The Saffron Gate

  She did. She did the same movement, and held up three fingers.

  Three? She’d miscarried three times or had three children die? But she was so young. Instinctively I put my hands on hers, squeezing them. When she squeezed mine back, tears came into my eyes, and then I was crying.

  I hadn’t shared my loss with anyone — apart from telling Manon, in a cold way, that I’d lost the baby she denied had ever existed. And now, even though I couldn’t use words to describe my sadness, it came again, fresh, with Mena. I knew she understood what I felt, and I knew what she must feel. Her eyes filled, and she kept nodding, kept squeezing my hands.

  I saw that she cared about me, and suddenly I cared about her, too. I thought of the middle-aged man with the withered arm, her husband, coming to her in the night. I thought of days spent under the watchful eyes of the stern Nawar, with all the power of the first wife in the house, surely not welcoming to a beautiful younger wife.

  Where was Mena’s family? Did she love her husband, or had she simply been sold to him in an arranged marriage? What had made the deep scar on the back of her neck? Why had she lost three babies? Would she have more? Eventually she let go of my hands, patting my forearm, and I wiped my face with the edge of my fota.

  We sat side by side, our shoulders touching. I felt a deep sense of calm, after crying. How odd, I thought, that I would come halfway round the world to find the only friend — a young Moroccan wife — I’d had since I was sixteen years old.

  My tranquillity increased; since the day I told Etienne about the baby I had been so overwhelmed, so unsure of everything, on my confusing, frightening and at times dangerous journey. And yet now that uncertainty was lessening.

  I thought of how this new feeling, the feeling of something within me letting go, had begun as I watched Aszulay listen to the bird, and then later, as I lay on the roof in the sun, thinking of Badou and Falida and their expressions as I bought each of them a treat — another book for Badou, the wrap for Falida’s hair. I thought of Aszulay, watching me as I laughed in Le Jardin Majorelle, and the whiteness of his teeth in his dark face. I again pictured his expression as he listened to the glorious song of the bird overhead in the courtyard at Sharia Zitoun. I grew drowsy, letting the peacefulness wash over me, and brought up my knees and rested my arms on them, putting my head on my arms and closing my eyes. I think I slept. After a while, Mena spoke, and I looked up. She gestured for me to come, and I went with her to a door leading to a passage; I assumed it would take us back to where we had left our clothing. But it was yet another room, and in this one women lay on the floor or sat on it cross-legged while other women rubbed their skin, pushing and kneading it the way I had kneaded dough to make bread.

  Mena motioned for me to lie on my stomach, pointing at me, and then herself, and I understood that we were to do this to each other.

  My immediate instinct was shyness, to shake my head, and say la, la, shukran — no, no, thank you — and yet … I didn’t. This was the natural order of the hammam: the scrubbing and cleaning, the steamy room to relax, and then the massage. I spread my sheet and lay on the warm floor on my stomach, my head on my folded arms in the way of the other women. Mena knelt beside me and immediately began squeezing my shoulders.

  I expected to be somehow shocked — or if not shocked, at least uncomfortable — at another woman’s hands on my body, but as was becoming so clear to me, in the hammam it was all natural.

  Again I closed my eyes.

  It had been — how long? I mentally calculated — over four months since my body had last been touched: the February morning I had told Etienne about the baby. I tried to remember how Etienne and I had come together, tried to re-create his caresses. With Mena’s strong, capable hands massaging my clean, damp back, and then my hips and buttocks through the fota, and finally my thighs and calves and feet, I fell into a languorous stupour. I kept thinking of Etienne’s hands on me, of his body on mine, letting my imagination create scenes of intimacy.

  As Mena touched my shoulder, I knew it was my turn to repay the favour, and opened my eyes, blinking, coming back to the fragrant warmth of the hammam.

  As I knelt beside Mena and slowly rubbed her shoulders, I realised I hadn’t been thinking of Etienne at all. The hands, and the body I imagined on mine, all had the faintest hint of blue.

  Finally we went back to the dressing area, drying ourselves and putting on our clothes, and then, carrying the pails with our wet scrubbing cloths and sheets, we made our way back to Sharia Soura with Najeeb, as ever, shadowing us.

  As we walked silently through the streets, I was more aware of my body, moist and clean and free under my kaftan, than I could ever remember. It was as if every nerve had been awakened, and although my breathing was slow, my heart felt as though it beat a little faster than usual.

  I had a sense of well-being I didn’t recognise.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about my unexpected fantasies about Aszulay, arguing that they had only been a reaction to the situation, and the sensuous nature of the hammam. That was all it had been.

  Nothing more, I tried to convince myself.

  I wanted to check on Badou and Falida that afternoon. Taking Najeeb — or perhaps it was the twin brother, as I couldn’t tell them apart — I went to Sharia Zitoun. I knocked and called out, smiling, waiting for Falida or Badou.

  But it was Manon who pulled open the gate.

  I drew in my breath; although I knew she could come back any time, somehow I hadn’t expected to see her.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  I lifted the basket I carried. ‘I brought some food. For Badou,’ I said, knowing it was wiser not to mention Falida.

  ‘You don’t need to feed my child. I’m quite capable of that,’ she said.

  ‘I know. It’s only because you were away, and Aszulay …’ I stopped. I knew I should say as little as possible to Manon about Aszulay. About everything. I couldn’t trust what she might say, or do.

  ‘So you and Aszulay are becoming friendly. Is that it?’ she asked, staring at me.

  I was still standing in the doorway. ‘As long as you’re home, I won’t worry about Badou, then.’

  ‘You have no reason — no right — to worry about my child,’ she said. ‘Come in. I don’t like the neighbours watching everything.’

  I glanced around the empty street, then stepped inside. She closed the gate behind me and slid the bolt. ‘Where’s Badou?’ I asked. The courtyard and house were quiet.

  ‘I have sent him and Falida to the souks,’ she said. ‘What have you brought?’

  She took the basket from my hands and lifted the cloth, then took the lid from the pot of couscous with vegetable stew. ‘You cook Moroccan food now?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll go then, and, as you say, you don’t need the food.’ I reached for the basket’s handle, but she didn’t let go.

  ‘Badou has told me you’re going to the country with him and Aszulay,’ she said, no expression in her voice now. She still held the basket, her hand a few inches from mine. ‘Why would you go? There’s nothing to see but Berbers and their camels. Dust and filth. You couldn’t drag me there.’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘You know he has a wife,’ she said, with a wily smile, putting her thumb on top of my fingers, pinning them against the basket handle.

  I felt a jolt at her words. I thought I had convinced myself he didn’t. I hadn’t thought of Aszulay with a wife when I fantasised about him in the hammam, only hours before.

  Manon was lying, as she had lied about Etienne dying.

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I was in his house. I saw no wife.’ Although I’d had no intention of telling her I’d been in Aszulay’s home, Manon had angered me with the way she said you know he has a wife, waiting to see my reaction. As if it should matter to me whether Aszulay was married or not; as if she knew — or suspected — what pictures had been in my head so recently.

  Now her smile again disappeared as quickly as
it came, and the pressure of her thumb on my fingers grew more intense. ‘You went to his house,’ she stated.

  I looked at her but didn’t attempt to move my fingers. ‘I didn’t see a wife,’ I repeated.

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘That’s my business.’ Suddenly I stood straighter. I saw that I had caused a reaction in her. I could match this woman. She couldn’t harm me with her words.

  ‘Of course you didn’t see her there. She doesn’t live in the city.’

  What had Aszulay said, exactly? I tried to remember our conversation, when he had invited me to come with him and Badou. Every few months I visit my family. I pulled my fingers from under hers. ‘And so? What of it if he has a wife?’

  ‘She’s a real country girl. So beneath him,’ she said, with contempt. ‘A nomad simpleton. She stays where she belongs, surrounded by her goats.’

  ‘Oh?’ I said, with feigned lack of interest.

  ‘You still want to go to the bled? You want to go and watch Aszulay with his wife?’

  ‘Why should it bother me?’ I asked, troubled at this game we were playing. She was trying to make me jealous.

  Suddenly I didn’t want to continue the conversation. Perhaps I wouldn’t go to the country with Aszulay now.

  But that would mean Manon had won.

  Keeping my voice even, I asked, ‘Why do you dislike her so?’ Of course I knew why she spoke of her like this. It was she who was jealous — of the wife. And of me, because Aszulay had shown me attention.

  But she had Olivier. And she had Aszulay, in spite of his wife. Wasn’t that enough? How much of Aszulay did Manon want, and need?

  I tugged, slightly, on the handle of the basket, and she finally relinquished it. ‘I’m going now,’ I said, and turned to the gate.

  ‘Oh, please, Sidonie, please wait,’ Manon said, in a polite voice I hadn’t heard before. ‘I meant to give you something. I’ll be right back.’

  It was too suspicious; Manon had never treated me with any courtesy. But I was curious. She hurried up the stairs, and within a moment came back down, holding something in her hand.

  ‘It’s a pen and inkwell,’ she said. ‘An antique, used by scribes in the past.’ She held it towards me. It was an egg-shaped silver container, the sides etched with designs. ‘Look. Here’s the pen,’ she said, pulling on one end of the container, and a long metal implement slid out. Something dark — ink? — gleamed on its tip. She made as if to lay it in my right palm, but somehow its point jammed into my flesh, making a small nick in my skin. Instinctively I jerked away, and a bead of blood rose up on my palm.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said, licking her fingers and putting them to the blood. With her fingers on the cut she murmured a line, very quietly.

  I felt a chill. ‘What did you say?’ I asked, pulling my hand away and rubbing my palm against my haik.

  Her look was intense. ‘I just said how clumsy I was,’ she answered, but I knew she lied. There was something in her look, something that I could almost call pleased.

  I looked at the pen and inkwell she still held. ‘I don’t want it.’ I turned and slid back the bolt of the gate and left without closing it or looking back.

  I grew ill during dinner. The husband and sons had been served, and now I sat on cushions at the low table in the sitting room with Mena. Nawar was still in the kitchen, and we were waiting for her. But as I stared at the food on the table it blurred. My hand was aching, and I looked at it. My palm was swollen, the small wound puffy and dark red around the edges.

  I wanted to lie down. I tried to get to my feet, pushing with my left hand on the table. Mena looked at me quizzically, then asked me something, but her voice came from far away.

  ‘Sick,’ I said in Arabic, unnecessarily, and Mena rose and came to me.

  My face was wet with perspiration, and I wiped my forehead with the back of my right hand.

  Mena put her hand on my wrist, looking at my palm. She held it for an instant too long. I understood her Arabic question: what is this?

  I was trembling now. What did it matter? I needed to lie down, and tried to pull my hand away, but Mena held it firmly, asking the question again.

  How could I explain, with so little Arabic? Woman, I said weakly. Hurt me.

  ‘Sikeen?’ she asked, and I shook my head, not understanding. She picked up a knife from the table with her other hand. ‘Sikeen,’ she repeated, and gestured at my palm.

  I shook my head, making a writing motion with my other hand. What was the Arabic word for pen, and why was Mena making a fuss over something so insignificant when I felt so sick?

  ‘Qalam?’ she said quickly, and this time I nodded.

  ‘Yes. Qalam. Pen. She just poked me with a pen,’ I murmured, knowing she couldn’t understand my French. Again I tried to pull my hand away, but Mena held it firmly, calling out for Nawar and the servant. They both came from the kitchen, and Mena spoke rapidly, gesturing at my hand.

  The old servant let out a wail, throwing her apron over her face. Nawar’s eyes widened, and she let out a stream of Arabic, as if praying.

  Mena spoke to me again, saying a word over and over, then turned to Nawar, and I heard Aszulay’s name.

  The room was too hot, too bright. Mena’s voice and Nawar’s prayers mixed with the old woman’s wailing, and the sounds turned into gibberish, demonic shrieks. The room tilted, and the floor rose up to meet my cheek.

  THIRTY TWO

  The smell was strong, burning my nostrils, and I turned my head from it. But my forehead ached at the movement, and when I opened my eyes my sight was blurry. It took me a moment to understand I was lying on the daybed in the main room, and Mena was waving a small, smoking cloth bag in front of my face.

  ‘Besmellah rahman rahim,’ she kept repeating. She looked into my eyes and spoke again, and this time I understood the word djinn.

  I wanted to shake my head, to say no, it’s not a djinn, not an evil spirit. It must be something I had eaten earlier in the day, something that disagreed with me. I wanted her to stop waving the smoking bag over me, but couldn’t think of any Arabic words except la. No.

  And then I saw Aszulay. He came up behind Mena, and spoke to her. She kept her face turned away, pulling her headscarf down so that it completely covered her features, and answered in rapid, short sentences, again picking up my right wrist, her voice rising as she held it tightly.

  Aszulay said one sentence, and Mena left.

  He crouched beside me. ‘Mena says a bad woman performed witchcraft on you.’

  I tried to smile at the absurdity of it, but it was as though I was floating, as though I was in a painful dream. Was Aszulay really here, or was I just imagining him, as I had in the hammam earlier today? ‘No. I’m just … sick. Maybe food …’ My voice faded.

  He picked up my hand. His fingers felt so cool around mine. My face was burning, my cheek throbbing, and I pressed the back of his hand to it, closing my eyes at the coolness. Then I put my lips on his skin, breathing, trying to smell indigo.

  ‘What happened to your face, Sidonie?’ His voice was soft. He didn’t pull his hand away.

  I opened my eyes, and suddenly his features stood clearly, so close, and I realised what I was doing. It wasn’t a dream. I let go of his hand and ran my fingers over my scar, then saw that he was looking at my other cheek. I moved my fingers to touch it; it felt swollen. ‘I fainted. I must have hit my face,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry they brought you here.’ I struggled to sit up, but was too weak. ‘I’ll be all right tomorrow. After I sleep.’

  ‘Who is the woman you told Mena about?’ Aszulay said then, gently pressing on my shoulder, and I lay down again.

  ‘Manon. I went to see if Badou and Falida were all right, earlier today,’ I said. ‘They weren’t there. Manon was.’

  ‘And? What happened to your hand?’

  I made a small sound, as if attempting to laugh. ‘It’s nothing. She wanted to give me a gift. I don’t know why; s
he doesn’t like me, does she?’

  He sat perfecdy still.

  ‘It was an old pen and inkwell. She handed it to me, and the point of the pen stuck me. That’s all.’

  Something in his face changed. ‘Perhaps I should take you to the clinic in the French Quarter,’ he said.

  ‘What? No,’ I said. ‘I have some ointment in my room. Maybe that will help.’ My teeth were chattering; no longer did I feel feverish, but now shook with a chill.

  Aszulay turned his head and called something, then picked up my hand again, bringing it close to his face and studying it. Now I saw that my palm was even more swollen, the cut already festering. I tried to bend my fingers, but couldn’t.

  The old servant’s face appeared over Aszulay’s shoulder; he spoke to her and she left. ‘She’ll bring you a blanket. And I’ve told her to send one of the boys to fetch something from my house,’ he said. ‘You need more than blessings and burning herbs.’ His eyes left my face, moving lower, and then he reached out. ‘Or amulets.’

  I looked at what he held: a circle with an eye on a gold chain. It was Mena’s; I’d seen it when she undressed in the hammam. She must have put it on me tonight.

  Aszulay let go of the amulet and stood as the servant came near, muttering, holding a blanket out at arm’s length. Aszulay took it from her and tucked it over me.

  I dozed off and on for the next little while, aware of Aszulay sitting on a low stool beside me. Then I felt him pick my hand up again. It was hard to open my eyes, but I did, and saw his head bend over my hand as he held something between his thumb and index finger. There was a sudden deep sting, and I tried to pull away, but he held my hand firmly. I moaned as I felt him prodding and digging in my palm with something hot and sharp.

  He murmured something in Arabic, something with a soothing sound, as if telling me it would soon be over, or that he was sorry.

  I held my breath.

  Finally he lifted his head, and I let out a soft cry of relief as the pain stopped. ‘I have it,’ he said, but I didn’t understand what he meant, nor did I care.