The Saffron Gate

by Holeman, Linda

  ‘But the hotels in La Ville Nouvelle are for foreigners. For people like you. Why don’t you continue to stay there?’

  ‘It doesn’t suit me any longer,’ I told him.

  ‘Doesn’t suit you?’

  ‘I can’t wear these clothes. They don’t like it.’ I didn’t want to have to tell him I had so little money left.

  ‘But then … wear your American clothes. Why do you even wear these?’

  ‘In this way,’ I gestured down my body, and at my haik, ‘I can move about the city more freely.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand. How do you wish me to help with this?’

  I found it so difficult to not be completely honest with him. ‘The truth, Aszulay, is that I can no longer afford to stay in any of the hotels in the French Quarter. Perhaps there’s someplace, someplace you know, that’s very inexpensive. In the medina.’

  He looked startled. ‘But the medina isn’t good for you. It’s only Moroccans. You should be with your people.’

  Without thinking, I said, ‘I like the medina.’ Yes, I realised, I did like it. Since I’d begun dressing in a way that allowed me to blend in, when I was there I felt alive in a way I’d never known before.

  ‘There are no hotels in the medina,’ he said now. ‘When Moroccans from other cities come, they stay with relatives, or with friends.’

  ‘All I need is a room. One room, Aszulay.’

  ‘It’s impossible,’ he said, again shaking his head.

  ‘Impossible? For one room? I would keep to myself. I won’t—’

  ‘You must understand the country,’ he said. ‘A woman, a Nasarini, alone, in a Muslim house. It’s not proper.’

  Nasarini. A Nazarene, a Christian, the name foreigners were called by the Moroccans. I had heard it before, in the souks, as I understood more and more Arabic.

  I hadn’t thought of how my presence might cause difficulties in a house in the medina. ‘But otherwise I can’t stay in Morocco any longer. All of this — my coming here, everything — will be for nothing. I’m so close, Aszulay,’ I said. ‘I know you don’t think I should wait, but …’

  We stood there, people moving around us on the street in front of the hotel.

  ‘Please,’ I finally said. ‘I can’t go home. Not yet. Please understand how important this is to me. Haven’t you ever …’ I stopped. I wanted to say haven’t you ever loved someone so much you would do anything for her, but it was too intimate a question. What did I know of this man, and his feelings?

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, Sidonie,’ he said, but he looked troubled now.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, and, relieved, and on impulse, I touched the back of his hand to show my gratitude.

  He looked down, and I looked as well; my fingers were small on his hand. I pulled my fingers back, and he looked at me then.

  I was sorry I’d been so forward. Obviously I’d made him very uncomfortable. It was only later that I remembered he’d called me Sidonie.

  The man with the withered arm, his djellaba sleeve rolled up over it, didn’t appear pleased when Aszulay brought me to the house on Sharia Soura two days later. Aszulay said it wasn’t yet a sure thing, but this man — his friend — might allow me to stay there for a short while.

  It was early evening, and as we stood in the courtyard — my face covered but for my eyes — the man stared at me. I immediately looked at the ground, knowing I couldn’t appear bold. When I glanced up, the man was shaking his head.

  Aszulay spoke to him. They argued back and forth, quietly, in Arabic. I realised it was simply the usual market haggling over price. Except this time it was over me.

  Aszulay’s tone remained the same, calm and firm, and finally the man threw up his hand in what appeared resignation. Aszulay quoted me the price of the room as well as my meals for a week; it was a tiny fraction of what I had paid for one night at the cheaper hotel. I nodded, and Aszulay took my cases and went inside the house. I was carrying my painting supplies in my woven basket, and my easel in the other hand.

  I followed him; after the bright courtyard, the narrow passage we walked through was almost dark, and for a moment I felt as though I were one of the blind men in D’jemma el Fna. I climbed the stairs after Aszulay, fixing my eyes on his heels in his yellow babouches. The stairs were narrow and steep, and my right leg ached with the effort of lifting it so high on each tiled step. As we reached the top, a cat noiselessly came from nowhere and bounded down the stairs beside me.

  Aszulay opened a door and set my cases in the middle of the room. He turned to look at me.

  ‘It’s all right?’ he asked, and I nodded, not even having time to take in my surroundings, but knowing I had no choice. There was a pleasant smell in the room, something woody and fresh.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it’s very good, Aszulay. Thank you.’

  ‘There are two wives. They will give you tea and bread in the mornings, and a meal midday and evening. Downstairs, off the kitchen, is the lavatory.’

  I nodded.

  ‘But you must understand that you can’t move about as you do in a hotel; you can’t leave the house without a male escort. Although my friend understands you are not Muslim, if you wish to stay here you must act in the way of a Muslim woman, or he will be shamed. He has two sons, and one will accompany you when you want to go out. And if they will allow it, you can help the wives with the work of the house, although I believe they’ll resent you.’

  ‘Why? I’m not—’

  ‘They’ll see you as a rival, perhaps to be a new wife. It doesn’t matter what their husband tells them, they won’t believe him. His second wife died a few months ago; this was her room. They know he’s looking for another. Stay out of their way, unless they invite you to join them. Dana marra kif defla,’ he said. ‘The saying for the wives is that another woman coming into the home is bitter like the oleander. They devise many ways to try and prevent the taking of an additional wife. If the husband enters when you’re with the wives, turn your face to the wall so he can’t look at you. He’s doing this because he owes me a favour, but he isn’t happy. So you must do all you can to stay out of the way and not create any upset.’ He stopped. ‘It helped to convince him to let you stay because he said that you don’t appear to be a foreigner. This way, he said, he could tell neighbours you were the distant cousin of his youngest wife.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘for getting me this room. And for …’ I wanted to say more. ‘Thank you,’ I repeated.

  Standing alone with him in the small, dim room was different from standing outside in the sunshine with him. ‘Will I see you again?’ I asked, feeling even more connected to him now because of this room. His friend.

  He looked into my face, opened his mouth as if to speak further, then nodded, tucking the end of his turban over his nose and mouth. He left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  The room had such a low ceiling that if I reached my arm over my head I could lay my palm flat on it. The walls were of a cool, hard substance. Looking closer at the spot where a small piece of the plaster had fallen off, I saw that they were simply some form of mud. It had to be Marrakesh earth, for it was red, and looked as though it had been pounded until it was hard and flat and then plastered over. On the floor were a number of small fringed carpets. They were of mismatched patterns and faded colours, and yet beautiful. I picked up a corner of one and saw that the floor underneath was smooth wooden planks. I dropped the carpet back down, and on instinct took off my shoes, and then my stockings. I pushed my toes into the carpets. In spite of being old, they were still thick and yielding as I dug my toes deeper. Beside the sleeping mattress was a small ornamental stool, and on the wall opposite, a carved wooden table of light wood. The table emitted the woody scent in the room, and I wondered if it was the thuya Mrs Russell had mentioned that was abundant around Essouria. Leaning on the wall beside the table was a long mirror with a frame made of brilliantly coloured glass chips.

  I looked out the tall, narrow
window to the courtyard below. Not a whisper of air came through the window into the room. I took off my haik and kaftan and pulled a simple cotton slip over my head.

  It was my first night in the medina, in my tiny room of earth, with its glorious carpets and its smell of the forest. The sleeping mattress was covered with a soft cotton coverlet of blue and white stripes. I looked at it. I tried not to think of the unfortunate wife; had she died in the bed?

  I unpacked the other kaftans I’d purchased recently, and the few toiletries I needed. I left all my dresses folded in the cases. I hung my kaftans and haik on the nails on the back of the door, put my toiletries on the table, and the tile from the Blue Man on the piste — what had the Arabic word been? Zellij? — on the stool beside my bed. I left my easel folded beside the mirror.

  I sat on the deeply recessed windowsill then, my back against one wall — it must have been one and a half to two feet thick — and my feet on the other. The day was losing its heat, dropping quickly, and finally the air grew soft and still, cooler.

  I looked down at the dimming courtyard, at the potted trees and large earthenware containers of plants and the geometric design of the tiles that covered the floor. Apart from the distant thrum of the square, there was no other sound. The cat — now I could see that it was reddish brown — crept stealthily through the courtyard, pausing, alert, in front of one of the pots. I thought of Cinnabar.

  I was awakened by the street outside the courtyard coming to life. I squinted at my watch; it was only just after seven, but already very noisy. I got out of bed and looked out the window; the courtyard was still empty. But hoofs tapped on the narrow cobbled streets outside the gate, and men’s voices urged on their donkeys. A bicycle bell tinkled, and I smelled fresh bread. Then there was a rhythmic hand-clapping, and children’s voices singing. The voices and clapping grew louder and then faded; the children must come down this street on the way to school. Babies cried. From beneath me in the house there was the unmistakable sound of throat-clearing and hacking, followed by a great deal of spitting. I went back to my bed and tried to sleep, but it was impossible. As I lay there, I realised my sleep had been deep and dreamless. I hadn’t thought of Etienne since I’d arrived yesterday.

  I heard a man’s voice and got up to look into the courtyard again. It was the husband; he spoke to someone I couldn’t see and then went out the gate. Knowing he was gone, I covered my face and went downstairs. I found the kitchen and entered. There were three women preparing food; one middle-aged and one younger, as well as a very old and wrinkled black woman. They all wore plain kaftans with more colourful dfinas over them. Their faces were uncovered; they stopped what they were doing and looked at me.

  ‘Assalaam alykum,’ I said. The servant pushed out her lips and went back to stirring a pot. The older woman turned her back and chopped at a slab of meat with great resounding hacks. Only the third woman — she was younger than I — looked at my eyes, and said, ‘Slema.’ I didn’t know this word, but it sounded like a greeting, and so I nodded and smiled. I knew she couldn’t see my smile under my veil, and yet hoped my eyes let her know I appreciated her attempt at friendliness. She had a pattern of tiny dots tattooed on her forehead.

  I used the lavatory and passed through the kitchen again; none of the women glanced at me this time. I went out to the courtyard and sat on a wooden bench there. The cat appeared. I snapped my fingers at it and made a whispering sound. It crept towards me and sniffed my fingers, but then darted away.

  Eventually the younger wife brought me out a plate of thick unleavened bread and honey and soft white cheese and a slice of pale green melon; she went back into the house and brought mint tea. When she left me again, I removed my face covering. As I raised a piece of cheese to my mouth, I thought of what Aszulay had told me: that the wives would do what they could to deter another woman. I thought of Falida, digging up bones and teeth from the graveyard for Manon, and then of Manon telling me how she made her own kohl with ingredients that would make men mad with desire. Surely she would use the bone and tooth for some of the magic Etienne had told me about.

  That memory of Etienne felt so old now: sitting in my house in Albany, listening to his tales of witchcraft and demons in a country splashed with endless sun while a cold winter wind howled around my windows. It was as if it was a scene from a book I had read.

  And now here I was, in a steamy courtyard, looking at a piece of cheese and wondering if powdered bone or a sliver of tooth or some other spell had been cast upon the food that was served to me.

  Then, telling myself I was becoming as superstitious as a true Moroccan woman, I took a deep breath and bit into it, chewing and swallowing carefully. It was smooth and creamy and delicious. I finished all the food on the plate and drank my tea. Then I sat in the courtyard, unsure of what to do next. Knowing that I couldn’t rise and leave the house when I wished was a strange feeling. I wondered if it felt claustrophobic to women who had lived this way all their lives.

  Eventually I heard female voices from above, and looked up. I could see nothing, but could discern at least three separate voices, surely from the roof.

  I covered my face again, climbing back up the stairs past my own room, then up the next flight of stairs, the women’s voices growing louder. After the darkness of the stairway, when I emerged on to the roof the morning brightness was sharp. The voices stopped. It was the two wives and the servant; they sat cross-legged around a pile of golden grain.

  Aszulay had told me not to join them unless I was invited, but when they all looked away from me and continued sorting through the grain, tossing out bits of dirt and spreading the cleaned grains on a long strip of jute, I sat on the far edge of the roof.

  I kept my face covered; somehow I felt more comfortable if they couldn’t study me, and perhaps see the insecurity I felt. What had their husband told them about me? What did they think of me, a woman alone in a country where a woman without a man was nothing? Surely pity. Perhaps disgust. I couldn’t tell..

  I stayed on the far edge of the roof, apart from them, and they resumed speaking to each other, but quieter now, occasionally glancing at me. I alternated between watching them and looking out over the city. Swallows swooped overhead. I wished I could understand what the women were saying. All around me were the flat roofs of other homes, some a bit higher and some lower than this one. The flatness was punctuated, further out, by minarets. They rose, square and solid and yet slender, like displaced lighthouses.

  The Atlas mountains gleamed; if I squinted, it seemed I could reach out and touch them.

  I thought of standing on the rooftop of the hotel in Tangier, and how I had felt, like a woman caught between two worlds. And yet here, in my kaftan and face-covering, my few belongings in the room below, I felt some line had been crossed. This world, at this moment, was the one I inhabited.

  Many of the neighbouring roofs held women and children; there were no men anywhere, and it was clear that the roofs were the women’s freedom. Here they were all unveiled, and could be themselves. They were not the shadowy, silent figures gliding past me in the medina alleys and lanes. They laughed and chattered as they spread wet clothes flat to dry and nursed their babies and sewed. One woman argued loudly with a younger one; I sensed they were mother and daughter by their familiarity. An old woman slept on her back in the sun, her mouth open. Small children played about, climbing over their mothers or chewing on fistfuls of bread.

  After some time it appeared the women on my roof had forgotten about me. They laughed and nodded, their strong hands quick and confident as they sorted through the grain with effortless speed, and suddenly I envied their closeness, their friendship.

  I had avoided any offers of friendship on Juniper Road, but now, for reasons unknown even to myself, I wanted to be part of this small group. I wanted to let handfuls of golden grain fall through my fingers, and even if I couldn’t understand the conversation, I wanted the foreign words to flow around me, to settle on my shoulders like a l
ight mantle.

  TWENTY NINE

  I had been living in the house on Sharia Soura for three days. I was never confronted by the husband, although in the morning and evening I heard his voice, and saw him in the courtyard when I looked down from my window. He was often with two boys of perhaps fourteen or fifteen; they must be the sons Aszulay had mentioned, and were surely twins — both the same height and size; tall and gangly, yet with broad shoulders.

  The older wife and servant ignored me, but it was clear the younger wife was curious and interested in me. There was little we could do to communicate, but I appreciated her smiles, which came more frequently after the first day. She told me her name was Mena, and laughed as she tried to pronounce Sidonie. She had a high, sweet voice and a round, pale face, which I knew was a look favoured by Moroccan men. She was probably no more than twenty years old.

  When I pointed to objects, Mena said their names in Arabic. In a short time I had learned many words and simple phrases. She was eager to try and speak with me; she seemed lonely, in spite of the constant companionship of the two other women.

  She chattered constantly, showing me how to make couscous — rolling and shaping the moistened Seminole wheat, coating it with finely ground wheat flour before steaming it. I watched as she made harira, the lentil and chickpea and lamb soup. When I demonstrated that I wanted to help with other dishes, she gestured how thick to cut meat and vegetables and how long to cook them, sometimes rather impatiently taking my hand and stirring a pot with more strength or quickness. She ignored the disapproving glances of the ancient servant, but when the older wife — Nawar — entered the kitchen, Mena would fall silent.

  By the fourth day I grew restless and anxious, and could no longer stay within the house, on the roof or in the courtyard. I expressed to Mena that I wished to go out. She consulted Nawar, who looked a bit sour, but called out a name — Najeeb — and one of the boys materialised from a back room. She spoke a few lines to him, raising her chin at me, and Najeeb went to the gate and stood, waiting. I covered myself and followed him through the twisting lanes. I watched his bare heels as he moved ahead of me; they were like horn. I recognised some of the streets, and realised that we passed Sharia Zitoun on the way to the souks. I saw the niche in the wall — with the kittens — where Badou and Falida went when they were sent out by Manon.