The Saffron Gate

  I touched the velvet of the bloom to my chin.‘I’m here to find someone, but …’ I again reached towards Loulou.

  This, time she allowed me to stroke one ear. I moved my hand to her back. ‘It’s proving very difficult, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I have lived in Marrakesh many years,’ she repeated. ‘The heat of Africa is good for my bones, although my daughter-in-law’s chill is not good for my heart. But I have known many French families. My husband was in the Foreign Legion. Very handsome in his uniform.’

  She was watching my fingers running up and down the little dog’s back. ‘What day is it?’ she asked, suddenly looking at me.

  ‘It’s Tuesday,’ I said.

  ‘Will it rain tomorrow?’ Her eyes were milky blue, clouded with cataracts.

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t believe so, madame. It’s summer. There is little rain, in summer in Marrakesh. Isn’t this so?’

  ‘I have lived here many years. I am old,’ she said. ‘I forget.’

  I patted Loulou’s head and then stood. ‘I’m sure your son will come for you soon, Madame Odette.’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost five,’ I told her again.

  ‘He comes at five. He will come here, for me. Wait under the banana tree, Maman, he tells me. I always wait for him.’

  ‘All right, then. Goodbye, madame. And Loulou,’ I added, touching the dog’s silky ear a final time. She twitched, annoyed, as if a fly had lit on it.

  ‘Who is it you seek, mademoiselle?’ Madame Odette asked then, looking up at me. Her face was shadowed by the leaves.

  ‘The Duvergers, madame,’ I said, without expecting her to answer logically.

  ‘Marcel and Adelaide?’ she said, unexpectedly, and I opened my mouth, then closed it and sat down beside her again.

  ‘Yes, yes, Madame Odette. The family of Marcel Duverger. You knew them?’ I said, still refusing to grow hopeful.

  She nodded. ‘Marcel and Adelaide, oh yes. And the son … I remember some tragedy. I remember the past, mademoiselle. I remember past days, but often not this day. They had a son. It was a tragedy,’ she repeated. ‘I have a son.’

  ‘Guillaume was their son. Yes, he drowned.’

  She studied me, her head on one side, her eyes suddenly more alive, even though the irises were ghostly because of her cataracts. ‘And there was an older one.’

  ‘Etienne. You know Etienne?’ My voice was quick, loud now.

  ‘I remember something about him. Clever young man. He went off to Paris.’

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s him, Madame Odette. Have … have you seen him? Recently?’

  She stroked the dog’s chest. ‘No. But I don’t go out, except to come here. My son doesn’t allow me to go out now,’ she said. ‘I am old. I forget things,’ she repeated, shaking her head.’ They died some years ago. First Adelaide, and then poor Marcel. There are no longer any Duvergers in La Ville Nouvelle. He was a doctor.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, Etienne is a doctor,’ I said, nodding, encouraging her.

  ‘No. Marcel. Many of the doctors worked for the intelligence service,’ she said. ‘Once we took over Morocco, the French medical doctors proved especially effective as agents of imperial penetration of Morocco,’ she said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper, as though enemy ears hid in the trees and bushes around us. ‘My husband told me many tales of the espionage. Oh yes,’ she said, ‘they were not always just doctors.’

  I sat back; I had been leaning so close I had smelled both the odour of her dentures and a powdery lilac fragrance, although I couldn’t be certain whether it arose from her bodice or the dog in her lap. Disappointment flooded through me, and I closed my eyes for a moment. I didn’t care about what Etienne’s father had or hadn’t done decades earlier.

  ‘The person you search for, my dear,’ she said, and I opened my eyes.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It is a man or a woman?’

  ‘A man. It’s Etienne Duverger I’m trying to find.’

  ‘And he is willing to be found?’

  I let her words sink in for a moment. ‘Willing?’

  The old woman smiled, a strange smile. ‘Sometimes … well, if one can’t be found, it is because one is hiding. My husband told me many stories of those unwilling to be found.’

  I knew I had refused to think of this, although I had, since arriving, held this very thought like a tiny, hard knot at the back of my mind: that Etienne was indeed in Marrakesh, and had seen me, but had not approached me because he was, as Madame Odette had just said, unwilling to be found.

  ‘Madame Odette,’ I said then, not wanting to think about Etienne hiding from me. ‘What of the daughter? She’s gone as well?’

  Now Madame Odette frowned. ‘Daughter?’

  ‘Manon. Manon Duverger,’ I said, but the old woman shook her head.

  ‘I don’t recall a daughter.’

  ‘She may have a married name now.’

  ‘And her name is Marie?’

  ‘Manon.’

  Madame Odette nodded. ‘I know a Manon Albemarle,’ she said, and my mouth opened and I leaned in again, nodding. ‘She’s quite young. Perhaps fifty-five. My son’s age.’

  I let my shoulders drop. ‘That won’t be her. Manon Duverger is much, much younger than that. I was sure she lived here, in La Ville Nouvelle.’

  ‘I forget many things,’ Madame Odette said. ‘Many things.’ The little dog yawned again, this time snapping its tiny teeth as it closed its jaws. ‘Ma chérie,’ Madame Odette murmured, stroking the dog with more force. ‘I don’t remember this Manon. You believe she lives here, in Marrakesh?’

  ‘She did a few months ago, ‘I said, thinking of the folded letter I carried in my bag at all times.

  ‘And it’s with certainty that she lives in La Ville Nouvelle?’

  ‘I … I assume so. She’s French, after all.’

  ‘There is more than one kind of French woman in Marrakesh, mademoiselle.’

  I didn’t understand. Madame Odette’s gaze was suddenly coy. ‘Perhaps she’s gone Arab. She may have moved into the medina to live with the Moors.’ She leaned in to my face. ‘Some do, you know. There’s been more than one French woman who has lost her sense, lured in by a man.’

  ‘You think it’s possible that she lives in the medina? I don’t …’ I stopped. I knew nothing about Manon.

  ‘You should try there, among the Moroccans. Outside the walls live the émigrés. The native people of Marrakesh do not live in La Ville Nouvelle. Poor, rich, they all live in the old city; even the sultans and nobles have their fine homes and their harems, their riads with their glorious gardens, all within the medina walls.’

  Within the medina walls. I thought of D’jemma el Fna. ‘The medina is large, Madame Odette. How could I even begin to look there?’

  ‘Yes. It’s large, the medina, and you must venture through the souks to the little rues, which run in every direction. Very confusing streets — more like alleys, narrow and dark. The homes are windowless on the outside walls. The people believe that conspicuous exteriors are a very poor show. Like their women, the men keep their riches hidden.’ She drew a deep breath. ‘Always look for the minaret of La Koutoubia. The highest mosque, just outside the medina gates. Koutoubia means bookseller. Once booksellers set up their wares at the base of the mosque.’

  She stopped speaking and stroking Loulou, closing her eyes as though her explanation had exhausted her. I knew she was talking about the imposing red mosque I had seen. ‘But when La Koutoubia is out of sight, one can easily get lost. It is almost impossible to find the way out when you are buried deep within the medina. I was lost there, once.’ She opened her eyes. ‘What day is it?’

  I put my hand on the old woman’s arm. ‘It is Tuesday, Madame Odette.’

  ‘I myself have not gone into the medina for many years. My son does not like me to go out. I am old,’ she said, yet again.

  ‘Thank you, Madame Odette,’ I said, standing. ‘Thank you for your help.
’

  The woman looked at the sky. ‘Oh, you mustn’t go to the medina now; it’s growing too late. It’s not a good idea to walk about in the medina by yourself after daylight.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Thank you, madame,’ I said again.

  ‘You know I have a son, mademoiselle,’ Madame Odette said. ‘He comes for me at five. Do you have a son?’ she called after me, and those last five words travelled into me like five sharp jabs.

  EIGHTEEN

  The following morning I stood, for the second time, and looked through the tall gates at the sun filtering through the medina. I told myself that the old city didn’t appear so menacing a place. With one last glance over my shoulder at the streets of the French Quarter, I clutched my handbag more tightly and walked under the high portals, hoping I looked purposeful, with a destination in mind, and not like a woman only pretending to be unafraid.

  Finally I saw Moroccan women, although as elsewhere throughout the country, nothing was visible but their eyes above their veils. Their bodies were also made completely indistinguishable by a white cloth — I knew it was called a haik — draped over their heads and completely covering them to the ground. Under the haik they would wear their daily dress, a flowing gown called a kaftan. I had seen striped silk kaftans, tightly cinched at the waist with wide belts, in a few shop windows in the French Quarter. I assumed some French women bought them on a whim, or perhaps because they were cool and comfortable to wear within their homes.

  Most of the Moroccan women in the medina carried large woven bags over their shoulders, and some had babies swaddled on their backs with slings of cloth, while others had small children clinging to their robes, toddling quickly to keep up. I then noticed that with every woman was a man or older boy, walking closely in front or behind. No woman was without a male accompanying her.

  I was immediately aware of the stares of the men, and how the women gave me a wide berth.

  Of course I again thought of Mr Russell’s warnings, about not coming here alone, and yet he and Mrs Russell had left for Essouria early this morning. But even if they hadn’t, I wouldn’t have wanted him to accompany me. That would have required me to explain why I was looking for a woman named Manon Duverger in the old city.

  I didn’t wish to discuss my situation with anyone.

  I looked straight ahead, pushing through the throngs in the crowded, narrow street. I didn’t know where I was going, but I had told myself that once I was inside the medina I would figure out my next move.

  On this first street, every square inch under the tattered straw or cloth awnings, so faded as to be colourless, was crammed with tables or simple threadbare strips of carpets on the ground holding everything imaginable — as well as some things which were, to me, quite unimagined.

  There were women’s kaftans and endless djellabas of every colour and every fabric. Other stalls held hundreds of babouches — the backless leather slippers dyed bright shades of yellow and orange and red — dangling overhead from hooks. There were camel-bone teapots and red felt fezzes and arrays of perfumes: jasmine and musk and sandalwood.

  I passed trays of sweetmeats and juicy dates and figs and live chickens and pigeons in crates. Thick swarms of flies buzzed and settled, lifted and settled over everything.

  And then suddenly I came into a huge open square with stalls and kiosks lining its edges. It had to be at least three city blocks square. People milled about, and as I watched displays being set up in the centre, I knew I had come to D’jemma el Fna. Men were unrolling rugs and lifting covered baskets out of the back of carts pulled by donkeys. Others were setting up pyramids of oranges on wooden trays or dumping mounds of steaming snails out of pots and into woven baskets.

  I didn’t dare walk through the open centre; already I felt too conspicuous and uneasy. Instead, I edged along the perimeter of the square. I had to walk around a man hunched over a board on his lap, writing on a thin sheet of paper as a tearful young man crouched in front of him, speaking in a low voice. Beside the man writing was a small square of cotton, and on it a few coins. The young man dried his face with the sleeve of his djellaba and put a coin on to the cloth; the other man handed him the sheet of paper. A scribe, I thought, surely, writing out a letter for the young man.

  Even at the perimeter of the square, the crowd was thickening. I was pushed and jostled, usually simply caught up in the bustle, but on occasion I suspected I was knocked into intentionally. I refused to listen to the voice in my head telling me that these were portents, that I was not wanted here, and should leave.

  And yet I had no choice. I had run out of options in the French Quarter. I would stay in the medina, and try, somehow, to find out if Manon lived here. I had no plan other than asking about the Duvergers.

  I heard a running string of Arabic in a loud, authoritative voice, and looked over the heads of others to see a man on a box, waving his arms, his eyes wild and his face stubbled. He wore a magnificent robe of brown and blue velvet, so different from the other men in the square in their drab djellabas. Around him some men squatted in a circle, many watching his face with their mouths open. Others stood, but all were mesmerised and silent. The man on the box went on and on, his words hammered out as he gestured and shook his head or nodded, and I, began to realise, by his pauses and the fire of his words, that he was telling a story. In front of him lay a square of dark cotton, and on it glinted coins, as I had seen beside the scribe. A professional storyteller.

  Further on I came across a man sitting on the ground with a cloth filled with pulled teeth in front of him. They were of all sizes, some rotted and some whole, the roots long and pointed. He held up a pair of rusted pliers when he saw me looking at his collection. He tapped his front tooth with the pliers, opening and closing the metal instrument. His own teeth were grotesque, and I hurried away. I had seen enough of D’jemma el Fna.

  I walked down one of the alleys that led from the square like spokes of a wheel. I was now in the souks, and looked ahead and behind, trying to find clues to remind myself of the way back to the square. Here were endless stalls and tiny shops, with a man standing in front of each. It took me only a few moments to see that the souks were organised by trade, with the cloth-sellers in one alley, and the silversmiths in another. There were rug merchants and perfume dealers. I saw conical piles of spices of every shade of red and yellow and orange and green and brown, their smells mingling. The men visited back and forth, calling to each other, and sometimes to me, with murmurs of ‘Madame, venez, madame.’ Come, madame.

  My vague intention had been to stop women and ask them if they knew Manon Duverger, but it had been obvious from my first moments in the medina that this wouldn’t be possible. The women hurried past me, sometimes talking to an accompanying woman beneath their veils, their dark eyes glancing at me in a somehow accusing way, making it clear I was an outsider.

  I stopped, looking backwards and then ahead; had I turned left or right at the last corner? I looked up, hoping to see the tower of La Koutoubia, but all that was visible was the slash of azure sky through tattered reed awnings.

  Would I be able to retrace my steps? I turned in all directions. Suddenly every man’s eyes were on me; every woman pushed past me, banging my shoulders or hips as though in warning.

  I edged closer to the stalls, away from the middle of the crowded, narrow streets. Occasionally the owner would spring to life, chattering in Arabic or French, trying to sell me a scarf or a decorated hand mirror or a bag of dried rosebuds or a sack of mint for tea. Each time I asked about the Duvergers. Some of the men shrugged, either because they didn’t know the Duvergers, or perhaps because they didn’t speak French, or simply didn’t care to answer me if I wasn’t purchasing something from them. Some shook their heads. Most simply ignored my question, urging me to buy.

  I was too hot, hot and thirsty; it was making me light-headed. It had been a mistake to come here, blindly looking for an unknown woman. The thought of my quiet room at the hotel was a vision now; I n
eeded to return to the safety of the French Quarter.

  Every man and woman appeared to be staring at me, and I stopped again, turning in a circle, trying to get my bearings.

  Suddenly my skirt was yanked, almost violently, and I gasped. Three small children — no older than four or five — stood around me, pointing small, dirty fingers into their open mouths, screeching Manger! Manger, madame!

  I opened my purse to give them a few small coins, and at that gesture the smallest of the children leapt as if to take it. I held my purse against my chest, and the child cried, piteously, Bonbon, madame, bonbon!

  ‘Wait, wait,’ I said. ‘I have no candy.’ I dropped a few sous on to the ground, because the children made it impossible to put them into their hands, clinging to my skirt and jumping up and down. As they stooped to gather the coins, I pulled free and hurried away, but suddenly there were more children running after me, again grabbing at my skirt. I tried to ignore them, because I had only two sous left in my bag — I hadn’t thought to bring much money with me.

  ‘Non, non,’ I said, trying to free myself from their hands, and suddenly, as I reached the end of the alley, I was back in D’jemma el Fna. But the children persisted, and as I pushed their little hands from my skirt, there was a flurry near my ear, and a weight on my shoulder. Shocked, I turned my head and stared into a tiny scowling face next to mine. I shrieked involuntarily, and the little thing also screeched in response, so loudly that I was momentarily deafened. It was a monkey, I told myself, only a monkey

  And yet the children still beseeched, still clustered around me jerking my skirt. The monkey was pulling at my hair. I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t call out.

  A voice shouted in Arabic, and the children scattered. I stood, trembling, my face wet with perspiration, the monkey still perched on my shoulder.

  ‘Madame, oh madame, this is truly good luck,’ said the man who had run off the children. He held a long chain, and the chain led to a leather band around the monkey’s neck. ‘I am Mohammed, and my monkey, Hasi, has chosen you,’ he told me. ‘If you give a sou, only one sou, madame, your luck will be threefold. Oh, it is a blessed day that Hasi has chosen you. He has chosen you because he knows you are the possessor of a good soul. This Hasi knows. He goes only to the good.’