diminish my joyful anticipation.

  While it was indeed wonderful to drive the Silver Ghost again, I hadn’t ever driven on anything more challenging than surfaces wet from summer or fall rain. As my father had predicted, the roads were slippery, and if I accelerated too quickly the car’s thin tyres slid to one side, just enough to surprise me and make me turn the wheel sharply to line up the car again. My father said nothing, but I could hear his teeth working the stem of his unlit pipe.

  My body cooled, and I grew chilled, my shoulders tight. I was sorry I’d taken off my coat, but didn’t want to admit it. I shifted gears slowly, and occasionally one would grind. Each time this happened I saw, from the corner of my eye, my father’s head turning sharply towards me, but I ignored him. Even though it was just past noon, as we drove out of the city the sky was growing grainy.

  It was easier to keep the car steady on the deserted gravel road. Wet fields stretched out on either side of us, and I forced myself to relax, dropping my shoulders and loosening my grip on the wooden steering wheel.

  ‘Turn on the lights, Sidonie,’ my father said, picking up my coat. ‘Pull over and put on your coat and turn on the lights.’

  I shook my head, the concentration I needed making me tense. ‘It’s not dark, Dad,’ I said, annoyance in my voice. Later I would remember that my last words to him had been in this slightly strident tone. ‘It’s just your eyes.’

  ‘But it’s growing foggy.’

  ‘There are no other cars on the road,’ I said, looking at him, seeing him holding my coat against his chest, and suddenly his expression changed. I thought it was anger I saw, and shook my head at him. ‘I’m quite capable of—’

  ‘Sidonie!’ he yelled, and I looked back at the road. A truck loomed on the other side of us, pale as a phantom in the gloom, and its unexpected presence startled me so that I gasped, wrenching the wheel sharply away from the truck. When I relived this split second and my reaction, over and over and over, in the ensuing days and weeks and months, I saw, in my head, that there had been no need; the truck was on its side of the road, and we were on ours. It was only that I hadn’t seen it coming as I looked over at my father, and my reaction was an instinct born of surprise.

  The land blurred, and there was a sickening spin of the car as I fought to get it under control.

  ‘Don’t brake,’ my father yelled. ‘Downshift. Downshift!’

  I tried, but my foot, in its heavy shoe, slipped off the clutch. The wheel whirled beneath my palms. There was the unbelievable sensation of flight, and then darkness.

  I don’t know how long it was before I opened my eyes. The view through the windshield was odd. I kept blinking, trying to understand what I was seeing. Finally I realised the car was on its side, my cheek against the side window.

  ‘Dad?’ I whispered, moving my head. There was an odd crunching under my face, and a dull bite in my cheek; I raised my hand and touched something unfamiliar, something embedded in my cheek. I pulled it out, feeling no more than a slight sting, and dully looked at a long shard of glass covered in blood.

  ‘Dad,’ I said again, dropping the glass and looking for him. He wasn’t in the passenger seat. For a brief moment I thought
perhaps he’d gone to get help, but as clarity came back I saw, with horror, that his side of the windshield was completely smashed. Blood clung to the splintered edges of the glass. I struggled to pull myself up. The side of my head hurt, but it was just a dull throb. In order to get out of the car I had to climb over the stick shift and drag my lower body across the passenger seat, fighting to open the door straight up into the sky. When I was finally able to swing it open, I pulled myself out, the uncooperative weight of my lower body similar to my earlier days of polio. I clambered out, falling the short distance from the open door to the ground. The car was half on the road and half in a shallow depression leading to a field of frosted stubble.

  I pushed myself into a sitting position, peering through the wispy fog. ‘Dad!’ I called, my voice low and hoarse. I got up and wandered into the middle of the road. I saw a still, small dark animal ahead of me; when I came closer, it was my coat. ‘Dad,’ I cried, turning in a slow circle, ‘where are you?’

  And then I saw a mound in the ploughed field a number of yards from the car, and knew with certainty it was my father. When I reached him I kneeled beside him, saying Dad, Dad, Dad, and stroking his bloodied face. He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his head, but other than the wide gash on his forehead and so much blood he looked as still and calm as if sleeping. A tuft of coarse wet winter grass was caught in his collar. I pulled it out, laying my cheek against his chest. It was warm, and I felt it rise and fall, slowly.

  It was only then, knowing he was alive, that I cried.

  ‘You’ll be all right, Dad. You’ll be all right,’ I said, over and over, weeping as the cold, damp air swirled around us.

  Something woke me, and I lifted my head in a hopeful rush. But my father still lay unmoving in the hospital bed, and in the next instant I knew that what had woken me was a painful throbbing in my cheek. I reached up to touch it, and felt gauze and tape. I explored it for a few seconds, only mildly curious, and then again took my father’s hand, as I had when they first allowed me to come into his room. The skin on the back of his hand was papery. Veins, thin and blue, created a tracery of webs under darkened spots. When had my father become so old?