by Tom Gamble
10
The following morning, Abrach knocked on his door carrying a satchel full of herbs and local medicines. He looked genuinely concerned.
‘Can I offer you some tea?’ was Summerfield’s first remark after getting over his initial surprise.
‘Very British of you, Harry,’ said Abrach, shaking his head. ‘Sit down and let me have a look at your wounds.’ Summerfield hesitated then sat down by his writing desk. He drew away as the merchant uncovered his shoulder. ‘Sorry,’ said Abrach, this time grinning and then pulled a face. ‘Rather unpleasant,’ he commented, ‘And rather unfortunate. So you had an accident falling out of a calash?’ he offered, innocently.
Summerfield grunted. ‘Badr told you, I suppose.’
‘He was worried. I believe he witnessed the scene. And you were lucky.’
‘It was a truly French way of welcoming me to Morocco.’
‘Playing disguises landed you in trouble, Mr Summerfield,’ replied Abrach, reproachfully. ‘It happened to be the gendarmes who injured you—but it could have, given the place you were in, been the local people. So stupid.’ He shook his head. ‘I trust you will not go back.’
‘It makes me even more determined to,’ returned Summerfield, wincing as Abrach applied a dark, brownish-green liquid to his wound, ‘Though more the wiser.’ He noticed a fleeting frown appear on the merchant’s face and added: ‘I did not wish to cause you any trouble, Abrach. And I take full responsibility.’
‘Badr tells me you are greatly interested in our culture,’ replied Abrach. ‘That is a good thing—but done properly.’
‘I’m sorry,’ repeated Summerfield and for a few moments was lost in reflection. ‘I was shocked by it all. Why did they do that—and why so much anger and violence?’
‘They were probably scared,’ said Abrach. ‘Fear turns easily to hatred. It is an excuse, a way to overcome it. The district has a reputation. They could not have done that at night—they would not dare.’
‘So they were looking for criminals?’
‘Perhaps. But criminals in their minds also include those whose thoughts do not exactly fit with their own.’
Summerfield raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’
‘You see, Harry,’ said Abrach, finishing off by delicately posing a compress over Summerfield’s collarbone. ‘I know how to take care of wounds well. I didn’t learn this from my studies but from a tribal doctor during the revolts.’
‘When was that? I didn’t know there’d been rebellion.’
‘A long time ago, though in fact not quite so long,’ added Abrach, almost as an afterthought. ‘1925. Only thirteen years ago, the Berber tribes of the northern Rif under Abd El-Krim declared independence from the French authorities. To the south, in the Atlas, Moha Ou Hammou Zayani, the great mountain warrior, took up the struggle. It was the first time, for many of us, that we became aware we had a proper identity. We even had a political party, the Istiqlal, who claimed a constitutional government and legal autonomy.’
‘You say we, Abrach.’
‘I was younger and more impetuous,’ added Abrach, glancing up from Summerfield’s shoulder. That disarming smile appeared on his face. ‘I’m not sure I would carry the same convictions now.’
‘And what happened?’
Abrach remained silent for a few seconds, the time it took to tie a sling for Summerfield’s arm. ‘The war lasted a year, but the struggle has been going on for twenty or more. Like the British with their own conquests, the French authorities did not want to lose their possession. There was a bloody repression—much fighting in the eastern regions. The French and Spanish used mustard gas which they dropped from planes. In the end—unconditional surrender.’
‘And Krim and Zayani?’
‘El-Krim,’ rectified Abrach. ‘He was exiled to Madagascar. Moha Ou Hammou Zayani died in battle. And those who sympathised—I think you can imagine.’
‘And you?’
Abrach snorted a laugh. ‘Me? Oh, I was just an amateur doctor, administering aid whenever I could. I even helped the French, Harry. That is the work of a doctor. And perhaps,’ he added, introspectively, ‘I knew that such a role would give me a certain protection from either side. One has to survive.’
‘You did what was necessary,’ said Summerfield, feeling a certain sadness enter him. As Abrach stood back to view his work, Summerfield gingerly slid into his shirt. ‘And thanks.’
Abrach stayed another hour. They drank tea and business was discussed. Summerfield took two envelopes the merchant offered him, one containing his payment and the other, the young woman’s reply—the two symbolically separate, as if Abrach had taken pains not to tarnish one with the other. Abrach was pleased with the results and thanked Summerfield, suggesting a longer wait for the reply.
‘It has come to a point in time where a little distance is necessary. Love needs space to breathe—like a tree, it needs to push downwards as well as grow upwards.’
Summerfield shook his head and smiled. ‘I still can’t understand why you don’t write to her yourself. You have a good way of talking about such things.’ Abrach did not reply. Instead he questioned Summerfield on his feelings about the progression of events.
‘I feel the young woman in question is much attached to this exchange,’ answered Summerfield. ‘Week by week her replies are truer and clearer. I think there is solid sentiment in her words.’
‘Would you say love, Harry?’
Summerfield thought for a moment, thought of her and Abrach and also of himself. He suddenly felt an urge to explain to Abrach the strange feeling he had experienced upon reading her last message. But he didn’t. Later, he would analyse this as almost a reaction of possession—as though the young woman’s sentiments were his and not his patron’s.
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But there is certainly a deepening of feeling.’
Abrach looked at him and Summerfield felt perplexed. What was there in the merchant’s eyes that spoke almost of certainty? A small, almost imperceptible smile of irony came to Abrach’s lips and he spoke softly. ‘I will not judge.’
Summerfield opened his mouth—what did he mean?—but Abrach raised a hand.
‘Inchalla. And now,’ he added, rising. ‘I have business to do. Take care, Harry. I will leave you the medicines and if you need assistance, the family below will help. I have arranged it with them.’
After Abrach had left—from his rooms he heard the patron’s voice, rather low and oddly harsh (he hadn’t heard him speaking Arabic before) conversing briefly with Abdlakabir below—Summerfield leant over and slid the letter close to him. Clumsily, for his left arm was strapped to his chest, he managed to open it.
The young woman’s message was longer this time, a letter. Abrach had blacked out parts of the text, a measure of discretion.
I thank you for your gentle message. You compare yourself to a rough and unyielding stone though I would say, through your words, one that is precious, one that shines. Your words are a comfort and I look forward to reading every one. I do not know who you are or even what you look like, but through your messages I have formed a picture. It is both a physical picture made up of many different people I have known or met (please forgive me, please do not mock me) and probably a hundred miles from reality, but also a picture made up of feelings which seems to me truthful.
Sometimes I am filled with astonishment at the thought that you happened to choose me and not any of the other young ladies at the Académie, for you must surely have observed us.
Every morning and every evening I search the faces of the people waiting, looking for a face that fits the picture I have made myself. But you do not come. Instead, your messenger will appear, as if by magic (and such a kind young man, he is) and despite my questioning does not reply to my curiosity. My reason tells me you are someone in my entourage, though however much I reflect the more unsure I am that you could be one of my father’s environment. Indeed, I know of nobody who could write so beautifully. Therefore, y
ou remain a mystery. And this further incites my curiosity.
I would like to see you, unless secrecy is due and in that case, I would request a photograph or a least a description, it being hardly fair for yourself to observe without being yourself observed.
I wonder how much you know of me? Of course, my studies at — — — — — — —: my favourite subjects are Geography and English and I hope to pursue these at university next year, which would most probably mean returning to France…
Summerfield placed the letter down and sat back. So she would be leaving Morocco. It was in the natural flow of events, but the words still managed to sting him a little. He shook his head, feeling suddenly ridiculous. His job was just to write and his mind was wandering. An idiot you are, he said aloud, letting the words sink in.
After a while, his head cleared and he went back to the letter. This time his mind was clinical, professional and he read as though reading with a scalpel. And then he drew back. It had suddenly occurred to him that her letter, despite Abrach’s crossing out, was sending him clues as to where and who she was. Idiot, he uttered again and this time for a different reason.
It was all so clear. All this while he had been in the possession of all the information he required, regardless of her name. He knew her age and her nationality. He knew her milieu. He also had, thanks to Abrach, a rough physical description of her. He knew she studied—there couldn’t be that many schools in Marrakesh and the number dwindled when he put her age and background into context. He was also getting to know her likes and her personality. Much as she herself had concluded in her letter, he too could almost put a face to her words. Suddenly, the wild thought came to him that he could find her.
The afternoon drew on. Instead of sleeping, he was filled with restlessness and pottered aimlessly about his rooms, putting off the decision. Finally, realising that he was simply playing for time, he read her letter once more, this time with more distance, weighed up the idea of finding her. True, Abrach had said a little breathing space was necessary in order for her feelings to gestate and grow. He could use that time—a week, ten days, a fortnight?—to carry out his own investigation. He just wanted to see her. And maybe, he added, his resistance rapidly caving in, talk to her. Just a few words. He imagined the scenario—he, recognising her instantly, the way it happened in the films, walking up to her. And she too, filled with some sixth sense, or perhaps one of destiny. As in all great love stories their eyes would meet. He would open his mouth, but there would be no need for words. Instead, they would come closer until their lips touched. And then… And then? The last question, born of Summerfield’s logic, stopped him dead. It was as if a bubble had popped and splattered his face.
It was preposterous. He reminded himself of his age. He reminded himself of his background. He also, swearing to himself, reminded himself of Abrach. It made him sober. The drunkenness of joy slowly dissipated and he sat down on the side of his bed. He sighed. Abrach. Suddenly tired, he gently lay down. His shoulder throbbed painfully—and that was another thing he had overlooked. Would she be impressed by a badly shaven, battered Englishman without a suit? Without money? Sunburnt pink and probably malodorous, too?
Perhaps it was his burst pride, perhaps the hard analytical side to his writer’s personality, that made him focus, with clinical clarity, on his patron. A number of questions promptly presented themselves: questions he had smothered, unasked until this precise moment. He had always taken Abrach for granted—or at least their relationship: he had been hired by a rich Arab merchant to write love letters. That was all. His sole term of contract had been to imagine and to exercise loyalty and discretion. But what about Abrach? Summerfield stared up at the ceiling, studied a fly for a few, aimless moments and then pictured the merchant: late-forties, rather tall and thick-set, cumbersome almost. Clean. Good clothes. His skin quite clear compared to most of his compatriots. The neat little moustache, Clark Gable style. A large, strong nose which spoke of a solid character. Thick sharp eyebrows like two, curving blades beneath a protuberant brow, Turkish blood perhaps. He had intellect and wit. A changed man, thought Summerfield, judging from what Abrach had said about his youthful convictions and his now mellowed beliefs. The pull of comfort too strong for his convictions. Perhaps, rather a softer version than the truth, wondered Summerfield. And what about Abrach and the young woman? How had he first known of her? Why such an obsession with her and not a woman of his own people? Perhaps, the thought came to him, he already had a wife—or maybe several—Summerfield was ignorant of that aspect of custom. And what if Abrach were just realising a whim? A whim of a man who had succeeded, who was rich and needed the challenge of something he couldn’t obtain from his own culture? So many questions and no clear answers. It irritated him.
Summerfield’s mind turned to the outcome of it all. Until then, he had simply focused on the immediate goal—to trick the young lady to fall in love with Abrach. And now, he wondered just what Abrach’s chances of success were. For it was one thing to make someone fall in love with an image, with a dream—but what about after? It was a sharp and brutal truth that entered Summerfield’s mind at that instant: Abrach could not win. Everything was against him—his age, race, profession, language, perhaps even physique. In all appearances, Abrach hadn’t lent any thought to that aspect, for the merchant seemed certain of what steps to take and when. But then again, countered Summerfield himself, when a man loves, he is impervious to logic, the only thing of any matter being the quest to triumph and conquer. Love could be one of the bloodiest of battles.
His thoughts meandered, back to the fly on the ceiling which seemed to have established permanent accommodation in a slight hollow in the plaster, and then to his own past. He had experienced that search himself, several years ago.
Her name had been Elisabeth Thornton. And he had lost. Strangely, some aspects of the sordid affair echoed in the present situation: different backgrounds, different values—Elisabeth the sister of a fellow teacher. Both women were from a society family. The hopelessness of yearning for a woman he would never get. Perhaps, thought Summerfield, it had also been a major factor—quite apart from witnessing Orwell’s call for international commitment—that had led him to leave England for the civil war: just another way of burying failure and bereavement. He laughed out loud, ironic. It suddenly occurred to him that what made men pursue almost impossible challenges was in most cases just a simple obsession with proving themselves to someone else. Was he still trying to prove himself to Elisabeth Thornton and her family? Was his unconscious hatching plans to one day return and conquer? Summerfield again snorted aloud and almost as suddenly, a voice called up from below. It was the neighbour.
‘Monsieur Summerfield. Monsieur—un télégramme!’
‘I can’t get up!’ said Summerfield, irritably and winced. ‘Read it aloud, please.’ Silence. Summerfield immediately regretted his sharpness—he had forgotten that Abdlakabir probably couldn’t read. He sat up. ‘Listen—er sorry. Abdlakabir, I’m—’
And then the girl’s voice—Abdlakabir’s daughter—rose up, sweet, slow and uncertain.
‘Dear Harry. Will arrive Marrakesh two-five-thh at 2pm. See you soon. Jim—’ she pronounced the American’s name—‘Will-ding.’
Summerfield let out a painful whoop. ‘Choukran, my little princess. Thank you!’
11
A change had taken place and Jeanne, in one of those rare moments in life, was able to notice the change as it happened. The birds still sang in the orange groves. Mohammed, like King Canute, still persisted every day in his hopeless battle to turn back the sands from the garden flowerbeds. The piquant fragrance of thyme and savory still told her that here was her home and Soumia, dear never-changing Soumia, still bothered her with water and trivia and generally treated her in much the same way as she had treated her when she was a child. Nothing had changed here. It was Jeanne.
She held a golden egg, wrapped in the secrecy of her mind, heart and soul, and shared it w
ith no one. It made her walk in a perceptively different way—more upright, more assured. It made her look up from her school books and think about the unspoken—that studies were not, in fact, the most important thing in life and a way in which to meet all the influential young suitors. And, above all, it made her feel curiously super-alive. Aware of all things, living and innate, and aware of the life that each thing held inside it. Even trees, stones and sand had something to say to her—not a language studded with verbs and adjectives, but a language of truth, of noises and of feelings, perhaps even clearer than the spoken word. It was as though she had found a purpose. The word destiny often came to her, and although she couldn’t discern what exactly her destiny was, where she was going or even whom she would meet, it certainly felt as though she were living out the omnipotent word. At night she read the messages, especially the poems. Her dreams had turned from vast and restless to warm and known, as if her heart had accepted. And she waited.
Half-term came. Descending the stairs for breakfast one morning, her mother gave her a probing glance. Jeanne did not look at her as she sat down and waited for Soumia to serve. But she could actually feel her mother’s lips pursing with the effort she was making holding in her words until Soumia had left.
‘Good morning, ’moiselle,’ said Soumia, arriving with the breakfast tray. ‘Would you like a pancake—Mohammed’s brother offered us some honey.’ Jeanne nodded and smiled. ‘The hive,’ continued Soumia, a sign for Jeanne’s mother to let out a sigh—they knew what was coming next—‘was discovered by Abdul, who is, by the way, thinking of joining the Colonial Light Cavalry, the Méhari, that is, because he believes that his parents will sooner or later propose a whole series of not-so-well-natured, shall we say, young virgin brides which of course he doesn’t—’