Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  Once, when he opened his eyes to see Badr peering worriedly at him, he heard the young man’s voice say in English. ‘The war, Harry. France is on fire.’ He remembered muttering something stupid along the lines of ‘so I’m not the only one, that’s a relief’ and then falling back into darkness, a single sentence, permanently looping in his mind: on fire, on fire, on fire…

  Then one day, miraculously, Summerfield opened his eyes and the world seemed different. His head was clear, free from thought and torment. The first thing he heard was the twitter of a bird and he saw, from his bed of straw and linen, a small white-crested finch looking inquiringly at him from the ledge of an open window. It darted off in a single wing beat leaving a smell of incense in the air, a mix of sandalwood and cinnamon. Summerfield felt better, felt strangely real and strangely alive. And he smiled. When he turned his head, he could almost feel the presence, the warmth of another human being. It was the young woman, Raja and the grin on her face was as wide and ripe as the morning sun. She stretched her hand to him and touched his shoulder and he took it in his.

  ‘I remember you,’ said Summerfield, as though returning into a past so distant it seemed unreal. ‘Hope. Thank you.’

  ‘And you have a friend here,’ said Raja, smiling.

  ‘Badr—yes!’

  ‘So that makes two friends, Summerfield,’ added the girl, unable to pronounce his name properly. ‘Badr and Raja.’

  The girl’s words were simple, but the meaning seemed so important to him. He wasn’t alone in this godforsaken valley. He wasn’t hated. And two people, two foreigners, had stayed with him through his illness, helped him through the darkness. It was an unexpected gift.

  The days passed and Summerfield’s strength began to return. Raja informed him that he had lost a lot of weight, though couldn’t say exactly how much—something approaching four jars of olives. Summerfield accepted this—after all, a jar of olives was as good a measure as any other. Badr popped in several times a day, stopping with him the time it took to share tea and give any news that happened to have entered the valley.

  The news was indeed bleak. Denmark and Norway had capitulated. France was being overrun. British, French and Belgium troops were being forced into an enclave near the Belgian coast. There were heavy losses and on last accounts, the French were launching a desperate counter-attack near Arras. As the news came in dribs and drabs and Summerfield began to build up a fuller picture of the disaster, his mind went wild with worry for Jeanne. She suddenly came back to him in all the stark clarity of their last days together—her face, the voice, the way she smelt and the loving touches they had given each other. She became more real than real and he even called out her name, helpless, more than a thousand miles from her and the hell in Europe.

  For several days he struggled with this. Once again, his nights were torn into shreds and his health took an abrupt turn for the worse. Raja bathed him and lifted his head to water as she had done before. And then, as suddenly as his fever had returned, it disappeared. And with it the constant thoughts of Jeanne. Summerfield had let go. He had let her drift from him. Her face and her presence which had been so startlingly near simply vanished and only a vague and distant shape that was her, like a ship on the horizon, lingered as a permanent feature. In retrospect, Summerfield thought this sudden disposal incredibly cold blooded but Badr, wise despite his youth, told him it was pure survival instinct. He was powerless and his mind had decided to save his body by cutting her out of him.

  39

  It was unthinkable. The expatriate community listened in helplessness as day after day the news came in of the situation in France. It was worse and worse. With stunned realisation, it became clear that defeat was highly probable.

  Jeanne’s father was rarely home these days. An emergency committee had been set up to deal with the crisis, but there was nothing much they could do but wait for further news. Wait and pray that some miracle would happen.

  Jeanne was amazed at the pace of events. She could remember standing on the platform of the station ready to leave for Europe as if it were Monday. In the days that had followed the outbreak of war, Marrakesh had seemed full of soldiers. Where they had all suddenly come from she didn’t know, but she did know that her father had something to do with it. Full mobilisation had come soon after. French Morocco was to raise two divisions of troops and it looked likely that one would be sent to Europe. Talk of border skirmishes in Alsace reached them through the wireless and newspapers. British planes had dropped leaflets over Berlin. Italian troops were massing in Libya causing alarm in colonial Algeria. It was like a huge bubble that was about to burst. And meanwhile, Poland had been invaded and overrun in seventeen days, left to its own as the Allies hesitated, prepared, still hoped.

  Edouard had left for Europe, making Cécile a permanent feature of Jeanne’s daily life and her days were no longer empty, boring stretches. The expatriate women were busy. They raised funds for the war effort, kept a look out for German and Italian spies, knitted various items of clothing to be sent to French soldiers in Europe and organised rare-metals collection points. As April turned, Denmark capitulated without resistance and Norway was the target of British and French raids to counter the Nazi invasion. And during this time, Jeanne and Cécile shared tears, though both for different reasons. Jeanne’s love had already died, whereas it was the likelihood that Cécile’s would be killed in the ensuring weeks that sent her into despair. And others left too. Suddenly, the only men not in uniform were either civil servants or boys. And someone else. Someone tall, foreign, modern. Someone who looked so naturally self-assured. Someone who possessed a deep, meaningful and very listenable voice. It was Jim Wilding.

  As May came with the awful news they had all been waiting for—the invasion of France—Wilding had appeared in Marrakesh. He was taking a break, but he also was there on business before continuing on to Casablanca and Rabat. His government had contacted him to go north and feel out the French colonial authorities. And it was in this role that Wilding arrived in the city, meeting up with Lefèvre and Bassouin and the other leading officials of the protectorate. And it was also how he came to be invited for dinner at the Lefèvre house and how he once again met Jeanne.

  ‘The whole world is about to go to war again.’ Jeanne heard the American’s words resound solemnly in her father’s study as her mother, scrupulously dressed and made up, knocked and entered carrying the tray of drinks that Soumia would otherwise have brought into the room. Conversation immediately stopped. From the hallway, Jeanne peered in and saw her father’s look of irritation and surprise as her mother placed the tray on the table. There were the usual group of father’s colleagues—Jean Bassouin, Fresquin in charge of the post office and communications, Colonel Le Guédec and several new faces—French army officers. She saw Wilding, sitting relaxed and cross-legged in his chair. He turned his head, perhaps conscious that someone was looking in, caught her eye and nodded with a little smile.

  ‘Are you enjoying yourself, Mr Wilding?’ came her mother’s voice, full of concern for the American visitor.

  ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ interrupted Lefèvre’s brusque voice. ‘Now, if you would kindly—’

  ‘And you must stay a little to chat after you’ve finished with the serious talk,’ added Mme Lefèvre, unperturbed, darting the handsome American a reassuring glance.

  Wilding nodded. ‘With pleasure. And Jeanne—’ he turned slightly and smiled again towards the hallway. ‘Is she—?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ rasped Lefèvre. ‘Perhaps later, Monsieur Wilding. D’abord, nous devons—please translate, Jean.’ He waved his wife away. ‘Thank you, chérie—for the drinks.’

  Mme Lefèvre walked calmly out, closing the door softly behind her and caught sight of Jeanne at the bottom of the stairs. ‘You startled me, Jeanne! Did you hear? Mr Wilding would like to chat with me—us—after drinks. So charming, so American!’

  ‘There’s a war on, mother,’ replied Jeanne.

 
; ‘Is there? Oh yes, I was forgetting—for a moment. So nice to have a breath of fresh air in the place, don’t you think?’ And with that, her mother floated away, all lemon-yellow pleats and furls and with a hint of rose petal perfume in her wake. Jeanne watched her depart, an undisguised grimace on her face.

  It was two more hours before the men adjourned their meeting and another thirty minutes before Soumia led Wilding to the patio giving out on the rear garden. Under the shade of the mighty magnolia—Mohammed’s pride—Jeanne sat with her mother who had fallen asleep. Her mother stirred slightly when Wilding arrived and her magazine, Vogue, slipped slowly from her lap to the ground. A little moan escaped her gaping mouth, her eyes remained closed and Jeanne put a finger to her lips.

  ‘A pity mother had to attend to war business,’ said Jeanne.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Wilding, sotto-voiced and Jeanne thought she saw the hint of a smile in his eyes. ‘Perhaps we should talk elsewhere. She looks so—’

  ‘Silly?’ whispered Jeanne.

  ‘Peaceful,’ replied Wilding, shocked at Jeanne’s cheekiness.

  Jeanne rose slowly, taking pains not to make any noise and the two moved off along the garden path. From the upstairs window, Jeanne caught a glimpse of her father looking out at them.

  ‘He’s probably getting changed for the office.’

  ‘Yes. He mentioned he was almost living there these days,’ said Wilding. ‘By the way—good to see you again,’ he smiled and offered his hand.

  Jeanne took it. It felt very big and reassuring, a little rough. She supposed he indulged in manual work. She wondered what engineers actually did when they looked for oil and wondered whether to ask.

  ‘How is Harry?’ said Wilding and the question caught her off guard. She halted and felt a cold shiver pass through her.

  ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’ she said, turning to Wilding and almost whispering.

  ‘Your father mentioned he was unreachable. But I imagine you are in touch with each other.’

  A spasm of grief swept through her and she suddenly felt like crying. She wanted comfort in this American’s strong arms, but instead stepped back.

  ‘For once, father is rather right. Unreachable. Harry was abducted.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s been a horrible year, Jim. Complicated to explain. I was nearly killed—my father too. A local terrorist apparently. Then my parents—they found out about Harry and I. It’s—it’s been one disaster after another. Awful. I feel so ashamed.’

  Wilding’s hands moved helplessly. ‘Hell. I feel ashamed, too. I should have kept contact. I sent him a cable—must’ve been all of five months ago or maybe more. Jesus, how stupid and thoughtless of me.’

  ‘No,’ said Jeanne, shaking her head. ‘It’s not your fault. I should have tried to inform you, I just didn’t think. You were Harry’s friend and you might have been able to help. God, how stupid of me!’

  ‘That makes us both stupid!’ said Wilding, shaking his head fretfully. ‘But who took him? And why?’

  Jeanne felt suddenly quite frail, sapped of all energy. Her mind had managed to block out Harry and now, with Wilding, the awful memory of the events was back and tormenting her.

  ‘I’m sorry—I—feel a little ill,’ said Jeanne. ‘Got to sit down a bit,’ she said before turning off at a tangent to seek out a garden bench. She only just made it, reaching out to steady herself at the last moment. Wilding, following closely, took her elbow and eased her down. Glancing up at her father’s window, she saw that he had gone. Thank God—she didn’t want any more recriminations.

  Wilding remained standing, for once a little lost. ‘Can I do anything? Should I wake your mother?’

  ‘Oh, dear not that!’ said Jeanne, surprising herself. She looked up at Wilding and burst out laughing. ‘Excuse me, Jim. Please excuse me—I think I’m just a little nervous that’s all.’

  ‘Well I thought it was funny too,’ smiled Wilding. ‘I think she kind of likes me—a lot.’

  ‘It’s because you’re different. Something to brighten up the boredom of her life, I suppose.’ Jeanne looked timidly away. ‘And mine, too.’

  ‘It’s a nice compliment,’ said Wilding, cocking his head. There was almost a frown on his face, as though he were trying to figure her out without success. ‘You must be damn sad about Harry. An awful hard trial to go through,’ he added. ‘Listen. How about a fresh drink in town? I have a car. It would do you good to get away from your parents a while.’

  ‘I can’t. They keep me cooped up here—for my safety, they say.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be for long. An hour or so and you’ll be with me. What better protection?’ he added, mockingly. ‘Come, we’ll inform Soumia and I’ll leave a message at your father’s office just to let him know.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, but I can’t.’ Jeanne was adamant. She shook her head sadly and remained silent for a few moments. Pensive, she asked: ‘D’you think you could find Harry? Send out someone to search for him?’

  Wilding sat down and clicked his tongue. ‘I could try. Does anyone have an idea of where he might be? Look, I don’t want to appear glum, Jeanne, but there is a fair chance that he might have been killed. God, I hope not. But there are still places hidden away where they haven’t even seen a white person.’

  ‘No one knows,’ murmured Jeanne. ‘He could be up there in the mountains. He could be dying of thirst in the desert.’ She suddenly caught her breath and stifled a sob. ‘God, I’m so weak, so stupid. I’m sorry.’

  Wilding shook his head. ‘I’ll try to get a couple of local people to ask around. Don’t worry. I’ll also contact the British embassy when I get to Casablanca. Maybe they can help.’ He paused. ‘Jeanne?’ Wilding’s voice had suddenly become grave. She looked up, wiping a stray tear from her eye. ‘It seems to me you’re doing yourself a hell of a lot of harm. Almost as if you couldn’t break free from the thing. You’ve got to turn the page, Jeanne. No disrespect for you and Harry, but—things will start happening for the better.’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Jeanne. Her mother had told her the same thing, but it seemed somehow different coming from Wilding. She believed him. ‘Yes, you’re right.’ Again she looked at him and her eyes stayed. For the first time she noticed the lines on his face, his blue eyes, darker than Harry’s but good, strong and honest eyes. She felt like a little child before him, this big, knowledgeable American. She felt herself beginning to go red. Slowly, almost like an animal that had finally given up and acquiesced, she lowered her head and brought it to rest on Wilding’s chest. There was a moment’s silence. He was stiff, unmoving. And then she felt it. His hand moved. It came to rest on her hair. He was stroking her, soothing her and it felt so reassuringly beautiful.

  40

  Strangely enough, letting go of the wild and hopeless dream of seeing Jeanne again also killed any further thought of escape from the valley. For a while resigned, a sort of gloomy lethargy took hold of Summerfield. And then, one day, the heat of the oncoming summer waking him from his afternoon sleep, he realised he had accepted.

  He felt lighter, not entirely joyous, but definitely unburdened of his persistent and painful self-reproach. He was in a valley in the Atlas Mountains, God knows where exactly, and unable to leave. He had tried but failed, but at least he had tried. And in any case he was powerless to change the events that were happening a thousand miles away in Europe. He wasn’t free, but he was sure he had a friend in Badr. And he was sure someone had saved him, taken care of him and brought him back to getting to grips with life—it was Raja, Hope. And her heart was as big, almost as overbearing, as the great burning sun that hovered over the valleys. That was a sign.

  Time passed and Summerfield grew stronger, both physically and mentally. He began to laugh again. He took to sitting outside on a pile of cushions and skins, soaking in the sun while sipping tea, and soon became something of an attraction.

  At first the children came. It took them two days to get within talking distance.
Little heads began popping up from behind the rocks and tall grass, curious and hesitant before darting away as soon as Summerfield spotted them. It became a game. Little by little they came closer, letting out shrieks of fear and glee as he waved his hands with a shout. They were so close now that he could see their faces, and this was when the shrieks were replaced with almost hostile looks from the boys and the shyest, coyest of looks from the little girls. Unlike the Arabs in the city, their faces were uncovered and they wore bright colours of red, yellows and greens, resembling gypsies who roamed Europe in their caravans. The children stood together in groups of three to four and not knowing how to approach him further, began to sing, each group competing with the other and advancing closer a few yards after every verse. It was enchanting. When they had left to return to their families and homes, the strange, sad, bittersweet melodies stayed for a long time afterwards in his mind.

  At the end of the second day he was lost in a gaggle of them, mostly boys this time, having been put to shame by their sisters the day before. They surrounded him, smiling hesitantly and gaining confidence as Summerfield made them draw their names out in the earth.