by Jane Johnson
I may have reckoned without the slow rituals of the English court. First, we are kept waiting for the best part of an hour, while the duchess rises, despite the fact that it is well past eleven; then, when we are shown in, we find her still en déshabillé, with three ladies curling her long light brown hair and applying Venetian ceruse, not only to whiten her face, but also her neck, arms and very considerable décolletage. I see such sights in the harem all the time; but ben Hadou becomes very still in that manner he has when concentrating very hard on not giving himself away and is clearly finding it difficult not to stare at her bosom. He gathers himself and bows very properly to the duchess, who seems unfazed to have two foreign men intrude upon her intimate toilette, and introduces me as his deputy ambassador. She smiles graciously and extends her hand. ‘So delightful to meet you, Mr Nus-Nus: do call me Louise. I am sorry Eleanor monopolized you for the entirety of the dinner last night but I hope you will accept an apology on her behalf: she has not, I fear, le bon ton. Not her fault, of course: she was not bred to the court.’
Mr Nus-Nus. Given the English honorific, the name sounds more ridiculous than ever before, especially in such a pretty French accent. I bend over her hand, as I have seen others do, and brush one of the many rings with my lips.
‘I know I invited you for tea,’ she smiles, ‘but I have taken the liberty of ordering coffee: I know you Moors love your coffee. It may not be as strong as you like it – I must plead my delicate constitution – but I fear otherwise my soul will be tainted by it.’
Her ladies shriek with laughter. Ben Hadou and I exchange a mystified glance, then settle in the chairs brought for us as the screen is brought around in front of our hostess, and, as we discuss the weather, how we find London, comparisons with the Meknes and Versailles courts, the styles of Moroccan ladies’ dress and the like, we try not to be distracted by the unmistakable rustling of silks and the drawing of corset-strings. The coffee is weak and tasteless compared to what we drink at home: unlikely to taint anyone’s soul. I can see from the way the Tinker’s feet keep tapping that he is keen to be gone from this place of women. His answers become shorter as time wears on: the time for lunch will soon have come and gone.
At long last, she reappears, laced into a dress of figured yellow silk with billowing blue sleeves slashed to show the fine cambric beneath, against which the unnatural whiteness of her skin almost merges. Ben Hadou leaps to his feet and abruptly announces he must be away: an appointment with the king. As I make to leave as well, she cries, ‘Ah, to deprive me so utterly of such charming company would be most cruel!’ I notice that the white ceruse has cracked where the corners of her mouth turn down. Ceruse is made from white lead, designated a poison even in Galen’s time: why would any woman imperil her health in the quest for the arbitrary goal of beauty?
Louise’s exclamation is probably little more than court politeness, but the ambassador says at once, ‘Nus-Nus, you shall stay with the lady – we shall do very well without you,’ and off he goes.
The duchess sniffs. ‘Well, I suppose I shall have to be content with the deputy ambassador, and not take the slight to heart.’ Before I can muster a suitable response, she turns and calls out, ‘Jacob, viens!’ and a boy emerges from behind a fretted oriental screen, white teeth flashing in his dark face. Black curls have been cropped back hard against the unmistakable roundness of an African skull. He pulls a velvet doublet down over the white ruffles of his shirt and parades in front of her. ‘Ça va, madame?’ He twirls around, sees me and almost falls over.
‘Ici petit, laisses-moi voir.’ His mistress beckons him and he goes to her, though he keeps his gaze trained on me all the way as if I might beat him, or eat him, or worse. The duchess tugs the little doublet straight, pats it down, arranges the ruffles, lays an affectionate hand on his head. ‘Très joli. This is my boy, Jacob: Jacob, ici Monsieur Nus-Nus, de la court du Maroc.’
Big eyes fix upon me. Then he says, in clear Senufo, ‘You look a lot like my uncle Ayew.’
While I am wondering at this, Louise snaps her fingers. ‘Les bijoux, Marie.’
One of her attendants fetches an elaborate jewel-box and the duchess upturns it in her lap, discarding diamonds and rubies the size of sparrow’s eggs, gold chains and brooches, diadems and bracelets. She sorts through string after string of pearls, till she finds the precise necklace she seeks and fastens it around the boy’s neck, then shows him his image in a tortoiseshell hand-mirror. Suddenly I find myself thinking of Momo, how he would relish the sight of all these bright baubles …
‘Do you have children of your own, sir?’
‘I have never married.’
‘That is not quite what I asked. Mais quel dommage. You would make handsome sons, I think. Like Jacob here.’
One of the women brings a yellow sash and there is much fuss over placing it correctly. They lead her away to a chair beside a window that overlooks the courtyard garden outside and arrange the folds of her dress. Keeping my eyes trained on the duchess, I ask Jacob where he is from. He names the neighbouring village to my own, which is less of a surprise than it might be. ‘Your uncle was Ayew Diara?’
His nod stirs the air between us.
‘He was my good friend.’ When we stood shoulder to shoulder we were the same height, the same build. People often mistook us for one another, from a distance at least: he liked to say he was better looking than me; certainly he was more sure of himself, especially with the girls. We went hunting together, shared our manhood ceremony; but he laughed at me for my love of music, and we grew apart.
‘He is a great warrior!’ Jacob cries. ‘But he left the village and never returned.’
The lad must have been no more than Momo’s age when Ayew and I were taken. He has a good memory. So do I, unfortunately: I remember how the enemy tribe who took us staked Ayew out in the full sun, having cut off his eyelids, his lips, nose, ears and penis. They left him his tongue, more’s the pity. His cries followed us for a day.
‘A great warrior, yes. And how came you here?’
‘The tribe to the south wanted our land, so we fought them. They won. I survived in the ship of those they sold us to; my mother and brother did not.’ His expression becomes closed.
Beaten and bought and sold, and by our own people too: the old, old story.
I watch as a painter comes marching in, followed by two assistants carrying easel and paints and canvas. He kisses Louise’s hand, compliments her matchless beauty, walks back and forth between subject and half-finished painting, adjusting this and that, chattering in French. From a distance he sounds much like Amadou.
Suddenly he turns towards us. ‘Where is the blackamoor?’
Jacob slouches over to take his place at the lady’s side. The artist complains: too much sleeve showing, the pearls all wrong. He takes the boy’s head and roughly moves it into position as if Jacob is inanimate. ‘Prends ça et ne bouges pas!’ A great shell is placed in his hands, overflowing with loose pearls.
Jacob rolls his eyes. ‘I am a symbol of the bounty of the colonies.’
‘No more talking!’
I take this as my cue to depart, sweep a bow to the duchess, grin at Jacob and move towards the door. As I leave I snatch a look at the half-finished portrait. The artist has captured Jacob well enough, though for some reason he has omitted the boy’s slave-brand; but the woman in the picture looks nothing like the duchess, being slimmer and blander of face. Thin and expressionless, is that what is regarded as desirable here? I shake my head, recalling Zidana’s irrational terror at her diminishing shadow. Women are never content with their lot: if they are fat, they want to be thin, if thin, fat. I will never understand them.
Back in the embassy’s quarters, I find my fellows long gone with ben Hadou to show off their horsemanship. Since those who were not riding must have gone as spectators, even the garret is empty. I take the opportunity to search it thoroughly, but an hour later come away empty-handed. They will have hidden the money somewhere el
se; the jewels too. The satchel is no doubt long gone, burned or otherwise disposed of, Alys’s embroidered scroll along with it. Mastering my despair, I make an effort to concentrate on the practicalities of the present. In the kitchens I charm a maid into giving me bread and cooked meat, and repair to my room. ‘Amadou, it is only me!’ I call out, in case anyone is spying, and a moment later I hear the sound of the chair being dragged away from the door. Inside, Momo and the monkey fall upon the victuals with the appetite of those oblivious to fear, while I turn over and over in my mind what to do.
When the knock comes I leap up in surprise. I put a finger to my lips, then lift Momo up on to the bed’s canopy. Flinging the door open, I find Jacob outside, his arms full of fruit and cakes, no doubt looted from the duchess’s apartments. Amadou at once elbows past me, more interested in the food than the visitor. He pulls himself up on to my shoulder, the better to peruse the treasures, then quick as a blink snatches an apple and an iced cake and makes a vast leap up on to the canopy, to consume them before I can snatch them back, chattering in self-congratulation. With a great ripping sound, the canopy tears clear across at the force of his landing and down plunge monkey, boy, treasures and all. Gold spills across the floor: Momo looks guilty, for a short moment, then begins to giggle at the expression on my face. It must be the gold Zidana gave me to effect her purchases: Rafik and Hamza will surely be disappointed in their theft of the bag.
‘Oh, Maleeo!’ I pull Jacob inside and slam the door before any curious passer-by can see in. Then I take the tray from him, set it on the table and, going down on a knee, look the lad in the eye. ‘Jacob, did you love your uncle Ayew?’
He drags his gaze from the sight of Momo and Amadou sprawled in the wreckage, and nods.
‘Then you must not breathe a word of what you have seen here. Swear by Maleeo and Kolotyolo and the spirits of your ancestors.’
His eyes grow wide. ‘I swear.’ He touches his forehead, then his breast.
‘Good. Come here, Momo, meet my cousin Jacob.’
Momo solemnly wipes cake icing off his shirt and extends his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ They regard each other in delight, forming an immediate bond as children often will, while I collect up the gold with some relief. It is not all here, but maybe that is to the good, or Rafik will be wondering why I should be making such a fuss about an old leather bag. ‘Is there any more, Momo?’
He shakes his head emphatically. ‘I was just playing with it. I was a king and Amadou was my slave.’
We clean the room and reattach the canopy as best we can, and I explain some of our situation to Jacob, whose eyes shine to be a party to our conspiracy. He proves to be a resourceful lad.
An hour later, we admire our handiwork.
‘We can’t do anything about your eyes,’ Jacob says critically, ‘and your hair is very fine despite its new colour.’
I find a spare headcloth and show Momo how to wind a turban from it. After the third attempt he has the knack perfectly. Not yet four, I think wonderingly: it took me months, and I was nineteen …
Momo is thrilled by the game. He admires his reflection in the mirror, posing this way and that, compares the new darkness of his skin first with mine, then with Jacob’s, and proclaims himself well satisfied. ‘No bathing, though!’ I say fiercely. ‘Or the walnut stain will come off.’
He laughs happily. ‘I hate bathing!’
‘Look at the floor rather than at people: a black page with blue eyes stands out.’
‘It would be better not to speak,’ Jacob adds. ‘Your English is too good.’
Momo casts longing eyes upon Amadou, eating the last of the scraps from the corner I have swept them into. ‘Can I take him with me?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry: he’s too well known and we can’t risk your being connected with me. It’s not for long, I hope, this disguise.’
For a moment his lip trembles, then he squares his shoulders. ‘It is a good game,’ he declares, as if trying to persuade himself of the fact. ‘I shall pretend I am mute. Like Old Ibrahim.’
‘Perhaps you would like me to cut out your tongue for best effect?’ I say gravely, and make to snatch it as it protrudes from his mouth.
He shrieks in mock-terror, and after some rough and tumble is in better spirits.
Jacob has his own cabinet in the Duchess of Portsmouth’s apartments, which extend to over twenty rooms. ‘Momo will be safe here. I will tell madame he is my cousin, sent to work in the palace. I doubt she will ask too many questions: to have a black boy on either side of her will set off the whiteness of her skin; she is always looking for advantage against her rivals for the king’s affections.’
It is not a perfect solution, but it will have to do for now. Momo takes his leave of me manfully enough: I hug him fiercely, tell him to behave himself, and have to walk quickly away before he sees the water welling in my eyes.
Amadou scolds me furiously when I return alone, mightily annoyed to have his playmate taken away.
Ben Hadou and the rest of the embassy staff return in late afternoon in high spirits. The fantasia has been a great success, the king most admiring of their feats. ‘He asked after you – “the fellow with the split breeches” – and I told him you were unwell,’ the Tinker says breezily. ‘So I’m afraid you can’t attend the dinner tonight.’
I cannot say I am greatly disappointed: the artifices of the day have proved wearing and I had little sleep last night. I find a manservant in the corridor and ask whether food might be sent to my room. He looks me up and down and tells me, ‘In this country slaves are not waited on by honest men’, and stalks off, muttering, ‘Fucking negard.’ A maid is passing, a homely-looking girl with a mass of honey curls escaping her cap. ‘He’s like that with everyone, Thomas,’ she says. ‘Pay no heed to his rudeness, I beg you. I’ll fetch you something myself, if you like.’ She turns to leave, then turns back. ‘You’d better say what you eat – I’m not sure what your people like.’
‘What, black people?’
She colours. ‘No, sir, Mahometans.’
It is my turn to be ashamed.
‘It’s just that there’s a pig roasting downstairs, and I wasn’t sure you’d want that.’
I find out her name is Kate, apologize for my rudeness, and gratefully accept an offer of roasted chicken, bread and strong cheese.
‘But no ale?’
I grin. ‘I’d love some ale, Kate.’
She is as good as her word: shortly after, there is a knock at the door and she is there with a japanned tray laden with food and a large earthenware jug. When I thank her for her generosity, she blushes prettily. ‘Big man like you, I’m sure you have quite an appetite.’ She holds my gaze for a moment too long, her colour deepening all the while. I am not so foolish as to mistake her meaning, but for both our sakes I pretend to, and merely take the tray and bid her farewell.
It is not the tranquil dinner I had hoped for, for Amadou is out of sorts and keeps stealing morsels of food and then casting them on the floor and demanding more until I could cheerfully throttle him, and am contemplating doing just that when another knock comes at the door. Keeping the jug of ale to one side, I gather the rest of the dinner things on to the tray, dig out a small coin for the girl and open the door with a smile.
The next thing I know I am flat on my back with Rafik’s foot on my chest and a knife at my throat. ‘Close the door,’ he hisses, and in comes Hamza too.
From his perch on top of the bed, Amadou screeches wildly.
‘Shut that bloody monkey up!’
Hamza lashes out, and Amadou goes flying across the chamber and hits the wall with a dull thud. I hear his little body drop like a stone.
‘Where is he, then?’ the Tafraouti demands.
‘Who?’
‘The boy. The sultan’s son.’
Shock slows my brain. How can they possibly know? ‘The sultan’s son? He has so many, I don’t know which one you mean.’
‘Don’t play the i
nnocent.’ Hamza kicks me in the ribs. He is wearing shoes of hard English leather and it hurts. ‘The one everyone thought was dead and buried: the Englishwoman’s boy. We know you’ve got him, just didn’t know why – but now we know that too.’ He leers down at me, makes a gesture with his fingers. ‘Thought you’d make yourself a fortune in London, did you?’
This time the blankness of my expression is unfeigned. ‘Let me up: I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
He kicks me again and the air huffs out of me. I can taste the ale coming back up my gullet in a rather less pleasant fashion to the way it went down.
‘Stop kicking the bastard and search the room!’ Rafik says angrily. He drops to one knee. ‘It’s your fault my uncle was lashed to those mules and driven through the wilds till the flesh was stripped from his body and his bones snapped like twigs. So I’ll not hesitate to slit your black throat if I have to: call it an honour killing. Now where’s the brat? I know he’s in here somewhere: there was no one else could have seen me take the bag – I made damned sure of that. Apart from the wretched monkey, and it’s not talking.’
Well, that clears up one part of the mystery, but how did he know the observer was Momo? With a sudden dull sensation, it strikes me: Alys’s scroll – she must have written of her son in the scroll, and Rafik must have been more thorough in his search of my satchel than I had thought. He must have found it and had Hamza read it for him. I go hot, then cold: what a fool I have been.
‘There’s no one here.’ Hamza sits heavily on the bed. ‘So what have you done with him, eh?’ A crafty expression settles in his eye. ‘Tell us and we’ll keep the secret, split the redemption money three ways: the sultan will never know a thing.’
Rafik rounds on him angrily. ‘That’s right: add treason to your greed and apostasy, infidel! The sultan is my lord: we have to find the boy and take him back. But we’ll cut this bastard’s throat first.’
‘Calm down, man. This fucking palace is massive: he could’ve stashed the brat anywhere – even smuggled him into the city. I told you, he’s already been out making inquiries. You’re going to have to keep him alive or we’ll never find the kid.’