The Saffron Gate

by Holeman, Linda

  ‘It’s the height,’ he said. ‘Drink water.’ I took the goatskin of water from behind the seat and drank, giving some to Badou and offering it to Aszulay, but he shook his head.

  The valley grew narrower but kept rising gently. And then the piste came to an end. As we stepped out of the truck, I heard violently rushing water. Aszulay took the sacks from the back of the truck and slung them over one shoulder, balancing the crate of scolding chickens on the other. He motioned for me to bring my bag. ‘You don’t need your haik or veil here,’ he said, and so I again left them in the truck, wearing only my kaftan, and followed him, holding Badou’s hand, towards the sound of the water. It was a convergence of seven narrow waterfalls flowing down a rocky scree to a village below. We started our way carefully down the path, worn by hoofs and feet.

  Within a moment I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my balance, and picked up a long, firm stick from beside the path. Badou’s smooth-soled little red babouches were slipping on the pebbly slope, and he stopped, clutching my kaftan for support. Aszulay looked back at us; he’d taken off his own babouches and thrown them down ahead of him, and was making the descent in bare feet.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, and, at a half-run reached the bottom of the slope. He set the sacks and crate on the ground. Then he stooped, taking a small pinch of the earth, and put it on his tongue. I watched, curious. I didn’t know why he tasted the dirt, and yet something moved in me; it signified his connection to this red earth. He came back for us, scooping Badou into the crook of one arm. Badou put his arm around Aszulay’s neck. Aszulay held out his hand to me, and I put mine into his, although I still used the stick with my other hand. We went slowly down the rough path. Aszulay’s hand was able to completely close around mine; it was warm and dry. I knew mine was damp with nervousness, not only about keeping my balance, but about what was to come when we entered the village.

  At the bottom of the slope he dropped my hand and set Badou down and again picked up the sacks and crate.

  The village, climbing haphazardly up the side of a sloping hill, was one of the terraced settlements of pise houses with flat roofs. Because the hill and the houses were the same reddish-brown earth, and the houses clung to it as if dug out of the very hill itself, there was a chameleon sense about it.

  At the foot of the hill was a circle of tents of woven animal hair. I hadn’t seen them as we approached; like the village, they were indistinguishable from the earth. Camels sat on their knees in the dust, gazing straight ahead with their usual aloofness. Donkeys brayed and roosters crowed.

  Footpaths wound up into the terraced village. A few children on their way down greeted Aszulay with shouts of recognition. I watched Badou as the children came towards us, and again, as at the stream, he held back, staying close at my side. We walked upwards, through the village, and people came from their doorways, calling to Aszulay. He continually set down his burdens, greeting the men by kissing three times on the cheeks as they hugged, chest to chest. They all stared at me, and I was uncomfortable. The women here wore long, modest dresses, but they resembled flocks of colourful birds; their dresses were embroidered around the hem and sleeves and neckline, sometimes flashing with small bits of silver jewellery. Some of the dresses were hooked on the shoulders with brass or silver clasps, which I knew, from discovering them in the souks, were called fibulae. The women, their faces uncovered, wore shawls draped over their heads, but these, while mostly black, were all embroidered with bright designs and flowers. Elaborate silver and amber jewellery was on their necks and wrists. They were all barefoot, and their feet and hands were decorated with henna.

  I tried not to stare at them, but they were wonderful to look at. Some had streaks of saffron painted on their faces, or blue patterns tattooed on their chins or in the middle of their foreheads. I thought of Mena’s tattoos, and knew she was from the mountains. Many of the forehead tattoos were two diagonal lines crossing each other at the top. Others had a line running straight from their lower lip to the bottom of their chin, with tree-like branches radiating from it. Most of the tattoos had a geometric design. I could only assume that as well as being a thing of beauty, they designated a tribal identity.

  We continued our gentle upward climb along the winding paths. Aszulay finally stopped in front of a house, setting down the crate and sacks and calling out, and an older woman and two younger ones came from inside. While the two younger women wore the same decorated dresses and headscarves and jewellery as the other village women, their faces were not tattooed, and the older woman wore a simple dark blue robe and headscarf. Aszulay put down the sacks and crate and embraced the older one.

  He looked at me and said something to her, but he wasn’t speaking Arabic; I recognised nothing he said. Then he looked at me and said, ‘Ma maman.’

  I nodded, anxious, unsure of whether to smile. His mother looked at me curiously, speaking in a questioning tone to Aszulay.

  He answered, briefly, gesturing at Badou, and whatever he said satisfied his mother, for she just murmured something over and over, something I took to mean yes, I see.

  I reached into my bag and pulled out a small bone teapot. I knew enough about Moroccan customs, by now, to bring a gift when visiting. I gave Aszulay’s mother the teapot. She took it, turning it over in her hands and nodding seriously.

  ‘And my sisters,’ he said, pointing to the two other women, who looked to be in their mid-to late twenties. ‘Rabia, and Zohra.’

  I had expected one of them to be his wife.

  As his sisters looked at me, I said, ‘Ismi Sidonie,’ telling them my name, and then added, respectfully, ‘Assalaam alykum, peace be upon you.’ I didn’t know whether they would understand the Arabic greeting, but they both replied, in hushed and rather shy tones, wa alykum assalaam, and peace be upon you.

  I gave each of them a small ceramic painted dish.

  Badou stood beside me; the women paid no attention to him.

  They all had a similar look: thin, sun-darkened faces with high cheekbones, dark flashing eyes touched with kohl, and strong white teeth. Zohra, the younger sister, had a dimple in her left cheek that gave a certain charm to her smile. In the folds of Rabia’s dress a baby with kohl-lined eyes wiggled, peeking its head out. It stared at Badou; its eyes were blue, like Aszulay’s.

  ‘A baby, Badou,’ I said, as if he didn’t recognise what it was. But I was tense, not sure how to behave, and this gave me something to focus on. ‘Is it a boy or a girl, do you think?’

  He shrugged. I sensed he was experiencing a similar feeling to mine, even though he’d been here before. Aszulay’s mother patted his shoulder, saying something to him, and he smiled, a small, tight smile.

  ‘My nephew is Izri,’ Aszulay said, answering my question. ‘Eight months. Rabia’s fourth child. Zohra has two daughters.’ He opened the neck of one sack and drew out lengths of cloth and two necklaces of silver and amber, which he handed to his sisters. From the other sack he pulled out a large brass cooking pot for his mother. They all nodded, murmuring and looking at each other’s gifts, smiling their thanks at Aszulay.

  Then they looked back at me. Aszulay’s mother spoke. ‘My mother welcomes you,’ Aszulay said. ‘The village is preparing a special meal in honour of the other guests, those in the tents below. They’re from a distant village, but have travelled to visit members of their families living here now. We came at a good time.’

  ‘Shukran,’ I said, looking at Aszulay’s mother. ‘Thank you.’ Again, I didn’t know if she could understand anything I said, but I couldn’t remain mute. I also wondered when I would meet Aszulay’s wife. These women — his mother and sisters — appeared curiously calm and accepting of my presence.

  ‘The language of the village — the people are Amazigh Berbers — is Tamazight. With my mother I speak our old language of the Sahara, Tamashek, the Tuareg language. The villagers understand only a little Arabic, basic phrases. They’re isolated here, not seeing many strangers.’

  Standing b
eside Aszulay, clutching my woven bag, I was very aware that I was not only a stranger, but a foreigner. I shook my head at all he’d just told me.

  ‘It’s complicated. But don’t worry. I’ve taught Zohra a small amount of French. She’s the scholar of the family.’ He smiled at the younger woman and spoke, obviously telling her what he’d said, for she put her hands on her cheeks as if blushing, and then swatted his arm playfully. It was clear that the village people were informal and comfortable with each other in a way I hadn’t seen among the people of the cities of Morocco.

  Aszulay’s mother patted my hand, in much the way she had patted Badou’s shoulder, and this time I smiled at her.

  A small crowd of children now joined Aszulay and Badou and me as we walked about the village. The houses were all the same, with small attached outbuildings: sheds for animals and storage, and latrines. While the boys ran along beside us, the girls were skittish, stealing glances at me but immediately turning away if I looked back. They eventually left us, scampering off to chase each other, shouting and laughing. Dogs jumped at their knees, barking. A herd of black goats behind a thorny enclosure bleated in a steady accompaniment. At the small river created by the waterfalls, some women washed clothes, pounding them against the rocks, and others filled goatskin water bags.

  ‘Is this where you grew up?’ I asked Aszulay, as we stopped to watch a group of playing children.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We didn’t live in a village. As Blue Men, we lived on the other side of the High Atlas, across the Tizi-n-Tichka pass, in the south-western Sahara that borders Mauritania. The women lived in tents while the men traded throughout the Sahara.’

  ‘But why is your family here now?’

  ‘When I was twelve, my father died,’ he said. ‘It’s almost impossible for a nomad woman to live without a husband. She’s forced to depend on the kindness of other nomads, and in hard times, it’s even more challenging. As it is all over Morocco, a woman alone is not looked at with respect.’

  I knew he wasn’t thinking of me, but still, it made me wonder again how I was viewed here.

  ‘So my mother and I and my sisters — they were very young then, babies, really, and have forgotten the Tuareg language — came here to live. But it was difficult; I was the man of my family, but still young.’ He stopped, as if remembering. ‘It took some time for us to be accepted.’

  He looked around. ‘In spite of that, it was a better place for us than the desert,’ he said. ‘And later, when I left, I always knew where they were, and could bring them what they needed when it was possible. Otherwise I would never know where they were; nomad families can go years without seeing each other, passing maybe a few miles apart, but not knowing. We might have lost each other.’

  Suddenly I tried to visualise him as a child. Had he been like the nomad children I saw today, with their matted hair and ragged clothes, their limbs sturdy, their knees and elbows scabby from playing on the rough gravel of the countryside, seeming happy-go-lucky as they chased each other and played with loud voices? How had he moved from living in a goat-hair tent, travelling in a camel caravan, with no schooling, to the man he was now, with his mastery of French and his European mannerisms?

  I looked down at Badou, always close at my side. Although in Marrakesh I had thought him to look much the same as the other city children, here he stood out because of his shining hair and his clean djellaba and cotton trousers and bright babouches.

  But his face did not reflect the light-hearted frolic of these Berber children. He stayed back, obviously wanting to join in, and yet somehow fearful.

  Aszulay called out, and one of the older girls — perhaps eight or nine — came to him. She kept her face turned from mine as Aszulay spoke to her. Then she took Badou by the hand and led him towards the other children. Badou walked stiffly at first, as though reluctant to go with the girl, but she chattered to him and he looked up at her, his eyes wide.

  ‘Is your language — Tam … I’m sorry, what is it?’

  ‘Tamashek.’

  ‘Yes. And the other one, the Berber language these people speak — are they taught in your schools?’

  Aszulay looked down at me, smiling slightly. ‘The Berbers have no schools,’ he said. ‘And the languages are only oral, nothing written.’

  ‘So … you had to learn Arabic when you went to Marrakesh?’

  ‘I already knew it, from the caravan routes. We had to be able to trade with many peoples.’

  ‘Can he understand what the other children are saying?’ I asked, watching Badou with the girl, and Aszulay shook his head.

  ‘Our visits are too infrequent. But children understand in ways other than language,’ he said. ‘Children everywhere are children.’

  The girl took Badou to the shade of a house where a dog lay on its side. The dog lifted its head as they approached, and as the girl leaned down, one corner of the animal’s lip lifted as if menacing. And yet the girl paid no attention, and I saw, as she straightened, that she cradled a tiny puppy. She carefully put it into Badou’s arms as the mother dog sat up and watched, alert.

  Badou looked down at the puppy, then lowered his face to rub it against the little dog’s tawny fur. He shifted so that he held the pup on its back in the crook of one arm, then stroked, it with his other hand, lifting its tiny paws and examining the minuscule flap of an ear. The girl, bossy now, her head waggling as she said something to Badou and pointed at the mother dog, took the pup out of Badou’s arms and returned it to the female, who sniffed at her puppy and then, obviously satisfied, lay down again, flopping her head against the soft earth as the puppy nuzzled back in amongst its siblings.

  The girl took Badou’s hand again, this time leading him to the other children, and, as I watched, Badou’s face relaxed and he smiled, a tentative smile, and then joined in the game of tossing pebbles into what looked like concentric circles drawn in the earth.

  ‘He is all right now,’ Aszulay said. ‘He forgets, between the months we come, how to play with other children.’

  I thought of Badou’s reticence in joining the nomad children at the stream, and remembered him watching the boys playing ball in the street, forbidden to play with them.

  Zohra approached us then, and spoke to Aszulay. He looked at me. ‘Zohra will decorate you with henna, if you wish,’ he said.

  I looked down at my own sun-darkened hands.

  ‘It is a gesture of friendliness. Of acceptance,’ Aszulay said, and I was ashamed for my hesitancy.

  ‘Na’am,’ I said, looking at Zohra. Yes.

  At the foot of the village, in the middle of the circle of tents was a fire. Over it hung a huge, bubbling black cauldron. A very short old woman, her face a myriad of lines and damp with sweat, stood with one hand on her hip, regularly stirring whatever was in the pot with a stick almost as tall as she.

  Other women gathered around us as we sat in the doorway of one of the tents; Aszulay had gone to drink tea with the men. The women all sat gracefully, cross-legged, with their skirts draped over their knees. I couldn’t do the same because of the inflexibility of my right leg, and had to sit with it straight out in front of me.

  ‘You take,’ Zohra said in French, and I frowned at her, not understanding. She touched the laces of my shoes. ‘Take,’ she said again, and I realised she meant I should take off my shoes. ‘I make feet henna.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t walk without my shoe,’ I said, and she looked puzzled at my words. I tapped the built-up sole of my right shoe, pulling up my kaftan to the knee and touching my leg, and finally she nodded. ‘You can do my hands,’ I said, putting them out in front of me.

  She smiled, unwrapping a little roll of cloth, and held up a slender pointed stick.

  Then she set the stick in her lap and picked up my hands, turning them over, studying them and murmuring to the other women. By the movements of their heads and the tone of their voices, I knew they were discussing what designs would be best. Two little girls watched, crowding aga
inst Zohra, and when one tried to climb on her back, another woman took her away. I assumed the little girls were Zohra’s daughters.

  Finally Zohra held the wooden stick in the air, and they all fell silent. Someone set down a small earthenware container of green paste, and Zohra dipped the end of the stick into it. Holding my right hand firmly in front of her chest, palm up, she bent over it, dipping and drawing, painstakingly but deftly covering my palm with an intricate pattern of geometric swirls. The tip of the wood touched my skin with the lightest sensation, almost like an insect making its way over my palm; the paste was cool. When she had covered the whole palm and fingers she turned my hand over and created a different pattern on the back. My hand grew tired, holding it so still with the fingers spread, and when it trembled, slightly, one of the other women gently held my wrist in support.

  Zohra finished the right hand and took up the left. She reversed the pattern, so that the palm of one hand and the back of the other were the same.

  When she had finished, she demonstrated that I was to keep my hands very still; another woman brought over a blackened chafing dish, its coals glowing. Zohra made it clear I was to hold my hands over the heat to help dry the paste.

  Then she took the hands of the two little girls and left me, still sitting on the ground with a few other women. They stayed there, talking and embroidering. My right leg ached from the unaccustomed position. More and more women came to the centre, taking turns stirring the big pot, and setting other pots on the edges of the fire. My hands were warm over the chafing dish. There was the comforting smell of cooking meat, and I realised I was very hungry. I hoped Badou was all right with the other children.