The Saffron Gate

  But then she raised her other hand and flung it in the air, pointing over my left shoulder. I turned and looked at the gate she indicated.

  ‘C’est la?’ I asked. ‘That’s where she lives?’

  Now the woman simply tucked her amulet into her kaftan and stepped back inside, slamming the gate.

  I went to the gate she’d indicated. It was a brilliant yellow-gold, in the way of many of the gates: the colour of saffron. There was a heavy, tarnished brass knocker in the shape of a hand: the hamsa. Again, it was a familiar sight. I had seen many of these knockers on other doors, to afford protection from the supernatural.

  I stood in front of the gate, breathing heavily. Had I actually found Manon? I lifted my hand to grasp the knocker, then dropped it to my side.

  What if I knocked and it was Etienne who opened the door? Wasn’t that what I had hoped would happen? Hadn’t I made this terribly difficult journey, all the way to Marrakesh, for this very reason, this very moment? Hadn’t I been so afraid, and felt so alone? Hadn’t I, more than once, wondered if I would ever reach Marrakesh, and, if I did, actually find Etienne?

  Here was the moment.

  And I was terrified.

  What if he simply looked at me, frowning, shaking his head, telling me to go, that I had no right to come here? To leave, that he didn’t want me? What if — when I tried to talk to him, to tell him it didn’t matter that he’d left me, that I could forgive him, that whatever he was hiding from me couldn’t be so terrible — he simply closed the door in my face?

  No. Etienne wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t.

  And what if it was Manon who opened the door? What if what she had to tell me about her brother was unbearable?

  I couldn’t catch my breath. There was a loud buzzing in my ears, and the saffon gate grew brighter and brighter, until it was a shimmering brilliant light. I put one hand on it to brace myself, but I was trembling too violently, and had to lean my shoulder against it, closing my eyes. I didn’t want to be here, not now. I needed more time. I would come tomorrow, when I was more in control. This was enough for one day — to find where Manon lived. I needed another day, one more, before I confronted her. Or Etienne.

  Finally I could open my eyes, and my ears cleared. I straightened, and with one last look at the gate, turned from it and walked away.

  Part-way down the alley I stopped. I had left Albany well over a month ago. I had had enough time. I was not a coward; I had proved that many times over to myself since I’d left Juniper Road.

  I retraced my steps and again stood in front of the gate. Instinctively I put my ear against it, but could hear nothing.

  Then I lifted the heavy hamsa, raised it, and brought it down, once, twice, three times, with firm, heavy thuds.

  TWENTY

  There was no sound from the other side of the door. I knocked again, harder this time, hitting the hamsa against the wood with more force. Finally I heard footsteps, and the door creaked open.

  A woman, holding her haik to cover her face in the way I was now accustomed to, peered through the narrow opening. Her eyes were long and dark, and she blinked rapidly, as though surprised, as she looked at me. She carried a metal bucket in one hand. In it was a stick wrapped round with a rag. Splashes of white dripped from the rag on to the ground. I assumed her to be a servant.

  ‘Bonjour, madame,’ I said, hoping she spoke French. ‘I’m looking for Madame Maliki.’ I smelled the fresh scent of the whitewash.

  When she didn’t answer, I assumed she didn’t understand. I used the Arabic greeting — assalaam alykum, peace be upon you — and then slowly repeated Manon’s name.

  Still she studied me, her eyes now strangely flat, the earlier light gone from them. I was thankful she didn’t reach for an amulet as the woman in the street had. Perhaps, I wondered for a moment, she was simple-minded. But although she was silent, there was intelligence in her eyes as she studied my face. She shifted, setting down the bucket. At this point she could have been any of the covered women I had passed in the alleys of Marrakesh since I had arrived.

  ‘Madame Maliki,’ I said, for the third time, trying to keep the exasperation out of my voice.

  ‘Why do you seek her?’ she asked, in perfect French, her voice slightly muffled by the haik.

  I immediately straightened my shoulders. ‘Oh,’ I said, somehow surprised by the firm and almost melodic tone of her voice. How could I have thought, only seconds ago, that she might have been simple-minded? ‘I … I have come to speak with her,’ I said, not wanting to divulge the complicated reason as I stood in this dim alley.

  ‘Is there some trouble?’ she asked, and again I was encouraged by the modulated tone of her voice, and yet also annoyed by a Moroccan servant expecting me to speak on a personal note.

  ‘There is no trouble for Madame Maliki,’ I said. ‘Pardon me, madame, but I have gone to great lengths to find her. If she is at home, I should very much like to speak to her. Would you fetch her, please?’

  The woman wiped her hand down the front of her haik. Her fingers were long, and the half-moons on her oval nails very white.

  ‘Come,’ she said, pulling the gate open further, and I caught my breath as I stepped over the pail of whitewash and into the courtyard. My eyes darted over every surface, into every corner. What did I expect? To see Etienne sitting there? Or perhaps a sign of him: a familiar jacket, a book with a pair of spectacles on it?

  But there was no such indication. Some sort of housecleaning was under way, as there was furniture sitting about the tiled courtyard — stuffed ottomans and stools and long, narrow mattresses covered in multicoloured fabric, which I knew were used for both sitting during the day and sleeping at night. There was a fountain in the centre of the courtyard, but instead of water it contained only dead, dry leaves and the small, stiff body of a yellow bird, its tiny black feet curled against its torso. A few large earthenware pots held bedraggled geraniums. There was a set of steep, narrow tiled steps leading to an upper floor with shuttered windows that looked into the courtyard.

  The woman still studied me. ‘Latch the gate,’ she said, and watched me as I did. Then she turned and walked across the courtyard slowly, her body swaying under the haik. I was uncertain whether to follow her or remain at the gate. A child, perhaps four or five, ran into the courtyard from the house. Maman, it said, but the woman ignored it, sitting on one of the mattresses. And then a girl appeared in the doorway. She was ten or eleven, her skin the colour of milky coffee. She was painfully thin in her simple muslin shift. Her knees and elbows looked too large for her legs and arms, her jaw too narrow. Her right arm was covered in bruises, and one of her eyes was bloodshot, the eyelid puffy. A flowered kerchief was tied around her head, and her hair — the same colour as her skin — hung in long, tangled tight curls. She also held a whitewashing stick, and stared openly at me.

  I couldn’t tell if the younger child was a boy or girl; the thick black hair was cut in a straight line across the nape of the neck as well as the forehead, almost hiding large eyes that were as black as its hair. The child’s skin was pale. It wore a little draped garment too long to be a shirt and too short to be a dress, and cotton trousers, torn off at the knees, with dangling threads. Its feet were bare. ‘Who is the lady, Maman?’ the child cried. ‘Who is she?’

  Like its mother, the child’s French was impeccable. It came to stand in front of me, its little neck, long and delicate, tilted back to look at my face.

  ‘Please, madame,’ I called to the woman. ‘Please. Would you ask Madame Maliki to come to the courtyard?’ My heart was thumping. I realised, as I spoke, that if Etienne was inside the house he might have heard my voice. I looked at the upper-floor windows, but the shutters remained closed.

  ‘What’s your name, madame?’ the child asked me, with no hint of shyness.

  ‘Mademoiselle O’Shea,’ I said, in a distracted way, still watching the woman. Why did she not do as I asked?

  ‘I am Badou.’ Like the chi
ld’s appearance, the name didn’t specify gender; it was a French name used for a boy or a girl. ‘We’re whitewashing the walls inside. I’m helping,’ Badou said proudly. ‘I moved the furniture with Falida.’

  The woman spoke in Arabic, and Badou and the girl — who put down her stick — pushed, in a slow and painstaking manner, a heavy cork stool until it was across from the woman. I briefly thought that Etienne’s sister must be kind to allow the servant to keep her children with her. Or perhaps it was a Moroccan custom, mother and children working together. I didn’t know.

  ‘Sit,’ the woman said to me, languidly pointing to the cork stool. Badou climbed into her lap, leaning against her, but she paid no attention. The girl — I assumed this was Falida — had gone back to the doorway and picked up her stick, but still stared at me.

  My anxiety was growing by the minute, and I was losing patience with this woman. I had asked her repeatedly to fetch her mistress, and yet it was obvious she was in no hurry to do as I wished. I made a small clicking sound with my tongue. ‘Madame, please. I would like you to fetch Madame Maliki for me. Is she at home?’ I asked, sitting stiffly on the stool. ‘Or … or is anyone else here? Is …’ I stopped.

  The woman was looking at me sharply now, although still she held her haik over the lower half of her face.

  ‘Madame Maliki,’ the child repeated in a reedy voice, lacing a bit of string over and around its fingers, creating a small webbed pattern. ‘Badou Maliki,’ it said, more of a whisper, as if to itself.

  ‘Why do you seek her?’ the woman asked again, as she had in the doorway.

  ‘It’s a private affair, for Madame Maliki only,’ I said, slowly. Suddenly I was very tired, and very thirsty.

  At that the woman dropped the hand holding her haik, and it fell open. She had a straight nose and well-formed mouth. Her eyes were as dark as mine, but her skin tone was paler. There were a number of fine lines emanating from the corners of her eyes, and something about her expression was infinitely weary. She was definitely older than I. Hers was a sad and delicate face. It was obvious that she had, at some point, been quite beautiful. Although now she looked drawn, she still had a certain sensuousness to her. I realised that while I had seen a few uncovered Berber women in the square, I hadn’t seen behind the face coverings of any other woman since I’d arrived in this country.

  When she still didn’t speak, I said, ‘Please, madame. It’s Madame Maliki I must see. As I keep saying.’ The courtyard was so hot. A cicada screamed, and the sound pierced my ears.

  ‘I am she,’ the woman said, calmly. I had to shake my head the slightest. The cicada’s shriek had partly obscured the woman’s voice. Surely I had misunderstood.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but … perhaps I didn’t hear you. You didn’t say you are Manon Maliki?’

  She nodded, and at that I stood. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Oh, no.’ The back of my dress was wet with perspiration. ‘I’m sorry, madame. I have made a mistake. I was looking for someone else.’

  I let out a long sigh of frustration, of more disappointment. After such hope, and such anxiety, my search through the medina had been for nothing. The babouche seller in the souk had given me the wrong information. He had told me with such surety that Manon Maliki was Marcel Duverger’s daughter. But this was not Etienne’s sister. This was a Moroccan servant. What now? What more could I do to find Etienne?

  ‘You’re looking for someone else?’ the woman asked. ‘But you came looking for Manon Maliki. I am she.’

  ‘No. The woman I’m trying to find is …’ I stopped, careful of my wording. ‘I have been given the wrong information.’ I looked at the saffron gate, and then took a step towards it. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘Why do you seek this woman?’ The woman’s hands, long and elegant, lay upturned on either side of the child, as if not wanting to touch the little body.

  ‘She’s the sister of … of a friend.’

  ‘The sister of whom?’

  I was annoyed by her direct questions. I simply wanted to leave, and yet this woman had let me into the courtyard. I couldn’t ignore her. ‘The Manon I’m looking for is the daughter of Marcel Duverger,’ I said. ‘Someone in the souk told me that Manon Maliki was this woman.’

  She sat without moving. The child still played with the bit of string, its large dark eyes on me. The girl’s mouth was open as she now crouched, motionless, in the doorway, watching. The cicada screamed again.

  ‘It is correct. I am the daughter of Marcel Duverger.’

  ‘But … if you are Manon … I’m sorry, madame,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I … I …’ Was this not a Moroccan woman sitting in front of me? ‘The Manon I seek is Dr Duverger’s sister,’ I finally said.

  The woman didn’t speak for a moment, then she said, ‘How do you know Etienne?’

  The way she said Etienne, with such familiarity, made me catch my breath. I hadn’t said his name. ‘You are his sister?’ I repeated, sitting heavily on the stool again.

  She nodded.

  The courtyard was far too hot, even though I was in the shade. The cicada’s screams went on and on. Now I tried to open my mouth to speak further, but my lips stuck together. I tried to lick them, but had so little saliva. ‘Is … is he here? With you?’ I finally managed to say. ‘Is Etienne here?’ I stared at her, willing her to nod her head, to say yes, yes, he’s here.

  The woman lifted her hands and pulled the haik completely off her head, so that I saw her hair, long and heavy, falling about her face and to her shoulders. Dark and wavy, as was mine, but with a few threads of white. She wore a dark purple kaftan under the haik.

  ‘You are from England? Or America? I cannot tell from your accent,’ she said.

  I again struggled to lick my lips. ‘America,’ I said.

  ‘Bring our guest water, mon cher garçon,’ Manon said to the child — so it was a boy — and he slid off her lap and ran lightly through the doorway of the house, putting his hand on the girl’s shoulder as he passed her. ‘Falida. Go and help him,’ Manon said, and the girl leapt to her feet and disappeared.

  I studied my hands, clenched in my lap, hearing clinking and splashing. Within a moment the boy returned, crossing the courtyard slowly and very carefully, holding a tin cup in front of him with both hands. He didn’t spill a drop, and proudly offered it to me. I drank; it was cool and refreshing, with a hint of lemon.

  Badou waited in front of me; I handed him the empty cup and he took it and went back into the house. As I watched him go, I thought to myself that Manon Maliki appeared old to have so young a child; surely he was no more than five years old. And then I thought of how old I would have looked when my child was … I stopped my thoughts.

  ‘You have searched for Etienne for some time?’

  I nodded, closing my eyes for a moment. ‘I have looked for him in Marrakesh — in the French Quarter — for a number of days.’

  ‘And before that?’

  I frowned, glancing once more at the house: Why was she holding back? I stood again, unable to sit still. ‘Madame. Is Etienne here, in Marrakesh? Please. I must know. I must, Madame Maliki,’ I said, my voice louder, an edge of sharpness creeping into it. There was something about this woman that troubled me. I didn’t like her, I realised, even though I’d known her only a few moments. ‘I keep telling you, I have come from America to find him. I have been travelling and searching for over a month now.’

  Manon sat very still. Falida and Badou came back from the house, and again Badou climbed into his mother’s lap. He leaned against her chest, and as before, his mother didn’t touch him. His little face had a calm, accepting demeanour. I sensed he was unlike his mother; in spite of her stillness at this moment, I felt that beneath her calm exterior was a great deal of fire.

  ‘Why do you appear so distressed?’ she asked me, her head at a slight angle, giving her an inquisitive look. ‘You look hot, and perhaps a bit ill. Are you not well, Mademoiselle … what did you say your name was?’
Her eyes suddenly left my face, running down my body.

  I took a deep breath. ‘O’Shea. Sidonie O’Shea,’ I said, something painful in my chest, for at that moment I realised she didn’t know who I was. That meant that either Etienne truly wasn’t here, or, if he was, he hadn’t mentioned me. ‘I’m very anxious to find Etienne,’ I said. ‘That’s what you see — my anxiety.’ Had I assumed that Etienne had come to her, to his sister, and told her about the woman in America he … he what? Loved? Had created a child with? ‘You don’t know who I am,’ I said, stating what was now obvious.

  ‘How could I? You are a stranger, from America, arriving at my door, unexpected and unannounced, speaking of my brother.’

  I swallowed. ‘I am Etienne’s …‘What to call myself? ‘I am his fiancée,’ I said then. ‘We were to be married,’ I added, unnecessarily.

  At that, Manon’s expression changed. She no longer looked curious. Something dark came over her face, and her hands clenched once, and then loosened. Now it was she who took a deep breath. When she exhaled, the child twisted his head to look up at her.

  She spoke to Falida in Arabic. Badou rose without question, and Falida took his hand. They went through the gate, shutting it behind them with a clang.

  ‘So you are Etienne’s lover?’ Manon asked, her voice toneless.

  ‘I … I said I was his fiancée.’

  Her lips tightened, and the same strange look as moments earlier passed over her face. Although I didn’t know her, it looked like anger. I thought of her fists, clenching for that split second.

  ‘And why have you come to me, Sidonie O’Shea?’

  I pulled the single page, now tearing slightly along the delicate creases, from my handbag. ‘Your letter to Etienne.’

  She glanced at the paper in my hands, then back to my face. ‘Written when?’

  ‘Six months ago.’

  ‘A man leaves you, and you find an old letter, and you travel so far to find him?’

  I hadn’t said, specifically, that he’d left me, although it was an evident observation. Suddenly I knew how ridiculous I must appear. I felt as though Manon must view me as had the others in the hotel in Tangier. The tragic heroine of her own story. I was shamed, sitting in front of this rather imposing woman. I looked down at the thin sheet of paper. ‘There is … there was more to it.’