The Saffron Gate

by Holeman, Linda

  She waved one hand dismissively in the air. ‘He was a man, Sidonie. He grew lonely for a woman, and acted on impulse. He had planned to have the procedure he said was the answer — the sterilisation — when he finished his year at the hospital in America. But he grew impatient. And he knew you were a safe bet, naïve and inexperienced. You wouldn’t cause trouble.’

  But Etienne was not the kind of man she described. He had loved me, and wanted me. ‘I don’t believe you. You can’t say this kind of thing to me.’

  Manon watched me, her face now blank. ‘I can say whatever I wish, Sidonie. I can say whatever I wish,’ she repeated.

  We stood, facing each other. The children took the bags and disappeared into the house. There seemed nothing more to say.

  I returned to Hôtel de la Pameraie. I stood at my window, looking at the High Atlas mountains against the blue sky. I heard the noon call from the minarets in the medina, and smelled the fragrance of the jacaranda, the lilacs.

  I tried to remember the smell of Etienne’s skin, his rare, slow smile. I tried to bring back memories, memories of us talking, eating, falling asleep, waking up together. But I could only think of the look on his face as I’d told him about the baby, and how he’d suddenly become a stranger.

  I knew I couldn’t count on Manon for any truths. Etienne was protecting me. I needed to tell him I was strong enough; I could live with his disease. I would marry him, and stay at his side. He could put his fears to rest.

  There was no reason to return to Sharia Zitoun. I was done with Manon. She would only continue to lie and confuse me. She wouldn’t tell me anything about Etienne’s return. There was only one other person in Marrakesh who could help me now.

  I took a calèche to Le Jardin Majorelle. I hoped I would find Aszulay working there. If not, I could ask Monsieur Majorelle when he would come next. I saw three men in white clothing, digging in one of the flowerbeds close to the entrance.

  ‘Pardonnez-moi,’ I called, hearing desperation in my own voice. All three men straightened. The middle one was Aszulay.

  ‘Aszulay,’ I said with relief, as though I had been searching for him for years. ‘Aszulay,’ I repeated, going closer. I knew my voice was too loud, but I seemed unable to speak quietly. ‘Please. May I talk to you? It’s about Etienne. I … I need …’ I stopped, closing my mouth. What did I need?

  The other two men watched as Aszulay stepped over the piles of red earth and came towards me. ‘Please, Mademoiselle O’Shea,’ he said, ‘go and sit there, in the shade. I’ll finish here soon. Wait for me,’ he repeated.

  After some time, he left his shovel standing in a pile of earth, and came to me.

  I stood. ‘I need to ask you—’

  But he interrupted by raising one hand. ‘Please. We won’t talk here.’

  I realised I had acted inappropriately, coming to his place of work.

  ‘I can leave, but I must return before too long. Come. We’ll go to my house.’

  I nodded numbly, following him through the garden and into the street. I didn’t question going to his home.

  ‘You can’t walk far in the heat,’ he said to me, looking at my face.

  Again I simply nodded. He hailed a calèche and we climbed in. I stared at my shoes as we rocked and swayed, only looking up when I felt the calèche stop. Aszulay climbed down and took my hand to help me step out.

  We walked into the medina, but didn’t pass through D’jemma el Fna; obviously there were other entrances to the old city. I didn’t know where we went, or how far through the narrow alleys. Finally Aszulay pulled a large key from within his robe and opened a blue gate. His hands were covered in red mud. I looked at his face; there were streaks of mud along his neck and jaw. His white clothing — the robe and loose cotton pants and turban Monsieur Majorelle must have insisted all his gardeners wore in the garden — was also covered in a fine dusting of the red earth.

  ‘I’m sorry for taking you from your work,’ I said. ‘But Aszulay … Aszulay, I need to talk to somebody about Etienne. I need you to tell me what you know. Manon says …’ I stopped. I didn’t want to talk about my baby. Did he already know?

  A man passed the gate, staring openly at me. Aszulay motioned with his head. ‘Come inside,’

  Again I followed him; I noticed only that we walked through a courtyard. When he stopped, I stopped. He stepped out of his babouches and gestured at an open doorway. I hesitated, now knowing it was ill-mannered to leave one’s shoes on when inside someone’s home. And yet… I glanced down at my shoes, thinking of the time it would take to undo them, of hobbling across the room without my built-up sole.

  ‘Please,’ he said, and by the way he put out his hand, indicating I was to enter, I knew he didn’t expect me to remove my shoes. Once inside, he gestured at a daybed, and I sat on its edge. He disappeared, and I closed my eyes and put my face into my hands.

  After a few moments I heard the whisper of fabric, and looked up to see an elderly woman carrying a tray with a teapot and two glasses. She set down the tray and poured one glass, handing it to me.

  I took it, saying shukran, then set it on the table. The woman poured another glass and put it on the table beside mine, and left.

  I stared at the two glasses of tea for an unidentifiable length of time. And then Aszulay appeared; he still wore his work clothes, but he had washed his hands and face and taken off his turban. One bead of water clung to his left earlobe like a diamond; his hair was damp and curling along his collar.

  ‘What is it you need to know about Etienne?’ he asked, picking up his tea.

  ‘When you came to the hotel, when I thought … when Manon lied to me … you said we would talk about him again. I must have some answers now.’

  Aszulay looked into my face, his long fingers wrapped around the glass.

  ‘I was his … we were to be married.’ It was suddenly difficult to say this with Aszulay’s intense blue eyes looking into mine. ‘He left America so unexpectedly.’ I didn’t say he left me, and yet I imagined Aszulay would hear the unspoken words, and I fought not to lower my gaze. ‘His abrupt departure … we didn’t have a chance to speak of … of important things. I came here to find him, to try and understand …’ My voice kept faltering. Why, in front of this man, was I feeling humiliated? It was nothing he did; he simply watched me, letting me take my time to tell the part of the story I needed him to know. I took a deep breath to calm myself. ‘I have just spoken to Manon again,’ I went on. I watched for his face to change as I said his lover’s name. But still he didn’t react. ‘I know more. I know about his illness. Now I believe I know why he left. But I must find him, and tell him … it’s imperative that I see him again. It’s imperative for his future. For our future. I need to know where he is.’ Still Aszulay studied me. I couldn’t read his expression, but it was slightly distant, as if he was debating with himself.

  ‘I know you can tell me more than Manon will. It’s clear she’s keeping things from me.’

  Aszulay hadn’t taken a drink, but he still held his glass, small in his large hand. ‘Manon’s secrets are hers,’ he said. ‘I have little more to tell you, apart from Etienne’s behaviour when he was here. The behaviour I witnessed.’

  I nodded, leaning forward. ‘Yes, yes, all right. Tell me about that, then.’

  Aszulay looked over my head, as if he didn’t want to look at me as he spoke. ‘He mentioned that he couldn’t sleep, that he hadn’t slept in many nights. He suffered from anxiety; I saw him take tablets from a bottle.’

  ‘He always took them,’ I said, encouraging Aszulay.

  ‘The last evening I saw him,’ Aszulay said, ‘he drank a bottle of absinthe, all of it, one glass after another. He smoked kif, more kif than is good. He took even more tablets. Yet he couldn’t find peace. He walked and sat, walked and sat. His hands trembled.’

  ‘But I understand. The thought of the disease … not knowing how long it would be before …’ I stopped. I didn’t want to tell Aszulay that I knew
Etienne’s distress was also over leaving me. ‘So he simply left? He must have said something about where he was going. Or when he’d return.’

  We sat in silence. Finally Aszulay said, ‘He mentioned both Casablanca and Rabat.’

  I thought of those teeming cities, and remembered the drive, with Mustapha and Aziz, through Sale. I thought of the difficulty I’d had in finding Manon here, in a smaller city, with a French Quarter where I was in a large community of Europeans, where I could speak a familiar language and have secure lodging. I tried to imagine how I would make my way around Casablanca or Rabat, looking for a man nobody knew, who might not even be there.

  I put my hand over my eyes at the sheer impossibility of it, and Aszulay said, as if reading my mind, ‘They are not good cities for a woman to be alone, Mademoiselle O’Shea. Foreign or native, women do not go about alone.’ He stopped, and I took my hand away. ‘He will return to Marrakesh.’

  ‘Yes?’ I said, too eagerly. ‘What would be better? To wait? But when?’ I sat straighter. ‘When, Aszulay? When will he come back?’

  ‘Perhaps he will return next month. Because of Badou. To see Badou.”

  ‘Next month,’ I repeated.

  ‘He asked that I care for him — for Badou — in any way I could, while he wasn’t here. But then … I have always cared for Badou.’

  ‘Because Manon can’t be trusted to look after him properly,’ I stated, waiting for him to defend her. As his lover, he would defend her, wouldn’t he?

  The late afternoon call for prayer came, but Aszulay didn’t kneel and press his forehead to the floor. He simply rose, saying, ‘Now I must go, back to the garden, to my work. I have been gone too long.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Thank you, Aszulay, for … for speaking to me about Etienne. Now that I know with certainty he’ll return to Marrakesh, I’ll wait.’

  At this he shook his head, very slightly. ‘I’ll accompany you out of the medina,’ he said, and stepped into his babouches.

  As we walked through the courtyard and into the street, I was aware of how self-absorbed I had been, how forward, going to Aszulay’s job and taking him from it. And he had acted with the utmost consideration; bringing me to his home.

  We emerged from the medina into the French Quarter, and Aszulay touched my shoulder, very lightly. ‘I think it’s better if you go home, mademoiselle,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. I’ll take a taxi back to the—’

  ‘No. I mean home, to America.’

  I frowned. ‘As I’ve told you, I’ll wait here until Etienne returns. It’s even more important now. I … I want to help him.’

  Aszulay closed his eyes for just slightly longer than a blink. ‘Mademoiselle O’Shea. I see you are a woman of determination. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  He looked down at me, as if wanting to say more, but then raised his arm, and a taxi stopped in front of us.

  Aszulay turned and disappeared into the crowds.

  On the ride back to the hotel, I thought about the look on his face as he told me I should go back to America.

  I couldn’t read what I saw there.

  TWENTY SIX

  I took the smaller of my cases from the top of the wardrobe shelf and, from behind the lining, removed my passport and open return ship tickets and envelope of what money remained. I counted the dwindling bills, and knew they couldn’t last long in the style I was living.

  I sat at the table with the money and passport and tickets, thinking about Aszulay’s eyes, so intent, as he looked into mine, as if trying to convince me of something with that blue gaze.

  As the night softly unfolded, the sweet fragrance of the rose bushes and the orange trees wafted through the open window. It was April, and summer in Marrakesh. In Albany the trees would only be in bud, the soil still too cold for planting the garden. There would be rain, and grey skies, but also warming spring breezes.

  I thought of Aszulay’s advice. Of going home.

  I envisioned unlocking the front door of my house, and the musty smell that would greet me, the smell of rooms closed for too long. I thought of walking next door to the Barlows’ and picking up Cinnabar. I knew the clean smell of her fur, the softness of her paws.

  I saw myself back in my house, putting on the kettle while Cinnabar wove between my legs, purring. I thought of going into my studio and looking at my paintings, still tacked up on the walls. I remembered Manon’s paintings, and the wild freedom they possessed.

  Then I saw myself alone in my bed that first night home, looking up at the shape of the old woman on my ceiling. I saw myself the next morning, walking to the sewing factory and applying for a job, and then buying a few items to cook for my simple dinner. After I’d eaten, I would put on a heavy sweater and sit on the porch and try to read, looking up as the occasional car passed on the road, churning the dust behind it, or, if there had been rain, making ruts through the mud. Perhaps I would go inside and take up my paintbrush and stand before my easel.

  What would I paint?

  I thought of the summer unfolding, of getting up early for my job, and coming home weary from repetitive, tedious work that demanded nothing of me. I’d tend to my garden. Maybe, once or twice through that summer, I’d ask Mr Barlow if he would drive me out to Pine Bush, so I could walk through the marsh and look for the Blue Karner and watch the wildlife.

  And then there would be the first signs of fall, the geese flying overhead, the tomato plants in the garden curling and blackening with frost. I heard the strong, cold nor’easters wailing around the windows, heralding the long and bitter winter, followed by another spring of rain so powerful it bent the trees. And then another humid summer. Of course they were simply the seasons, the turning of the year, no better or worse than so many places. But it wasn’t only the thought of the seasons that made my chest tighten as I sat at the table in my hotel room in Marrakesh.

  It was beginning that life over again, the one I had known before Etienne came into it, before I had travelled across the ocean and arrived in this confusing, intriguing and often frightening country. Before my eyes had seen colours and heard sounds I had never even imagined. Before I breathed in the scent of unknown foliage and winds, before new tastes exploded on my tongue.

  Before I had known the wrenching grief of losing a child, and, for the first time in my life, also holding a child, of smelling his hair and feeling his body rest against mine.

  I knew exactly what shape my life would have when I returned to Albany, not only for the next months and the next year, but for the rest of my life. I was thirty years old. Could I continue that life for another thirty years, or more?

  I picked up my passport; it was hard, unyielding, against my palm. There would be no sacrifice in returning home. But also no reward.

  I didn’t want that life, alone. I thought again of the odd look on Aszulay’s face when I told him I wanted to stay and find Etienne, and help him through his illness.

  How could he understand?

  I went to the window and looked at the palm garden, with the outline of its rows of trees. The stars pulsed overhead, vivid, and the darkness beyond the lights of the hotel was filled with noise: the shouts of Arabic and other unknown tongues, the drumming from the square, the noises of domestic animals. But nearer was the sudden whoosh of the wings of a night bird, the quick, rubbery flap of a bat, the tiny humming and buzzing of insects.

  Would I listen to Aszulay, and go home? Or would I listen to my heart, and stay here, waiting for Etienne? It would only be a month. A month, if Etienne returned when Aszulay expected.

  As I had so often, I tried to bring back the warmth of Etienne’s smile, the depth in his dark eyes. But it was difficult; he was fading, as if the brilliant sunlight of Marrakesh was washing through him, making his image thin and somehow less significant.

  It frightened me. I didn’t want to think that Manon’s words, about how weak Etienne was, and how he’d simply used me, were influencing me.

  I didn’t
want to think of Aszulay, concern in his blue eyes, when he told me to go home.

  Neither of them — Manon and Aszulay — although, surely, for different reasons, wanted me to wait for Etienne. But I had to, didn’t I? I would prove them both wrong. I would prove to them that Etienne loved and needed me in the same way I loved and needed him.

  I would stay. I would find a way.

  ‘Inshallah,’ I whispered, into the soft night air.

  The next morning I told Monsieur Henri I would no longer be staying at Hôtel de la Palmeraie. He had the good grace not to look relieved, although since I’d allowed Aszulay and Badou into my room, he’d treated me with even more coolness. ‘You’re leaving Marrakesh, Mademoiselle O’Shea?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But I’ll return in a few hours, and settle my bill.’

  ‘As you wish, mademoiselle,’ he said.

  I hadn’t slept, tossing in my soft bed until just before sunrise. And then, as the first pale rays of light came through the window, I looked around the opulent room, envisioning a few more weeks of afternoons sitting politely under the palms in the courtyard with the other foreigners, who drank too many cocktails and spoke of nothing of real importance. Apart from Mr and Mrs Russell, who had now left Marrakesh, nobody had made an offer of friendship.

  I thought of the way Aszulay and Badou had been treated when they came here to bring me comfort, and the whispered gossip that had followed me when I came downstairs after their visit.

  Not only could I not afford to stay at such a sumptuous place, I also didn’t fit at Hôtel de la Palmeraie.

  If I was to bide my time in Marrakesh, it could not be in this hotel.

  I went into the street and booked a room at a small, inexpensive hotel far off the main street of La Ville Nouvelle. The place was shabby and less than clean. I would have to share a bathroom with other guests, but there was also a small communal kitchen, so I could cook for myself and wouldn’t have to pay for all of my meals. There was no garden. But it would do while I waited for Etienne to return.