The Saffron Gate

  ‘Mademoiselle. There is always more to it for the woman.’

  We sat in silence. The heat was intense; it was almost as though I could hear it fluttering, like a flock of tiny birds, or perhaps butterflies, around my ears. Finally I looked back at Manon. ‘He isn’t here?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  At that, she studied me for so long — the silence stretching, and stretching — that I felt one bead of sweat run down my temple and along my jaw. Finally she nodded.

  I took a deep, shaky breath. ‘Is he here, in Marrakesh?’

  Again the wait, and then she shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

  What was wrong with her? Why was she playing this silly game with me? I stood and walked the few steps to where she sat. I looked down at her. ‘Madame Maliki,’ I said, my voice hard. ‘Do you not understand how important it is that I find Etienne?’

  Now she rose as well. ‘It’s impossible for me to say, right now, where he is. Impossible,’ she said.

  I shook my head. ‘But … you just said you knew where he was.’ My voice had grown louder. ‘Why is it impossible?’ Why can’t you simply—’

  ‘I said perhaps. Perhaps I know. And it’s not a good day for me,’ she interrupted. ‘The fates are not correct. I can’t speak to you any further right now.’

  I stared at her.

  ‘You will have to leave,’ she said.

  ‘But … no. I can’t leave until you tell me about Etienne. I have come so far to …’

  At that she moved right in front of me. I stood with my lips parted, unable to finish the sentence. We were the same height. Her face was close enough for me to see her pupils, dilating and then drawing in until they were two hard, dark points. I smelled the slight scent of some spice, perhaps cumin, perhaps coriander, on her breath. ‘You will leave. This is my home, and you will leave when I tell you to leave. You have no right to be here.’

  I felt her foot touch mine, and instinctively took a step back, but she put her hand on my arm. Immediately the skin under my sleeve burned.

  ‘Madame Maliki,’ I said, quietly now, pulling back from her touch. It was clear she wished to antagonise me, to challenge or frighten me. It was also clear she would tell me nothing at this moment. ‘Perhaps tomorrow will be a better day to speak of this. I’ll come again tomorrow. Is the morning a good time for you? Tell me when you wish me to come.’

  I had been right. Her expression changed the slightest, and I knew it was because my tone was imploring. I had deliberately become submissive, acquiescing, and this pleased her.

  ‘Tomorrow may not be convenient,’ she said. ‘Let me think.’

  We stood there. She looked over my head as if consulting an unseen calendar, and I fought not to scream, not to strike her. She was enjoying this. At this moment, everything rested upon her. I knew it, and I saw in her face that she knew it as well. For an unknown reason she needed to wield some power over me, and I had no alternative but to bow to her wishes.

  Finally she met my eyes. ‘All right. You may come at two o’clock. Not before. Do you understand? Not before two.’

  I moved my head in one slow nod, then went through the gate and down the alley. When I got to the end of it a small voice said, ‘Mademoiselle.’ I peered into a dark recess in the long wall and saw Badou and Falida, sitting on the ground in a niche. Each of them held a kitten. I would have passed by them if Badou hadn’t spoken.

  I stopped, and they both looked up at me, unblinking.

  ‘Yes?’

  But he didn’t seem to have anything to say. He held up the kitten.

  I nodded, turned and took a few steps away. But something made me look back at him. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Six ans’, he said.

  I had thought him to be five at the oldest; he was small-boned and delicate. ‘And your sister?’ I asked, looking at her. ‘How old are you, Falida?’

  She didn’t answer, but Badou said, ‘She’s not my sister.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘She’s our maid.’

  I looked at the girl’s bruised arm and bloodshot, swollen eye.

  ‘There are always kittens here,’ Badou said. ‘The mother cats live in there.’ He pointed to a low hole in the wall. ‘We play with them when they come out.’ He stroked the kitten’s back gently.

  He was Etienne’s nephew. Did I see something of Etienne in him? Maybe the long neck, the serious expression.

  I thought of my child, and wondered if he or she would have looked like this little boy.

  ‘Do you like kittens?’ he asked, and I nodded again. Then I drew in a deep breath, and walked away from Sharia Zitoun.

  TWENTY ONE

  Perhaps, Manon had said, perhaps Etienne was here, in Marrakesh.

  I passed through the dyers’ square, then the woodworkers’ and tailors’ alleys. I understood now that while searching for Sharia Zitoun I had walked in endless circles, and this time recognised a few corners, painted gates and round, arched stone openings. There was a wall with the imprint of a blue hand. A sign in canary yellow. I heard the sound of the souks, making mental notes of my route, so that I could find my way back to Sharia Zitoun tomorrow. Eventually I saw the imposing spire of La Koutoubia, and went toward it, through D’jemma el Fna.

  I moved in a slow daze; I had found Manon. I still knew little more about Etienne’s whereabouts, but I would go back to her tomorrow. I would not allow her to avoid answering my questions any longer.

  I left the medina and started towards the hotel, studying every European man. Of course I’d done this since arriving in Marrakesh, thinking I might see Etienne on the street, but now, after meeting Manon, the sensation was enhanced. I watched for a familiar gait, a certain set of the shoulders. By the time I reached Hôtel de la Palmeraie, I was shaking. I went to my room and ordered a light dinner, but couldn’t eat. I got into bed early, hoping I would immediately fall asleep and not waken until the next morning. But of course I didn’t sleep well, tossing in the hot room all night.

  The morning was interminable. I left the hotel too early, and was in D’jemma el Fna by noon.

  As I skirted the edges of the square to avoid the crowds in the centre, the chanting of men’s voices rose and fell, growing steadily louder. And suddenly I came upon them — a row of at least twelve men. They sat on the hard ground in the bright sunshine, shoulders touching as they swayed back and forth as one. They were all old and ragged, mostly toothless and all blind. Some had empty eye sockets, and some had damaged eyeballs fixed or rolling. They sang together, some stamping their walking sticks to keep the beat. I watched these blind men singing for their living as I had witnessed the scribe writing for those who were unable, and the storyteller enriching the lives of others with his knowledge.

  When the song was finished, a Moroccan man standing in front of them picked up the hand of the first blind man in the row and pressed a coin into it. The blind man put the coin to his mouth and bit it, and then spoke — surely some benediction, as I heard the name Allah — to the man who had given it to him. Then he passed the coin to the second blind man, who also bit it, and in this way it was passed down the line, until the final man, after biting it, put it into a pouch tied around his neck.

  The men sang another song, and at its completion more Moroccan men gave coins and were blessed. The blind men’s faces were lined and scarred, and even their loose robes couldn’t hide their painfully thin limbs. I thought of the beautiful Hôtel de la Palmeraie where I was staying, and then these blind men in their poverty. I thought of Etienne living here. How had he treated the Moroccans? He was, after all, an interloper in the country, and in the party of power.

  As was I. Suddenly shamed, I took a sou from my bag and put it into the first man’s hand. While his fingers closed round the coin, his other hand gripped mine, and he felt it — my palm, and fingers, and then the nails, nodding: His own fingers were hard, the nails yellow and long and ridged. When he let go of my
hand he uttered the same line in Arabic as he had to the Moroccans who gave him a coin.

  I didn’t respond. Then he said, ‘Merci, madame’, and I answered de rien, it’s nothing.

  ‘The women of Morocco would be defiled by touching us,’ he said in surprisingly correct French. ‘And yet your hand is not the French woman’s hand. It is a hand that has known work. You are neither Moroccan nor, I think, French, but I bless you, madame. The poor enter paradise before the rich. When you give to the poor, you buy, from us, a small piece of paradise.’

  ‘Merci,’ I said, because I didn’t know how else to respond. I watched as he bit the coin I’d given him, and passed it down the line.

  Manon had told me I shouldn’t come to the house on Sharia Zitoun until two o’clock, but I could wait no longer. It was ten minutes to one when I knocked with the hamsa.

  The heavy door was pulled back by Falida. I nodded at her, and she lowered her head in a submissive reflex. Now that I knew she wasn’t Manon’s daughter I was surprised I had thought so yesterday; it was quite obvious that she was a descendant of the slaves Etienne had spoken of. But of course yesterday I had been filled with uncertainty and dismay; nothing had seemed clear.

  Today the courtyard wasn’t jumbled with furniture, but held a long daybed with a thick, bright cover, an assortment of cork stools, and a low round table, all arranged in an orderly manner. Badou was walking around the edge of the empty fountain, balancing with outstretched arms. He jumped down and came to me as Falida shut the heavy gate.

  ‘Bonjour, Badou,’ I said, and he nodded with a solemnity that suddenly made him seem much older than six.

  ‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ he said, holding out his little hand.’ Venez. Come. Maman is inside.’

  I looked down at his hand, surprised by the unexpected gesture. I took it, and together we crossed the courtyard. His fingers were so small but sturdy, and dry and warm.

  We stood in the doorway, and the first thing I was aware of was a strong, sweet, smoky odour. I blinked, trying to focus in the dimness after the brilliance of the sunshine in the courtyard.

  ‘Mademoiselle O’Shea.’ Manon’s voice was sharp. ‘I specified you were not to come until two o’clock. You are too early. It is not a convenient time.’

  I couldn’t see her in the darkened room.

  ‘Madame Maliki. Please. I won’t stay long; all I wish is for you—’

  ‘Badou. Open the shutters,’ she interrupted, and Badou took his hand from mine and ran to open one of the tall wooden shutters that faced the courtyard. Louvred lines of light illuminated a long, narrow room furnished with daybeds, several camel-hide ottomans and a low table of intricately carved wood. There was a thick, rich-looking rug of red and blue and black, and tall mirrors leaning against two walls. The ceiling was high, and of polished wood. A fireplace, cold and dead in the summer heat, was in one corner. A room opened from this one; I could see blackened pots and a low brazier, and a sink with a single tap over it. The fresh smell of whitewash was still prevalent.

  And then I saw them: the paintings on one wall. There were at least ten of them, unframed oils of various sizes. All the paintings were in violent colours, with disregard to smaller details, as though the images had come straight from the palette to the canvas with no structure or careful reflection. And yet there was a raw beauty that could only be created by one with a natural talent.

  ‘I did not expect such inconsideration,’ Manon said, her words followed by a deep inhalation. She was underneath the paintings on a green velvet daybed, a long curling tube in one hand. It was attached to a container like the sheeshas I had seen in Tangier. She exhaled, and a long, straight line of smoke came from her mouth.

  Badou left the windows and sat beside her.

  ‘I apologise, Madame Maliki,’ I said. ‘But certainly you can understand my need to find out about Etienne. Certainly,’ I repeated. My heart was thudding, and I rubbed my hands together, unable to hide my impatience. I scanned the room, as I had the courtyard yesterday, hoping to see something, some sign of Etienne’s presence. But there was nothing of a man in this room: no babouches near the door, no djellaba tossed on to a mattress. What of Manon’s husband? I tried to imagine what kind of man she was married to. ‘It was difficult to wait, as you asked, but now I’m here. Tell me where I can find him. Or …’ I stopped. ‘Or anything that you know of his whereabouts’

  She put down the tube with its moulded mouthpiece, and I approached her.

  There was a faint ashen gleam to her face, which was paler than I remembered. She wore a kaftan of green and orange silk, and another type of Moroccan overdress — a dfina. It was soft green, and had slits in the sides that allowed the skirt of the kaftan to be exhibited. Without the drape of her haik it was clear that she was willowy beneath the thin layered dresses. I had never seen a Moroccan woman without her haik; although I had seen kaftans in shops in the French Quarter and swinging from hooks in the souk, I didn’t realise how beautiful they were on the female form.

  Since it was obvious she wouldn’t rise, I lowered myself to the daybed across from her. Falida appeared silently — I hadn’t heard her come in — and propped hard, stuffed round pillows between the wall and my back. But I wasn’t there to relax; I leaned forward, staring at Manon. The paintings over her head — the wild and swirling images — made the room pulse, growing brighter and warmer.

  ‘Please make your way out, Mademoiselle O’Shea,’ Manon said now. ‘And fetch my bag, Badou.’

  I stayed where I was while the child ran to a chest against the wall and returned with a decorated cloth bag. He gave it to his mother and then sat cross-legged on the floor at her feet.

  Manon stared at me, but I didn’t move. She raised one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug, and I knew I had won this very small battle. She drew a comb, a mirror and some vials from the bag. In silence, she slowly combed through her long, shining hair, but left it hanging loose. She applied rouge to her cheeks and lips. Then she took a small piece of wood from the bag and rubbed it over her gums, staining them with something on the wood. Her pale pink gums turned reddish brown, setting off the whiteness of her teeth. She dug once more into the bag, taking out what I knew, from seeing them in the shops in the. French Quarter, to be a wood merroud containing kohl.

  The inside of one of my cheeks was raw from chewing on it. I wanted to shout at Manon, to shake her, to somehow force her to tell me about Etienne. But I knew it would do no good. In fact, it might make her refuse to answer.

  She would tell me what she wanted, when she wanted.

  ‘My kohl is special,’ Manon said, the merroud in one hand and the mirror in the other. She outlined her eyes. ‘I only make it on nights with a new moon. I use charcoal from burned oleander roots. Some ground nutmeg and aloe. And also — most importantly — a bit of camel bile. But without the moon’s effect it won’t work.’

  I refused to ask her what she meant.

  Manon, staring at herself in the mirror as she worked, now sang, her voice low and rich, ‘I will make my eyes the moons in a dark sky. I will madden men with desire; one man or many. All will desire me.’ She looked away from her reflection, and straight into my eyes.

  In spite of the warm room, the skin on the back of my neck tightened as though I were in a draught, and I fought not to shiver. I thought of Etienne’s talk of the women of Marrakesh and their magic practices, and his dismissal of them as nonsense. Manon was still staring at me, and my uneasiness continued. It was eerie; with a few applications of colour to her face, she had transformed herself from a pretty, although ageing woman, into an earthy beauty. There was a lushness about her now, as of a rose slightly past its bloom, and yet still highly seductive. She was an exotic creature of this country. There was nothing about her that indicated she was Etienne’s sister. The only thing French about her was her perfect speech.

  ‘Has any man ever been mad with desire for you, Mademoiselle O’Shea?’ she asked then. Her voice held a sarcastic tone.


  I didn’t reply. I had told her I was Etienne’s fianceè. Was it so impossible for her to believe he desired me? ‘And your husband, Madame Maliki? He’s at work?’ I asked, partly because she angered me, and also because somehow I knew — some instinct — that she wouldn’t like me questioning her.

  I was correct. Her face changed again, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Your husband?’ I repeated, but now Manon ignored me, returning her toiletries to the bag and then lifting her chin and raising her eyebrows at Badou.

  ‘Well?’ she asked him.

  ‘You are so pretty, Maman,’ he said, in a practised way.

  Falida, still standing beside my daybed, bowed her head. ‘Très belle, my lady.’

  Then Manon looked at me with the same expression. I knew she was waiting for me to compliment her. It was obvious that Manon Maliki was a woman used to being complimented.

  I said nothing.

  Manon pulled the drawstrings of her bag with one quick, angry jerk, and tossed it on to the cushion beside her. Falida picked it up, returning it to the chest. Then she sat cross-legged on the floor beside Badou. Manon looked down at them, then back to me. I was reminded of a queen with her subjects.

  ‘I will not ask — demand — again that you leave,’ she told me. ‘You may return in an hour. And consider yourself lucky that I will see you at all, in spite of how you have angered me.’

  ‘Madame Maliki,’ I said, exasperated. ‘What difference does one hour make? Can’t you simply—’

  ‘Manon?’

  We all turned to the doorway. A man stood there; he was so tall that his turban brushed the lintel. He wore a dark blue cotton djellaba with yellow embroidery at the neck. The deep purple-blue turban was wrapped around his head and neck, one end of it tucked over his nose and mouth. Because of the light behind him I couldn’t see his eyes. He carried a basket under one arm.