The Saffron Gate

by Holeman, Linda

  I thought of the Blue Man on the piste.

  I walked along the street so quickly that in moments my leg ached, and I had to slow down. But the sense of urgency was intense, and it was difficult for me to remain calm and walk with my usual gait.

  My mind was racing, yet I still noticed what was around me. All the store fronts and street signs were written in French, occasionally with smaller Arabic print underneath. Most of the non-Arabs on the streets were the French who lived and worked in La Ville Nouvelle. The men, dressed in suits and hats, carried cases under their arms, and hurried along purposefully. French women, strolling arm in arm, some with shopping bags, were in pretty summer dresses and high-heeled shoes, complete with hats and gloves. It took me only a few moments to notice that when an occasional Moroccan man passed one of the French men or women, he stopped momentarily and saluted.

  More than once, a Moroccan man looked into my face as if unsure, and then passed by.

  There were no Arab women on the streets of the French Quarter; I hadn’t seen one since I’d arrived in Marrakesh.

  I easily found Rue Aries and waited while a clerk looked up the Duverger name. ‘Yes,’ he said, and I leaned closer. ‘The Duvergers owned a home on Rue des Chevaux. But …’ He hesitated, squinting as he followed a line with his finger. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It was sold some years ago. Now it is owned by a family named Mauchamp.’ He looked up at me. ‘That’s all I have here. Now there is no indication, of any Duvergers owning a home in the French Quarter.’

  I thanked him and went out into the street. Now what were my options? I couldn’t have reached a dead end so quickly. Somebody must know of Etienne Duverger. He had lived here; his parents had died and were buried here, as was his younger brother Guillaume. And somebody must know of Manon Duverger.

  I studied the small map Monsieur Henri had given me as I wandered through winding streets, noticing, as I walked deeper through the French Quarter, the red ramparts that surrounded the medina. They were solid, unbroken walls, apart from strange round holes along the top, and although I heard shouts and calls from the other side, I didn’t know how one entered the old city.

  Towering over all the other buildings was a huge red mosque. It was four-square and untapering, with a triple tier of openings. I went towards it as though it were a beacon; surely something of this dominance played an important role in this rather flat city. But before I reached it, I came upon a set of wide-open gates with high portals over them. The portals were decorated with Arabic script.

  I knew it was the main entrance to the old city, the medina of Marrakesh.

  I stopped outside the gates and looked through. Everywhere were African men and boys, some leading donkeys and small horses pulling carts piled with all manner of produce. The men’s faces fascinated me because of their diversity. Here the combination of races was even more prevalent than I had witnessed in Tangier or Sale or as we passed villages in the bled. In Marrakesh there were those so fair-skinned as to look European or Semitic, with long, narrow faces and light brown or reddish beards, their heads covered by their turbans. There were the Berbers of the desert, often high-cheekboned, their faces chiselled and dark from the sun. And there were those with skin so black it shone ebony, their heads covered with tight curls. Slaves, or the descendants of slaves.

  I thought about my reaction when Etienne had told me about the slaves in Morocco.

  ‘As soon as the Protectorate was in place, the French government abolished the purchasing of new slaves,’ he had said, ‘but the Moroccans still own them. Many are descendants of the Africans from the sub-Sahara, brought up on the caravan routes from west Africa for centuries. Marrakesh is full of them.’

  ‘Did you have slaves?’ I asked, hoping he would say no.

  ‘We had servants. Arabs,’ he said, shortly, and then spoke of something else. It was another case of him making it clear he didn’t wish to discuss certain aspects of his past with me.

  Thinking of that conversation made me realise that there was no reason to search for Etienne in the medina; it was all Moroccans. As I stood under the portal before turning to leave, there was a sudden call of Madame!

  I turned towards the voice, seeing a number of horse-drawn buggies lined up along the allée leading to the medina. I’d noticed these throughout the French Quarter, the Moroccan driver urging on the set of clopping horses as French men or women sat in the back seat.

  Now one of the drivers hurried towards me. ‘Madame! Madame, un tour de calèche. Please, come and ride in my calèche; I show you Marrakesh. I take you all Marrakesh.’ He was extending his hand as he came towards me, grinning in an overly friendly and familiar way, and I shook my head, backing away.

  Without warning a Moroccan boy, perhaps fifteen, banged into my shoulder brusquely, nearly knocking me over, and I dropped my handbag. The man from the calèche shouted at him, and as I stooped to retrieve my bag and then stood again, the boy was staring at me, and the venom in his eyes frightened me. He didn’t speak, but slowly his mouth worked, and like the man in the market in Sale, he spat at me. It hit the toe of my shoe.

  I remembered the covered woman, hissing at me through the open window of the car as I crossed the river with Mustapha and Aziz!

  The calèche driver ran at the boy, slapping him across the side of the head, then bowed to me, again urging me to come to his calèche. In spite of the hard blow to his head, the boy stood his ground. I was caught between the two men, the younger one looking at me with surprising hatred, the other with a cagey expectation.

  The woman on the ferry had despised me because she thought me a promiscuous and immoral woman. But did she, as the man in Sale, the boy here, hate me also because she saw me as one of the French who had come into her country and forced her subjugation?

  I shook my head again, opening my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Then I walked away as quickly as possible.

  I searched La Ville Nouvelle for three full days, but every time I said the name Duverger I was met with blank stares. I had wandered through all of its wide boulevards, looking at the villas behind gates in gardens of palm and orange trees for hours and hours each day, my leg and hip throbbing from endless walking. I had looked into all the cafés, had asked about Etienne at the Polyclinique du Sud, the small French medical clinic, and had sat in the main square, studying each European man who passed.

  I saw a few men who, from the back, resembled Etienne: wide, straight shoulders, dark hair curling over the collar, confidence in the step. Each time I felt faint for a moment, and then hurried after the man, realising, when I was a few feet from him, that it was not Etienne. Only once was I so sure that I touched the man’s sleeve, and when he turned to me he frowned in a concerned way.

  ‘Yes, madame?’ he had said. ‘How can I help you?’

  Such was my disappointment that I simply shook my head, backing away.

  My hope — and corresponding anxiety — over finding Etienne had now been replaced with a dull ache of despair. But he must be here, in Marrakesh. The letter … I had so frequently taken the folded paper from my handbag and reread it that it was dirty and tearing in the creases.

  It was the same when I enquired about Manon Duverger, but I reasoned that I had no idea what she looked like, and that she might have married and now had a different surname.

  Staying at the luxurious Hôtel de la Palmeraie, my money was depleting at an alarming rate, and I knew I must find less expensive lodging. And yet, at the end of each of those first three days, when I returned to the hotel hot and exhausted, I no longer had the energy to begin the process of searching out a different hotel and moving.

  That fourth day of my search was like the first, and the second and third. At noon, thinking about the time difference between Morocco, and Albany, I went to the postal station, and had an operator put in a call to Albany. After half an hour’s wait I was summoned to the telephone, and heard Mr Barlow’s voice.

  ‘Mr Barlow,’ I said, loudly. The line was cra
ckly. ‘Mr Barlow, it’s Sidonie.’

  ‘Sidonie,’ he said. ‘Where are you calling from?’

  ‘I’m in Morocco.’

  There was silence. ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘North Africa.’

  Another silence.

  ‘And you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes. I’m fine. I wondered … has there been any mail for me?’

  ‘Mail? Well, I’ll have to go and get Nora for you. Just a minute.’

  I heard Mr Barlow calling Nora’s name, then the murmur of voices. I clicked my fingernails on the counter. Hurry, hurry up, Mrs Barlow. I was so afraid the line would go dead.

  ‘Sidonie? Is that you? Why are you in Africa? You said you were going to France. When are you coming home?’

  ‘Mrs Barlow,’ I said, not answering any of her questions, aware of the growing crackle of the line. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. There’s been too much rain, though, and the—’

  I cut her off. ‘Did any mail come for me since I’ve been away? Did any letters come?’

  ‘Letters?’

  I fought to stay patient. ‘From Dr Duverger. Or … anything with a foreign stamp. Did anything come?’

  ‘No. But … you haven’t found him? Why haven’t you come home, then? And … the other. You know. How’s that going?’

  I didn’t answer for a second, and the static on the line increased.

  ‘Sidonie? Are you there?’ Mrs Barlow’s voice was thin and distant.

  ‘Yes. Is Cinnabar all right?’ I was almost shouting.

  ‘Well, she’s—’ she started, and then the line went dead.

  ‘Mrs Barlow?’ I called into the receiver, but there was silence, and then nothing but a rapid, repetitive clicking.

  I went to the counter and paid for the call, and then, weary and despondent, returned to the hotel and sat, rather numbly, in the lobby.

  Mr Russell stopped in front of me.

  ‘We haven’t seen you about, Miss O’Shea,’ he said. ‘Not even in the dining room.’

  I smiled wanly. ‘Yes. I’ve been … busy. And taking my meals either in my room, or …’ I realised then that I’d been eating little.

  ‘Mrs Russell and I are leaving for Essouria tomorrow, but we thought that this afternoon we’d visit the Majorelle Garden,’ he told me. ‘It’s a bit further north-west in the city. Do you know of it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Have you looked at these paintings?’ he asked, gesturing at the watercolours on the wall. ‘They’re for sale; a lot of people who stay here like to take home images of Morocco. Une passion Marocaine, as they say. They go for a pretty price. Some of them are by Jacques Majorelle,’ he said.

  I didn’t comment, not interested in having a discussion on painting with Mr Russell.

  But he liked to talk. ‘He’s a passable artist; manages some quite gentlemanly orientalist watercolours. And as I said, a lot of tourists to Morocco seem to go in for that sort of thing. But Majorelle had this idea, supposedly a few years back, to build a magnificent public garden. He bought a few acres of land in the date palm groves on what was then the outskirts of the city. He’s planted an impressive array of cacti, succulents, bamboos, bananas, tree ferns and so on. I believe he’s importing dozens of varieties of palms. Parts of it are still being worked on; he’s trying to bring in every tree and plant imaginable that will survive this climate.’

  In the sudden silence I felt I couldn’t be rude as Mr Russell stood over me as though waiting for something. ‘Does Monsieur Majorelle no longer paint, then?’

  Mr Russell waved one hand airily, as if the answer to my question was not worth much concern. ‘I’m led to believe he’s an artist of little importance. Nobody outside of Marrakesh seems to know much about him. But please, Miss O’Shea, do feel free to come along with us. It will be quite relaxing.’

  ‘Oh, no. I shouldn’t …’ I began, and then stopped.The thought of spending time in a beautiful garden away from walking the busy streets in the oppressive heat was appealing, and I knew I didn’t have the energy to search any further this day. Perhaps it would be a relief to think of something other than Etienne for a few hours. ‘Well, yes. Thank you. I’d like to join you.’

  We rode to the gardens in the horse-drawn calèche Mr Russell had hired. He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket as we drove through the verdant streets of La Ville Nouvelle, rich with green spaces of trees and flowering beds. Mrs Russell said little, and almost immediately, once we were settled in the facing leather seats of the open-topped buggy, Mr Russell continued on about Jacques Majorelle as if our earlier conversation was still in progress. ‘The word is that he has a studio, as well as a notable variety of birds. Majorelle decided his garden will be an oasis of quiet, fragrant beauty in the centre of a noisy, busy city.’ He clipped the end of his cigar with a small metal implement, and then lit a match, puffing on the cigar with long, satisfied pulls. The smoke rose above his head, and he spoke again, but this time I was able to tune out his words.

  As we turned north-west, the calèche driver brandished his whip above his head in twisting arabesques, snapping the thin leather back and forth over the backs of the two horses pulling the calèche, but never touching them.

  I watched the twirling smoke of Mr Russell’s cigar and the curl of the whip over our heads as they intersected in the blue sky.

  Most striking about Le Jardin Majorelle was the sensation of shade and filtered sunlight, and the colour of many of the arches and huge terracotta vessels containing plants. They were painted green and yellow and blue. The blue was a vivid and almost electric colour. I tried to find a name for it: perhaps cobalt, perhaps a shade of azurite or lapis lazuli, maybe Prussian or cerulean. But nothing was exactly right. This blue seemed to have its own distinct properties.

  And the colours of the garden matched Marrakesh’s brilliant hues.

  Almost immediately Mr Russell introduced me to a man in a white panama hat — it was Monsieur Majorelle — and he welcomed us graciously. ‘I’m happy to show my vision to visitors,’ he said in French. Mr Russell could speak a little French, and he translated for Mrs Russell. Monsieur Majorelle led us down a shady path of beaten red earth. Other paths crossed it. Sunlight dappling through the tall, swaying foliage created a rhythmic pattern on our faces. There were a number of young Moroccan men, dressed in white, digging and planting.

  ‘The garden is my expression; for me it has a mystical force. I’m attempting to create a design — one I see here,’ said Monsieur Majorelle, tapping his temple, ‘with vegetal shapes and forms. I have a love of plants,’ he finished.

  It was clear that the design of the garden had a certain composition and placement of colour in both its structures and its plant life that immediately brought to mind a painting. I looked at the shallow tiled pool nearest; carp and goldfish wove through the clear water, turned aquamarine by the tiles. I recognised water lilies and lotus, but there were other aquatic plants unfamiliar to me. ‘What is that, Monsieur Majorelle?’ I asked, pointing to tall stalks topped with a large, tassel-like head.

  ‘Papyrus,’ he said. ‘I wish to bring in forms representing the continents that sustain life. Please. Enjoy yourselves. Stroll about.’

  We said goodbye. Mr Russell wanted to shoot photographs with the Brownie camera he wore around his neck.

  ‘I’ll go off on my own,’ I told him and Mrs Russell. ‘I’d love to explore some of the plantings.’

  We parted, agreeing to meet back at the entrance in an hour. I wandered down the pleasant paths, touching the profusion of vermilion bougainvillea twining over trellises. I passed the men in white, the thudding and scraping of their shovels in the red earth a solid, heavy sound in comparison to the high and glorious bird calls from above.

  Although the garden was beautiful, it hadn’t lifted my despondency. There were few other people, apart from the Arab workers, but I noticed a frail, very elderly woman sitting on a bench under a banana tree. She held a tiny d
og with feathery gold fur, a stiff pink bow around its fluffy neck. The old woman stroked the dog with gnarled fingers, each one decorated with a ring bearing a different gem. I thought of Cinnabar, and the soothing feel of her fur.

  The shaded bench was inviting. ‘Bonjour, madame,’ I said. ‘Your dog is very sweet. May I pet her?’

  ‘Bonjour,’ she answered in delicate French, her voice tremulous with age as she peered up at me. ‘Do I know you? My eyes … I don’t see well any longer.’

  ‘No, madame. You don’t know me. I’m Mademoiselle O’Shea,’ I said, sitting beside her.

  ‘l am Madame Odette. This is Loulou,’ she added, and the little dog looked up at her, its mouth slightly open, its pink tongue curled up on the end, vibrating as it panted in the heat.

  ‘Are you enjoying the gardens?’ I asked.

  She smiled, almost merrily. ‘Oh yes, my dear. I come every day. My son brings me after our noon meal, and picks me up at five. Is it nearly five?’

  ‘I believe so, madame. Do you live nearby?’ I reached towards Loulou, but one corner of her tiny lip lifted in warning, and I withdrew my hand.

  ‘Yes. I have lived in Marrakesh for a number of years. Now I stay with my son and daughter-in-law. My husband was in the Foreign Legion, you know. He died many years ago.’

  She stopped, looking into the distance. Loulou yawned, shifting, in the old woman’s lap.

  Madame Odette refocused on me. ‘But she is unpleasant, my daughter-in-law. Every day some difficulty. I grow weary, listening to her tell my son what to do, and complain about this and that. So I come here, and enjoy the garden.’ She looked towards a stand of bamboo. ‘My son brings me here,’ she repeated. ‘Nobody bothers me, and I do not have to hear my daughter-in-law’s voice. Loulou and I spend many hours amidst the trees and flowers.’

  I nodded, leaning down to pick up a fallen bougainvillea blossom and looking into its deep red centre.

  ‘And you, mademoiselle? You live in Marrakesh as well?’ Madame Odette asked.

  I looked up, shaking my head. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re visiting family?’