by Tom Gamble
The city murmured. The crowd still thronged in the Djemaa El Fna square to the east. It would only dissipate later upon midnight prayer, the main reason why he’d decided to come up and sit. Its long, quavering chant would send a shiver of excitement and curiosity through him and put him to bed to spice his sleep.
He studied the stars—Venus, the North Star, the constellation of the Plough, Cassiopeia. The moon was a crescent—the pupil in a cat’s eye. It gave the sky its femininity.
He looked west and sipped. The city lay in darkness but for one or two scattered lights and one particular edifice, a house perhaps—but a big one. He had noticed it before on several occasions, all alit, an exception. He tried to focus his eyes, played with the thought that a telescope would make a good purchase. In the daylight he had seen the house was topped by a luxuriant garden. It was the house of a rich man. Perhaps it was Abrach’s house, he wondered and the thought made him laugh.
It set his mind to imagining the young woman. She’s out there somewhere, he said softly. Will I ever meet her? Oh, how I’ve trapped you—and forgive me. I teased you like a fish, tying an exotic fly to my hook. I dangled poetry before your heart and snagged your feelings. And still I play, letting off slack at present and soon to reel in. I was a hunter, using cunning and trickery. Was, his mind had said. Strange. Yes, was. For the hunter is himself now hooked—on the barbs of you. I do not know you—and yet I know you are truthful and real. You are a girl, but also a woman. Your beauty is most probable—I have been told of it—but you are truthfully beautiful through your innocence and your trust. And—perhaps it’s the tot of whisky speaking—I would dearly love to kiss you, just once, and say: ’twas I who writ these rhyming words upon a hook and bit the catch of love myself.
14
She didn’t know how they ended up on the roof-top veranda, but it enchanted her. It was as though they were figures in a film: now they were here and then they were there, a different scene, a different setting.
She could almost see herself, walking slowly beside Ludo, his tallness, his presence. They had chatted about his time in Paris and what it was like to study at such a prestigious school as Ponts et Chaussées. But also, she had noticed, he had enquired about her own life in French Morocco. It seemed rather boring in comparison, though Ludo—his family name was Dekerque, a northern name and indeed his family home was in Lille—seemed to find it full of interesting information.
They stepped out onto the veranda and the coolness of the night air made them fall suddenly silent. A Marrakeshi habitat, the veranda was in fact the roof of the floor below arranged in terrace style. It was large, landscaped with many potted plants and trees and even had a little shaded pond in which goldfish swam.
‘Sarah’s father certainly has a taste for originality,’ commented Ludo and seemed to weigh up an inner question. ‘I rather like it.’
‘Me too,’ said Jeanne. ‘I only wish I’d had time to change. I look a little foolish being the odd one out. If I were dressed, then we’d look—’ she didn’t finish. Ludo raised an eyebrow. ‘The same,’ said Jeanne, flatly.
‘Hmm.’ Ludo looked amused.
‘Look,’ said Jeanne, trying to make amends. She walked over to the edge of the veranda and leant upon the balustrade. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
‘It’s not Paris,’ said Ludo, joining her and added, ‘but it’s charming. I suppose the exoticism is having an effect on me. It reminds me of a Thousand and One Nights.’
‘That’s Turkey,’ said Jeanne.
‘I’m afraid we didn’t learn that in higher studies,’ replied Ludo, his rich, mellow voice filled with irony.
Jeanne exhaled, feeling foolish. ‘Sorry. I don’t suppose you appreciate learning trivia—especially from me. I haven’t even sat my final exams yet.’
‘Beauty has no exams to speak of as far as I know,’ said Ludo, and glanced at her.
‘Oh, no—’ Jeanne shook her head—‘I’m not the beautiful one!’
‘Have you ever been in love?’ Ludo leant forward, seeming to surprise himself with his question. ‘Well?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jeanne, somewhat mysteriously.
‘Oh, come on! That’s an odd reply. An explanation, please.’
Jeanne looked out over the city, the glow of torches rising from the great square barely half a mile away, sunk out of sight in the clutter of rooftops and tinting the sky orange. To the east, the metal blue of the plain and the black horizon, the mountains. Here the sky was alive with stars. She thought of the poem, recited every word in her head. Suddenly, she was conscious of time and of her silence.
‘I was being truthful,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘There is…’
‘A young man—that Edouard, perhaps. Pity about the yellow slippers.’
‘No.’ Jeanne remained silent, then inhaled. ‘I wish I could tell.’
‘It must be something serious,’ said Ludo, lightly.
‘And you?’ asked Jeanne, changing subject.
‘I—’ began Ludo, drawing closer, lowering his voice, ‘I have loved, yes.’
‘Which means…’ worked Jeanne’s mind, mechanically.
‘Which doesn’t necessarily mean I have been in love,’ said Ludo.
‘And…’ said Jeanne, not fully understanding what he meant, ‘I suppose you have kissed—properly.’
Ludo suddenly laughed. ‘If that’s what you want to call it!’ He drew back, still laughing softly to himself, walked to the little pond and then returned to her. ‘Would you like to try?’
‘What?’
‘To kiss—properly, as you call it.’
Jeanne tensed. ‘That’s very forward.’
‘A man has to be.’
‘I see,’ said Jeanne, fixing, with great effort, her regard on the horizon.
‘Well?’ came Ludo’s voice, almost challenging.
‘I—I don’t know. The poems, the messages,’ she began, but Ludo had come to her, his hand taking her shoulder and gently tugging.
‘A man has to be…very forward.’
‘But perhaps I am in love,’ said Jeanne, confused. She heard herself, weak and pitiful. ‘For there are some stories that are born to live. And live they do—like stars.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I don’t know,’ struggled Jeanne. She felt Ludo’s warmth on her neck, his breath, his smell, Paris. His lips pressed softly onto hers, so much unlike Edouard’s and that was the most surprising, most enchanting thing. The difference—she had never thought it possible. A whimper escaped her and Ludo seemed to press harder, more forcefully. And suddenly the heat and her mouth aflame, sending shivers and waves through her body. Her tongue responded—it was like sherbet exploding in her mouth.
It was too—too devilishly good. ‘No!’ she whispered, her voice hoarse and she pulled herself away. ‘I’m sorry—I’m sorry, but I have a love.’
‘He isn’t here,’ returned Ludo, pulling her back to him. ‘Love me.’
‘Oh, God.’
But Jeanne did not have to give way. For suddenly a sharp drawn out yelp pierced the silence, echoing off the walls.
Ludo wheeled round. ‘What the!’
Jeanne shook herself and stood beside him. Together, they peered into the darkness.
‘What was it?’ she said, afraid.
‘Don’t be silly!’ said Ludo, almost angrily. ‘It’s—’
‘Oh, thank you!’ came a girl’s voice.
‘Good God—that’s Cécile’s voice!’ whispered Jeanne. ‘Whatever is the matter?’ And then she remembered—the bedroom, the three friends, the discovery. ‘Oh, dear!’ Another voice, this time from below, announcing the beginning of the fancy dress competition.
‘I have to change,’ said Jeanne, quickly.
‘And I think we’d better leave our friends to it,’ added Ludo, his voice irate.
Jeanne could hear the excitement grow from the party room as she changed. There were cheers, followed by laughter. She heard Cécile’s voice�
�back again—and then a loud hear hear—Edouard’s. She slipped off her cotton dress, hastily folded it—Soumia’s voice filling her head with reproach as she did so—and slid on the black, linen dress and red blouse decorated with cascading rows of tiny, gold-coloured medallions. Then the waistband, wide and black and embroidered with strange little symbols—fish, rings, hands. Finally, the tiny silk slippers, petite and supple on her feet. In the reception room, they were chanting her name. She checked herself in the mirror. The headscarf—she put it on. And—again she heard Soumia’s voice, the countless times she’d talked of her youth—the eye make-up, a local concoction made of she-didn’t-know-what. One last look. The perfect Berber princess. She wrinkled her nose at her self in the mirror, opened the door to the bedroom and stepped out.
The reception room had turned into a viewing room. A small podium had been placed in the centre whereupon each guest took turn in stepping up for appraisal. When she arrived, everyone’s eyes were focused on Edwige Janvier, the class swot and Sarah’s slave, now posing in her Arabian dancer’s costume and blushing furiously between the claps and whoops. Monsieur Bassouin, acting as master of ceremonies, invited the onlookers to allocate their points for Edwige.
‘Thank you, young lady. Applause, please, everyone!’ cried Monsieur Bassouin. ‘And now, I do believe—heavens!’ He stopped mid-sentence as his eyes fixed on Jeanne. ‘I believe,’ he began again, his voice a little shaken, ‘Jeanne is at last…ready.’
As Jeanne stepped forward and made her way through the onlookers, heads turned and the initial applause petered out into a silence. Jeanne stepped up onto the podium and gave a shy smile. She frowned a little, searched for Sarah’s face, which she found, then Cécile’s and Edouard’s, all three dumb with astonishment.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Jeanne, slowly, softly. ‘Is—is anything wrong? Have I forgotten to—’
‘You look…’ stuttered Edouard.
‘Yes?’ said Jeanne, beginning to blush uncomfortably. They were going to say she was different again to be sure.
‘So much like a native!’ he finally blurted out. ‘I would never have thought…’
‘What?’
‘Even your face!’ said Edwige. ‘Your skin, your features—most striking.’
‘The make-up,’ said Jeanne, feeling a surge of panic. Someone giggled. Then a man’s laugh. Ludo’s?
‘I say that Jeanne has no possible contender!’ declared Henri, in a loud voice, very much like an announcer at a boxing match. It was the sign for laughter to break out. It felt as though the whole world had erupted, ridiculing her. Speak to us in local lingo then! added another voice, mimicking an Arabic accent. Oh, Aisha! chimed another. Oh, Sherazade!
Jeanne stood on the podium, rigid, unable to move. Her legs felt weak. She began to tremble, her mouth twitched and then, unable to hold it in any longer, she burst into tears, desperately trying to hide herself behind her hands.
‘Move away—let me pass!’ It was Monsieur Bassouin, witnessing the poor girl dying of shame, feeling anger well up inside him at their incapacity to comprehend what he himself had understood right from the beginning. He stepped up on the podium next to Jeanne and silence suddenly fell. Glaring, he took Jeanne by the arm and helped her step down. ‘Sarah,’ he said, turning to his daughter, his voice calm now. ‘Put the music back on and ask nanny to serve cake.’
Accompanied by his wife, Bassouin led Jeanne to his study. He sat Jeanne down in his leather chair.
‘Pass me some water, my dear,’ he said to his wife. ‘And a handkerchief, if you please. You’ll find one in the top drawer. Poor young thing,’ he continued, turning back to Jeanne. ‘The fools. I do apologise.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Jeanne, her voice a whisper. Madame Bassouin leant over, smiling gently and handed her a glass of water. ‘I suppose I felt so silly.’
Bassouin sighed and glanced at his wife. ‘You looked absolutely beautiful, Jeanne. Believe me.’
‘But they laughed. I wouldn’t have minded, but they kept on and on.’
‘Listen to me, Jeanne. I am Jewish. I was born in Algeria and grew up there. When I left to take up studies in France, they laughed at me too. My dear wife, too—she had to bear the brunt of other people’s—fear.’
‘Fear?’ The word seemed odd and Jeanne looked up, not understanding. ‘Did I look so horrible?’ she said, sipping on the water. She laughed.
‘Not horrible, Jeanne—different that’s all.’
It was the fifth time that evening someone had said that word. What did they all mean? She stared blankly at Sarah’s parents. They were smiling, a mixture of sorrow tinged with regret. She saw Bassouin glance once more at his wife. There was something in their exchange she couldn’t quite discern.
‘Poor girl,’ cooed Mrs Bassouin. ‘Come now—dry your eyes.’
15
Summerfield studied during his convalescence, helped daily by Abdlakabir’s children. Once able to walk properly, he ventured out to the city bibliothèque and read the accounts of local history. On the sight of French uniforms he felt a wary unease and the fact made him conscious that the native Moroccans probably held the same feeling.
Marrakesh had been born of a mixture of Berber pride and ingeniousness, religious fervour and the will to unite. From the Roman barbarian, the Berber peoples had lived in northern Africa since the beginnings of time, a patchwork of tribes and territories. But towards 800, three small Berber dynasties pitted their forces and conquered Egypt, laying claim, as descendants of Fatima, the daughter of the prophet Mohammed, to be the rulers of all Believers throughout Spain, North Africa and the Middle East.
In 1070, one of the warrior chiefs from the western part of the empire journeyed across the Sahara to Mecca and received from his spiritual master the mission to spread the message of Islam. He returned to his native lands, stopped his troops on a plain within distance from the Atlas Mountains and here they made camp. They built a palace, mosques and the first of the 20-foot high red clay and earthen walls that would little by little form the fortifications of the city of Marrakesh, which translated as Land of God. He named his state the Almoravide confederation, one of his greatest achievements not lying in conquest, but in the construction of a system of underground irrigation bringing water to the city from the Atlas Mountains, a hundred kilometres away.
In the second half of the twelfth century, another Berber dynasty, the Almohades, seized power, advancing northwards as far as Grenada in Spain in response to the Castillon reconquista of the Muslim-settled peninsula. It was at that time that the Koutubia, the seventy-metre high minaret juxtaposing the grand mosque in Marrakesh, was built on the ruins of an Almoravide palace and the dynasty reigned for another century, masters of North Africa. They were finally toppled, under attack from both Christian and Arab crusaders, and definitively overthrown. The Arab invaders settled on the coast and on the plains, but would never succeed in conquering the Berber mountain tribes and the Berber Tuaregs of the western Sahara.
Later, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the Spanish crossed the Straight of Gibraltar and founded colonies in Oran, Melilla, Ceuta and Tangiers. Summerfield learnt that throughout the centuries of Turkish-controlled Islamic rule in Africa and the Middle-East, the kingdom of Morocco was the only nation to retain autonomy and it kept close links with the British, one of its oldest allies. This against the threat of French expansion in Africa, until the late nineteenth century when both Germany and France laid claim to Moroccan territory. In 1911, French troops entered Fez and provoked a political crisis between the two powers, resulting in an agreement that gave France the right to dominate Morocco while German influence was allowed to spread in central and eastern Africa. Thus began French rule under the General Lyautey, in the beginning co-existing with the traditional authorities and then inexorably more direct in rule, until French functionaries occupied the totality of the key decision-making bodies—law, commerce, communications, government and the military.
It was while in the library that Summerfield also informed himself on the French presence in the city. Two garrisons, three courts, a chamber of commerce, two sporting clubs, four banks, an expatriate hospital, the station, an electrical generating plant, a water works, a main post and telegraph office and several sub-offices, a town hall with annex administrative buildings and five schools. There were two institutions for higher studies catering for the French expatriate community. And it was upon reading this that Summerfield decided to visit them and search for the young woman.
Before he could, however, Badr contacted him with a message from Abrach. Receiving him in his lodgings, Summerfield thanked the young man for watching over him after the incident asking him if he would buy him some new clothes, his former shirt and headscarf having been soiled in the struggle with the gendarmes.
He liked Badr and was filled with a mixture of gratitude and curiosity for the young man. For the more he knew of Badr, the more enigmatic he became. Summerfield recognised some shared traits of character, though he was also aware that Badr possessed a certain hardness in his soul that Summerfield, however tough life had been by British standards, could never rival. It was something approaching revenge. And Summerfield also recognised that this singular demon spelled danger. The particular blend of education, religious belief and ideology in Badr made him feel uneasy. It was a provocation. He couldn’t help feeling—and suspected that Badr too—that this would one day lead him to an early encounter with death.
Abrach’s fresh instructions were that Summerfield now write a letter in return to the young woman. There was a list of points to be covered. There was to be no poetry—just simple, clear exchange. Abrach seemed to want to retain that certain distance, Summerfield reckoning that the big guns were being set up in readiness for the next round of messages. The merchant was once again using Summerfield to play with the fish—reeling in, letting out slack, reeling in, slacking off. The strike was only a question of time.