There were many small Kasbahs which she recognised by their crenellated towers and, as they drew nearer still, Nevada discovered that Tafraout lay at the top of a valley which was surprisingly fertile and also exceedingly beautiful.
Right in the heart of a gigantic mountain range, isolated from the rest of Morocco, Tafraout was a tiny Shangri La hidden from a hostile world.
Its high granite cliffs enclosed it like protective arms, in places their sheer walls rising hundreds of feet and making the whole place a natural fortress.
It had an enchantment that made Nevada wonder as they reached the valley if perhaps she was dreaming.
As if he knew what she was thinking, Tyrone Strome said,
“The Ammeln valley is the equivalent of some of the strange fantastically fertile valleys I have seen amongst the mountains of the Himalayas. Here you will find a secret age-old civilisation which is different from anything elsewhere in Morocco.”
“Tell me about it,” Nevada asked eagerly.
“Later,” he answered. “I think we should first reach my house.”
“Your – house?”
He nodded and now the horse was moving slowly through narrow streets until they came to a pink Kasbah surrounded by almond trees which gave it the ethereal beauty of a Fairy tale Palace.
The heavy doors were opened and, when they appeared, servants came hurrying out to welcome Tyrone Strome with smiling faces and endless salaams.
He spoke to them in their own language and led the way inside.
It was in fact more a house than a Kasbah and, when they dismounted at yet another door, Tyrone Strome lifted Nevada to the ground.
She entered the house to find one of the most exquisite Moorish rooms she had ever seen.
The tiles, the hangings, the latticework were all far more beautiful than she had ever imagined and there seemed to be exceptional comfort in Western style in the large couches covered with silk cushions and the cool fans working in the ceiling above them.
Tyrone Strome invited Nevada with a gesture to sit down on one of the couches and immediately she did so a cup of mint tea was set before her.
She looked up at him questioningly and he said with a smile,
“You may take off your haik and your litham here and be comfortable.”
Eagerly Nevada threw back her white covering and pulled the litham from her nose.
Her hair was unbound and it fell over her shoulders, vividly red in the soft light which came from hidden windows.
She thought she must look shockingly untidy after all she had been through, but for the moment she did not care.
She picked up the cup of mint tea and drank it thankfully, realising as she did so that she was desperately thirsty, not only from the long ride but also from the fear she had endured.
Tyrone Strome went from the room and she looked about her.
It seemed extraordinary that this should be his house and yet from the quick glance she had had at the valley she could understand anyone who liked solitude and strange places wishing to come to Tafraout.
‘He is able to work here,’ she thought. She knew he must be anxious about the caravan and, when he came back, she asked,
“Is there any sign of it?”
“I have sent several of my men out to escort it in,” he answered.
“You are worried about the manuscript of your book.”
“How did you know?” he enquired.
“How much have you done already?”
“Nearly half. I should find it extremely boring to have to begin again from the beginning.”
“Then we can only pray that it arrives safely.”
He raised his eyebrows before he said,
“That is hardly the sentiment of an enemy. You should be hoping that I would be distraught by the loss of such a valuable piece of property.”
“I am not quite as petty as that,” Nevada replied quickly, then realised that he was teasing her.
“Where do you work?” she asked.
He indicated a table she had not noticed before at the far end of the room.
He went towards it and pulled back some exquisitely embroidered hangings to reveal a large glassless window which overlooked the whole valley.
Nevada rose to her feet to join him and stand staring at the cultivation, the blossom on the trees, the flowers, the pink buildings and the huge rose-tinted cliffs glinting with a strange reflected light.
Between boulders like giant rocks there snuggled little villages, the colours of their houses so like the landscape that they were almost invisible.
“The Ammeln Valley!” Tyrone Strome announced.
“It is very beautiful.”
“That is what I felt when I first came here and found it surprising and mysterious.”
“Almost as if you dreamt it,” she added.
He did not answer and after a moment she asked,
“You are writing about it in your book?”
“Yes.”
“Could I help you?”
“To write my book?” he questioned.
“No, of course not,” she replied, “but perhaps I could copy out what you are writing. I have always heard that authors make different copies before their manuscript is finally published.”
“It is certainly an idea,” he answered, “but I suspect you would find it boring.”
“I would be far more bored if I had nothing to do, although at the moment I feel I could sit for twenty-four hours a day just looking out of this window at the valley.”
“Even though the view may feed the spirit,” Tyrone Strome smiled, “I suspect that you are feeling hungry, as I am. Let me show you to your room and I have told my servants to leave you a change of clothing. I only hope one of the caftans they bring you will fit, but tomorrow you will be able to purchase more to your own taste.”
Nevada was surprised, but she said nothing. She merely followed him to where on the same floor there was a luxurious bedroom also with a window that looked out over the valley.
Again, as was usual in Morocco, there was no glass in it, but there were huge wooden shutters which could be closed when it was cold.
It was such a large and comfortable room that Nevada said,
“I am sure this is really your room. I would not wish as an unwanted guest to deprive you of it.”
Tyrone Strome smiled again and at the same time she had a feeling that her considerateness surprised him.
“I assure you,” he replied, “that this is where I entertain my visitors. My own room is next door and, while you are in here in the safety of my Kasbah, I promise you will not be kidnapped or robbed. You will not be aware of it, but you will in fact be very effectively guarded.”
Nevada looked at him nervously.
“You think the Sheik’s men might still come in search of me?”
“There is always a possibility that the Sheik himself will not give up the chase, but the citizens of Tafraout are a law unto themselves – they do not form a tribe, but are a distinct people and their country’s borders are marked by the mountains.”
“You say the Tafraoutis are not a tribe,” Nevada said. “Then what are they?”
Tyrone Strome laughed.
“That is a question that has been asked for centuries by the Moroccans themselves. The Tafraoutis are in fact the oldest, truest and most untouched people in the nation.”
He saw the interest in Nevada’s eyes and went on,
“They are Berbers of the Chileun group who fled to these mountains twelve hundred years ago to escape the encroachment of the Arab conquerors. They can be very aggressive to the outside world and they are possessive about their own valley. They work hard and ‘keep themselves very much to themselves’, as the English say.”
Tyrone Strome walked to the window and looked at the valley as he went on,
“If a Tafraouti man leaves here to make his fortune in some other part of Morocco, he invariably comes home to marry. He builds one of those flat-roof
ed fortress-like houses in rose colour and when he retires he will sire a family and live, happy every after, in this little Eden.”
His voice sounded almost envious, Nevada thought, and after a moment she asked,
“Is that what you want to do?”
“Perhaps, one day when I am too old to go adventuring,” he answered lightly.
He walked towards the door.
“I have arranged for a maid to look after you, but I am afraid you will have to communicate with her in sign language.”
The maid proved to be an attractive young girl. She was shy but anxious to please and she carried in warm water and produced, as Tyrone Strome had promised, several caftans that Nevada could change into.
Most of them were too small, but there was one of a lovely shade of pale green embroidered in gold that fitted her.
There were new slippers for her feet and, because she felt it was silly not to wear it, she put on the gold jewellery that Tyrone Strome had given her for the journey.
There was a mirror in her room in which she could see herself reflected and she thought as she looked at her long red hair hanging over her shoulders that it would be hard to find even in the most expensive Paris shops anything that became her better.
The long straight caftan was made of soft silk and it clung to the outlines of her body and revealed rather than concealed her slim shape.
Nevada could not help realising what a tremendous impression her present appearance would make on any of the men in New York, Paris and London who had paid her such extravagant compliments and laid their hearts at her feet.
‘What a pity there is no one here to admire me,’ she thought.
She was well aware of Tyrone Strome’s feelings where she was concerned.
He made it very clear how much he despised her and called her a vixen. Angry though it made her, she now realised that there was in fact some justification for his insult.
Once again she could see the skull of the dead man lying in the bright sunshine and hear her own voice telling David mockingly that it would be interesting to see a dead man.
And if Tyrone Strome had not acted so quickly, if he had not seen the Sheik’s men before they reached the caravan, there might have been a dozen men dead or dying lying amongst the rocks and she herself dead from the last bullet in his revolver.
Nevada turned away from the mirror as if she could not bear to look at her own reflection.
‘How could I have known,’ she asked, ‘that in other parts of the world men live by the gun and what is important is to stay alive?’
She had never realised before, she thought, how precious life was or how difficult it could be to preserve it.
Now it seemed to her she had cheapened something that was beyond price, beyond value – life itself – the mere act of breathing and of being.
She knew very little about Tyrone Strome, but she had heard David talk about him with the reverence that a young man gives to someone who is a hero in his own field.
Vaguely she knew that he had done many dangerous and gallant things in his life, which nevertheless were so secret that he would not talk about them.
No wonder, she thought, if he had been in many situations such as they had experienced today that he should think it sordid and revolting that a woman should laugh at death or think it amusing to see a dead body.
‘I am not really like that,’ Nevada whispered to herself. ‘Or – am I?’
As she went back to the sitting room to find Tyrone Strome, she somehow felt shy.
It had been one thing to sit with him wearing native dress in an oasis, but to eat alone in his house with her hair falling loose over her shoulders and wearing nothing beneath a silk caftan made her unaccountably self-conscious.
There was a meal waiting for them, which was to be served at a low table, Eastern fashion, in front of the comfortable couch piled with silk cushions.
But if Nevada was shy, Tyrone Strome was very much at his ease.
“I feel you are in need of a glass of wine,” he said, “which is something that will never be offered you in a Moslem house. However, here we are beyond any religious restrictions, so I hope you will enjoy it.”
The wine was delicious and made Nevada think of the sunshine outside.
Because it was after midday and the heat was intense, Tyrone Strome had drawn the curtains again over the window and the room was dim and cool.
The food, which was Moorish, was delicious and because Nevada was hungry she ate without speaking until, as the sweetmeats were put on the table, she leaned back with a sigh to say,
“If I have seemed greedy, you must forgive me.”
“I was hungry too,” he said. “I think relief from fear is always a good appetiser.”
“I was – very frightened.”
“I realised that.”
She felt he was remembering how she had trembled when the horsemen had entered the valley and felt ashamed that she had not been braver.
“I think perhaps you now realise that in situations such as we have encountered today,” Tyrone Strome said, “a woman, however independent she may feel herself, needs the protection of a man.”
“You know I know that now. There is no need to make me feel more humble than I am already.”
“Humble? Are you really humble, Nevada?” he asked. “It’s the last thing I would have expected you to be.”
“I know only too well what you think of me,” Nevada answered, “and I suppose my only excuse can be that I was completely ignorant. It is very easy to be brave when you don’t know what you are talking about – and perhaps it’s easy too not to understand people’s feelings if you have never felt them yourself.”
“That is a generous admission,” Tyrone Strome said quietly.
Nevada rose from the couch to walk towards the window. She pulled back one of the curtains to look out. The sunshine on the valley was almost blinding.
The colours of the pink cliffs dazzled her eyes.
“How long are we going to stay here?” she asked.
“That rather depends,” Tyrone Strome replied. “Are you in such a hurry to leave?”
“Not now,” she answered.
“Why not?”
“Because I am curious – curious about the people, about this place, and – ”
She did not finish the sentence and after a moment Tyrone Strome asked,
“What else?”
“If you want the truth – about you.”
“In what way?”
“I would like to know why you took it upon yourself so far as I was concerned, to play God. Oh, I know it was to save David. But you could have disposed of me quite effectively without bringing me here to a secret place, which I feel is very important to you.”
She spoke quietly and, when she ceased speaking, it seemed as if the silence between them had something unusual about it.
As he did not answer, Nevada drew the curtains closed again and turned back into the room.
For a moment, because her eyes were blinded by the sun, she could not see anything, then gradually she realised he was still lying back on the couch and his eyes, as she moved towards him, were on her face.
She walked slowly until she stood in front of him, her eyes very green in her pale face and there was a question in them as if the answer she waited for was of significance.
Tyrone Strome did not speak for some seconds.
His eyes held Nevada’s and she felt as if he looked deep into her, searchingly, seekingly. Then, very quietly but with a twist to his lips that somehow robbed the words of any pomposity, he said,
“I think, Nevada, you have begun to learn a little about yourself.”
CHAPTER SIX
Looking out of the window of her bedroom, Nevada was once again lost in the beauty of the scene outside.
Directly below her there was a sharp drop to the wall surrounding the Kasbah, which was brilliant with flowering trees.
Beyond, further down the hill, was
the winding path that led to the small town of Tafraout and her eyes looked beyond again to where the valley lay brilliant in the sunshine with the mountains on each side of it reflecting every shade of pink.
Whenever she looked at the Ammeln Valley, it seemed to be more lovely than it had been before.
It was hard to remember that only a short distance away there were the bare infertile valleys, granite cliffs and stony ground through which they had travelled to reach here.
It was now a week since she had come to Tyrone Strome’s Kasbah and yet the time had passed very quickly.
Sometimes she felt that she had known no other type of existence, but had always lived in this peace and quiet, surrounded by a beauty that spoke not only to the mind but also to the soul.
In front of her on an improvised desk there was Tyrone Strome’s manuscript, which she was copying neatly onto a stack of plain paper.
She had expected, because he had said he was writing a history, that it would be rather heavy and perhaps as hard to read as some of the books he had lent her while she was in the yacht.
But she thought now that she might have expected anything he wrote to be as individualistic and original as he was himself.
He made the tribes of whom he wrote come to life, he made them human beings with problems and difficulties, who laughed and cried, strove to better themselves and faced defeat with courage.
Every page she copied from his original manuscript made Nevada not only more interested in the Berbers, but also more intrigued and insatiably curious about the writer.
To her Tyrone Strome had always been stern and contemptuous, but she found he had a great sense of the ridiculous, besides a compassion and understanding that made some things he wrote bring her near to tears.
She realised both in reading what he had written and in her conversations with him that he was not only a very talented man but also in some ways a very enigmatic one.
Every hour, she thought, she learnt new things about him and discovered different facets of his character that she had not known before.
“I am sure there is no one in the world like him,” she murmured now looking out onto the valley.
Then, almost as if her thoughts conjured him up, she saw him coming up the path from the village.
The Punishment of a Vixen Page 10