The Saffron Gate

  Once Najeeb had led me to the souks, where I was sure he expected me to shop, I walked ahead of him, looking back, and he followed.

  I went through D’jemma el Fna into the French Quarter; and all the way to Hôtel de la Palmeraie, glancing back every now and then at Najeeb. I gestured for him to wait while I went into the hotel, pulling off my haik and veil as I did so. He immediately turned from me.

  In the lobby, Monsieur Henri saw me coming, frowning at my kaftan, but then nodded. ‘Ah, mademoiselle. Yes. Splendid news. Both your paintings have sold, and the buyers are interested in more. They are a young couple decorating their home in Antibes, and wish at least four additional paintings in the same vein.’

  A strange heat filled me. I had no idea it would feel this way to be told such news: that my paintings were sought after.

  ‘Mademoiselle? You said you have more paintings. The couple leave next week, and would like the opportunity to look at them before then.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. Yes,’ I repeated. ‘I’ll bring them. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine. Now, let me see,’ he said, turning to open a drawer in the cupboard behind the desk. ‘Yes. Here you are. The hotel has taken the fifty per cent commission, as usual. The details of the sale are written out.’

  I took the envelope from him, still nodding. ‘Thank you, Monsieur Henri,’ I said. ‘Thank you,’ I repeated.

  ‘I shall see you tomorrow, then,’ he said, and turned, making it clear our business was over.

  I went out to Najeeb, covering myself before embarrassing him again. I couldn’t wait, and ripped open the envelope. Along with the typed receipt, there was a cheque, with an amount I hadn’t expected. I stared at it, thinking that perhaps I was reading it incorrectly. But I wasn’t. The sum I’d received for my two paintings filled me with euphoria.

  It was the first time in my life I had received payment. For anything.

  Once I’d stuffed the cheque back into the envelope, Najeeb started down the street towards the medina, but I said his name, gesturing for him to again follow me. I went into a bank, saying I wished to open an account.

  The teller looked at me. ‘You must have a form of identification, mademoiselle,’ he said, and I nodded.

  ‘I’ll return with my passport, tomorrow,’ I said, and then let Najeeb lead me back to Sharia Soura.

  The next day I again expressed that I must go out, and Nawar looked just as annoyed, but again called Najeeb.

  First I went to Hôtel de la Palmeraie, leaving Monsieur Henri the other four paintings I had completed. Then I went back to the bank and opened an account, withdrawing the money I needed, and after that to the art store. I purchased more paper and paint. On a whim, I bought a wooden box containing tubes of oil paint and a few canvases and different brushes. I thought of how much more depth I could achieve by painting with oils. It would be a completely new technique, and yet I was eager to try.

  On the way back, I wandered through the noise and colour of souk after souk, stopping here and there, fingering cloth and wooden carvings and silver goods. Najeeb stood just behind me at all times, holding my purchases. I bought a large bag of cashews for him.

  I was excited to try the oils immediately; I had painted in my room, but this time of day there wasn’t enough light. I brought my easel down to the courtyard, set up the canvas and squeezed paint on to my palette.

  Mena came out, pulling up a stool and watching, her eyes bright and a flush in her normally pale cheeks as she watched the courtyard slowly emerge from my brushes.

  I turned to her, pointing at her face and then putting my brush back to the canvas. But as I started to create her image, she cried out, putting her hand on mine and shaking her head, saying la, la. No.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked her, and she went to great lengths with words and gestures, and I understood enough to know she was telling me I couldn’t paint her. I would capture her soul on the canvas.

  I nodded, asking in my simple Arabic if I could paint a man.

  She thought for a moment, and then nodded. A man was all right. A man’s spirit was strong enough not to be taken, I understood from her words and gestures. But I couldn’t paint a woman or a child.

  We were sitting in companionable silence, Mena watching as I worked, when Nawar came into the courtyard. She stopped, then came and looked at the picture. She shook her head, her lips tight, and spoke in a torrent of words to Mena, leaving with a great flurry of her kaftan.

  I looked at Nawar disappearing into the house, and then at Mena. Mena shook her head slowly, and with a few sentences I knew I was not allowed to paint in the courtyard. Nawar felt it would draw in evil spirits.

  The next day I was on the roof with Mena and Nawar when the old servant shouted something from the courtyard. Mena leaned over the edge and called back, then looked at me.

  ‘Aszulay is here,’ she said, in Arabic; I jumped up, perhaps a little too quickly, and went towards the stairs.

  ‘Sidonie,’ Mena called after me, and when I looked back at her, she put her hand over her nose and mouth, as if to remind me to cover my face.

  I nodded, but couldn’t explain this wasn’t necessary, and went down the stairs.

  Aszulay stood in the courtyard, holding Badou’s hand.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, a little breathless from hurrying, looking from Aszulay to Badou. ‘Is Etienne in Marrakesh?’ I asked.

  Aszulay lifted one shoulder; the small movement gave me the impression he was annoyed with my question. ‘No.’

  ‘Is it … is it that I’m no longer allowed to stay here?’ I asked, swallowing. ‘Is that what you’ve come to tell me?’

  ‘No. I have spoken to my friend. You may stay on.’

  I nodded, relieved, that I would be here a bit longer, and yet disturbed that time was stretching out with no more word from Etienne.

  I let out a long breath. ‘Thank you. How are you, Badou?’ I asked, looking at the child.

  He smiled, and it pleased me to see that his hair was trimmed, and shone, and his little djellaba and cotton trousers were clean. ‘We’re going to see the turtles,’ he said.

  ‘At the garden,’ Aszulay explained. ‘I finished early today, so I’m taking Badou there. We were passing near to here, and I thought perhaps you would care to join us.’

  He said it in a casual tone, but also with a slight hesitation.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, surprised.

  ‘You will come, Sidonie?’ Badou asked.

  I realised how much I wanted to go out again. I had thought so often in this one week how restricted Nawar and Mena’s lives were. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll get my veil and haik.’ As I went up to my room I met Mena, standing hidden on the stairs. She was obviously listening, although she wasn’t able to understand our French. She lifted her eyebrows, as if to ask what was happening.

  I fumbled for the Arabic words for going out, followed by Aszulay’s name.

  Her lips tightened in the same way Nawar’s did when she was displeased with me. Without another word she turned and went back to the roof.

  In my room I took up my veil, but before I adjusted it over my lower face, I stared at myself, then smoothed my eyebrows with my middle finger, as I had seen Manon do.

  Before leaving the medina, we stopped to buy some sweets for Badou, Aszulay putting a few centimes into the boy’s hand.

  Badou scampered to a seller in front of a table stacked with piles of powdered jelly squares in gem tones.

  ‘I’m going to look at the knives,’ Aszulay said, and went to a nearby stall.

  I watched Badou make the small purchase on his own, seeing the proud lift of his chin as he spoke to the man in Arabic, holding the centimes out to him on the palm of his hand. The man took the coins and measured the sweets into a paper cone and handed it to him, saying something to him and nodding.

  Badou came back to me, looking from me to Aszulay, who was feeling the blade of a knife with his thumb. He took a square of candy from the cone and popped it into his mo
uth. Then he extended the cone to me. ‘The man told me I must share my sweets with my father and mother,’ he said, then smiled. ‘He’s so funny, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, smiling back at him, and took one of the powdered squares.

  Once we emerged from the medina, we rode to Le Jardin Majorelle in the back of a cart pulled by a donkey.

  ‘We’ll go to one of the bigger ponds,’ Aszulay said, when we were in the garden. ‘The turtles there are the largest.’

  We went to a reflecting pool, and while Badou ran to its edge, I set my haik on a stone bench and untied the veil from my face.

  Monsieur Majorelle passed us, greeting Aszulay, then stopped, looking at me.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Majorelle,’ I said. ‘It’s Mademoiselle O’Shea. I met you with Monsieur and Madame Russell, some time back.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Ah, yes. You are blending into the life of Marrakesh, it appears.’ He glanced at Aszulay in an enquiring way, but Aszulay simply stood there. ‘I shall see you tomorrow, Aszulay. Some new pots have arrived.’

  Badou crouched beside the motionless water, which mirrored the sky, his little shoulders tense, staring into the smooth surface dotted with lily pads. Aszulay spoke to him in Arabic, and Badou put his fingers into the water and wiggled them, breaking the glass-like surface. Almost immediately a turtle popped its head up, only inches from Badou’s fingers. Badou jumped back, gasping, and then turned and looked at us, and laughed.

  ‘Une tortue,’ he said, still smiling. ‘He scared me.’ He again crouched and splashed his fingers in the water. ‘I want him to do it again.’

  The turtle came nearer, possibly hoping for food, and again lifted its round head, this time opening its toothless mouth, and then quickly plopped back under the water.

  Again Badou laughed, delighted. He was a different little boy like this, the usual serious expression gone.

  ‘This is the first time I have heard your laughter,’ Aszulay said.

  I covered my mouth with my hand, unaware that I had laughed along with Badou.

  Aszulay studied me. ‘Why do you look as though you regret laughing?’

  I blinked. ‘I’m not sure.’ I thought about the baby, about Etienne, about all that had happened in the last number of months. I realised I hadn’t laughed since Etienne had left me. Did I feel I had no right to laugh? To happiness?

  I looked down at Badou, flicking his fingers in the water. He had made me, for this brief moment in the sun, forget about the heaviness of my recent life. I glanced back at Aszulay. He wasn’t looking at me, but I had the distinct impression he pitied me.

  I didn’t want this man to feel sorry for me. I left the bench to kneel beside Badou. ‘Let’s make the turtle come out again,’ I said, and lightly splashed the surface of the water with my fingers.

  As we left the gardens Aszulay spoke to Badou in Arabic. Badou’s mouth opened and his eyes shone. ‘Yes, Oncle Aszulay, yes, when will we go?’

  ‘In one week. Seven days,’ he said, lifting Badou into the cart, which had waited for us. Badou looked at his fingers, his lips moving as he counted. ‘Every few months I visit my family,’ Aszulay added, turning to me. ‘Badou likes to come with me. He likes to play with the children there.’

  His family.

  ‘Oh. You have children?’ I asked, somehow startled. Somehow … disturbed. Why? I realised I presumed he had no wife, no children, mainly because when I’d gone to his home I’d seen no one but the older woman who served me tea. Was it also because of his association with Manon? Because I thought him above having a lover outside of marriage?

  ‘No,’ he said, then pointedly turned to Badou and spoke to him about the turtles.

  Once we had left the cart, Aszulay and Badou walked me back to Sharia Soura. Badou asked, ‘Sidonie, are you coming with us to the bled?’

  ‘No, Badou,’ I answered, stopping at my gate. ‘But I hope you have a good time.’ I turned, knocking on the gate.

  We waited, and then Aszulay said, ‘Do you wish to come?’

  I thought he was just being polite. But that was my assumption: an American assumption. It was not Aszulay’s way.

  He added, ‘We will be gone two days.’

  The gate was opened by Najeeb.

  Two days meant we would stay overnight. As if reading my mind, Aszulay said, ‘There are women’s quarters.’

  I thought about my night in the bled with Mustapha and Aziz: the stars, the silence, the wild camel. Again I thought of the word family. Aszulay had said he didn’t have children, but did he have a wife there? Two, or even three?

  ‘I have une camionnette,’ he said. ‘We will go in it.’

  ‘A truck? You own a truck?’

  He nodded. Somehow I was surprised. I had only imagined him walking down the dusty piste, like the first Blue Man I had seen. Or perched upon a camel.

  ‘You find it odd?’

  I smiled. ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘And so? Do you wish to come?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ll come. Unless …’ I stopped. Unless Etienne had arrived by then.

  ‘Unless …?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  ‘I will come for you in seven days, after breakfast,’ he said.

  ‘Will you bring us food tomorrow, Oncle Aszulay?’ Badou asked, looking up at him.

  Aszulay put his hand on the boy’s head. ‘Tomorrow I must work too many hours. But I have left food. Falida will cook it for you,’ he said.

  ‘Will Maman come home soon?’ Badou then asked.

  Aszulay nodded. ‘Soon.’

  I looked from Badou to Aszulay. ‘I could go to Sharia Zitoun and check on Badou and Falida,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Come to my house, Sidonie,’ Badou said.

  ‘As you wish,’ Aszulay said.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Badou,’ I told him, and he nodded.

  Aszulay took Badou’s hand, and I went inside my gate.

  THIRTY

  The next morning, carrying a basket of bread and a pot of kefta — minced, spiced lamb I’d made — I had Najeeb accompany me to Sharia Zitoun. It was just before eleven when I knocked on the gate.

  Najeeb leaned against the outside wall, and I knew he would wait for me no matter how long I stayed.

  I had to knock twice before Falida called out, cautiously, to ask who it was. When I told her, she pulled the gate open slowly.

  ‘My lady is not here,’ she said, her eyes wide.

  ‘I know. But I’ve brought some food, and came to see Badou.’

  She nodded, and let me into the courtyard.

  Badou came down the stairs; again, I could see that his hair had been brushed and his face washed. ‘Sidonie,’ he said, looking at the pot, then back to me. ‘Look,’ he said, pushing his tongue behind his front tooth. ‘My tooth is funny.’

  I smiled, looking closer. ‘It will come out in a litte while,’ I said. ‘And another tooth will grow.’

  ‘Will it hurt?’

  ‘No. Or only a tiny bit.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, so trusting, again looking at the pot.

  ‘Do you like kefta?’ I asked, and he nodded, running ahead of me into the house. I followed him into the kitchen, and Falida followed me. The kitchen was spotless. ‘You are looking after everything so well, Falida,’ I said, and her mouth opened, as though surprised. Then she smiled. The smile transformed her face; although she was so thin, and had dark circles under her eyes, she would soon be very pretty.

  ‘Falida gives me a bath every day when Maman is not here,’ Badou said.

  ‘I can see that,’ I said, and smiled at Falida. She ducked her head as though embarrassed.

  I dished out the food and we each carried a plate to the courtyard. I sat on the daybed while Badou chose the ground, setting his plate on the table in front of him. But Falida hung by the door. ‘Come,’ I said to her. ‘Eat with us.’

  She shook her head. ‘I am not allowed,’ she said.

  I
looked at her. ‘Today you are,’ I said, and she shyly came forward and sat on the ground beside Badou.

  Before I left, I promised Badou and Falida that I would come the next day.

  When I got back to Sharia Soura, Mena was in the courtyard. She had been quiet with me the evening before, after I’d returned from the gardens with Aszulay and Badou, and I wondered if she was feeling ill.

  I hadn’t seen her this morning, before I left for Sharia Zitoun, but now, as soon as I came in, she took a pair of her husband’s shoes from where they sat near the gate. She pointed at them, then at me. I didn’t understand at first, but she kept gesturing at the babouches, holding them to her chest, then pointing them at my chest. Finally she said rajul, the Arabic word for man.

  She was asking where my husband was.

  I struggled for a way to make her understand, gesturing towards the gate. Out there, I wanted to tell her. The man who will be my husband is out there, somewhere in Morocco.

  Then she said Aszulay’s name in a questioning tone.

  I shook my head. ‘Aszulay, sadeeq.’ Aszulay, friend.

  But Mena frowned, shaking her head. ‘La, la,’ she said. No, no. She pointed at herself, and said imra’a, woman, followed by rajul. Then sadeeq, la.

  I knew exactly what she was saying: woman and man, friends, no. I understood that this wasn’t possible in her world. Of course I understood. And yet … how else could I describe Aszulay?

  ‘Sadeeq, Mena, na’am. Friend, Mena, yes,’ I said, looking at the gate again, thinking of Aszulay.

  I wondered what he was doing, imagining him in Le Jardin Majorelle, lifting a huge earthenware urn with little effort.

  But I reminded myself it was Etienne I should be thinking of.

  When I went to Sharia Zitoun mid-morning the next day, I had Najeeb bring my new oils and easel and a canvas. I stopped first in one of the souks and bought a simple French children’s book for Badou.