The Saffron Gate

  I immediately remembered the man on the piste. L’Homme Bleu.

  Badou ran to him, first kissing the man’s hand in the Arabic gesture of respect for an elder, and then winding his arms around the man’s leg. ‘Oncle Aszulay,’ he said.

  Uncle, I thought. But Etienne was his uncle. Why did he call this man uncle as well? He must be Manon’s husband’s brother.

  I glanced at Manon; she was smiling at the man in a coquettish way. Suddenly I knew that Manon didn’t want me here because she was waiting for this man.

  Was it her husband? No, because Badou called him uncle, but more because of the way she was looking at him: not as one would greet a husband, but … I thought of Etienne arriving at my door on Juniper Road. Manon was looking at him as if he were her lover.

  ‘Assalaam alykum, Badou,’ the man said, greeting Badou in Arabic, smiling warmly at him and smoothing his hair. He set down the basket and looked at us.

  Manon, no long smiling, said, offhandedly, ‘This is Mademoiselle O’Shea. But she is leaving now.’

  I stayed where I was, seated.

  The tall man studied me for a moment, then solemnly bowed his head. ‘Good afternoon, Mademoiselle O’Shea,’ he said, his French quite clear; but with a strong accent of his mother tongue — Arabic, I assumed.

  ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur …’ I hesitated.

  ‘I am Aszulay, mademoiselle,’ he said simply. He stepped out of his babouches before entering the room, and once across the threshold pulled down the end of his turban, uncovering his face. Then he unwrapped it from his head, pushing it down so that it encircled his neck. His hair wasn’t shaved in the way of the Arab men I’d seen throughout the souks, but was thick and wavy, very black. Now he was standing in a beam of light from the open louvres. His eyes were a surprising blue.

  Badou clung to the edge of the man’s robe, and in a swift and obviously routine move Aszulay swooped him into the crook of one arm. Badou wrapped his arms around the man’s neck.

  ‘Falida,’ Aszulay said, ‘take the food into the kitchen and set it out for the meal.’

  The girl took the heavy basket and lugged it across the room.

  ‘You join us to eat, mademoiselle?’ Aszulay asked.

  ‘No,’ Manon said, ‘she will not stay. She is going now. You may return later, as we discussed,’ she told me, standing.

  I stood as well, facing her. ‘But madame—’

  ‘We will talk later. At two o’clock.’

  ‘Please. Just tell me where—’

  ‘No!’ Manon’s voice was loud, forceful. ‘I tell you two o’clock, I mean two o’clock.’ She came around the table, pulling on my sleeve. ‘Go, mademoiselle. I’m ordering you out of my home. Do you not understand?’

  ‘Manon,’ Aszulay said, in a firm voice. I looked at him, hoping, somehow, that he would intervene. But I couldn’t read what was in his face, and he said nothing more.

  I had no choice but to leave. As I did, I heard his voice, low, questioning, and Manon’s answers, high and argumentative. They spoke Arabic. I understood nothing.

  I hung about the nearby alley, walking up and down a few streets, until an hour had passed. At exactly two o’clock I went back to Sharia Zitoun and knocked on the gate. Nobody came. I called out, first Manon’s name, then Badou’s. I called for Falida.

  But there was only silence behind the saffron gate.

  What choice did I have? I waited by the gate for another hour, leaning against the wall, shifting constantly to take the weight off my leg. There wasn’t a sound from within. I told myself I would wait until they returned, even if it was late, the medina dark. I would wait.

  But as the light filtering down into the narrow street took on a shadowed appearance, and I smelled the odours of cooking meat wafting through the street, I knew I couldn’t stand any longer.

  Limping heavily, I went back to the hotel for yet another restless night, another night when I was still no closer to finding Etienne than I had been twenty-four hours earlier.

  TWENTY TWO

  My first instinct, upon arising the next morning, was to rush back to Sharia Zitoun. But I was disheartened after yesterday, and also afraid that when I got there I would be met with the same silence. What if Manon had gone somewhere, somewhere I couldn’t find her, to avoid speaking to me of Etienne? What if I had missed my chance with her?

  What was she hiding?

  To distract myself for a few hours, I wandered for a while in the French Quarter. I went into a store selling art supplies, hoping the smell of paint, the feel of a brush, would take my mind from waiting. I thought of the paintings on the walls of the hotel lobby, and remembered the sketch of Mustapha and Aziz I’d done on the piste. By the time I walked down Sharia Zitoun it was noon.

  Again I steeled myself for silence, but as I came closer I heard Badou’s voice from the other side of the gate. Putting my hand on my chest and taking a deep, relieved breath, I knocked, calling his name. He opened it. ‘Hello, Mademoiselle O’Shea,’ he said, smiling up at me as if pleased to see me. I tried to smile back at him, but my mouth wouldn’t do as I bid.

  Aszulay was there — again, or still. He came to the doorway. ‘Mademoiselle O’Shea. You have returned.’ He smiled, much as Badou had.

  ‘Yes. When I came back yesterday, no one answered my knocking or calls.’

  He frowned. ‘But when I left, shortly before two, Manon said she was expecting you.’

  ‘She wasn’t here. I waited a long time.’

  ‘Please. Sit. Manon is resting,’ he said. ‘Soon we will eat. I wish you to join us.’

  I closed my eyes for a moment, not wanting to carry out this social charade. And what if, when Manon saw me, she treated me as she had yesterday?

  ‘I apologise for Manon’s behaviour yesterday. Sometimes she has headaches.’

  I thought of Etienne.

  ‘She suffers, and this makes her … the way you saw her. Today you must stay. Hospitality is the Moroccan way, mademoiselle. It is an insult not to accept it.’

  I nodded, sitting on one of the low cork stools, which was not comfortable for my leg. I stretched it straight out in front of me. Once I was seated, Aszulay sat cross-legged on the daybed, with the round table between us. Badou climbed on to his lap and, unlike Manon, who never touched her son, Aszulay wrapped his arms around the little boy.

  L’Homme Bleu. Again I thought of the man in blue robes on the piste, appearing out of nowhere and trading the tile for bread. How he had intrigued me, with his height and his direct stare, his slow walk of dignity and grace, disappearing down the dusty track as mysteriously as he had appeared.

  ‘I will ask Falida to bring tea,’ Aszulay said, and I jumped slightly, realising I had been staring at him. ‘We will eat here, where it’s cooler.’ He set Badou down and stood. ‘Badou, go and tell Maman to come downstairs and eat. Please, be comfortable,’ he said to me. ‘I will return shortly.’

  Badou scampered up the courtyard stairs, and in a moment I heard the faint sound of his voice from above. I wanted so badly to see Manon, to hear what she would tell me, yet at the same time I dreaded having to deal with her. There was something cruel and twisted about her; the enjoyment on her face was obvious as she made me beg and wait. She made no attempt to hide her lack of interest in her own son, and I knew how cruelly she treated the little servant girl.

  How could this woman be so different from Etienne?

  Aszulay returned with Falida; he carried a tagine — the large round earthenware plate with its high, cone-shaped cover to trap the steam. Falida balanced a circular brass tray that held a heaping platter of flat round bread, a teapot, three painted glasses in tin holders and four small porcelain bowls of water with a slice of lemon floating in each.

  She set everything on the round table, then filled the three glasses with tea. She handed the first one to Aszulay, then one to me, backing away from the table to run into the house. She had left the third glass for, I assumed, Manon.

  ‘
Please. Drink,’ Aszulay said.

  I nodded, taking a cautious mouthful — the familiar mint and so much sugar, as always — and set it down. The weather was far too hot for such a drink. I longed for a glass of cool water.

  Aszulay didn’t speak, but appeared relaxed as he sipped his tea. For me, the silence was too large; I tried to think of something to say. What does one say to a Blue Man? I was acutely uncomfortable, and cleared my throat twice before speaking. ‘What is it you do in Marrakesh?’ I finally asked.

  He swallowed his mouthful of tea and said, ‘I dig.’

  ‘Dig?’ I repeated, not sure if I had understood the word.

  Aszulay nodded. ‘I dig, and plant trees, and flowers.’ He took another sip of tea, and I watched his lips on the rim.

  ‘Oh. A gardener. Do you have a specific family you work for?’ I asked, not caring at all, and yet unable to bear the silence.

  ‘I have worked in the gardens of many of the larger riads in the medina, and in some of the gardens and parks in La Ville Nouvelle. I’m working there now.’

  I nodded. ‘I’m staying at Hôtel de la Palmeraie. In La Ville Nouvelle,’ I added, unnecessarily. Again, I had no interest in this idle conversation.

  ‘Bien entendu,’ Aszulay said. ‘Naturally. It is very … it is luxurious.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m working in the garden of Monsieur Majorelle,’ he said. ‘But many days I bring the midday meal for Manon and Badou.’

  ‘I went there once, to Le Jardin Majorelle.’

  Aszulay had put down his glass. ‘Yes. I saw you.’

  ‘You’ve seen me?’ I felt a tiny nudge of curiosity.

  ‘It was last week. I was working as you walked through. I saw you speaking with Madame Odette. She comes every day; she is a rather sad woman,’ he said, and now I felt a small stab of shame. I’d paid no attention to the men working under the hot sun.

  ‘Not so many foreigners are here now. They come in the cooler months,’ he said, by way of explanation, I suppose, for having noticed me.

  Had I appeared imperious, or dismissive, as I walked slowly along the paths? ‘It will be lovely when it’s done,’ I said, too quickly. ‘Certainly the peaceful oasis Monsieur Majorelle is hoping for. I’ve always liked gardens,’ I said.

  Aszulay was watching me, still relaxed, his hands loose on his thighs. His eyes were so blue; how did this come about? For some reason his direct gaze, unthreatening and also unguarded, made me more ill at ease than the earlier silence.

  ‘I have a garden at home. In America,’ I added. ‘I always look for a balance — order, and yet with a certain untamed influence — in my plantings. As for flowers, well, I also …’ I stopped. I was droning on in a silly and inconsequential way. I had been about to say that I painted botanical images. Why would I tell this man more about myself than I’d disclosed to anyone since I’d left Albany? ‘I’m interested in plants,’ I finished.

  Aszulay nodded. ‘You must visit Majorelle’s garden again,’ he said, with complete confidence. He suddenly turned from me. ‘Oh, here you are.’ He stood, looking at the steps.

  ‘Why is she here?’ Manon said, frowning. Badou peeked from behind her.

  Aszulay went to Manon, climbing the steps and extending his hand. ‘Come. We are hospitable, Manon. When a guest arrives we offer tea and food.’ He said this patiently, as he might to Badou. ‘Come,’ he urged again, and took her hand.

  At that she smiled, although very slightly. I saw she had once again made up her face, and this time wore a different outfit, beautiful purple and mauve silk. On her feet were burgundy satin slippers embroidered with cream-coloured vines. Her hair flowed, thick and luxurious, over her shoulders. As she came down the steps, perfume wafted towards me.

  She was like a glorious flower, inviting all to come closer, to gaze and breathe deeply, to wonder at her beauty.

  I sat with my hands in my lap, in my simple blue organdy dress and heavy black shoes. As usual, my hair trailed from its pins in the heat and humidity. One thick strand had fallen over my cheek, perhaps hiding my scar.

  ‘Sit here,’ Aszulay said, holding Manon’s hand until she was seated where he had been, on the daybed. ‘Badou, take a stool and sit beside Mademoiselle O’Shea,’ he added, as if he were indeed the master of the house. I saw how completely at ease he was with Manon, putting a cushion behind her to make her comfortable, gently pushing back on her shoulder to settle her against it, tousling Badou’s hair and stroking his little cheek for an instant.

  Aszulay was unlike any of the other Moroccan men I had seen in Marrakesh. In fact, I had never seen any form of contact between Moroccan men and women. I realised that the men and women I saw in the souks and alleys were those of the working class. The men sold their goods; they pushed or pulled carts through the streets; they carried heavy sacks on their backs; they drove the taxis and the calèches, they drank tea with each other at small tables throughout the alleys. They were not the nobles and sultans of Morocco. And the covered women shopping for their daily needs were either the wives of these men, accompanied by a father or son, or servants for the ladies of the harems, those of the higher realms of Moroccan society who rarely left the seclusion of their homes and courtyards.

  I didn’t know how Aszulay and Manon fitted into this world. Aszulay had the vibrant and open gaze of a man in his prime, an attractiveness that was due not only to his features, but from within. And from the moment he had met me he didn’t treat me with anything like the curious or disapproving attitude of the other men of Morocco, who either leered at me or ignored me. He treated me and, I saw, Manon, with a distinctly European air. And his French was formal, the grammar close to perfect.

  Manon was watching Aszulay with what I could only interpret as a sultry look. Although he didn’t respond, I knew this man was Manon’s lover. Certainly. There was no doubt.

  She didn’t have a husband any longer, then. I thought of the words she had sung as she outlined her eyes the day before, of men maddened with desire for her.

  I felt, for one tiny instant, disappointment. Disappointment that a man like Aszulay could be so taken with a woman like Manon. But, I also reasoned with myself, in a strange way he also reminded me of Manon, as though caught somewhere between two worlds. She appeared completely Moroccan, and yet she was French by birth. He was a Blue Man of the Sahara, working as a gardener, and yet spoke and carried himself with a sophisticated air.

  I shook my head the slightest, annoyed that I was even entertaining these thoughts. I was also annoyed at having to sit here, to actually attempt to eat and drink and act as a polite guest. To wait for Manon to bestow me with information when and if she felt the time was right.

  In spite of the shade in the courtyard, it was still very hot, and my stomach was upset by nerves. I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat. All I needed was Manon to tell me about Etienne.

  But now I would have to wait. She was paying me no attention, apart from obvious but suppressed anger.

  Aszulay held Manon’s glass of tea towards her. She didn’t reach for it, but shook her head, sighing lightly.

  ‘It’s your head again?’ he asked, and she made a small, sad sound in her throat.

  At that Aszulay held the glass to her lips, and she sipped, her eyes closed.

  I didn’t believe her; surely she was putting on this air of helplessness for his attention.

  He took the lid off the tagine and gestured at it, looking at me now. It was a pyramid of couscous with long slices of carrots and a green vegetable — zucchini? — arranged up its sides. Bubbling pieces of chicken poked from within the couscous. I knew that even if I forced myself, I would only be able to eat a few bites, simply to be polite. But I also knew that the sooner I ate, the sooner the meal would be over. Then Aszulay would leave to return to work, and I would get the truth from Manon.

  This time I would not allow her to ignore my questions. Today I would find out about Etienne.

  ‘Please,’ Aszulay said to me.
‘As the honoured guest. Begin.’

  There was no cutlery, no plates to put the food upon.

  ‘May I eat, Oncle Aszulay?’ Badou said. ‘I am very hungry.’

  Aszulay looked at me; surely my face portrayed my confusion. ‘No, Badou. You know we must wait for our guest.’

  ‘Please, Badou,’ I said, ‘please eat.’

  Aszulay looked at me again. Then Badou glanced at him, and he nodded. The little boy scooped up some of the couscous with the fingers of his right hand, kneading it until it was a small ball, and then put it in his mouth. Aszulay tore a thin round of bread in half and, folding it, used it to spoon the couscous into his mouth.

  I suspected he had seen that I didn’t know how to eat in the Moroccan way, and so was showing me. I was thankful to him for not embarrassing me further, and took a piece of bread and used it as he did. In spite of not believing I could eat, the couscous was delicious, and I realised I had eaten nothing today, and little the day before. Suddenly I was very hungry, and scooped up more of the couscous. When Aszulay picked up a chicken leg with his fingers, I reached into the hot couscous and extracted a thigh. But I dug too far into the steaming mass, and burned my fingers. I dropped the thigh, embarrassed, then picked it up with the tips of my fingers and set it at the edge of the tagine.

  ‘For the Moroccan, the fork is unnecessary,’ Aszulay said, and I looked at him, still thankful for his understanding, and saw that Manon was staring at me with open antagonism. She didn’t like him paying any attention to me. She was jealous.

  ‘Manon,’ Aszulay said, turning to her. ‘Come.‘Eat. You love les courgettes.’

  Manon looked at the long slices of zucchini, but shook her head weakly. ‘I cannot,’ she whispered, closing her eyes as she’d done earlier. ‘I’m not well today. It’s not a good day for me.’ She sighed again, an overdone sigh.

  ‘Do you promise to eat later?’

  How could he not see her transparency?