The Saffron Gate

by Holeman, Linda

  I knew the monkey would jump on anyone Mohammed directed him to. Hasi now slid down my arm, looking up at me. I saw how the band bit into his little neck, the fur worn away there and the skin raw. He bared his pointed teeth in a smiling grimace, putting his tiny hand out, palm up.

  ‘Madame,’ Mohammed entreated. His eyes were small and oily. ‘You must wish for this good luck. Only a fool would turn down such an opportunity. Tell the good lady, Hasi, tell her she must not let this opportunity pass.’

  Hasi made a sad chuckling in his throat, his fingers — no bigger than wooden matchsticks — now plucking at my sleeve.

  I reached into my bag and put a sou into that minute, almost human hand, and was rewarded with an ear-splitting screech. Hasi clambered back up my arm and on to my shoulder, jumping in one long leap on to Mohammed’s’ chest. One of his toenails scratched my neck. In a practised routine, he tucked the coin into the pocket of the vest Mohammed wore over his robe. Then he pressed his teeth against Mohammed’s ear, grimacing again and making his chuckling sound. Mohammed nodded seriously.

  ‘Madame, Hasi has informed me that a change will now take place in your life. An important change. You will find it here, in Morocco.’

  I knew it was nonsense. And yet I couldn’t help myself. My neck stung from Hasi’s toenail. ‘What kind of change?’

  Mohammed rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Hasi needs another sou to divulge what he knows,’ he said, and I dug in my bag, handing over my last coin to those tiny black fingers. Quick as a flash it was deposited in Mohammed’s pocket, and again the chattering into Mohammed’s ear.

  ‘Ah. This is a story I have not heard from Hasi before, madame. A significant tale. You have come to Marrakesh to find something. You have lost something, something of importance. Am I not right? I see from your face that you know Hasi speaks the truth.’

  I didn’t respond for a moment, then shook my head, sure that Mohammed told every foreigner this story, and not wanting him to know that, with me, he had actually hit upon a truth.

  ‘Vraiment? Truly, madame? You deny this? Because Hasi tells me that you are sad, but this will soon change. Very soon. Under the Southern Cross you will understand that what you look for may take a different shape. You may not recognise it.’

  ‘The Southern Cross?’

  Mohammed squinted at the sky. ‘The constellation, madame. Here, in Africa. The Southern Cross. You look for it in the night sky. And under it you will find what you search for. But remember, madame, remember, here are the Others, the djinns. They masquerade in human form. Be careful. Be very careful you do not choose unwisely.’

  Hasi screamed, jumping up and down.

  The sound pierced my ears. I closed my eyes, images coming unbidden: Hasi’s cheerless little grimace, his open mouth and tiny pointed teeth, then the open mouths of the beggar children. The pulled teeth and the grinning tooth-puller with his pliers.

  I opened my eyes and saw a row of skinned heads; for one horrible instant I thought of the decapitated heads Mr. Russell had mentioned. My stomach cramped as though I might be sick, and I instinctively crossed myself. In the next instant I saw they were not human, but goat heads, blue arid buzzing with flies, their eyeballs still intact and protruding. They sat in a row on a low table. A man in a torn djellaba motioned me towards them, nodding.

  Shakily I walked away. I couldn’t faint here, fall to the filthy ground. What would happen to me if I did?

  ‘Come back, madame,’ Mohammed called after me.’ For only one more sou, Hasi will tell you more; he will tell you something of the utmost importance, something you need to protect yourself from the Others. Only one sou, madame.’

  I kept walking, stumbling now and then. I touched the smarting slash on my neck and stared at the smear of blood on my fingers. When I saw the tall minaret of the mosque of La Koutoubia, I kept my eyes fixed on it, knowing it would lead me to the gates and out of the medina. I walked as quickly as I could, my bag clutched against my chest, my hair falling from its pins, the back of my dress wet from the heat and my own sudden and unexplained fear. I dragged my uncooperative foot; if it had been possible, I would have run.

  NINETEEN

  I spent the evening telling myself that I would return to the medina, and not be driven out by unfriendly stares or unwelcome touches or sights and sounds that shocked me. I was strong, I told myself.

  And besides, I had no choice.

  The next morning I once again set out for the gates that led into the medina. I looked up at La Koutoubia, and then, taking a deep breath, walked under the portals for the second time.

  This time I didn’t stop, ignoring the cries of the begging children and the clanging bells of the water-carriers, with their high domed hats and their brass cups and goatskins of water. I walked past the tooth-puller, and pushed through a crowd of young men gathered around a snake-charmer with his flute and baskets of writhing, rising snakes, jerking away when I felt a hand stroke my upper arm, not looking back to see who had touched me.

  I hurried from the square and into the souks, moving from stall to stall, saying Duverger, Duverger, do you know the Duvergers? Finally one man unfolded his arms and picked up a pair of bright orange babouches, studying me. ‘These shoes will fit you, madame,’ he said in French. ‘Good shoes; I sell only the best shoes in Marrakesh. I know French, and Spanish, and English,’ he said. ‘I have travelled many places. Where are you from? England?’

  ‘America,’ I said, and he nodded.

  ‘Ah, America. I once had a beautiful American bride. She was my third wife. But she returned to her home.’

  I nodded, although I didn’t know if I believed his story. The whites of his eyes were yellow, and he smelled strongly of garlic. ‘Good, good,’ I said. ‘But the Duvergers… do you know of them?’

  ‘I knew Monsieur le Docteur,’ he said.

  ‘Yes? You knew him? Dr Etienne Duverger?’ I said it calmly. Instinctively, I didn’t want this man to know the importance of his words.

  ‘What about the babouches, madame? You will buy them?’

  I took the orange slippers from his hands. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll buy them. But please, what do you know of Dr Duverger?’

  He shrugged. ‘First we must discuss what price you will offer. We will have tea, and discuss,’ he said, waving his hand in the air. I shook my head, but a boy of about ten appeared beside me. The man spoke in Arabic, and the boy ran off. ‘He will bring tea. Sit, sit, madame,’ he said, lifting a pile of brightly dyed babouches off a low bench. ‘Here. Sit, and we will drink tea and discuss the price.’

  All I wanted was for him to answer my questions, but I realised I must play the game first. I sat down. The shop was only about ten feet long and three feet wide; the smell of the dyed leather was strong. ‘Please, monsieur. About Dr Duverger.’

  ‘I knew Monsieur le Docteur Duverger,’ he repeated. ‘He came to the souks to buy kif and leather goods. He came to my stall because I speak French. Of course, that was before. Afterwards …’ he threw up his hands, ‘nobody saw him.’

  ‘What do you mean, afterwards?’

  ‘His illness. He did not leave his house.’

  ‘What illness?’

  ‘Madame, that is all I know. You asked if I knew the Duvergers. I told you yes, I knew the old man Duverger, who had the sickness.’

  Disappointment rose in my throat, sour as the garlic on the man’s breath.

  ‘The old man?’ I said. ‘Not the son? Not Etienne?’

  ‘I found for him the kif he wanted, when he could still walk in the souks. We drank tea. Now you and I will drink tea. Soon my nephew will return with it. Maybe you will buy two pairs of babouches. One for your husband. Maybe three pairs. For three pairs I make you a good price. Best babouches in Marrakesh; best prices. And my cousin sells kaftans, best kaftans in Marrakesh. You wish to buy kaftan? Silk? Velvet? What kaftan you like? I call my cousin after tea; he show you beautiful kaftan.You buy from him; he has the best. Don’t listen to oth
er men. Their kaftans are not like my cousin’s.’

  There was no air in the tiny shop; my hair was plastered against my wet forehead. The smell of the dye and the wafting garlic from the man’s breath were making my stomach roil.

  The slippers were soft in my hands. ‘Perhaps … the daughter?’ I said.

  ‘Daughter? What daughter?’

  ‘Manon.’

  He pushed out his lips. ‘Who do you speak of? Who is Manon?’

  ‘Manon Duverger. Or maybe that’s not her last name any more. Perhaps she’s married, with a different surname. But the elder Duverger’s daughter, Manon. I believe she still lives here, in Marrakesh. Maybe within the medina.’

  ‘Manon?’ he repeated, as if to make certain. ‘You ask about the daughter of Marcel Duverger? That Manon?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ I nodded, my voice again rising in hope, but the shop owner suddenly looked secretive, or disgruntled. He looked over my head, and then reached up and straightened the babouches on the shelf.

  ‘That’s what I’ve said, monsieur. Manon Duverger.’

  ‘You are mistaken, madame. The Manon you ask about is not Duverger. She is Manon Maliki.’

  ‘That’s her married name?’

  Now the man made a face of disgust. ‘Hah!’ he said.

  I ignored his critical tone, fighting to keep my voice even, my face expressionless. ‘But … you are certain she’s Monsieur Duverger’s daughter?’

  Now he shifted his tangle of a turban to one side, wiping his shaven head. ‘I am certain.’

  ‘Can you tell me where she lives, then?’ I licked my lips. I was so close.

  He was still staring at me. ‘Sharia Zitoun.’

  ‘How do I find it? Is it nearby? Please, monsieur.’

  ‘It is past the dyers’ alley. C’est tout’, he said, slapping his palms together as if to rid them of dust. ‘There’s nothing more I can tell you. You have taken me from my duties for too long.’ He had abruptly lost his earlier friendliness. From the moment I made it clear I looked for Manon Duverger, his attitude had changed.

  ‘I’m sorry to have troubled you, monsieur,’ I said. ‘I … what price do you wish for these?’ I held up the orange babouches. ‘Whatever you ask, monsieur. You have been very helpful. And I … I’ll take a second pair, as you suggested.’

  But he rather brusquely took them from my hands. ‘You do not need to purchase anything from me. It will not be a good sale; now there is no baraka. Instead, I will give you something. I give it freely. It is this: do not seek out Manon Maliki. No good will come of it. Good day, madame.’ He turned then, putting the babouches on another shelf. It was clear he would speak no more to me.

  ‘Merci, monsieur,’ I said to his back, and left the stall. I passed the boy — the man’s nephew — hurrying up the alley, a tin tray with two glasses of steaming tea on it. He stopped, staring at me, but I ignored him.

  Now I asked anyone who looked at me for directions to the dyers’ alley, or to Sharia Zitoun. Occasionally a man would point behind me or in front of me. I had no idea if they understood my question, and, if so, if they actually were giving me the correct information.

  The streets twisted like streams beneath my feet; at times I stumbled in the depression that had been worn into the centre. And then, with a turn, there were no more stalls, and I was out of the souks. I was in an alley lined with the windowless house fronts Madame Odette had described. Straight walls and gates, and behind the locked gates lived the people of Marrakesh. There were many small children, appearing from shadowed alleys that led off the one I was in, scampering around me as they had in D’jemma el Fna, pulling on my skirt and chattering in Arabic. And like the children in the square, the only French words they called , were bonjour, madame, bonjour, and bonbon, they begged, but I could only shake my head. Sharia Zitoun, I repeated to them, but they just giggled, running ahead or beside me.

  There seemed an inordinate number of famished cats; they sat on walls and slunk in and out of the shadows, their ribs protruding, their ears torn and their fur greasy or mangy. Every once in a while I passed two of them, spitting and hissing as they fought over a scrap of food, with the triumphant one dragging its win into a dark corner.

  As I wandered deeper, it grew quieter; the noises of the souks had long died away. And then there was solitude. Not a child, not a cat. Nothing. The cooler peacefulness of this alley was a relief after the continuous noise and array of colour and wares and milling humanity. I stopped, leaning against a wall, wiping my forehead and upper lip with my sleeve. The cobbled alley stretched ahead, shaded and dim, with only the gates and the continuous walls. I couldn’t tell where one house began and one ended except by the different gates. The alley was so narrow that should I meet a donkey pulling a cart I would have to flatten myself against the wall.

  I told myself I should return the way I came — if I could find my way back — and be in the busyness of the souks, or even the frenetic, untamed atmosphere of the square, and find definite directions to Sharia Zitoun.

  I should be where there were people; although I didn’t feel particularly safe in the crowds, here, completely alone, a sense of panic nudged. I was hopelessly confused, entwined in the labyrinth of the medina. I thought of Madame Odette’s words about being lost, and how it was impossible to find one’s way out. I saw that the medina was not only a serpentine maze of alleys, but also a network of arteries leading into dead ends and cul-de-sacs.

  A gate opened and a man emerged. He stopped when he saw me, and then walked towards me, staring at me as if I were something unpredictable and dangerous.

  Instinctively I lowered my gaze, and he passed.

  I went to the end of the alley, looking left and right. Three women approached; no man was with them. ‘Mesdames?’ I said, seeing that the hands clutching the folds of their white haiks across their faces were black. They might be slaves, then, I thought, and that was why they were out without a man to accompany them. ‘Mesdames,’ I repeated, but they passed me as though I were invisible.

  I lost track of time. Occasionally I met another figure, and would speak the words Sharia Zitoun. Some turned their faces from me, unwilling to speak to an uncovered foreigner; others stared but didn’t respond. I wandered deeper and deeper through the tunnelled streets; it felt as though I had walked for hours in the hot alleyways. My leg ached, and occasionally I leaned against a wall to rest it. I realised that the last strip of sky above me was closing over because of the narrowness of the passageways. I fought to hold down the panic that stayed with me now, just under the surface. I heard the slight splashing of fountains in the courtyards behind the high walls, or the slow clopping of hoofs on stones, echoing from another alley. I stepped around the deposits left by horses and donkeys and goats, as well as over trickling gutters. On the top of a pile of rotting vegetable peelings was the body of a dead cat, sprawled as though unceremoniously tossed there. It was even cooler here, with the high stone walls and the sun unable to reach its long fingers into such narrow passages, and I understood why the streets were built in this fashion.

  I turned down another street, and suddenly heard, from nearby, continual mechanical humming. I went towards the sound and walked into an alley lined with tiny niches. In every one an old man hunched over an antiquated sewing machine, working the needle with the hand wheel. I thought of my mother. The tailors’ alley then.

  In the next alley were men working wood in their own alcoves. These men weren’t as old as the tailors, and used an assortment of tools, some with their bare feet. The smell was aromatic and clean.

  When I next turned I found myself in a small square. Over the entire square, from crossed ropes strung between the roofs, hung huge skeins of wool: a ceiling of colour. The dyers’ alley. The skeins were scarlet and tangerine and sunflower yellow, greens deep as the ocean and pale, as the newest leaves, purples and blues both brilliant and muted. I stood in awe for a moment, looking up. Then I saw that the dyers were all boys, some as young as twel
ve or thirteen, also in tiny recesses, sitting cross-legged on raised platforms as they stirred vats of dye into which they were immersing the rough grey-white wool. Their hands, on their wooden paddles, were completely stained to the wrists in a muddy, unnameable colour. They looked at me as I passed, but didn’t stop their endless stirring. Steam rose from the vats, and I could imagine the intense heat in the tiny domed spaces.

  Sharia Zitoun was just past the dyers’ alley, the babouche dealer in the souk had told me. I stopped at the wall at the end of the alley; I could only go left or right. There was a tiny sign on one wall, but it was in Arabic. Choosing left, I started down the alley, and almost immediately three small children ran towards me. ‘Madame,’ they shouted, and at their cries a gate opened and a heavyset woman stuck her head out of the doorway, holding a calico kerchief in front of her face. She shouted at the group of children, and they dispersed. ‘Pardon, madame,’ I said to her.

  She looked over the kerchief at me with a decidedly unfriendly stare.

  ‘Je cherche Sharia Zitoun,’ I said.

  Her stare altered slightly. ‘Parlez-vous français, madame?’ I asked. ‘Sharia Zitoun,’ I repeated, slowly.

  The woman nodded, pointing at the ground. I looked down, not understanding until she said, ‘Sharia Zitoun.’

  ‘Ah. Ici? Here is Sharia Zitoun?’

  The woman nodded again.

  ‘Please, madame,’ I said, ‘I am trying to find Madame Maliki.’

  At that the woman took a step back.

  ‘Manon Maliki,’ I said, again, nodding encouragingly.

  Then the woman did an odd thing. She reached down inside her kaftan and pulled out a small leather pouch, clutching it. I knew it to be an amulet to ward off the djinns; Aziz had worn one. What I didn’t know was whether she held it to protect herself from me, or because I had said Manon’s name.