Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘Come in,’ said Summerfield, and walked ahead, up the stairs to the third floor, Badr following. Despite being two steps behind, the young man’s head was at the same level as Summerfield’s. Once inside and the door closed, Summerfield turned to the messenger and made the customary gesture of welcome. ‘So Abrach has sent you,’ he said in French. ‘May I have the letter?’ He noticed for the first time the young man’s vain attempt at growing a beard. It explained the tic of repeatedly and rather ferociously raising his hand to scratch his chin. The young man hesitated, taking his time to understand and then slid a hand inside his shirt to bring out the letter. He nodded and handed it across. It was damp from the boy’s sweat. ‘Does Abrach expect payment for my rooms?’

  The messenger shook his head. ‘After the work. Abrach will join you. You will talk and see.’

  ‘Thank you, Badr.’

  Alone once more, Summerfield peered out of the window and watched the tall young man enter the street and disappear round the corner by the tree which he had come to understand as the area’s habitual place for relieving oneself. It was a wonder the tree was still standing.

  He put some water on the boil, placed the letter on the desk and sharpened a couple of pencils while waiting for the tea to brew. He sought paper, placed three sheets on the writing desk and weighted them down with his watch, noting the shocking white band of untanned skin around his wrist, a legacy of England. He waited, teasing himself, putting the moment off, playing with his inspiration. He waited until the tea became cool enough to sip. Then he opened the letter. Again the bizarre, heavy-handed opening formula:

  ‘Greetings indeed once more, Harry Summerfield,

  I trust you are well. The time has come to write, Sidi Summerfield. You must be delicate and at the same time persuasive. The lady, I fear, is timid and will not appreciate an open declaration. I wish to begin formalities by stating my admiration, that I have already observed her and appreciate her beauty and softness becoming of a woman. I wish to inform her, in a diplomatic and most gentlemanly way, that she entered my heart the first time I saw her. For your information she is dark-haired, neither tall nor small, has brown eyes and a most feminine silhouette. She is also quite young, twenty to be exact, and intelligent. She also has grace, like a gazelle.

  Good luck, Sidi Summerfield.’

  Summerfield shook his head. Why the merchant Abrach couldn’t simply send the very same words to the woman in question was beyond him. Still, there was money involved and Summerfield imagined that Abrach wished for something special, something more poetic. A pity there wasn’t anything to go on—the description of the young woman could probably fit twenty thousand others in Marrakesh.

  He re-read the letter, picked up a pencil, waited some more. Nothing came. Instead a small squiggle, a little like a coiled snake, began to fill the sheet of paper under his distracted fingers. He exhaled noisily and drank his tea. Eventually, after remaining in his chair for what seemed an hour or so, he got up, impatient, and strode once around the room. ‘Nope, nope, nope! Won’t do—can’t do.’ He sat down again, then stood up and once more, his eyes caught the trap door in the ceiling.

  The sun was sinking westwards, early evening. The pink city had turned red and the faint sound of the square and its preparations for the nocturnal bustle of the salt and sugar sellers reached him. He had come to understand this time of the day. The city would soon enter a little death, just under an hour between the end of the preparations for the night and the swaying mass of people that would fill the huge square. Summerfield closed his eyes, felt the cool, warm breeze lap against his skin and sucked in the smell of smoke and of spices. ‘Come on, come to me,’ he whispered. He focused his mind and imagined her and began slowly to write.

  4

  She had just passed through the entrance gates of the Académie des Jeunes Demoiselles de Sainte Suzanne de Marrakesh. It was five o’clock and the end of classes for the day. The rather ornate gates, a reduced model of those she had seen in books about the Palace of Versailles, had warped under the heat of ten Moroccan summers and now never drew completely shut. For want of a better solution, a rope knot was used to keep them from swinging open, held in place by a local man who had entrepreneured, several years ago, to loosen and tighten it as visitors passed in and out of the premises. The man was very old and very wrinkled and wore a hood and cape against the sun. His hands, knurled and arthritic, resembled the very knots he loosened and tied a hundred times a day. None of the young ladies attending the institute knew his name, but they all called him Monsieur Quasimodo and made up for their wickedness by offering him food and coins.

  In front of the French academy was a square, the meeting point for three roads and a gravel track that led into the date and orange groves. There was a fountain that functioned only in the winter months, a lawn of thick rough grass and a dozen or so orange trees. A gaggle of pony traps and several cars, sent by the parents of the richer students, waited around the perimeter of the place for the young ladies to appear.

  Jeanne parted with her friends, giving each three a bise and a wave as they walked off under the protection of their straw hats and parasols to their respective transportation. Soumia, Jeanne’s chaperone and the family help for nearly fifteen years appeared, dressed in her pale blue working dress, and went through the ritual of fussing her to drink.

  ‘But I’ve already had a glass of water, Soumia,’ Jeanne protested, as she always did, and then finished by accepting, as was also custom.

  Soumia was known to be a stubborn woman whose opinion regarding certain things was only to be considered as the absolute truth: things that neither her mother nor even her father would contest, like the amount of salt to put into the courgettes, the exact time of the day to brew tea, where to place jasmine in the house to ward away unpleasant smells and evil spirits and of course how many glasses of water to drink per day. Once, several years ago, her mother had dared to do differently and old Soumia (not so old, in fact—rather her mother’s age—forty-five) had sulked for a full month before accepting an apology and returning full-hearted to her duties.

  They walked together towards the awaiting trap, and Soumia halted. Before the Nanny opened her mouth, Jeanne knew what was coming next.

  ‘Yes, Nanny Soumia,’ she said, rolling down the sleeves of her blouse. ‘But all my friends wear short sleeves. I feel so old-fashioned!’

  ‘Do you want to be burnt, Jeanne?’ said Soumia, adding a cluck, like an aspired h—her way of reproach. ‘Do you want your skin to be brown and shrivelled like mine, like an old prune?’

  ‘You have beautiful skin,’ replied Jeanne. ‘In fact—’

  ‘No in facts, ’moiselle,’ said Soumia. ‘You must keep your paleness. That’s what makes a European lady so different, so precious.’

  ‘All this fuss about skin,’ said Jeanne, grumpily. ‘And in any case, don’t think I haven’t noticed that even if the others do bare their arms, they are still whiter than me.’

  ‘Stop it, Jeanne, or I shall tell your parents of your behaviour. You sound as if you are ashamed of them.’

  ‘On the contrary, Soumia—but I just wish they’d speak to me.’

  ‘Speak to you? What do you think they do every day?’ But Soumia didn’t finish. Instead, as they approached the trap, she stared at something across the square. Three ragged children from the medina had appeared, shouting noisily. ‘Hmm—up to no good,’ muttered Soumia. ‘Come, Jeanne. Do not tarry. Into your seat and Mohammed will drive us home.’ But the three children seemed to head straight towards them. ‘Beggars!’ said Soumia. ‘They should not be allowed to such an area.’ The driver, Mohammed, offered his hand for Jeanne to step in just as the children arrived. Mohammed turned to them, his voice low in a failed attempt to scare them off.

  ‘We owe you nothing, little pests—go away!’

  ‘God will be merciful to you! The Evil eye shall not shine—give us something, Oh Mistress. A little coin!’

  Soumia, with a
sigh of exasperation, born more of embarrassment than anger, stepped out again. ‘You’ve mistaken us for someone else,’ she said loudly in French and added a scolding in Arabic.

  From her seat, Jeanne noticed one of the children was missing an arm, the stump of which showed smooth and round when he gesticulated. She shook her head. Why Mohammed couldn’t just give them a coin or two, she thought. Just then, a shape—a man—brushed past the trap on the other side and released something white into the trap that span then fluttered crazily. Jeanne instinctively drew back and let out a gasp. In one second, the man was gone. The white object, lying at her feet, she recognised as a letter. She picked it up, glanced back to search for the man and then heard Soumia’s voice turning to her.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  Why she made that decision she would never know. Instantly, Jeanne Lefèvre stuffed the letter into her satchel and frowned. ‘I thought I’d forgotten something, Nanny Soumia—and for goodness sake, give the children a coin to shut them up. Can’t you see the poor child is an invalid?’

  Soumia rolled her eyes heavenwards and gabbled something to the driver. ‘If we gave charity for every missing limb in this city, we’d be penniless within the week. Oh, go on! Give them some sous!’

  She could have shown Soumia the letter. She could have opened it in front of her. She could even have given it, unread, to her father. Instead, she kept it, in her satchel, on her knees and clutched like a treasure. On the journey back, Soumia remarked that she seemed a little tense. Jeanne replied that the day had been rather tiring—tectonic plate theory—to which Soumia let out a gloomy sigh: ‘Another new disease!’

  Both her father and mother were absent when she arrived home. Apparently, they had been invited to a soirée given by the Bridge Club and would be back late. Leaving Soumia to prepare tea, Jeanne climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

  It was a medium-sized house, one built especially for civil servants coming from the French Métropole, and located in an avenue with twenty others built in exactly the same, whitewashed colonial style. There were four bedrooms upstairs and two in the outhouse where Soumia and Mohammed respectively slept. Downstairs there was a large, tiled kitchen, a double living room, a dining room and father’s study. The garden was long and semi-wild, a continual struggle for Mohammed, whose hopeless monthly battle consisted in keeping the sand from invading the lawn. Thankfully, the architects had thought of a veranda and the planners had planted trees along the avenue and in the gardens to create blessed shade. It was here, too, that wild thyme and savory, seeds blown in on the winds from the Atlas, had taken root and grew in abundance. Their fragrance was such that Jeanne could sense the approach to her house even with her eyes closed. Once she had tested her theory—and it was true. Her street smelled of pepper and lemon.

  Closing the door to her bedroom, Jeanne opened her satchel, rummaged through the books and papers and, when still unable to find the letter which had taken on the excitement of gold, emptied the contents onto her bed. There it was. Turning her back to the door, listening one last time for any footsteps, she first brought the letter to her face and smelt it—fleur d’oranger. It was a fragrance she had smelt a thousand times in the city. The women used it in their cooking, the men used it as eau de cologne to hide the smell of perspiration, the riads and restaurants offered it to wash one’s hands with before and after a meal. Breathing in one last time, infinitely curious, smiling to herself with excitement, she carefully prised open the seal. But could it be a mistake? On an afterthought, she checked the front of the envelope—no signature, no address, not even her name. So the man had made a mistake. It had been an accident. She turned her attention back to the letter, teased it out, unfolded it and read.

  The leaving of the day comes tender to my eyes, the grace of the setting shadow casting minutes’ full and pleasant sigh; for another moment will come to wake, where you shall rise and once more be my day.

  Rising by setting sun, such beauty as is yours can do no other than warm the admiration of Man; and, no doubt, sweet young woman, I am but one whose words you capture in your time.

  Jeanne reddened, quite lost and decidedly bothered. Upon reading the last word, her eyes had seemed to revolve inwards and gaze longingly down into the deepness of her body. She looked around the room, as if scrabbling for help, then reached across and dipped her fingers into the water basin on her night table. She dabbed her neck and forehead, the cool drops seeming to evaporate as quickly as they had touched her skin. Her next feeling could almost be measured as anger. It was grossly perverse—how dare he (it had to be a He, didn’t it?) write such things—and to her. But then curious again. The returning of her eyes to the text and, despite the indignation, the faint resistance, the second reading. And it was quite good, in fact, she concluded. Actually, when she became objective about it all, it was quite very beautiful. A third time. But the third reading was interrupted by Soumia’s call for tea. Jeanne rose, quickly slid the letter beneath her pillow, then on second thoughts, under her mattress, and stepped out onto the landing.

  ‘Still not changed!’ cried Soumia, as if the world had come to an end. ‘You’ve certainly had a day, young lady!’

  ‘I certainly have, Soumia,’ replied Jeanne, sheepishly.

  It was one of those occasions when, despite how much effort Jeanne made to break free, she was disposed to sit with Soumia and listen. The more the seconds passed, the more she squirmed in her seat. The worst was when Soumia began to embark on a recapitulation of the day. Under normal circumstances, Jeanne would bear the monologue out, making noises and offering the odd comment until Soumia had finished. This time, she was frustratingly aware of Soumia’s penchant for listing the most minute of futile detail—from the aspect of the water from the tap at six in the morning, to the insect Mohammed had found lodged in the spout of the watering can and the state of the gutters in the roads during the journey to fetch her at the Académie. Jeanne mentioned she had homework to complete to which Soumia replied that she had time, seeing as her parents were absent. But it was when Soumia doted on the appearance of the child beggars before the Académie, that Jeanne’s impatience and frustration reached bubbling point. No matter how hard she tried to point Soumia in the direction of the mystery man, without of course directly mentioning him, Nanny Soumia branched off at tangents on a series of tirades against the police authorities, the city beggars, local taxes, the danger of being robbed and finally Mohammed’s character, which she found too soft and tolerant to be of any use as a help to the family. In the end, Jeanne closed her ears and let herself be sucked in towards the subject that had really stolen her mind for the past hour-and-a-half.

  In her shut-out world, the words of the letter came back to her, the smell of orange essence, snippets of memory that seemed to refuse to be put into any logical order. Had she seen the man’s face? She tried hard to recollect and found herself forcing an image into her head. No, no—try, she said to herself.

  ‘What did you say?’ came Soumia’s voice, suddenly causing Jeanne to jump in her seat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you not agree, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘I was just wondering if it was a trick,’ floundered Jeanne.

  ‘A trick you say? The governor?’ Soumia frowned.

  ‘The boys in front of the Académie. They might have been creating a diversion. Perhaps their father was at that very moment robbing those whose attention was taken—’

  ‘Gracious God,’ gasped Soumia, cupping her face in her hands in a gesture that Jeanne thought rather too theatrical. ‘I’d never have thought! We must check our belongings!’

  ‘Did you see anyone?’ pressed Jeanne, ‘A man perhaps?’ Soumia stopped and looked away, narrowing her eyes in the effort to remember. ‘Think, Nanny Soumia.’

  Soumia thought, long and intensely. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I was giving the beggars a ticking off,’ replied Soumia, disappointed. ‘I should have paid
more attention!’

  ‘I’m not saying there was a man,’ said Jeanne, quickly, realising the danger that Soumia would now concentrate her energies on recounting the whole scene yet again. Soumia hummed and remained silent. Jeanne finished the last morsel of cake on her plate and placed her cup back in the saucer.

  ‘Are you feeling under the weather, Mademoiselle?’ ventured Soumia, distrustfully. Jeanne smiled and shook her head. ‘You’re not—’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Soumia?’ cut short Jeanne, all too aware of where Soumia was aiming for.

  ‘Feeling poorly or anything,’ said Soumia, rectifying her words from the warning Jeanne’s voice had carried. ‘No?’

  ‘No, Soumia,’ finished Jeanne. ‘Certainly not poorly in the way you suggest. Just a little tired. I do enjoy our conversations, Nanny Soumia, but I do have work to finish for the Académie.’

  ‘It’s not that tictonic plague is it?’ probed Soumia, one last time, getting it wrong. ‘It is quite surprising how those samples you girls study don’t escape from the classroom. Just think—the whole city infested with disease!’

  ‘Well, they do sometimes try to jump out of the spawning jars, but the Professeur obliges us to keep lids on them,’ replied Jeanne, ruefully.

  ‘I should hope so,’ answered Soumia, a little disappointed to hear otherwise. ‘Right—perhaps I should let you get on with your work, Jeanne. But don’t work too hard. And I’ll just check my bag, just to make sure. And don’t go sitting outside in the heat!’ she added, regaining her share of authority.

  ‘I won’t,’ smiled Jeanne, reassuringly. ‘However, I will go to bed early this evening, I think. Could you bring me something to eat? I’ll leave the tray on the landing.’ And with that, controlling the urge to sigh out loud in relief, Jeanne rose and climbed the stairs to her bedroom.