Amazir

by Tom Gamble

Evening came. Resisting the urge to re-read the letter, concentrating on her homework and aware of the intense delight of putting off the excitement until later, Jeanne sat at her desk and wrote her geography essay. She giggled to herself whenever the words tectonic plates appeared and she found it almost irresistible not to replace it with Nanny Soumia’s tictonic plague. She must remember to tell her friends! Indeed—should she tell them about the letter as well? It would certainly raise her esteem in the other girls’ eyes—they would think her worldly, a woman. Though, on the other hand, it could cause quite a few jealous tongues to wag. And they may ridicule her. She would decide upon reading the letter again, she concluded and went back to finishing her essay.

  Dusk fell and the night drew closer. Soumia had brought her a light dinner and a jug of fresh water which she then placed, as planned, back outside her door near the stairs. She called out—bonne nuit—and Soumia’s voice faintly called back, wishing her a peaceful sleep.

  Softly locking her door and moving across her room to the bed, Jeanne noticed that she still hadn’t changed out of her school clothes. Later, she thought and slid her hand under the mattress to recover the envelope. Withdrawing the letter, the thought struck her that her hands were now touched with the scent and the perspiration of the man who had written it. At first alarmed, she crossed the room to wash her fingers, then stopped herself. It was silly. She wasn’t going to read the letter wearing gloves! And, as she sat back down by the bedside lamp, the idea that she was in contact with part of the person who had written it sent a strange shiver through her—something indiscernible, hardly a pleasure as a feeling of fear and something deeper, out of reach.

  She read the letter again, twice, the first time quickly, the second time taking care over each word. She thought she could hear the man’s voice in her head and, strangely enough, it brought back the image of the young actor she had seen some several months before, interpreting Molière’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme. He had had the finest of faces, rather bird-like and inquisitive and extremely expressive clear brown eyes. Several of her friends had written to him and two of them, including Cécile, her best friend, much to the dismay of all the others, had received warm replies.

  Jeanne pondered over the words of the little text, searching the meaning, searching too for hidden meanings. Of course, the overall picture was one of admiration. Admiration of her beauty. Beauty! She giggled. The word had never occurred to her before! At least, not concerning herself. Her body was something that was just there—an unfelt presence for most of the time, a part of the whole that was ruled by the head. She did masturbate, of course, like her friends—though this had been deemed an unladylike occupation since early adolescence by her peers, notably the sisters at the Académie. What did they do? she suddenly wondered, and promptly readjusted her thoughts for fear of losing the effect of the letter. And she—Jeanne—had also kissed. Several times. Mostly sweet, endearing pecks from Edouard, one of father’s colleague’s sons. He seemed to like her. Perhaps, the letter was from him. No, it was too adult. Edouard was only nineteen and sadly rather lacking in literary skills, thought Jeanne. He was destined to be a chartered accountant.

  The letter. The words. No one had ever written to her like that. If indeed it were not all some silly mistake. She paused, suddenly aware of something inside her, something churning. She drew in air through her lips. It was the sound of her heart. She listened and it grew faster, deeper, almost as if it wanted to race ahead of her thoughts. And then she felt the tingling, down there, in the intimate, unmentionable part of her womanhood. Again she breathed in, thinking of anything but the letter, bridling her beating heart and bringing it to a slow trot.

  After that, her first reflex was to stand up, close the shutters and draw the curtains as if shutting out the world. The word beauty came back to her, a word invoking that same mild surprise and a distant feeling of guilt and embarrassment. She suddenly felt terribly alone and vulnerable. She switched on her bedside lamp and a soft warm halo spread instantly across her bed. It cast a warm glow over Baudelaire, her battered and faithful old teddy. She picked him up, brought him to her cheek, the faint sugary, sour odour of the fleece filling her with a sense of presence, of safety. Everything was all right.

  She began to change into her nightclothes. It was just before ten and the cool air came through the shutters. Standing before the mirror, she took off her dress and blouse, folding them neatly and placing them on her dressing table. Then she slipped out of her underclothes, reached for her nightdress and hesitated. Her eyes turned to the mirror and caught her looking sideways at herself, at first embarrassed, then curious. But this time the reflection was somehow different. It was as though she had managed to step out from herself and was looking at the image of a person looking at another in the mirror. It was so curious. She stood up.

  The image she saw was both familiar and unknown, the image of what she suddenly realised was a woman. This woman quite tall, slender in her age, her hair black in the light of night and wavy, falling to rest on her collar bone. Her eyes dark eyes, dark hazel. Two distinct black crescent moons that were the eyebrows; a thin mantle above the bridge of her nose, quite prominent, that cast a tiny shadow on her skin. Thin shoulders, childlike perhaps and fragile. The gentle slope of her breasts, falling firmly then tapering to a point, turned slightly outwards to the nipples, hard and dark like tenacious little rose buds. Her arms neither fat nor thin. Stomach and waist, venturing into womanhood, rising here, there flat like the water on a ripple-less lake. Her thighs both round and angular all at once, encompassing the nut of her sex, a delta of jet black. Then a glance sideways at a most precocious, impertinent pair of buttocks that almost seemed to defy gravity. It was indeed a woman she saw in the reflection, perhaps even a woman who could fit the words of the letter.

  Stepping back even more, unfocusing, Jeanne saw the shape and colour as a whole, saw that the figure before her was not exactly European, the skin although clear beholding a quality that was richer, deeper and possessing a sort of pastel quality like the skin of a young green olive. Very curious, she thought. Who is this woman belonging to no definable point of the compass? Who could belong to no distinct definition? Finally, both tired and perplexed, Jeanne slipped on her nightdress and climbed into bed. She went to sleep that night with the letter under her pillow, conscious of her body against the sheets, a stranger that was her.

  5

  Abrach was in fine spirits. Sitting in the Café Kasbah by the crumbling royal palace, he ordered Summerfield a caoua—a coffee. The merchant wore that same habitual smile, but this time Summerfield noticed a perceptible deepening in it, a stamp of sincerity.

  ‘I am very content with the results of your work, Harry Summerfield,’ grinned Abrach. And then, as an aside: ‘And forgive me for not coming to see you in your home. I try to remain discreet.’

  ‘I imagine you would be greatly solicited,’ offered Summerfield, accepting the coffee with a nod of his head.

  ‘I help those who helped me—I always do,’ continued Abrach. ‘Though some try to make you believe they helped when in fact they did the exact opposite. It is often these people who ask the most!’

  ‘How odd,’ smiled Summerfield. He was beginning to feel a genuine liking for Abrach and his simple anecdotes.

  The merchant made a sign for the waiter to refill their cups then turned back to Summerfield. ‘So tell me—how are you, Harry? Are you still decided on staying that little while longer?’

  ‘Every day is a discovery,’ answered Summerfield. ‘I’ll stay until the novelty runs out rather than the money.’

  ‘Good.’ Abrach grinned. ‘And it may take some time. Because, as you may understand, I wish to continue with your services.’

  ‘In all honesty, I thought it would be the last I’d see of you, Abrach. So I passed the test, did I?’

  ‘You succeeded well—and I thank you.’

  ‘I was a little concerned,’ began Summerfield. ‘One tries to imagine ho
w one’s reader will interpret.’

  ‘Which is a good sign, Harry. A sign that you are professional in your approach to your craft.’

  Summerfield leant forwards. ‘You see, the most difficult was trying to find the inspiration. I just couldn’t fathom out how to tackle it.’

  Abrach’s mouth sagged. ‘You make the most beautiful creature on Earth seem like an English rugby match! I must protest!’

  Summerfield laughed. ‘I wrote to the city of Marrakesh.’ Abrach looked at him and frowned. ‘Yes,’ continued Summerfield, lighting up a cigarette, enjoying the conversation. ‘The inspiration wouldn’t come, so I climbed on the roof and when I saw the city and its lights and the sunset, I knew I had the subject matter!’

  ‘I see,’ answered the merchant, suddenly looking saddened. ‘So if I had simply looked out from my terrace at the setting of day, I could have written the thing myself—and saved my money!’

  Again they laughed. ‘You could try,’ said Summerfield and Abrach pondered for a second, then shook his head.

  ‘A wise man leaves a craftsman to his craft. I would not entrust you with my shops. I would not entrust myself with poetry.’

  They remained sitting at the table in the café, observing the flurry of people coming and going in the narrow street. Leaning his large frame forwards, Abrach pointed out the colour of the sky, an opaque creamy blue and informed Summerfield that this meant imminent rain. Surely enough the wind began to kick up, blowing with it particles of dust and sand that darted around the city walls, filtered through the streets, skittered the alleyways and came to rest on the tables of the café they were sitting in. Summerfield touched the dust with the tip of a finger and studied it.

  ‘It comes from the desert,’ mentioned Abrach, raising his eyebrows. ‘All the way from Ouarzazate and beyond.’ There was distance in his voice, as though it was the expanse of the desert itself speaking. Summerfield gave a nod of understanding.

  ‘One day I will go there.’

  The rain thickened. Summerfield tried to find a comparison to English rain—something approaching an August storm. But it wasn’t quite that. Here the rain fell in visible, pear-shaped drops like the milky semi-precious stones the local artisans used for making pendants. Great pink and dusty explosions as they hit the ground. The people in the street did not run for shelter. Instead, there seemed to be even more of them, quickening their pace and pushing as they threaded their way over the cobblestones. On one side of the street, to the left and barely ten yards away was a hole—work being carried out on the sewers—and next to it a mound of excavated earth. Under the force of the rain, it soon began to subside. One passer-by lost his footing on it, slipped and fell over. Another passer-by quickly picked him up and moved on, the former shouting thanks and continuing his journey, his jellaba smeared with deep red mud. Summerfield looked at his companion and laughed—not through malice, but a sense of surprise and enchantment at the acceptance of it all. Falling over a pile of dirt that had been lazily heaped in the middle of a street seemed just as normal to the people as the rising of the sun.

  After ten or so minutes, the downpour suddenly stopped, the cool air instantly saturated by the heat, giving rise to a heavy odour which Summerfield judged as something between a mixture of sweat, excrement and leather. He wrinkled his nose and tried not to appear disturbed by it. Abrach must have noticed however, for he called out into the street. Presently, an old man appeared with a basket under his arm. Abrach gave a small coin and delved into the basket, bringing out two sprigs of fresh mint.

  ‘Choukran,’ he said to the peddler and then, turning to Summerfield. ‘Here—you take them. I am used to such things.’ Summerfield took the mint, wondering whether to pick the leaves and chew them. ‘Like this,’ said Abrach, momentarily taking back the sprigs and holding them to his nose. ‘It kills the bad odours. I see you haven’t been to the tanners’ district,’ added Abrach, handing them back. Summerfield shook his head and Abrach beamed. ‘My friend, you have many things to discover yet—but remember the mint. You will learn of its importance.’

  After their coffee, Abrach invited Summerfield for a stroll in the King’s gardens beyond the city gates. They hailed a calash and were soon trotting along to their destination. Summerfield tried to engage conversation during the trip, but the merchant remained silent, no doubt, thought Summerfield, in case the driver should overhear.

  Blue sky appeared just as they stepped down from the calash and entered the ornate gardens. They began to stroll, Abrach ushering Summerfield on towards an ornamental lake. At last, sensing the moment was right, Summerfield posed the question he had been waiting impatiently to ask.

  ‘You say the results of the letter were positive,’ he began. ‘So I take it she replied?’

  His companion took off his hat and wiped his brow with his hand, which he then wiped on a handkerchief. He gave a little snort. ‘Heavens no. If it could be so quick, so simple, my friend. It will take time. It is rare that one’s quest for treasure ends in victory after the first strike of the spade.’

  Summerfield hummed agreement. ‘But then, what was the positive outcome you were so content with?’

  ‘You are very direct, Harry. Indeed, there are two positive outcomes, barely visible but nonetheless victories in their own right.’

  ‘Go on,’ encouraged Summerfield, concentrating, for his mind had already begun to focus on the next letter he was to write.

  ‘The first is that the young beauty in question did not reject the letter. She could have thrown the envelope into the gutter but she did not. The second is that she read the letter.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Summerfield.

  ‘Because on the following day, she appeared and searched the faces around her. She was obviously intrigued, did not seem bothered or angry. Indeed, according to my man she appeared rather curious and willing to make further contact.’

  Summerfield chuckled. ‘I can imagine her face when she read—’

  ‘I do not wish you to laugh,’ interrupted Abrach, stonily. Summerfield fell silent, taken aback by the merchant’s sudden swing of mood. ‘Your writing must continue to express respect, Harry. It will be helped by the fact that you respect her person. You see,’ continued Abrach, his voice now mellowing, ‘she is a beauty, a unique being for me and closer to my heart than you will ever imagine. Oh, if Allah wills—I tell you, Harry, I would donate my life and my wealth to the good and needy if I could have her in my presence.’

  6

  Nothing happened. Not on the second day, nor the third. Every day Jeanne left the Académie and stood by the gates until Soumia came to accompany her home. She must have looked at the faces a thousand times until they were all recognisable to her at a glance. And still she observed, wondering which one of those waiting would make the uncommon gesture, who would start walking towards her. But no one did. She lingered longer than usual by the calash until she felt Soumia begin to become suspicious and then, with a terse, oui, Soumia, she would climb in, frustrated and disappointed.

  On the fourth day, it occurred to Jeanne that she had been concentrating on one specific thing—and it was perhaps this that had made her miss the man in white. It was the simple fact that she had been expecting the messenger to arrive in the evening, after classes. The morning she rushed, typically inattentive to detail, concentrating on being behind her desk when the bell rang for lessons. Why hadn’t she doubted that he could be there at any time of the day? She felt stupid and also, as she left the house that morning with Mohammed, rather excited.

  She was alert when the trap came to a halt and Mohammed opened the door for her to climb down. It was as if she sensed something would happen. This time, this morning, she waited until Mohammed had driven off to continue on towards the gates and the old knot tier. She looked around her, trying not to be too conspicuous, answered a couple of hellos from some other girls, but did not see the man or anything resembling a letter in anyone’s hand. She looked down, beginning to
question her supposition, ready to face the fact that she was wrong, when it happened. It was all very quick. Suddenly, there in front of her, was a man—a young Arab. She looked up, surprised and her face broke into a look of enquiry. Is it you? Are you the writer of messages? she wanted to say, but no words came. Instead, sensing the question, the young man shook his head. He was tall, thin, barely older than herself, clean-shaven and dressed in western clothes, rather too clean and smart. He looked a little uncomfortable in them.

  ‘Un deuxième message,’ he said, softly in French. ‘I will be waiting if you wish to reply.’ He brought out his hand, as if to shake hers, but it contained a small white envelope which he quickly slid into her palm.

  Jeanne stood still, conscious of time slipping past and the sense of urgency less someone should notice them. ‘Where?’ she blurted out. ‘When?’

  ‘Do like this,’ he replied quickly, making a fanning gesture with his hand. ‘I will be waiting, do not worry.’ And he smiled. ‘Au revoir.’

  ‘Your name?’ said Jeanne in a whisper, but the young Arab shook his head.

  ‘Not me.’

  The following hours were agonising. Once Jeanne had stepped inside the gates of the Académie, fate threw a thousand different obstacles in her way. For some reason, this particular day, everybody wanted to talk to her, everybody wanted to ask her assistance and everybody wanted to bother her. Cécile, her best friend, clung onto her as she entered the buildings, asking for this paper and that for the English test. Sarah Bassouin, the pretty Jewish girl who was already engaged to marry later that year—one of the Embassy staff, a young tax officer, had connections with her family—accosted her with an invitation to a party just as Jeanne was about to enter the ladies’ room.

  ‘Thanks, awfully,’ returned Jeanne, ‘we’ll talk about it at break.’ But Sarah Bassouin, much to Jeanne’s horror, followed her into the toilets and continued chattering away as she reached for the handle. ‘Look, Sarah, I’m sorry—’ said Jeanne, finally, ‘But—’ The bell rang.