The Saffron Gate

  I found a delightful challenge in our debates. His arguments were demanding, but he listened to my outlook with openness and a willingness to accept my points of view. And his expectations of me indicated a shared intelligence I found flattering.

  We were sitting side by side on the sofa one December evening at dusk. Cinnabar leapt on to my lap, and I stroked her, absendy running my hand down her back.

  ‘She was born deaf?’ he asked, and I nodded.

  ‘I assume so. I’ve had her since she was a kitten, and she’s always been deaf.’

  ‘Hopefully you didn’t allow her to mate.’

  I looked at him. ‘She hasn’t. But what do you mean, hopefully?’

  ‘Because of course she shouldn’t.’

  I stared at him, puzzled.

  ‘Her deafness. It would be wrong to allow her to breed and possibly pass on that trait.’ He took another mouthful of his bourbon. He drank it steadily through his evenings with me, although it appeared to have little effect on him. ‘She’s an aberration, after all. And the problem with an aberration is that if allowed to procreate, it can weaken the species.’

  Etienne was particularly fascinated by human genetics, and when he spoke on the topic he grew animated. He could somehow make the study of genes sound intriguing. ‘Remember when I told you of Mendel’s Unit of Inheritance? That every living organism is made up of half of the paternal genes and half of the maternal?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘So it’s quite simple. Only the strong, the perfect, should be allowed to create offspring. Think, Sidonie. Think of the possibilities of a world without the weak. Without the sickly, the damaged in mind or body.’

  I caught my breath. Did he not realise I was particularly sensitive to this? That I was one of the damaged he spoke of? I looked away from him now. ‘But don’t you think there can be something attractive in that which has a flaw?’

  He knew me too well. ‘Sidonie,’ he said, touching my chin so that I looked at him again. He was smiling, slightly. ‘You had an illness: It’s not genetic. And you have been made stronger by it, not weakened. You know you’re beautiful to me, in every way.’

  He never failed to make me feel precious, and wanted. I leaned my head on his shoulder.

  ‘But your cat,’ he went on, his breath, just above my ear, moving my hair, ‘is a different situation. With the rule of Intelligent Mating, the best of the species are joined to ensure that the offspring are the strongest and most clever — creating better species through specific breeding. So it’s a good thing that when Cinnabar dies she will not have passed on her unfortunate disability.’

  I didn’t like him talking about Cinnabar like this. ‘But I read, in one of the books you lent me … I can’t remember which,’ I said, ‘but it was something about surviving. That it’s not the strongest of the species who survive, nor die most intelligent, but those most adaptable to change. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘No,’ he said, at the same time gently brushing my hair from my cheek and kissing my scar. ‘But let’s not talk of it now,’ he murmured.

  Although I wanted to argue further, I didn’t want him to stop kissing my cheek. ‘All right,’ I whispered, because now my body ached for him all the time. I knew it might be four or five days before I saw him again. ‘All right,’ I repeated, turning so that I spoke against his mouth, and pushed Cinnabar from my lap.

  TWELVE

  ‘Madame? Here is Marrakesh, as you wish,’ Aziz said, his voice puzzled. ‘You are not happy to come Marrakesh?’

  I couldn’t speak or look at him. Instead, I stared ahead as we approached the outskirts of the city. Grand rows of date palms lined the road, and groves of them stretched out on either side. Mustapha drove with studied concentration and decision, although, like most of the other drivers, he constantly blew the horn — at nothing I could discern — with what appeared to be a ferocious indignation.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked him. ‘Mustapha? Where are you taking me?’ I had given him no instructions, and yet he drove with complete purpose. It gave me a certain comfort, for I had no idea where I might stay in Marrakesh. Since he and Aziz had looked after all the other arrangements, I could only hope they would do the same for me here.

  ‘Aziz?’ I said, when Mustapha ignored me. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘We go French Quarter, madame, La Ville Nouvelle. There are the hotels for foreigners in the new city.’

  The long red parapets of the city’s walls were made richer by the lowering sun. I had no visual image of Marrakesh in my head, other than knowing that many of its building were built of the deep red-brown soil of the countryside, and that there was the newer city, built by the French — where Etienne had lived — as well as the centuries-old one within the walls. French was the official language spoken in La Ville Nouvelle, while Arabic was, of course, the language of the old city.

  There was a profusion of trees: olive, lime, pomegranate, almond and orange. In spite of my trepidation, I couldn’t help but see that they gave a beautiful and verdant sense to La Ville Nouvelle, with its wide boulevards and small taxis weaving between donkeys and their carts and high-stepping white horses pulling open-backed carriages. Brilliant fuchsia blooms tumbled over garden walls. Etienne had told me that a subterranean network of conduits and cisterns had been constructed centuries earlier, as the city was being founded as an important base for controlling the region and for trade routes connecting it to northern Morocco and on to Spain.

  I stared at the trees and flowers, afraid that if I looked at the faces of the people, I might suddenly see Etienne. I knew it was rather ridiculous, imagining I would see him within moments of arriving, but still, my heart wouldn’t stop racing.

  Mustapha stopped the car in front of an impressive, elegant hotel surrounded by tall, swaying palms. Hôtel de la Palmeraie, I read, the discreet lettering etched into the stone overhang of the wide double front doors. The hotel gave the impression of lovely Moorish design, and yet, similar to the Hotel Continental in Tangier, it was somehow European as well. A dark-skinned man in a pressed red jacket with gold braid and a red fez with a golden tassel stood at attention outside the doors.

  Mustapha jumped out of the car and opened my door, bowing low and sweeping his arm towards the building as if suddenly he had acquired newfound manners.’ Hôtel de la Palmeraie, madame,’ he said, and, as I stepped out of the car, Aziz hauled out my cases and set them on the ground. The man in red and gold hurried over, and took them, bowing to me as well.

  ‘Bienvenue, madame,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Hôtel de la Palmeraie,’ and carried my cases up the steps and inside the hotel.

  I opened my bag and took out the decided-upon payment, as well as a number of extra francs. I put them into Mustapha’s hand, and then took out additional francs and gave them to Aziz, who was standing beside the open passenger door. ‘Thank you, Aziz. I appreciate your help,’ I told him, and he bowed his head.

  ‘De rien, madame, you’re welcome, it’s nothing. Goodbye, madame.’

  As he turned to get into the passenger seat beside Mustapha, who was giving the gas pedal little taps so that the running engine made a rhythm, I was hit with the reality that I would be alone again, in a strange city.

  It was similar to arriving in Marseilles, and in Tangier, except that in those cities I knew I was there for only a brief time, only long enough to arrange my voyage to the final city. This one, Marrakesh.

  ‘Will you stay in Marrakesh tonight?’ I asked, not knowing why it would make a difference. I would be here, at this grand hotel in the French Quarter, while they would stay elsewhere, perhaps in the old city.

  ‘No, madame. We drive again. Maybe we are home, at Settat, in morning. I think from this way road is not broken.’

  ‘You’re going to drive all night?’

  ‘Yes, madame,’ Aziz said, getting into the car and closing the door. ‘Goodbye, madame,’ he said, for the second time.

  I stepped back from the car.
‘All right. Well, yes, then. Goodbye, Aziz, goodbye, Mustapha,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Have a safe journey home.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ both men murmured, and I turned from the car, slapping my skirt to remove the worst of the dust, and attempting to tuck my wind-blown hair back into its pins. When I looked up, meaning to wave to the departing men, the car was already at the end of the drive. I raised my hand, but at that moment the car turned into the busy avenue, and I lost sight of it.

  The concierge — a short man, his smile a sly glint due to a gold front tooth — watched me as I approached the front desk. His eyes travelled from my hair down my dress to my shoes.

  ‘Welcome, madame,’ he said, although his voice wasn’t particularly welcoming. ‘You wish to stay with us?’

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  He turned the registration book, pushing it across the wide, gleaming counter. ‘Certainly, madame, certainly. If you would sign here,’ he said, handing me a pen with a flourish. As he watched me write my name, he corrected himself, his eyebrows rising slightly. ‘Ah. Mademoiselle. It is … Osh … I’m sorry. What is the name?’

  ‘O’Shea,’ I said. ‘Mademoiselle O’Shea.’

  ‘You have taken the train?’

  ‘No. I was driven from Tangier.’

  He nodded, his eyebrows lifting even higher. ‘A difficult journey, I am sure,’ he said, his eyes going to my hair. I was suddenly aware of how filthy I was. I had worn the same clothing for the last two days, sleeping in it overnight in the bled, and having no place to wash. I was fully aware of the effects of the wind on my hair.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how long will you stay with us, mademoiselle?’,

  I looked down at my signature, seeing, on the printed page, the cost of the hotel per night. It was far beyond my means. And yet I had no idea where else to stay. ‘I … . I don’t know’ I told him.

  His face gave away nothing. ‘As you wish, mademoiselle, as you wish. You are welcome at Hôtel de la Palmeraie for any duration. I am Monsieur Henri. Please call upon me for whatever you may need. Our aim, at the hotel, is that our guests not want for anything. May I reserve you a table for dinner? It is served until nine o’clock.’

  Did I want to eat dinner? Was I hungry? Did I propose to rush out into the streets and blindly begin my search? I didn’t know what I was feeling. I opened my mouth to say I don’t know again, and then realised I needed to eat, to sleep. To keep up my strength. ‘Thank you, yes,’ I said. ‘I will have dinner.’

  ‘Seven o’clock? Eight? What is your preferred time?’

  He waited, the pen poised over another book.

  ‘I … seven o’clock,’ I said.

  He wrote, nodding. ‘And now, I’m sure you would like to go to your room, to relax and refresh yourself after your arduous voyage.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said again.

  “He lifted his hand, snapping his fingers with a series of loud clicks, and immediately a wiry boy in the same uniform as the man who had opened the front doors for me ran over and picked up my cases.

  I followed the boy through the rich, thick carpets of the lobby, feeling strange and even more displaced than at any time since I left Albany over a month ago.

  My room was sumptuous, with walls of burled wood panels and oil paintings of mountains and Moroccan vistas in thick gilt frames. The bed’s white coverlet was scattered with a pattern of rose petals. I picked one up, feeling its satin thickness between my fingers, then brought it to my nose.

  A bed covered in rose, petals. I could never have imagined such a thing. I went into the attached bathroom, and found a large silver dish filled with more rose petals on the edge of the tub. There were fluffy white towels folded into shapes of flowers and birds, and a pair of slippers of soft white leather, and a white silk robe.

  I would quickly have to find a less expensive place. But I couldn’t worry about that at this moment; I would stay here the night, and hopefully tomorrow be more clear-headed. I drew a bath, pouring in sweet-smelling oil from one of the containers on a glass shelf over the sink, and then sprinkled the rose petals over the steamy surface. There was mirror everywhere, even surrounding the bathtub.

  I lowered myself in and leaned back. My hands and wrists were so much darker than the rest of my body; I turned my head and looked at myself in the mirrored wall beside me. My reflection showed that my face and neck were the same deep colour; my three days of travel in the sun and wind had given my complexion a hue I hardly recognised.

  I lay back again, looking at the length of my body. My hipbones jutted out and my knees were knobby.

  My abdomen lay flat under the warm, scented water.

  After I’d washed my hair I pinned it up, still damp. Then I put on my best dress, the same simple deep green silk printed with tiny white sprigs I had worn when I’d gone to Etienne’s office so long ago. It hung to mid-calf and had banjo sleeves. I attempted to shake out the myriad of wrinkles, then took my second pair of shoes from my case: although still ugly, black, with the right sole built up, at least they weren’t deeply ingrained with red dust.

  I went down to the dimly lit lobby; in the middle was a huge, gently splashing fountain. More rose petals floated on the water. Panels of wood in shades ranging from the palest blond to the deepest mahogany, arranged in a pleasing pattern, covered the walls. They gleamed under the soft glow from the sconces.

  ‘Madame?’ A boy, tall and thin, with the first hint of a moustache, appeared at my side. He wore the hotel’s red and gold uniform, as well as white cotton gloves. ‘You wish the dining room?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said, and he extended his arm.

  I put my hand through the crook of his arm. He started off rather quickly, the natural stride for a tall, long-legged young man, but feeling my slight hesitation, stopped and looked down at my shoes. Then he lowered his head the tiniest bit, as if in apology or understanding, and walked slowly, so that I could keep an even step with him.

  At the door, of the dining room he stopped, speaking in a low tone to the maître d’, another attractive young man. His hair was slicked back with brilliantine, and he wore a tuxedo with long tails, a burgundy cummerbund, and white gloves.

  ‘Your name, madame?’ he asked, and when I told him he nodded once to the boy whose arm I still held.

  As soon as I looked into the grand room I knew I was terribly underdressed. The men wore dark suits or tuxedos, while most of the women were in long evening gowns of satin and net, their hair either short and curled, or in elaborate upsweeps, and with exquisite jewels around their necks and wrists.

  I stood in the doorway in my creased green silk, my damp hair springing out of its pins on to my collar and around my ears, feeling dowdy, knowing that everything about my appearance was wrong. But the young man whose arm I held gave me a beautiful smile under his new moustache, saying, ‘Come, please, madame,’ and his smile gave me the confidence to lift my chin and walk through the room with him. I stared straight ahead at the darkening sky outside the long open windows. Thankfully the boy didn’t place me in the middle of the other diners, but led me to a small table set for one beside a window overlooking the gardens. He pulled out my chair for me, and I settled into its wide burgundy velvet seat. The room was filled with quiet laughter and chatter, the clink of silver against porcelain, and the soft strains of a harp from one corner. But in spite of this formal and very constrained atmosphere, from somewhere beyond the garden outside the window I was very aware of a distant, muted roar and the rhythmic pounding of drums.

  I sipped the mineral water instantly poured for me, and chose a simple, ratatouille from the extensive menu held in front of me by more gloved hands, and then looked through the window.

  In the dusk I could see rows and rows of trees and tall, flowering bushes with paths weaving throughout. At the far end of the garden was a high wall covered with bougainvillea. And beyond the wall, in a vista that resembled one of the oil paintings in my room, were snow-capped mountains: the High Atlas. I
heard evening birdsong through the perfumed air.

  It was a backdrop of such unbelievable beauty that for that moment I forgot, or perhaps was just distracted from, my purpose in Marrakesh.

  I came back to my senses when a server murmured, ‘To start, madame. Bon appétit’ and set a plate of tiny mille-feuille pastries in front of me. I put one of them in my mouth, and tasted something that reminded me of the pastilla I had had in Tangier. There was also a vegetable I couldn’t recognise. The noise from outside — the distant din, steady and rhythmic, like a thudding heartbeat — grew in frequency. I looked around the dimly lit, fragrant room, but nobody else seemed aware of it.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I finally said to the couple at the next table. ‘What is that sound?’

  The man put down his knife and fork. ‘The main square in the medina — the old city of Marrakesh,’ he replied, in a British accent. ‘D’jemma el Fna. Quite a place,’ he said. ‘I take it you’ve just arrived?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, you certainly must experience the medina during your visit. This part of Marrakesh we’re in — La Ville Nouvelle — is vastly different from the old city. All new, built since the French took over. But D’jemma el Fna, well …’ He looked at my single table setting, then back to my face. ‘It’s purported to be the greatest souk in Morocco, centuries old. But I wouldn’t recommend going there — or even venturing into the old city — without an escort. Allow me to introduce myself, and my wife.’ He stood, giving a small, dignified bow from his waist. ‘Mr Clive Russell,’ he said. ‘And Mrs Russell.’ He extended his hand towards the tall, slender woman with alabaster skin sitting across from him. A thin strand of brilliant rubies encased in gold stood out against her long and flawless neck.

  I introduced myself, and Mrs Russell nodded. ‘Mr Russell is right. The medina is frightening. And that square — oh, terribly bold. I’ve seen things there I’ve seen nowhere else. Snakes and their charmers, aggressive monkeys, fire-and glass-eaters. Ghastly beggars pulling at you. And the way the men stare … it positively gave me shivers. Once was enough for me, even with Mr Russell at my side,’ she said.