The Saffron Gate

by Holeman, Linda

  We drove in silence, and when I got out, Mr Barlow touched my arm.

  ‘I’ll wait for you,’ he said.

  I nodded, and went up the steps of the hospital. But at the door I stopped, thinking of the night my father died, and the next morning, coming out into the weak early light to Mr Barlow’s truck. A wave of nausea ran through me. I couldn’t go through those doors again; I turned away and started down the steps. But Mr Barlow was already parking the truck. I could see the back of his head through the window.

  I couldn’t let him see me so weak, couldn’t go back to him and ask that he take me home, admit to him that I was afraid to go into the hospital.

  I took a deep breath and turned, going through the door. My stomach churned, and I looked for a Ladies’, but didn’t see one. I gave my name at the front desk and was shown into a small room, and after a short wait the doctor came in. Dr Duverger. I remembered his ruddy cheeks. His hair was very dark, as were his eyes. Like mine.

  ‘Good day, Miss O’Shea,’ he said, smiling, a very slight smile, and studying me. In the next instant the smile fled, and a line appeared between his brows. ‘I phone to your friend - the number you give me for your ride home - because I look at my active patient records, and see that you have not return to have the stitches remove,’ he said.

  He was standing over me, and I was looking up at him. I was still trying to quell the rolling pain in my abdomen. ‘You should have come back when it was the time. Miss O’Shea — did you not see what was happen?’

  ‘Happen?’ I echoed, rather faintly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The flesh grow over the stitches, and the wound, it turns …’ He said something in French just under his breath, his voice too low for me to hear the words. Then he said, in English, ‘Keloid. It become keloidal.’

  I lifted my shoulders a fraction. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The tissue — it grows too fast. Look,’ he said, pulling a round mirror from his desk. He held it so I could see my own face, and his fingers running up and down the red scar. ‘This mound is the formation of fibrous scar tissue. Your own tissue was too overactive, growing so quick. Too fast. We could have stop it. Did you not feel the itch, the pull?’

  I shook my head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  He stared at me, and something in his expression suddenly shamed me. I put my hand over my cheek. It was hot. ‘My father … the funeral and … and everything. I … I forgot. Or … I don’t know,’ I finally said, not wanting to admit my altered state these last weeks since my father’s death.

  The doctor’s face softened, and he sat down in a chair across from me. ‘I understand. It is the difficult time. I have lose my own parents,’ he said, and with those words, from this man I didn’t know, my eyes burned. I hadn’t been able to cry at the funeral, or afterwards, when neighbours from the street and my father’s old friends had come to the house, the women hugging me and the men pressing my hand or patting my shoulder.

  I had stayed strong for the last three weeks. I had stayed strong as I washed the Model T and polished the hood ornaments, as I ironed my father’s shirts and wetted his shaving cream with the brush and breathed in the lather, as I put his pipe between my lips and tasted the faint bitterness of tobacco, as I lay on his bed and saw one silver hair on his pillow. I had stayed strong, telling myself I had no right to cry for my own pig-headedness, for my own fatal error in judgement.

  So what power did this man have, to make me feel, so unexpectedly, that I wanted to lean my head against his chest and weep? That I wanted him to put his arms around me? I swallowed and blinked, and was relieved that my eyes remained dry.

  ‘You are all right, Miss O’Shea?’ he asked. ‘I see … I should tell you to come another time, perhaps. But already it is too long for your face. Let me look again.’ I lifted my chin, and again he leaned closer to me, his fingers gently exploring my cheek. I smelled disinfectant and perhaps, underneath, the tiniest whiff of tobacco. Again I thought of my father. The doctor’s fingers were firm, and yet gentle.

  ‘You’re French,’ I added, and then immediately felt foolish. I had no idea why I made that obvious proclamation.

  But he just sat back in the chair, putting on a pair of spectacles and looking at my file. ‘Oui,’ he said, reading.

  ‘My mother was French. Not from France. From Canada.’

  ‘Je sais,’ he murmured, still reading.

  ‘You know?’ I asked, surprised.

  He put the folder on the desk and took off his spectacles. This time he smiled again, that small, slightly unsure smile. ‘Not about your mother. But I hear you pray in the French of this country. And singing. I hear the French song.’

  ‘Singing?’ I asked, surprised a second time.

  ‘Dodo, l’enfant, do. The night … when your father died. When I pass the door I hear you sing this … what do you call the night song for children?’

  ‘Lullaby,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. My mother also sing this lullaby to me. Very traditional,’ he said, his smile unselfconscious, warm and sincere. In the next instant it faded. ‘Miss O’Shea. You wish your face to be better?’ He picked up the small hand mirror and extended it to me for the second time.

  I took it, and looked at myself. The scar was angry and red, raised and lumpy, and ran vertically from my cheekbone all the way to my jaw. I was startled at its ugliness. How had I not seen it like this before? Surely I had looked at myself in the mirror, when I carefully washed my face, avoiding the painful wound, or when I brushed my hair and twisted it up into its usual knot at the back of my head.

  Again Dr Duverger touched the scar lightly, with the tip of his index finger, but I could feel nothing. ‘If I do the very small surgery, I can correct it. There will be new stitching, but it will leave a less noticeable scar. Finer, and more flat. Do you wish to have this done?’

  When I didn’t immediately speak, Dr Duverger said, ‘Miss O’Shea?’ and I looked from my own reflection to him.

  ‘It is not an expensive procedure.’

  I put down the mirror.

  ‘If this is the reason for your hesitation.’

  I stared at him. ‘No.’

  It was obvious that my reaction puzzled him. I looked down at my handbag, still in my lap, and fiddled with the straps;

  ‘I don’t understand. What stops you, then? Is it you are afraid of the operation? But there is no need. It is straightforward, and there will be no complicat—’ He stopped, and, still holding my handbag, I looked up at him. ‘Perhaps you would choose another doctor?’ His expression had closed.

  He couldn’t see the great guilt I carried. It was so heavy. And ugly, like the scar.

  ‘I can recommend one of my colleagues. Even to have a second opinion. This is natural, Miss O’Shea.’

  I didn’t want to be here. The antiseptic smell of the hospital, the sounds of the nurses’ rubber shoes on the floors, the occasional quiet cry from behind a door … it was too real. I never wanted to come here again. I just wanted to go home, and stay within the security of my own walls.

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ I said. My voice was a little too loud, my words a little too fast. Did he hear it, know that I was lying? I sensed he was very astute. ‘I just don’t know if it’s worth it — the time and energy — to bother with. It doesn’t matter to me, and it surely doesn’t matter to anyone else. I have no vanity, I can assure you, Dr Duverger.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘You don’t feel you are worth it, Miss O’Shea?’ He waited for an answer, but I was silent until he eventually shrugged. ‘If this is the case, of course it’s your right.’ He stood. ‘I’m only sorry you care so little for yourself. To carry this mark for ever is not necessary.’

  He left then, and I stayed where I was. After some time I lifted the hand mirror and again studied my reflection. Eventually I put the mirror back on the desk, and went outside to Mr Barlow’s truck.

  There was no way to explain to the doctor that while yes, part of the reason I didn’t
want the minor surgery was because I really was afraid — not of pain, but of the horrible memories and feelings the hospital brought back — more importantly, the scar would be my reminder. A reminder of the kind of person I was, and what my stubbornness had wrought. It was necessary to carry it.

  SEVEN

  I spent a week in Tangier.

  It was quite clear that word travelled quickly throughout the twisting alleys and bustling souks, for apart from Elizabeth Pandy, I had mentioned only to Omar — the boy who had carried my bags to my room my first day in Tangier — that I was looking for someone with a car to take me to Rabat. But almost immediately a seemingly endless array of men came to the front door of the Hotel Continental. They were stopped by the doorman, and not allowed inside the grand lobby. They waited until I was called and came to meet them.

  Most of them immediately proved unsuitable, for they didn’t possess a car. They assumed I would provide it, but I explained, either in French, or through Arab translation provided by Omar, that I did not wish to find a car and attempt to purchase it.

  I needed a driver and a car, I stressed over and over.

  During those first days I learned a great deal about the North African attribute of persuasion. Some said they had a cousin with a car; others said they would find me a car. One arrived who said he didn’t yet know how to drive, but surely, once he was actually in a car, he would figure it out. A few did own a vehicle, or had at least borrowed it. But when they showed me the automobile, always with considerable pride, I politely and firmly thanked them but told them it would not work out.

  Some of the cars were so rusted they had little floor left; most had no doors or roof. The tyres on all of them were dangerously flat. One enterprising fellow had hitched two donkeys to the front of a car with no engine.

  The early summer days were warm and fragrant, the scent of orange blossom everywhere. But I was overcome with frustration and anxiousness. Each day I didn’t leave for Marrakesh was another day wasted, and when I couldn’t bear to sit in my room or the lobby for another minute, I distracted myself by going to Le Grand Socco — the Large Square. I was told by the concierge that while it was safe for me to walk about the main streets during the daylight hours, I would be better off not to go into the souks on my own, and also to avoid leaving the hotel after nightfall. He also warned me to stay away from Le Petit Socco, which, I deduced from his frown and sniff of disapproval, speaking of the bad women there, was a centre of prostitution or at least immoral business.

  Le Grand Socco swarmed with people in the bright sunlight — mainly Europeans, Americans and British, for this was where foreigners to Tangier spent their time. Dressed in fine clothing, they sat under crisp awnings or on cafe terraces, eating and drinking deep green absinthe or vermilion wine from small glasses. The women smoked cigarettes or thin dark cheroots in decorated holders, and the men had their cigars or sucked the mouthpiece of a winding tube leading from a huge bubbling container that sat on the floor — sheeshas, they were called. Many of them also smoked kif, with its distinctive sweet grassy odour and form of intoxication that gave its smokers a sleepy, pleased expression. In the squares the shops had signs announcing their wares in English, French and Spanish, and the visitors shopped for overpriced items to take home. There was the atmosphere of a holiday, and also, as Elizabeth had spoken of, a certain laissez-faire attitude amongst these men and women who had come to Tangier for their own reasons: a sense of everything and anything being acceptable. I saw that some of the women wore clothes far more daring than I had ever witnessed, and sometimes, inadvertently, I saw these same women leaning against men — or other women — in doorways. I always looked away, and yet I was drawn to watch them as they murmured and touched each other so openly in public places. And more than once I witnessed young men walking about holding hands, also stopping to kiss in the open streets.

  This was what I saw. I could only imagine what took place in the hotel rooms and the back rooms of the cafes. I wondered what the people of Tangier thought of these bold foreigners. It was clear the Tangerines preferred to stay in the narrow, darkened souks leading off the bright and busy squares; this was where the real life of Tangier throbbed, for the souks were the heart of Arab life. More than once I wondered at their chaotic thrum, wanting to venture in even for a few steps, and yet, mindful of the concierge’s warning, and my own insecurity in this very new world, I stayed where I was safe.

  I also spent a great deal of time on the roof of the Continental. With the calls from the minarets echoing around me, I looked at the towering Rif mountains, the setting sun turning them the same blood red every evening. Somewhere, far beyond the mountains and into the heart of the country, was Marrakesh.

  And in Marrakesh was Etienne.

  I grew ever more impatient and nervous. I had to get there.

  Although I regularly saw Elizabeth Pandy and Marcus and other Americans, I tried to avoid them. I found their constant drinking and loud voices and laughter exhausting. One afternoon I sat in the empty lounge, partly hidden by a high banquette, sipping a mineral water as I attempted to understand a rough map of Morocco I had purchased in Le Grand Socco. I finished my water and folded the map, but before I had a chance to stand I heard Elizabeth and her crowd enter. They had come from Rue de la Plage, where Elizabeth, and one of the other women had braved the wild Atlantic waves and plunged into the frigid water.

  ‘Marvellously refreshing,’ Elizabeth said, her voice carrying. I was desperate to leave, but didn’t want to be seen and to then have to stop and talk to them. I reopened the map, again studying it and hoping they would have one drink and leave. I tried to ignore them, but found it difficult to concentrate, and finally sat back, idly listening to their uninteresting chatter and gossip. But I stiffened as I heard my name.

  ‘I wonder if she’s found a way to get to Marrakesh yet,’ Marcus said. ‘She’s determined, it appears, if nothing else. After all, she even has some sort of trouble walking.’

  ‘Quite peculiar, and rather repressed, wouldn’t you say? Not unattractive, in spite of the scar and her outdated clothes and heavens, those shoes, but such a plaintive expression,’ Elizabeth said. ‘One doesn’t like to be nosy, but I would like to find out. Such a peculiar young woman,’ she repeated. ‘I really can’t think what she imagines she’s doing, traipsing off to Marrakesh.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a man she’s after. There’s no other reason, is there? And it appears she views herself as quite the tragic heroine of her own story, whatever it may be,’ another woman said, and there was a snideness to her voice that made a wave of heat wash over me.

  Was that how they viewed me? A peculiar, pitiful figure?

  I knew that in my neighbourhood in Albany I was thought of as unconventional. Certainly everyone knew me to be a woman who kept to herself, who sometimes tramped in the barrens and dunes, and chose to live her life caring for her father rather than marry. Although not traditional, I was not, at least in my mind, odd enough to be seen as something to be discussed so negatively by others.

  I wanted to go back to my room. I rose in a half-crouch, seeing, over the banquette, Elizabeth now standing and taking her bag. I sat down again, waiting for her to leave. If she left, the others would soon follow, and I could escape.

  But at that instant Elizabeth walked around the banquette, and stopped when she saw me.

  ‘Well, hello, Sidonie,’ she said, and my cheeks flushed. ‘What are you doing sitting here by yourself? I’m off to the Ladies’. Actually we were just discussing you.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, unable to look up at her.

  ‘Go over and join the others. I’ll be back in a moment,’ she said.

  ‘No. Thank you, but I’m … I must go to my room.’ I stood.

  She shrugged. ‘As you wish,’ she said, and then added, ‘Oh, have you managed to find a car and driver yet?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I was speaking to a British fellow at the Red Palm Cafe today. He told me he ha
d just been driven up from Casablanca, and the fellow is on his way back down south tomorrow.’ She opened her bag and dug around in it, finally pulling out a crumpled paper and handing it to me. ‘Here’s his name. Ask one of the boys to locate him; he’s staying somewhere in the medina. But if you do find him, hire him for all the way to Marrakesh. From what I’ve heard, you could end up waiting days for a train in Rabat. There’s little sense of punctuality among the Africans.’

  Now I didn’t know how to react. In spite of her brashness and lack of sensitivity, Elizabeth Pandy had just provided what I had been waiting for. I took the paper and unfolded it. Mustapha. Tall. Red vest, yellow Citroën, was scrawled on it.

  ‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ I said, tentatively.

  ‘We all must stick together, mustn’t we?’ she said, lifting her hand in a kind of salute.

  I nodded and smiled, and then left the lounge, stopping to talk to Omar on my way through the lobby. Finally something was happening.

  Mustapha presented himself to me on the veranda the following morning. I was relieved that he could speak a smattering of French. He was, as the note had described, tall, and wearing a decidedly filthy red vest over an equally dirty, once white robe that was frayed at the hem and hung over the pointed toes of his woven sandals. A very short man, his djellaba hood down and a small round white hat on the crown on his head, stood beside him. He stared at me with one brown eye, the other a disturbing empty socket, slightly puckered.

  Mustapha gestured at two other men at the bottom of the steps. They both had their djellaba hoods pulled forward, and I couldn’t get a good look at their faces. He spoke to Omar, and Omar thought for a moment, frowning, then brightened.

  ‘Ah. Yes. He brings friends to speak for his purity,’ Omar said.

  ‘His purity?’

  ‘Yes. He is pure man.’

  I realised then that Omar was trying to tell me that Mustapha had brought references. I glanced at the men, but they turned their backs to me.