Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti)

by Mogford, Thomas

  The river broadened out and the gorge on either side of the road reduced to friable, horizontal shelves of rock. Spike saw a man in a turquoise turban leaning against a dead tree, smoking a roll-up as the bus sped by. The driver changed up a gear, heedless of potholes and boulders.

  Spike felt a tap on the shoulder. Zahra was mouthing at him; he plucked out his headphones.

  ‘What are you listening to?’ she said.

  He showed her the iPod screen with its image of an emaciated man in black, hair tied back in a ponytail, violin at his chin. ‘Niccolò Paganini,’ she read aloud, putting the stresses in the right places. He reached over to tuck a plug into her neat little ear. She screwed up her face at once. ‘Is a string broken?’ she shouted.

  He lowered the volume. ‘Paganini was the greatest violin virtuoso of his era.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ Zahra replied.

  He unlinked them, then plugged himself back in. Outside, the road emerged into a wasteland of stones and shrunken shrubs. The river was just a trickle now, a green ribbon vanishing into the hazy brown horizon. From the corner of his eye, he saw Zahra slip a mobile phone out of her bag. He turned down the music; she spoke in a strange kind of Arabic, quick and low. She flashed him a look, then put the phone away.

  A range of hills rose in the distance, the parched, cracked earth before them like a dried-out seabed. Shimmering at their base was a Legionnaire-type settlement: fortified terracotta walls, minarets poking above. ‘Is that your village?’ Spike asked, switching off his music altogether.

  ‘It’s where I went to school. Erg Makeem.’

  ‘Is it near your village?’

  ‘An hour’s walk. Then a bus.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘Twice.’

  Spike steered a finger along the soused sponge of an eyebrow. The sun seemed low in the sky.

  ‘My cousins are going to pick us up,’ Zahra said.

  ‘Is that who you were phoning?’

  ‘I was just updating them.’

  ‘So they do have signal.’

  ‘Landline.’

  ‘What did you tell them about me?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘They know I want to move to Europe. That’s why I learned English. When I said I was bringing you, they just . . . assumed.’

  ‘Assumed what?’

  ‘That you would be helping me.’

  Spike reached automatically for his pocket, checking for the sweaty rectangle of his passport against his thigh.

  ‘I had to tell them something,’ Zahra protested. ‘They’re very traditional.’

  A billboard flashed by the roadside. ‘DUNETECH,’ it read. ‘Powering a Greener Future.’

  Chapter 50

  The bus pulled over at a crossroads as Spike, Zahra and three men in turquoise turbans got out. The driver’s assistant clambered up a ladder to the roof and unfastened the guy ropes holding down their bags. Somehow carrying all of them at once, he bundled back down and dumped them on the stony ground.

  Spike’s leather bag felt hot to the touch. The sun was directly above yet still seemed low in the sky, as though it had decided to set where it was. A single-storey building with a reinforced door stood back from the road, a camel lying in its shade, chewing on a bridle of chains with long, hairy lips. A small man emerged, overwhelmed by his white robes; Spike caught a glimpse of shelves of canned food behind him. ‘Is that your cousin?’ he said.

  He had to squint to see that Zahra was smiling. ‘He’s here for the tourists.’

  ‘What tourists?’

  ‘Camel safaris into the desert.’

  Zahra spoke to the man in the same rapid language she’d used on the phone. He reached into his robes and took out a coiled black ammonite. When she added something else, he carried the fossil reluctantly back inside.

  The bus rumbled away, revealing a dusty lay-by where a white pickup was parked by a minivan. Zahra and the three other passengers set off towards it.

  Spike could feel the heat of the sun on his hair. ‘Have you got a spare headscarf?’ he called out to Zahra, but the wind gusted and she didn’t hear.

  The strap of Spike’s bag kept slipping on his collarbone. He raised his eyes to the sky: the sun seemed even lower, a huge orange saucer docking overhead, pushing downwards.

  As the minivan drove away, Spike saw a face pressed to the window. Black beard, shaven moustache . . . He seemed to be staring down at Spike with what looked like a patient smile.

  The pickup was still parked in the lay-by, white and new-looking. Its doors opened simultaneously and two men got out. Both wore turquoise turbans and button-down beige djellabas. The driver stuck out both arms, letting Zahra walk into the hug. Drawing back, he rubbed his nose three times against hers. His companion did the same, then all three turned to stare at Spike.

  The face of the driver was elongated, a thick black moustache curving above a deep, prominent jaw that seemed out of kilter, as though the top half had not been designed to go with the lower. Stopping a few metres shy of Spike, he gave a stage bow, one arm tucked into his stomach, the other sweeping the dusty earth below. Sweat dripped into Spike’s eyes as he nodded in response.

  The younger man stepped towards him, almost handsome but burdened with a similar jaw. Spike stuck out a hand, but he only wanted the bag.

  Zahra came over, touching the sodden back of Spike’s T-shirt. The driver glanced round as he walked towards the truck.

  ‘That’s Othman,’ Zahra said quietly. ‘Salem’s his kid brother. We’ll do the introductions later.’

  Both doors slammed as Zahra climbed up over the tailgate and sat down. Once Spike had joined her, they pulled out of the lay-by and onto the road in the direction of the hills they’d seen from the bus. Wedged in by Zahra, Spike stared out at the dust cloud burgeoning behind. The metal had started to burn through the material of his T-shirt; the breeze gave relief, but he knew he was still in full glare, so looked about for a cloth or oilskin. Nothing but a spare tyre with a petrol can inside. He drew his T-shirt over his forehead. The metal seared his back so he held himself away from it, stomach muscles straining.

  Zahra turned and smiled. ‘Now you are a Bedouin,’ she shouted above the engine.

  The dust cloud made it hard to see behind, but left and right there stretched nothing but a flat, shimmering void. Spike tucked his forearms beneath the tail of his flapping T-shirt. Zahra had an elbow on the side of the pickup, oblivious to the heat, staring out in silence.

  The bumps became less frequent as the dust cloud reduced. Spike peered over the edge: the road looked like a First World dual carriageway, four lanes of dark, puffy tarmac. No other vehicles passed. On the wayside, Spike saw a Dunetech billboard, this time in Arabic.

  Zahra moved to her hands and knees, edging around until she stood with her head up above the driver’s cabin. Spike did the same. ‘Estoy en babia,’ he exclaimed.

  Rearing above them was a vast, apricot-coloured cathedral, smooth-sided and with a peaked, snaking crest along the top. At least a hundred feet high – like the southern tip of the Rock. A similar-sized dune stood adjacent, with a rippled, broader base; smaller dunes continued either side, blending into one another, interlocking like giant orange knuckles.

  Zahra’s headscarf streamed behind her in the wind as she turned to check Spike’s reaction. ‘He smiles again,’ she shouted.

  The road continued on between the dunes. Walls of orange sand blotted out the sun, spatula-smooth. The wind fell and then there was no sound beyond the turning of the engine.

  ‘This is the holy place,’ Zahra said quietly. ‘The burial land my father would not sell.’

  The narrow, shady strip was half filled by road. Outcrops of rock rose on either side, holding in the sand dunes, presumably the reason for the formation of this passageway in the first place. Spike saw what looked like carvings on their flanks. ‘Was the road here before?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a track.’

  The sun came b
lazing back as they emerged on the other side. Spike had been expecting a vista of soft rippling sand but instead there stretched the same brown, pebble-strewn crust. As the road curved left, he saw that the rocky outcrop continued all around the base of the sand dune, a few mud huts huddled against it. Beyond, Spike made out the first row of heliopods, glinting in the sun like a silent, waiting army.

  Chapter 51

  Still on their feet in the back of the pickup, Spike and Zahra stared out at the village. The first buildings they saw were new-looking single-storey Portakabins. To the rear of each, an identical white picket fence delineated a patch of desert garden – had one picked up the Portakabin, the fence would have come with it. Most seemed unoccupied, the only signs of life stripy woven sheets hammered into the back walls to create makeshift tents.

  A pack of beautiful mongrel dogs chased the pickup as it passed a concrete warehouse. Tipper trucks and caterpillar diggers were parked outside. Some kind of open-plan marketplace lay beyond – food stalls, goats, queue of people waiting at a well.

  ‘It’s all so different,’ Zahra said.

  ‘When were you here last?’

  ‘Six years ago.’

  ‘Imagine how it’ll look in another six.’

  The plastic-looking minaret of a new-build mosque poked upwards as the track began to rise. Spike stared up the slope. The mud houses were embedded into the rock, their colour the same as the dunes behind. The pickup slowed to a woman in a blue headscarf standing cross-armed outside the entrance to a house. Smoke rose from a hole in the roof behind her. Hens pecked at her feet.

  ‘That’s Salwa,’ Zahra said as Othman and Salem got out, ‘Othman’s wife.’ Zahra moved her face towards Spike’s. ‘Don’t mention the Sundowner Club. They think I work shelling prawns in a factory in Tangiers.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘And don’t say you’re a lawyer either.’

  Spike jumped down. One of the dogs came over, tail rigid as it sniffed Spike’s trouser leg. When Salem made to kick it, it bolted off and stood at a distance.

  Salwa was joined at the doorway by a drowsy little boy with tangled hair. She stood on her tiptoes to perform the same nose-rubbing ritual with Zahra. Spike heard his name mentioned in a rush of low, coarse sounds. Salwa blinked over, eyes limpid and black, skin as wrinkled as a lost balloon. The child gazed up at him.

  Othman and Salem strode past through the open doorway. The entrance was just an antechamber to a deeper, shadier cavern, carved into the rock, its floor covered by a threadbare rug in the centre, various faded cushions around it. Dark, stripy drapes hung on the walls and passageways disappeared into the rock behind. One section was divided off by a curtain fixed to the roof, a waft of smoke and oily food issuing from behind.

  Salem barked something, and another woman appeared from behind the screen, brushing down her robes. She wore the same nun-blue headscarf as Salwa, but it framed a younger, sweeter face. When she lowered a hand from her mouth, she revealed a neat cleft palate, the upper lip arching into a pink marquee, tab of dry white tooth below.

  Zahra introduced her as Fatiya, wife of Salem. ‘Fatiya was at school with me,’ Zahra said, voice echoing off the walls. ‘She still speaks a bit of Spanish. Español?’

  Fatiya grinned, then covered her mouth. ‘Poquito.’

  The toddler made a dash for Spike, but Salwa stuck out an arm and caught him by the hair. He didn’t cry, just sat down on the dirt floor, rubbing his matted head.

  ‘And that’s little Rami.’

  Salem carried their bags into one of the tunnels. Spike had to hunch down as the temperature cooled. The tunnel curved right into a chamber lit by a brass oil lamp. Salem turned up the flame to reveal a cave of soft cushions and colourful kilim blankets. In one corner sat a broad ceramic bowl with a dented pewter jug of water. Salem said something to Zahra, then backed away like a courtier. She threw Spike an apologetic glance.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, unzipping his leather bag.

  Zahra began picking up cushions and dividing them into piles. There was a fetid chill to the air, tomb-like. She ran a finger down the rocky wall, testing for moisture. ‘This was where my father slept,’ she said.

  Spike found what he was looking for in the side pocket of his bag.

  Chapter 52

  They sat in a circle on the mud floor of the main chamber. Light shone in through the open doorway, motes of dust spinning like planets in its beam. Spike looked down at his earthenware pot and dipped in some flatbread. The goat stew was spicy but he still regretted adding so much yogurt: it fizzed with a sour, unpasteurised rawness. Due to Ramadan, he was the only one eating – he’d tried to refuse but Zahra had insisted. Bedouin hospitality. The others watched him as he chewed, analysing the size and constitution of each mouthful.

  Conversation comprised Othman talking to Zahra, who would then translate to Spike. A tune played over in Spike’s head as he sipped his sage tea. ‘Tea in the Sahara . . .’

  ‘Othman wants to know what you do.’

  ‘Tell him I’m a teacher. Profesor. I teach history and English in Gibraltar.’

  Fatiya peered from behind the curtain to check Spike’s bowl. As she seemed to be head chef, Spike had made the gift of the bag of saffron to her. Since then, she hadn’t stopped staring. Salwa hissed at her unseen, and she retreated back behind the curtain.

  ‘They want to know if you earn well as a teacher.’

  ‘Fabulously well. Can you ask them if they both work for Dunetech?’

  At the sound of the name, Othman and Salem swivelled their heads like owls.

  ‘Dunetech?’ Spike repeated, looking at each in turn.

  Othman shielded his mouth and whispered something to his younger brother. They’d both removed their turbans, their cropped black hair displaying the same dainty ears as Zahra.

  ‘They want to know where you heard about Dunetech,’ she said.

  ‘Tell them I saw it on the billboard. Is it possible to visit the site?’ Spike focused on Othman as he spoke.

  Zahra translated again; Spike thought he caught the word ‘al-Manajah’ in the reply.

  ‘Othman says we can drive down there this afternoon.’

  Spike nodded his thanks, and Othman and Salem rose to their feet, the sound immediately drawing Salwa from behind the curtain. Fatiya followed with another earthenware pot; Spike shook his head regretfully. ‘No más, gracias.’

  Fatiya moved behind him, hitching up her robes as she sat. Spike glanced over at Zahra, who smiled.

  ‘Muy calor-o,’ Fatiya said in her faltering Spanish.

  He heard a cork stopper removed, then felt a cool sensation on his forehead as Fatiya leaned forward to rub in some unguent. Despite himself, he shut his eyes in relief. When she reached the back of his neck, her fingertips began describing circles, working the fatty paste into his tanned skin as she murmured, ‘Duna, duna . . .’

  In the corner of the room, Spike made out a small dark shape. The little boy, Rami, watching on in silence.

  Chapter 53

  Salem had stayed at home so Spike and Zahra were sitting up front with Othman. As they raced along the tarmac road, Spike made out the first line of heliopods glinting in the distance, a tall white tower looming over them like a sentinel.

  To the left of the road, a patch of green stood out from the hazy emptiness. Spike thought he saw tents erected amid the palm and acacia trees. Zahra was jammed against him, right thigh pressed forcibly to his; she pointed through the open passenger window and said something to which Othman grunted a reply.

  ‘What was that?’ Spike said.

  ‘Othman says the older generation doesn’t want to settle in the village. They’re still camping at the oasis.’

  ‘Does the river resurface there?’ Spike said.

  ‘Yes, but it’s salty.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘This part of the Sahara used to be an inland sea. There’s still salt in the sand and rocks. It seeps into wat
erholes.’

  ‘How do you get drinking water?’

  ‘You have to dig down deep.’

  Spike saw a plume of smoke rising from the oasis. ‘Did you say “al-Manajah” just then?’ he asked.

  Othman peered round and grinned, eyes away from the road. ‘Al-Manajah,’ he repeated.

  ‘The al-Manajah are the main tribe,’ Zahra said. ‘In winter they roam with their livestock, then come back here in summer.’

  Othman was still grinning across at Spike; fortunately the road was straight.

  ‘Just thirty thousand Bedouin left in this part of Morocco,’ Zahra said. ‘Tuareg in the desert, Berbers in the mountains. We’re a bit like you, clinging to your piece of rock.’

  ‘Clinging to your sand dune.’

  Another off-road vehicle was coming the other way. Spike caught a glimpse of a bearded driver with something red beside him on the passenger seat. ‘Did you see that?’ he said as he clambered back round.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That was the man from the train. And the bus.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You were with him in the Café des Étoiles.’

  Zahra gave Spike a concerned look, as though the heat were getting to him. He shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead, still sticky with Fatiya’s unguent.

  Othman slowed the pickup. The lines of heliopods extended on either side of the road, twenty or so in a row, each unit five metres apart. The concrete tower above them was fifteen metres high, black cables snaking up its edges, a hollow diamond shape at the base and an upper ledge lined with similar small black cameras to those in Nadeer Ziyad’s garage. In front of the tower spread an open-ended hangar. Othman parked beside it. The bonnet ticked. Othman got out and Spike followed.

  As soon as Othman reached the nearest heliopod, he stuck out a sandal and slapped it down on the circular concrete base. ‘Sssswww,’ he said, waving a hand. He picked up a handful of dust, which scattered at once in the breeze.

  Zahra followed Spike and Othman into the hangar. A heap of orange sand was piled at one end beside an industrial cement mixer and a fleet of wheelbarrows.