by Tom Gamble
Summerfield asked Badr to wait while he penned a letter in reply. Such correspondence required no great thought and in thirty minutes the job was done.
I thank you for your letter and my deepest regret for not having had the possibility to answer sooner, though the words that I now write have been in my mind and on my lips every day.
Even if I do feel at times so very close to you, you are correct in assuming that I do not belong to your entourage. For the present, I must remain what you described as a mystery and my apologies if this causes any discomfort. It is, however, a momentary necessity.
Be assured that the time will come for us to meet—I greatly desire this. However, in reply to your questions, I can tell you that I am a reasonably wealthy man, having succeeded in my professional vocation and possessing a good education. I will also add that I am older than yourself and a man of honour.
You seem surprised at having been chosen, and this invokes a certain surprise on my part, too: for know that your beauty is absolute and that my choice knows no doubt. Finally, with respect for your request for a photograph, I ask you to keep the image of me that you yourself have made—it is what your heart has defined, in all clarity, and is the clearest of pictures.
I wish you well and encourage you in your studies. I shall write again soon.
Warmly and sincerely yours.
When finally Summerfield sealed the letter in an envelope and handed it across, Badr looked at him strangely. There was the trace of a frown on his face.
‘Yes? Is there something wrong, Badr?’ said Summerfield, his voice betraying a sense of irritation.
‘You have just shown what is wrong,’ replied Badr. ‘I detect reticence in your voice, anger in your body.’
‘Rubbish,’ said Summerfield, curtly, feeling anger now at himself.
‘You are troubled, Mr Summerfield.’
‘I still feel the pain from the gendarme’s stick,’ answered Summerfield. ‘And how many times must I tell you, Badr—my name is Harry! Go now—give this text to our patron.’ Badr hid the letter carefully away inside his shirt and gave a wry smile. He was about to leave, when he turned at the door.
‘Académie des Jeunes Demoiselles de Sainte Suzanne de Marrakesh,’ he said, as though replying to a question.
Summerfield raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t ask anything, Badr.’
‘Ah,’ said the young man, distantly, glancing to the floor and then straight into Summerfield’s eyes. ‘Then it was written that I should say it. Please—Harry Summerfield—be discreet.’
Summerfield stared back into the young man’s steady gaze and nodded.
The square before the Académie was deserted when Summerfield arrived. A large clock on the ornate central façade chimed seven a.m. The sky was milky white and it would surely rain.
Summerfield, dressed in some clothes that Badr had given him, sat down on the kerb some fifty yards from the main gates and waited. His arm was still strapped and hidden inside his loose-fitting shirt, making him look as though he were an amputee. Through the fragrance of the thick grass of the lawn in the middle of the square and the nearby orange groves, an occasional waft of sweat rose up from the clothes. Sitting with hunched knees, he drew his headscarf around him, covering his lower face and nose and waited.
In his pocket, he had a message. His message, written almost three weeks ago upon reading her first simple line. The night before he had dreamt of the moment he would see her. He would take her aside, unveil his face and hand over the message. It was a wild, illogical scene he had invented and he knew it would never happen like that. But still, upon leaving his lodgings, he had slipped the message into a hopeful pocket. One never knew.
Towards seven-thirty, an old man appeared, teetering on his twisted limbs and sat down with some difficulty in front of the large wrought-iron gates that Summerfield noticed were padlocked together. On the other side of the warped gates a nun appeared, a rope in her hands. But far from telling the beggar to leave, she unlocked the gates and promptly wound the rope around the useless lock and handed the ends to the old man. She made a quick prayer with clasped hands, the old man nodded and gave the Muslim gesture of salutation in return. Once gone, the old man settled himself comfortably on his haunches, glanced around him and spotted Summerfield. For a few seconds, the old man remained immobile. Could he be blind, too, thought Summerfield and felt a little uneasy. Perhaps he had taken him for a rival. At last the old man gave him a nod and Summerfield returned it with a vague gesture of his free arm.
Ten or so minutes later a woman appeared, dressed in a dark brown coat and ankle-length dress, probably an external teacher and Summerfield witnessed the first in a series of strange ceremonies the old man was to undertake until the bell rang for lessons an hour later: the woman stopped, bent slightly and handed the man a morsel of bread which he deftly stored away in a pocket of his clothes. The words Dieu vous bénisse—God bless you—reached Summerfield from across the silent square, probably the only words of French the old man knew. Upon this, the old man slackened the loose knot on the length of rope, the gates drew open, the woman went inside and the old man immediately tied the knot again and pulled the gates shut. From his viewpoint, Summerfield frowned. Why on earth didn’t they just leave the gates open, he wondered. It was at that point, that the first drop of rain splattered onto his hand.
It was raining steadily when the students of the Académie began to arrive, first in ones and twos and then in clusters until the flow was constant. Summerfield was wet through. He smelt worse than ever, the dampness mixing with the heat of his body and permeating the space around him with a pungent staleness. He hardly saw any faces. The young ladies of the Académie wore their hoods and blue capes or else were escorted by helpers holding large umbrellas. Cars stopped and pony traps arrived, jostling for a space close to the gates. Through the downpour, the old man kept slackening off the rope, pulling it tight and pocketing the objects offered him by the charitable young ladies—food in his right-hand pockets, coins in his left. Damn it, swore Summerfield silently, wiping the wet from his face, the old codger must be making a fortune! The bell rang. Summerfield realised his escapade had been fruitless. And—rather stupid. It would have been much more profitable to arrive in the afternoon and watch the students coming out of the building, face on. Foul-smelling, sloshing about in the muddy street, he made his way back to the main avenue and hailed a calash.
Freshly washed and in his own local clothes—clean apart from a brownish stain on the left shoulder, vestige of his wounds—he returned in the afternoon and took up position. Again the old man was there at the gates. Had he remained, wondered Summerfield? They exchanged looks again and the old man gave him a gummy smile which carried, thought Summerfield, much smugness. At least there would be no more rain.
At five o’clock the square filled with awaiting transport. There was even a bus. The bell rang and the students flooded out. This time, instinct made Summerfield move closer and he studied the faces from a reasonable distance.
His mind had formed an idea of who he was searching for. Neither tall, nor petite, Abrach had said. Extremely pretty. Dark hair and brown eyes. Graceful—like a gazelle. Different maybe. He was searching for someone who stood out from the rest. Summerfield could feel his mind calculating as he passed from face to face—no, no, no not that one, ye…no, neither!
And then he saw her—the young woman. Dark hair, slightly wavy, too far to clearly see her eyes but probably dark, too. Smiling, laughing with a group of friends. She had a special way of moving, conscious of her limbs and free flowing. Confident and beautiful, said Summerfield to himself—could it be her? Summerfield’s heart juddered and he felt himself stepping forward. He wanted it to be her. The little group chatted loudly. The young woman said something and the others laughed and someone said ‘Oh, Sarah!’ Her name, thought Summerfield triumphantly. And then again, the nagging uncertainty—could it be her? He began to walk parallel to them at a distance of some twen
ty yards, luckily none of them yet sparing him a glance. And then a car drew up and a young man stepped out. The little group halted. The young man approached, black hair gummed back, wearing beige slacks and a blazer—rather debonair. He stooped forward and kissed three of them on the cheeks and then, in a gesture that made Summerfield wince with surprise, he kissed the young woman—Sarah—on the lips. Her friends whooped and the man took her forearm and pulled her away towards the car. Summerfield felt as though he wanted to shout out and checked himself. What a fool! What a stupid fool! Just then he caught another regard—the glaring, questioning eyes of a gendarme standing directly opposite him. Summerfield faltered and stopped. The officer flicked his head and Summerfield, now feeling worse than he had that stinking morning, walked away.
It was very late before Summerfield managed to rid himself of his sourness. It was a mark of just how unreasonable his heart had become, his mind jumping to wild conclusions. First, that it was indeed her—the one. How could he possibly be sure? And secondly, if it was indeed her, that the young woman should not already have a man in her life—for indeed, none of her correspondence had ever mentioned the word love. Lastly, if it were her, why indeed should he have expected her to notice him? Summerfield returned suddenly and sharply back to the reality of things. He sighed and fished for a cigarette, tossing the match in disgust out of the window. He was a foreigner, rather a strange bird at that, and employed by a patron to write text and nothing else—he should expect nothing, especially from this dangerous game. Hoping he had found her was only making his spirits worse. The sooner he got it over and done with, the sooner he could be free to move on.
16
Jim Wilding arrived in the last week of March, 1939. Summerfield met him on the very platform he’d seen him off on, almost eight months before. They shook hands vigorously. He had changed, toughened somehow. Wilding’s face and arms were burnt a dark brown, his skin leathery and he looked older. He had also lost weight.
‘You’ll fatten up in Marrakesh,’ joked Summerfield and Wilding quipped back.
‘You too, Harry—you look as though you haven’t eaten meat in days.’
Summerfield laughed. Come to think of it, he hadn’t.
They hailed a taxi, an old Ford pick up with a cabin salvaged from a calash bolted to the back, and headed towards the hotel. Wilding couldn’t prevent himself from craning his neck and staring at the city.
‘It’s civilisation, Harry—I’m not used to it. This is luxury compared to where I’ve been.’
‘I’ll show you my place sometime,’ answered Summerfield. ‘It’s an eye-opener, Jim.’
‘Sure it is,’ said Wilding, leaning out of the window to view a flowerbed and its luxuriant foliage. ‘But at least there’s colours—and people. God dammed, I nearly went nuts out there. The only things I had to talk to most of the time were a camel and a Bedouin.’
‘Tuareg, Jim—they call ‘em Tuaregs, here. Bedouins are from Arabia.’
‘And the most communicative was the camel!’ continued Wilding. ‘I even ended up asking him for his opinion.’ He sat back in his chair and beamed. Summerfield saw that Wilding was a happy man and it made him feel good too—and to speak in English after so long: that was a relief. ‘You haven’t changed, Harry—at least not in character,’ said Wilding, studying him. ‘Harry—I’m really glad to see you again.’
Summerfield smiled. ‘We’ve got lots to talk about, Jim. I think we’ll both see how much we’ve really changed.’
The hotel made Summerfield hesitate. He stopped in the entrance lobby, feeling somehow foreign, almost unwanted. Wilding continued walking, then realising, turned back. Summerfield was standing, gazing up at the ornate ceiling with its electric fan and brass trappings, overcome by the luxury of it all.
‘Yep—me too,’ grinned Wilding. ‘You know—most of all, I haven’t slept in a real bed for almost seven months. I’m afraid I’ll never wake up once I’m in it.’
‘I feel a bit strange,’ said Summerfield, distantly.
‘Well you won’t after a drink or two. C’mon—that’s something else I missed out on.’
They sat in the hotel bar, in leather seats that neither of them could get used to. The taste of cold beer was acrid, dry. Quaintly, Summerfield’s first reaction was that he didn’t like it. Wilding must have noticed his grimace, for he raised his glass and grinned.
‘Remember that beer in Gibraltar, Harry?’ Summerfield grunted. ‘Seems like a lifetime ago.’
‘And Spain,’ added Summerfield. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t enrolled. Things have completely turned round.’
‘I read a rag about a week ago,’ said Wilding. ‘They said Catalonia was on the point of being attacked.’
‘Attacked? Good God, it’s been overrun—a month ago. That and the Basque territory. It looks pretty desperate, Jim.’
‘Well—at least it’ll bring an end to the killing, Harry. As for the wider effects, coming back I overheard people talking about Germany. Couldn’t understand the French but for a few words, but I think I got the gist of things.’
Summerfield nodded. ‘Everyone’s gearing up for war in Europe, Jim. The French are talking about mobilising their reserves. Hitler’s making noises about reclaiming lost land in Poland.’
‘They’d be idiots if they thought war was the answer.’
‘Right enough. Problem is—maybe they are idiots.’
Wilding sipped on his beer, rolling it over his tongue and swallowed. ‘And what if they do decide to go to war, Harry? What about you?’
Summerfield raised his eyebrows. ‘D’you know, Jim—that’s a good one. I hadn’t even thought about it.’
‘Don’t blame you,’ added Wilding. ‘It somehow seems so unbelievable. Only twenty years ago they were butchering each other—you’d have thought they’d learned.’
‘I suppose I’d go back,’ said Summerfield, continuing his train of thought. He surprised himself. ‘D’you know—I really think I would.’
‘And fight for all those things you found so unjust,’ quipped Wilding, raising his glass.
Summerfield shook his head and grinned. ‘It’s home, Jim. I’d almost forgotten my roots being out here. Meeting up with you again has woken me up.’
‘And now it’s my fault! Harry—you sure are one ungrateful guy. It was me who saved your skin from Spain, remember?’
‘Now, now Jim—you only pointed me in a direction and, as they say out here, it was written.’ He raised his glass.
‘Hogwash!’ returned Wilding, grinning and they drank.
It was good to be in Wilding’s company. While Jim went downstairs to send a couple of wires, Summerfield took the first bath he’d had in six months. It was so soothing, he nearly fell asleep and it was the water filtering through his lips that brought him back from total submersion. Spluttering, he pulled himself up, climbed out of the bath and dressed. His clothes, the same clothes he’d first worn when arriving in the city, smelt foreign and stiff against his fresh skin. Surprising himself, he realised that he felt much more at ease in his Moroccan attire—the jellaba and loose fitting trousers. He looked in the bedroom mirror and shook his head.
Wilding came back and himself took a bath while Summerfield read the two neatly ironed newspapers lying folded on the lounge table. When Wilding finally re-appeared, dressed in a light grey suit and freshly shaven with his hair gummed, Summerfield let out a laugh.
‘Good Lord, Jim—the theatres on Broadway don’t open until ten!’
‘You better get smart, too, Harry—I got us an invite—news spreads fast around here. I’ve been invited to a society dinner and I’m taking you along too.’
‘I couldn’t do that, Jim—I’d end up making a scene.’
‘Just say you’re American, Harry,’ returned Wilding with a wry smile.
‘Well when is it? I haven’t even got a suit.’
‘No need to panic, Harry. It’s in three days’ time. And I can lend you a suit.’
Summerfie
ld suddenly gave a mischievous grin. ‘No, Jim—I think I’ve got just the right clothes I can wear. I’ll show you—see what you think of it.’ Wilding cocked his head and Summerfield continued. ‘But I’ll have to take you on a visit of my district first.’
‘Pleasure, Harry—but please, I’d like to eat good food tonight and get some good sleep. Buzz me sometime tomorrow.’
The following day, Summerfield neither saw nor heard anything of Wilding. He supposed the American was seeing to business, sending back reports to the States and his employers. Summerfield spent his time seeing to all the routine chores he’d left accumulate for the past weeks and when they were seen to, journeyed to the European quarter with its shops catering for the expatriate community to enquire for a suit. His wild thought for adopting local dress to the invitation had met with some resistance from his wiser self, but it only took a brief discussion with two tailors to discover that buying anything was beyond his means. Perhaps he would take up Jim’s offer to fix him up with a spare suit, after all.
Summerfield phoned the hotel mid-evening and after waiting a full five minutes was finally connected with Wilding’s room. Wilding, his voice slow and heavy with sleep, yawned into the phone.
‘Harry? Jesus, I’m sorry—must’ve slept for a solid twenty hours. What time is it?’
‘Eight,’ replied Summerfield. ‘I thought you might be attending to business.’
‘I was, Harry—serious business. My shut eye.’
‘Sorry to wake you.’
‘Naa,’ protested Wilding. ‘Good job you phoned. How about meeting up?’