Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘Delicious!’ interjected Jeanne. ‘Mother—have you tried Mohammed’s brother Abdul’s honey?’

  ‘Indeed I have, my dear,’ replied her mother, dryly, glancing up from her month-old copy of La Métropole.

  Soumia beamed a smile of gratitude that almost as quickly disappeared, to be replaced by a frown. ‘Young Jeanne,’ she said, in a low, worried voice—‘Is there any more news on that tictonic plague epidemic you mentioned? I’ve been speaking to Fatima and she thinks she read somewhere that the Germans invented it for their war plans.’

  Jeanne’s cheeks bulged with the effort to keep herself from laughing and consequently the pancake from being ejected from her mouth. She looked at her mother with tears in her eyes. Her mother scowled and closed her magazine.

  ‘Thank you, Soumia. I believe there is the salon to be dusted before father’s guests arrive.’

  ‘But that’s this evening,’ began Soumia and then, her mouth falling open, understood. ‘Oui, Madame.’

  Jeanne’s mother watched Soumia leave and turning to Jeanne shook her head. ‘Whatever have you been filling her mind with, Jeanne? You know how susceptible she is to worries. We have enough with talk of war let alone plagues. And tictonic—where did you get that from?’

  ‘In fact,’ answered Jeanne, ‘the real word’s tectonic. It’s a new geological theory that forwards the idea of the earth being formed of plates which, when in movement, collide to form the planet’s relief—notably our mountain chains.’

  Her mother gave her a disapproving glance. ‘And I didn’t, in fact, wish you to reply to that question. Especially so petulantly.’

  ‘Sorry, mother,’ said Jeanne, looking down at her pancake and grinning.

  Silence. Jeanne sipped tea. Her mother re-opened her magazine, studied it and tutted. ‘And what a silly idea,’ she remarked, looking up with her sharp, grey eyes. ‘If these so-called plates did move, then we’d feel it. Your silly theory surely pretends that we are, in fact, floating on a series of bits of land.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Jeanne, nodding encouragement.

  ‘Nonsense,’ replied her mother. ‘The inner earth is rock and fire, not water. Therefore we cannot float.’

  ‘Professeur Duchene would call that a limiting belief,’ explained Jeanne, unaware of the impact of her words. Her mother’s lips all but disappeared from her face, becoming extremely thin and drawn, rather like a morsel of wire.

  ‘I greatly resent that a minor civil servant should insinuate my beliefs are limited! It seems that what your Professeur Duchene is really doing is encouraging you to question both the truth and authority. I shall inform the bishop—who is, as you well know, Jeanne—the principal benefactor of the Académie.’

  ‘Yes, mother,’ said Jeanne, once again lowering her eyes, but this time through habit, that childhood fear. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘And for goodness sake, no more impertinence!’

  There was another long, uncomfortable silence, Jeanne becoming increasingly conscious of the sound her jaws made as she chewed Soumia’s pancake. She tried chewing more slowly and, after a while, experimenting with a sideways movement. Her jaw clicked dully. She looked up to find her mother staring at her.

  Again a sigh. ‘Jeanne.’

  ‘Yes, mother.’

  ‘The party. I’m not—something’s happened—you’ve…you’re different. You will tell me, won’t you?’

  Jeanne frowned. ‘Sarah Bassouin’s party? Political party?’

  ‘You’re doing it again!’ said her mother, her voice rising in tone enough to make Soumia scurry back out onto the veranda. ‘No,’ said her mother, curtly waving the nanny to go back inside. ‘I meant,’ she continued, piercing Jeanne with that gaze, ‘If you are in trouble, I insist that you inform me before it gets to your father. You may not realise, but I have protected you on many occasions, young lady.’

  Jeanne’s expression was one of regret. Again she apologised and this time her mother accepted it for real. ‘Mother—I would dearly love to be able to attend Sarah’s party. It’s probably one of the last times I’ll see her. After the marriage they plan to leave for Europe. So, may I go—please? With your blessing?’

  Her mother looked away and seemed to weigh up the request. She nodded and Jeanne expressed her thanks. ‘That conversation, some time ago now—strange and unfounded as it was,’ continued her mother, looking back—‘you seemed to question your roots, Jeanne.’

  Jeanne looked mildly surprised. ‘I had forgotten, mother. Honestly.’

  Her mother seemed to relax slightly. ‘We all ask ourselves these questions at some time, my dear. I suppose what we’re really doing is searching for our identity. Our real self.’

  Jeanne stopped eating and looked at her mother, suddenly overcome by a feeling of complicity. It must have showed, for a slight and whimsical smile crossed her mother’s lips.

  ‘And this I understand. It’s part of becoming an adult,’ said her mother. ‘Do you understand?’ Jeanne nodded. ‘But it doesn’t mean you have to deny what identity you have created—or that we, your parents, have created for you, including your environment—up until this point. It will remain and your new identity will be formed from it and keep the stronger elements of the former. Believe me, daughter,’ said her mother, so earnestly it almost frightened Jeanne, ‘I have done my best to ensure that the foundations of your future life are good, sound and solid.’ Jeanne flinched with emotion, though a voice inside her, curious, raised the point that her mother had not included her father in this. Was it simply a question of egoism or a certain bitterness on her mother’s part regarding her father’s effort in bringing her up? Jeanne started. Suddenly, her mother sat back and laughed, something approaching relief. ‘What I suppose I’m really asking is that you think about what is right and wrong. And if Edouard, our bug-or-stamp-collecting young friend, begins to court you, please tell me before anything silly happens.’

  That evening, her father had arranged for a small group of friends to dine with them. Jeanne found it hard to believe her father had friends. In fact, they were more work colleagues and other men of decisional importance in the ruling French community.

  Soumia, with the help of her sister’s daughter, Faïza, served a blanquette de veau, oddly and undeniably tinted with a little local flavouring—cinnamon. But nobody said anything. The wine was complimented, as though it were a person, another guest. Berber goat’s cheese replaced Camembert and dessert was simple, local and delicious—roundels of orange powdered with, again, cinnamon and presented with a sprig of fresh mint. The Poste et Télégraphe director, an over-jovial, grey haired bachelor named Fresquin, praised Soumia’s work and she blushed a fierce purple before scuttling off in her pointed babouches. The wives present discussed recipes and fashions, the men discussed new advances in technology and sporting events. Jeanne, as daughter of the hosts, was obliged to stay and eat—and be silent. Apart from an opening sortie into how her studies were progressing, she was quickly forgotten. A sign that she hadn’t yet been accepted as an adult.

  She didn’t mind. Instead, she seized upon the opportunity to study the guests. Indeed, now every time she met new people she keenly, though surreptitiously, observed them for any clues. For, filled with excitement at the very thought, it might very well be possible that her secret writer of words and rhyme was present. After all, how could an admirer admire her if he didn’t know her? It was a simple deduction, but nonetheless, one that seemed most plausible.

  She was alert, too, for any signs from the gathered men. Was there anything hidden behind that look? Why did Colonel Le Guédec, chief of the regional gendarmerie, look away so abruptly when she caught his gaze? What was the real meaning of the compliment that the director of the national bank made?

  But this evening, the search seemed quite fruitless. They were all so serious and all so old—and that particular thought repulsed her somewhat—that not only could she not detect any clues, she didn’t wish to either. It was her mother who, catch
ing one of the wives looking at her daughter looking intently at the wife’s husband, very diplomatically suggested that youth had other things to be getting on with than listening to grown-up chit-chat. Jeanne smiled gratefully and rose. As she left the room, cigars and cigarettes were lit and she lingered a little at the bottom of the stairs to hear the conversation turn earnestly towards the subject of war. At other dinners, the war in question had been the civil war in Spain. Now it had been forgotten for a new and different event. Apparently, her father had received a message from Paris. Hitler, that distant and funny-looking German with the little moustache and scary eyes, had ordered his troops into the Czechoslovakian border area that very day.

  12

  The preparations for Sarah Bassouin’s party were long, good-natured and rather complex. Sarah, quite apart from being recognised as the prettiest girl in the whole Académie, was also known as a natural-born changer of minds. It was a miracle indeed that she had clearly chosen to accept her future husband’s hand in marriage. Every one of Jeanne’s friends thought the young tax officer at the embassy, Chéri Henri as Sarah called him, must be a very strong young man indeed to want to harness Sarah’s ebullient character.

  In the week leading up to the party, Sarah changed her mind three times on the theme. The first idea was a fancy dress idea, that of knights and damsels. This was much appreciated by the young ladies until one of the male guests raised the point that the chances of finding a full suit of armour in Marrakesh were rather slim. Edouard, also present during the planning phase, earnestly added that the armour would pose two major problems: first, the discomfort of wearing a steel suit in the oncoming summer temperature—now often rising to 40 degrees or so—and secondly the difficulty in undertaking any attempt at dancing. The knights and damsels idea, after Sarah had joked that it wouldn’t make any difference since Henri always stepped on her toes in the best of circumstances, was thus dropped.

  The second theme chosen—a decision that lasted two whole days, was to dress up in roaring twenties style. It was Jeanne, seconded by Cécile, objecting to the fact that they didn’t want to look like their parents, who lead to the idea being discarded. Boring, the others agreed.

  Finally, it was Robert de Montpommier, the bank director’s second son, who hit upon the idea of dressing up in local native attire—Simple and awfully fun. And practical, too, Edouard had added—they could always borrow rags from their servants. And so the final theme was chosen. But there also remained the other and not altogether uncomplicated questions of food, musical accompaniment, last-minute requests for invitation from third-parties, transportation and presents. In true tradition, Sarah never managed to settle these questions before it was too late. But in fact, it didn’t that much matter.

  Sarah Bassouin’s house, as opposed to the vast majority of other expatriate families, was located away from the European district and close to the centre of Marrakesh. It had been Sarah’s father’s idea—himself of pied noir stock and having been born and brought up mostly in French Algeria—that they should live the atmosphere of their environment. This would, under any other circumstances, have been considered highly distasteful. But Sarah’s father was President of the Chambers of Commerce for the whole southern sector of Morocco, a much-valued advisor at the embassy and most importantly president of the Marrakesh Bridge Club. Nobody, not even those on a professional par, would dare to criticise his choice of habitat on that account.

  From the outside, the house looked bleak and daunting. A sheer, dark pink, almost purple-washed wall with several small, barred windows greeted the visitor. The entrance was a small, thick door, slightly lopsided through age and embossed with iron. It was here that Jeanne stood, in her freshly ironed, white cotton summer dress and holding a bag in her hand. Mohammed and Soumia waited in the calash, checking that she was safely inside before setting off.

  ‘I do hope Sarah’s new maid will like the clothes,’ Soumia had fretted, during the trip to the city centre. ‘The last time I put them on was almost twenty years ago. But you did say she was young.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll love them,’ Jeanne reassured her, patting the bag stuffed full of clothes. ‘And if she doesn’t, you can always blame me for having chosen,’ she added.

  The door opened. It was Sarah’s father, Jean Bassouin—another one of his odd habits.

  ‘Oh,’ said Jeanne, taken aback. ‘I was expecting…’

  ‘I always welcome my own guests,’ beamed Sarah’s father. ‘Do come in—Jeanne Lefèvre, I presume? Yes—I know your father well. Good with the cards—very regular.’ Jeanne entered and immediately heard the sound of voices from above, Sarah’s characteristically the loudest among them. She followed Sarah’s father through a cool, flagstone corridor and up a narrow flight of stairs. ‘Your first time chez nous, I believe,’ offered Bassouin, playing host. ‘My daughter tells me you’re a good friend of Cécile’s.’ He turned his head and Jeanne nodded. He stopped, looking mildly surprised: ‘Aren’t you supposed to be dressed up, though? I must say—the others do look a treat.’

  Jeanne hung her head. ‘I’m afraid my parents would have raised a fuss,’ she said, apologetically.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ murmured Monsieur Bassouin, suddenly looking quite regretful, though not, as Jeanne thought, for any inconvenience her parents might have incurred. ‘I imagine you must have quite a few difficult moments at times, young lady.’

  Jeanne returned his complicit smile. ‘But I did manage to sneak out some clothes in my bag,’ she said.

  ‘Well, that’s good, then.’

  ‘But please don’t tell—I said they were for your maid.’

  Jean Bassouin pondered for some moments then gave her a wink.

  ‘I wish—’ said Jeanne, before she could stop herself, but Sarah’s father interrupted.

  ‘They’re probably trying to do their best, don’t you think. You’re a very pretty young woman. Parents are sometimes a little odd. In fact, I’m quite sure Sarah would even say that of me. Come.’

  They continued upwards on the rough and winding stairs. The sound of voices became louder and suddenly they emerged from the gloom of the stairwell into a spacious and beautiful room, lit by the reds, greens, yellows and blues of a dozen or so Arabic lozenge lamps.

  ‘I’ll show you where you can change,’ said Sarah’s father, raising his voice, but it was too late. With a shriek, Sarah hurried over and grabbed her arm, apparently Jeanne’s lack of disguise going unnoticed. ‘Oh, well,’ said Monsieur Bassouin sheepishly and glanced at his wife for help. ‘Later, then.’

  Jeanne had never been kissed on the cheek by so many people in such a small amount of time. Some people she knew, others she instantly forgot their names as she was introduced. Not only Sarah, but her other friends too seemed in a state which Jeanne could only describe as euphoria.

  ‘Are you drunk?’ hissed Jeanne, secretively.

  ‘Of course not,’ giggled Cécile. ‘But don’t worry—I’ve filched a few drops of papa’s punch for later.’

  Jeanne was about to enquire further about the high spirits when she suddenly saw the real reason why. She could almost feel her jaw drop. It was Sarah’s fiancé, Henri, or more to the point, the friend he was leading towards her through the party goers.

  ‘Yes!’ wheezed Sarah, tugging on her arm. ‘If I’d have only known Henri had a friend like that!’

  ‘Sarah!’ gasped Jeanne, shocked by her friend’s brash hint at infidelity. But only a sort of cooing sound escaped Sarah’s lips.

  ‘His name’s Ludovic,’ said Sarah, as the two young men approached.

  ‘Ludo,’ corrected the young man in question.

  ‘Isn’t that a game?’ said Jeanne, suddenly feeling quite foolish for having said it.

  Ludovic cleared his throat, grinned and offered his hand. ‘How do you do? Forgive me for not offering a bise,’ he said, and Jeanne was struck by the sound of his voice, rich, mid-tone and polished. ‘I would only blush at such prettiness.’

&nb
sp; ‘You dog, Ludo,’ said Henri, moving close to Sarah and touching her arm. ‘But I do believe it’s our poor Jeanne who’s blushing!’ They laughed. Jeanne turned from pink to red to purple and looked away in panic. Oh God, she heard herself saying, and it might even be him. She forced herself to turn back and smiled apologetically.

  ‘I must say your costumes look—’

  ‘That’s it!’ said Sarah. ‘I knew something was wrong. Why aren’t you dressed for the party?’ Jeanne’s face filled with a hard look and Sarah immediately understood. ‘Hmm, Mater and Pater, n’est-ce pas. No need to worry. You’ll change later. Come—let’s talk to Cécile. She’s with your Edouard.’

  ‘Not my Edouard!’ said Jeanne, and again shot a glance that mixed both panic and apology.

  Ludo nodded at her as Sarah pulled her away. ‘Perhaps later we’ll dance?’ he said as a baritone parting shot.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jeanne, craning her neck and then he was gone. ‘Who is he?’ she asked Sarah, once they were clear.

  ‘Ludo is Henri’s best friend.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I see. Well, Ludo is fresh out from the Ponts et Chaussées,’ continued Sarah, her voice deepening with respect upon uttering the name of the élite grande école. ‘He’s working as an engineer for the railways.’

  ‘Here in Marrakesh?’ frowned Jeanne.

  ‘Unfortunately not, I believe. I think he spends his time between Rabat and Casablanca.’

  ‘It can’t be him,’ murmured Jeanne.

  ‘Beg your pudding?’ said Sarah.

  ‘What? Oh, nothing.’

  Edouard and Cécile were engaged in earnest conversation. Edouard was dressed in a striped pair of Zouave trousers, a waistcoat and a tall, tasselled fez. On his feet were an awesome pair of yellow leather slippers that curved dangerously upwards to brass-tipped points.

  ‘You look a bit Turkish to me,’ said Jeanne, critically.