by Tom Gamble
7
The letter lay unfolded on his desk, backside up. Summerfield leant back, wiped the sweat from his hands and brow and tried to discern the faint scent that rose from the paper. Something like lemon and pepper, he thought. Thyme, perhaps? Citronella? Perhaps it was Abrach’s smell—but wasn’t his orange? Summerfield looked up.
Out in the small dead-end below his window, a dispute was going on—or at least it sounded like it. Summerfield got up and peered out of the open window. Two women—perhaps mother and daughter—were energetically haranguing a man who sat resignedly on a handcart. At one point, the man looked up and caught Summerfield’s eye. Summerfield shrugged and the man shrugged back. Women! he seemed to say. Some language was universal.
Returning to his desk, Summerfield lit a cigarette, again wiped the sweat from his skin in what had become a mechanical gesture, and gently turned over the letter. It was a short text—one line, written with great care, in deep blue ink. The regularity and width of the ink told him that the pen was of good quality. Another tic—he put his spectacles on, despite the clear light and glancing at himself in the mirror—he thought he had a faint Orwellian air about him—he read:
A wish to write you those words you cannot tell me; soft, gentle words that only I could inspire in you…
Summerfield felt his chest wince. So simple, so clear, he thought, and so honest. He felt perplexed. His immediate reaction was to draw a comparison with his own words which now seemed so heavy and clumsy. What the young woman had succeeded in doing was, on a stylistic basis, so stripped of artifice that it stood out, loud and true. The thought that his own words had served as a trap, and that the trap had worked, made him feel suddenly cheap. He sat back in his chair and took a drag on his cigarette. It occurred to him that he had discovered a value, something he hadn’t hit upon before and it surprised him: it was manipulation, or rather the negation of manipulation, of an innocent heart.
Rising, he went to the window again. The argument had stopped and the two women had disappeared. Only the man still sat there, leaning forwards on his handcart and staring into space. Summerfield studied the man’s shaven head, the glow from the light that, at this angle, caught the silver stubble on his face. Seconds passed and Summerfield thought of nothing, his mind empty. He peered along the alleyway and into the main street. People passed by, neither speaking nor turning their heads, hurrying to some unknown destination. A little boy with his mother stopped to pee up the tree. And life went on, the rush, the incessant ebb and flow.
After some moments, Summerfield again returned to his desk. Another cigarette—harsh, brown local tobacco—which sent him into a momentary fit of coughing. He read the words again. He felt something. Something indiscernible and hidden deep inside. Perhaps it was the recognition that he had succeeded his initial task. But perhaps, it slowly dawned on him, it was the fact that his own words had been read, recognised and acknowledged in such a sweet way. The young woman had expressed sentiment. And she’d given her feelings with much courage to an unknown writer, an unknown man—Abrach, of course, being the proprietor but in reality himself, Harry Summerfield. Good God, was she to fall in love with him? The thought made him sadly ironical. And then, faintly, it rose up, glimmered a little in his mind and he felt strangely fulfilled.
8
The city was in effervescence. Everyday was a market day, but this particular day a caravan had entered the city to sell its wares in the red city, some two hundred merchants, having travelled up from French West Africa through Mauritania. Djemaa El Fna square was packed with a mass of people, whole families out to buy spices and materials, the shop owners of Marrakesh out to purchase new stock.
Summerfield found himself caught up in the great crowd. As far as he could see, he was the only European among ten or so thousand people. It was an odd sensation and his mind, in a playful frame, turned the situation around—what if he were the only Arab among ten thousand Europeans? What would he feel then?
He had no idea of a destination. He let the crowd, a great winding serpent with a will of its own, push him onwards through the hundreds of makeshift stands. The noise was tremendous—he had never experienced such collective abandon of constraint. Everybody seemed to be shouting and shoving—high-pitched women’s voices, dirty-faced children who ducked and weaved and shrieked, men who haggled with such guttural vehemence that it seemed negotiation would come to blows. But among this explosion of noise, the play-fight, the chaos, great smiles appeared on the faces. Close to one such scene, a man had reached shouting level and, in a mock gesture of anger, drew back pushing into Summerfield. Summerfield’s immediate reaction was to resist and when the man turned, Summerfield was astonished to see a broad grin on his face. He smiled back. The man, obviously unperturbed by the question of place and status, clapped him on the shoulder and gesticulated at the merchant. Summerfield let out a sound—a sort of gargle—which everyone seemed to understand. There was a great roar of laughter and the merchant, shrugging his shoulders, finally gave way and reached across to offer his hand to the buyer. They shook, grimy bank notes were exchanged in a flash and the man who had crashed into Summerfield disappeared, holding aloft his purchase—a saucepan. Summerfield shook his head and again caught another smile from a face in the crowd. A sweet tingle of happiness filled him. He felt—and this was the strange part—one of them.
After ten or so minutes of pushing, he found himself before a stall selling headwear. Next to the stall, a group of Berber musicians dressed in the most outrageous hats Summerfield had ever seen—like giant, conical sombreros from which hung strips of red and black cloth—were playing music. Approaching the stall to get a closer look at the goods, someone suddenly grabbed hold of him and pulled him aside. It was a small, bearded man who spoke excitedly. Summerfield frowned, immediately on his guard. The man pointed to the ground, to a large basket. Peering inside, Summerfield saw that it contained two, maybe three coiled cobras. ‘Choukran,’ nodded Summerfield—‘I nearly put my foot in it, didn’t I?’
The hats did not interest him. Remembering the conversation with Abrach and the mysterious reference to the desert, Summerfield wanted a headscarf—a cheiche—like the desert people wore. And, thinking further, he wanted something that would blend him in more with the local people—some trousers and a linen top. The negotiation took ten minutes, followed the same pattern as the client he had seen at the other stand—though this time inverted: it was the seller who went into a frenzy—further complicated by the impossibility to understand each other’s words. A crowd had gathered round the scene, entertained by this European and his bizarre wish to buy their clothing, entertained by the mix of French, Arabic, Spanish and that strange, singing, echoing-sounding language that was English; entertained, perhaps the most, by the importance that Summerfield’s gestures took on. In the end, the deal concluded, the small crowd applauded. Coyly, Summerfield took his newly acquired clothes and rejoined the serpent flow.
He slept in the afternoon. Before closing his eyes, it occurred to him that he was increasingly taking on the habits of his surroundings. He would like to try some khat, he remembered saying to himself—not a thing of these parts, but occasionally those from further east, labourers mostly, could be seen chewing the sleep-inducing herbs in the afternoon.
He must have slept for two hours. He couldn’t be bothered to look at his watch. The first thing he did was to wash down—even asleep and motionless, he had sweated. He then tried the clothes he had bought in the market. A white linen shirt, a little like a smock, black cotton trousers which hung loosely, letting in the air. And lastly a black cheiche. He looked at himself in the small mirror he used for shaving and tried to knot it into headwear. The men from the caravan wrapped their entire heads in such garments until only their eyes could be seen. It was not so easy a task. No matter how he twisted and turned the material, it wouldn’t stay in place. In the end, losing his temper, he flung it in a corner. The heat, what with his effort, had become almost unbe
arable. He drank in a series of gulps. And then he remembered the man he had seen that morning, the ground floor neighbour.
Their door was open. He hesitated, searching, of all things, for a door bell. Perhaps nobody was in, he thought, hoping distantly that it would mean a return to his own rooms. But no—the sound of voices reached him. He called out. The voices stopped. He called again.
The man appeared, looking nervous, and then recognised Summerfield. Bonjour, he stammered and Summerfield asked him in French if he could show him how to use the scarf. The man stared blankly at him and scratched first the stubble on his cheek, then his shaven head. It had obviously been the only word of French he knew. Summerfield pointed to the head scarf in his hands. The man shook his head and then disappeared inside the doorway. Summerfield hesitated, wondering whether to leave. On the point of turning to go, the man reappeared with a young girl, one of his daughters. She was dressed in a long, dark blue gown and only her face was open to view. Summerfield repeated his request slowly and the little girl gabbled, in what seemed a hundred words too many, to her father. The man looked curiously at Summerfield, shrugged in much the same way as he had done that very morning, and beckoned for him to come in.
Summerfield stepped into the dark living space and stopped in his tracks. In front of him, the whole family had lined up—the man, what Summerfield now recognised as his two wives, two other daughters and two boys in their early teens. As Summerfield’s eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he noticed they were staring at his feet. He had his boots on. Perhaps he should take them off, he thought and nodded downwards, whereupon the man—the husband—waggled a finger. No need, said the little girl in French and her mother sent her a sharp glance. Instinctively, Summerfield searched for a gesture of gratitude. Fumbling in his pockets, all he could find were his cigarettes and a couple of boiled sweets. He offered the packet across to the husband who nodded and took one and then rather clumsily passed the two sweets to the little girl who promptly popped both into her mouth regardless of her brothers and sisters.
‘I live above—on the top. I’d like you to teach me how to put this on,’ said Summerfield in slow French, holding out the cheiche. The girl translated uncertainly. Summerfield was aware of mixed feelings among his listeners. The boys laughed, the second girl giggled, as did one of the wives. The other, older wife frowned. The husband was devoid of expression, no doubt not wishing to repeat that morning’s scene. To all appearances, it seemed as though he was leaving the decision to his unsmiling first wife.
‘I would be greatly honoured,’ said Summerfield, gallantly, looking directly at the first wife, who instantly dropped her gaze. ‘Sorry,’ said Summerfield, turning to the husband and repeating himself. The man looked sideways across, seemed to sum up the weight of the request and then said:
‘Atay—tea.’
The girl sat at his side while preparations were made for refreshment. At least he had an ally—thanks to the sweets. He smiled at her. ‘Comment dit-on je m’appelle Harry Summerfield. Quel est votre nom?’ He winked and she whispered Arabic into his ear. ‘Ana Summerfield. Chnou smitek?’ he repeated. The husband clapped his chest.
‘Abdlakabir.’
‘Ab…bl—no sorry, it’s too difficult,’ said Summerfield and everyone laughed.
‘Ab-lak-a-bir.’
‘Ablakakababir.’
‘Non! AB-LAK,’ continued the husband, very slowly and very loudly. He did this three times before Summerfield got it right, with the result that everyone clapped, except the family chief—Abdlakabir’s first wife—who continued, despite the warming welcome and despite the afternoon heat, with an expression that Summerfield likened to a November morning on Dover pier.
There seemed no hurry. The water for the tea boiled slowly on a slow fire. The afternoon flies buzzed slowly about the room. Summerfield took advantage to observe the space that constituted the kitchen and dining room. It had been painted many years ago, perhaps when the man and his first wife had first moved in, a thick coat of now discoloured white lime that in some places had flaked away leaving open wounds of powdery plaster. There were several wall carpets and Summerfield wondered if they hid more holes. Along one wall, on a score of nails, hung cooking pots and crockery. Opposite the stove and a chimney was a lonely piece of furniture made of reddish, dark wood, the doors of which had been carved into intricate interwoven stars picked out in mother-of-pearl. Summerfield caught the two women watching him studying the patterns and he made a complimentary nod in return. The first wife rose promptly and disappeared to return with the tea. Abdlakabir poured with great pomp and from great height, only missing, observed Summerfield, the cup once—that of his first wife. They drank. Summerfield made an appreciative sound and Abdlakabir, the husband, echoed him.
When he had finished, he reached across and took Summerfield’s headscarf. The children crowded round, were pushed back. The elder son was made to remove his finger from his nose after a prolonged and fruitless probing.
Abdlakabir was a master. First he tied a simple slack knot, then slung the scarf over his head and in three seconds had wound the material into headwear that resembled the men of the caravan. Too fast for Summerfield. Again, this time slower, Abdlakabir went through the motions and then handed it back for Summerfield to try. Summerfield’s first attempt was a disaster—he ended up with something approaching a conical turban on his head—which greatly amused the onlookers. Blushing, but aware that even the first wife had succeeded in smiling, he mimed frustration. Then a second attempt, this time the knot slipping loose and the whole thing falling into his lap. Again the squeals and shouts. Abdlakabir, wagging his head and clucking la, la, la—which the little girl thoughtfully translated as non, non, non—snatched it back and showed him an ultimate time. Summerfield concentrated hard, took back the cheiche and, after a hesitant start, finished up with something resembling success whereupon the whole family applauded. Abdlakabir spoke above the noise and, after some moments, the girl turned to Summerfield and explained.
‘There are two ways to wear the cheiche—the desert way and the mountain way. Now father show you the mountain way?’
Summerfield smiled and said: ‘La, la—No, no—one is complicated enough! Another time—with many thanks.’
More tea was poured while Summerfield went through a second successful attempt of winding the headscarf. Then the first wife said something and to Summerfield’s surprise everyone got up in a hurry. Instantly, mats were produced. He called across to the little girl.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Afternoon prayer!’ said the little girl and added, quite determinedly: ‘You must take off your shoes!’
‘Oh dear, I’d forgotten,’ said Summerfield. Then: ‘But I’m C of E! We don’t do that sort of thing.’ No sooner had he said it when an echoing wail, carried through the narrow streets via a megaphone in the local mosque, filled the air. The family immediately took up prayer position, leaving Summerfield sitting obtrusively with his cup in his hand.
He suddenly felt his presence rather disrespectful. Here he was, with his boots on, in the midst of a family who had welcomed him and taught him. He frowned, then put aside his tea and began to unlace his boots. The prayer chant continued. At first he stood, much as in a church, with his head bowed and his hands clasped—something he hadn’t done since grammar school assembly in his teens. And Socialists certainly don’t do that sort of thing—at least Socialists who went to fight in Spain, he heard his mind contest. But then he hadn’t gone to Spain for the cause. He’d come to Morocco—for himself and, he was slowly beginning to realise, increasingly for the place and its people. Perhaps he should kneel—he didn’t know if such a thing was permitted, but couldn’t interrupt to ask. At last, summoning his humility, he unclasped his hands, dropped to his knees beside the girl who sent him an impertinent little grin, and closed his eyes. What would Orwell have thought of this? he wondered. What would Jim Wilding think? The chant, with its painfully laborious lament
, became hypnotising, haunting. He drifted. And Orwell? And Wilding? Didn’t matter. They would never know.
When evening came, he once more took the cramped stairs to the roof and sat there with a cushion, breathing in the cool air and watching the sunset over the pink city. He had his notebook with him, had already drafted the beginning of a reply to the letter, but felt dissatisfied. It wasn’t the words he had written—they were, on an artistic level, quite good, he thought. It was rather the message itself, the reason for writing.
He hadn’t seen Abrach for several days. The merchant was away on business of some sort and Summerfield had received the letter via his messenger, Badr. After some reflection, Summerfield realised that Abrach was a motivating factor for his writing. Quite apart from the fee he received, it was the contact with the man and his personality which gave Summerfield his belief in his work. Abrach needed him and thanks to him, Summerfield had received recognition. But now, since that first, simple reply, Summerfield felt uncomfortable. On the one hand, there was his patron with whom he had fostered a friendly and working relationship. On the other, a woman he hadn’t even seen but whose words had given him a glimpse of her heart, of her character. She had become real. Those twenty or so words had told him something much more. Beyond them, inside them, there was courage and a hoping heart. There was vulnerability. She had placed herself at the mercy of her correspondent, of him. And the options now lying open to him required reflection, for the reply had made Summerfield hesitate. Was it his own fear? What would happen to her? And Abrach—what would there be in all this for him? He looked out over the roof tops to the distant outline of the Atlas Mountains, a deep purple against the deep blue of the sky. He was in a position of power. The worm—a horrible word, but it was the first to come to his mind—had already wriggled into her heart and mind and any path forward would lead to upheaval of some sort. Should he opt for the lesser pain and terminate his contract with Abrach now? Should he go on with it?