by Tom Gamble
‘Wait,’ he said, feeling confused. ‘Let me think.’
She was silent, the fact that she didn’t ask why, only confirming Summerfield’s realisation that she wanted a clear and truthful answer in order to make a—God—he and Raja! The idea suddenly hit him like a lump of mud in his face.
‘And so?’ inquired Raja, her voice trailing to a murmur as she looked away. ‘What is your answer to that question?’
Summerfield looked across the melting whiteness of the valley to the sea of mountain crests beyond and then back to Raja. Was she anxious? In any case, she showed no signs. He felt as though a heavy chain had just been lifted from his neck.
‘In all honesty,’ he replied, talking to her half-turned face. ‘Neither my mind nor body show any desire for her. Jeanne left me many months ago. And she has a bright and happy future waiting for her.’
‘I would want one, too,’ said Raja, turning back to him. There was a look of almost apology on her lips and in her eyes. ‘My parents called me Raja, the Arabic word for Hope—and I do.’
‘Some might say that you want happiness too soon,’ said Summerfield, giving nothing away.
‘Badr loved you as a man would a brother,’ replied Raja, softly. ‘Sometimes I think he knew what would happen—that he could not marry me sooner because he knew his life would be short. He would give his blessing, I know.’
Her eyes became soft, then sad, finally turning to slits of laughter.
‘Especially to a very muddy, very dirty man like you, Harry Summerfield!’
She laughed and so did Summerfield and spontaneously they placed their hands on each other’s shoulders and pushed each other away.
54
The first days of February arrived and only the caps and crests of the mountain heights kept their snow. But if the air grew warmer in the day, it still froze the landscape at night. Summerfield would wake in the morning to find the ground before his home a rutted and dangerous scarring of frozen mud and sheets of ice. Food was very scarce. He hadn’t eaten meat in almost two weeks and things were so bad in the valley that the order was given to bake the mule dung into flat cakes, mix in a few grains of cereals recuperated here and there and use it as a substitute for bread. Having at first grimaced and baulked, Summerfield had finished by eating it if only to fill the vacuous emptiness in his stomach—in fact, it wasn’t that bad. Jeanne had flatly refused.
They spent most of each day together, Jeanne gradually regaining the habit of using words and although they were mostly bitter or sad, Summerfield was relieved that she spoke at all. Some of the change in her Summerfield understood as desperate relief—her periods had come and pregnancy, by some miracle, avoided. To get her active and away from her dark thoughts, he took her with him when he visited or worked the fields. The women found her curious, both beautiful and frightening and some even showed animosity for the things she had gone through, believing she was a bringer of shame and bad luck. In these cases, Raja or one or two of the braver womenfolk would harangue the others with a long and guilt-laden tirade until they apologised.
The worst was the evenings. Time seemed elastic with Summerfield sitting by the fire and Jeanne on his bed. He had long ceased to try to offer words of comfort which she only spat back at him. He could understand her pain. But it was more difficult to understand that she needed to unburden herself of her hatred in some way and that he happened to be the nearest, most available person on which to do this.
One evening they had a row which pressed faces up against the windows of the neighbouring houses. After resisting her anger for almost an hour, Summerfield had become enraged, searching in his belongings for a pebble—one of the two they had pledged themselves to each other with nearly a year and a half before—and thrown it through the open window into the night. She ended up screaming and Summerfield had had to step outside and huddle against the porch until she calmed down, embarrassingly conscious of the looks he was receiving from the dark. She repeated the word prisoner hundreds of times before she fell silent and Summerfield, shivering in the cold, imagined she must be feeling what he had felt during his first months of capture in the valley.
Only, technically, she wasn’t a prisoner. No one, not even the Kaïd, had ever said she must stay. If anything, she was a burden—an extra mouth to feed that only bit the hand that fed it.
With growing certainty, Summerfield realised that he would some day have to take her back to her people, to what she called civilisation. That she could not survive, mentally, or physically in the valley for much longer. The problem was where he could take her. The winter snows had cut the valley off from the outside world. His understanding of events had stopped at the German and Italian offensives in Libya and the summer invasion of Russia. No other real news had arrived since Badr’s tragic end.
As the days passed, Summerfield tried to piece together what he knew of French activity and possessions in North Africa. Going west towards the Moroccan plains or north towards the border with Algeria was out of the question: Vichy troops would be on the lookout for insurgents or any sign of Free French opposition. Going south, via Ouarzazate and following the coastline was equally as hazardous. Perhaps there were Spanish enclaves, though it was probable the Spanish authorities would hand them over to the French. More than that, even if they did cross the border and manage to travel freely through Mauritania, they would only arrive in Senegal which as far as Summerfield remembered had pledged allegiance to Pétain. The only possibility then seemed first southwards, to the tail of the Atlas Mountains, then strike eastwards across the desert near Zagora or perhaps the northernmost corner of Mauritania and Mali. After that, directly east, across the Sahara into the southernmost part of Algeria and into Chad where eight months ago, Colonel Leclerc had established his base for the Free French forces operating in Africa. It was a bloody long journey, thought Summerfield. He’d never been in a desert environment and thought that Jeanne hadn’t either. He also wasn’t sure that he would be able to communicate if they needed help. Did they speak his strange mix of Arabic and Atlas dialect? French, perhaps? And what about supplies and means of travel? And a final point was Raja. How ironic, he thought, that at a moment when happiness seemed to have blossomed between them, he should understand that it was time to go away. It amounted to her suffering another ‘death’, another absence and he was sure the effect on her would be devastating. Several days of pondering and lonely walks, at times giving way to fear, other times to logic, and Summerfield decided to see first the old Mullah and then the Kaïd for their advice.
The old Mullah, suffering from a cold and swathed in shawls and scarves so that he looked like a pile in a jumble sale, thought it risky but advised him to seek the answer in his heart and in God. Only He could offer Summerfield the best advice and a true course that he should follow in spite of the consequences that could arise. ‘It is only when one wants,’ reminded the old man through a fit of wheezing, ‘that things become probable.’
The Kaïd, Ahmed Youadi, on the other hand, was more pragmatic. At one point, the warlord took him aside in a private room so that they could speak alone.
‘I can see three reasons why you should go, Summerfield,’ the Kaïd confided. ‘One—by leading the white woman away from us, the French will have one less reason to attack us. Two—when the French do attack us, which they will, and soon, they will win.’ He shook his head. ‘We cannot stop aeroplanes and artillery.’
‘The villages will be burnt to the ground,’ said Summerfield, suddenly alarmed for Raja and her family.
‘I believe not.’ The Kaïd offered a sour grin. ‘I will inform them that the warriors who wish to fight will leave the valley and confront them at a place of their choice. I am perhaps a proud man and willing to die gloriously, but I have enough mercy and intelligence to spare my people and our history. It will last long after the vain few hours of a battle we cannot hope to win. And what is the use of you being captured here?’ Summerfield remained silent while the Kaïd stoked
up two pipes and passed one across. A deep, noisy suck: ‘And third—’ he continued, gravely—‘You have proved yourself, Englishman. You have helped us in your work and in your words, risked your life for us, shown your love for your poor brother Badr and also shown a certain tenderness for one of our women—Raja. It would break her heart even more to see you die or made prisoner here than attempt to escape and hopefully survive.’ At this, Summerfield made to talk but the Kaïd held up his hand. ‘The white woman does not belong here, Summerfield. Her misery is written on her face like a black banner flying in the wind. I do not want her here. She will bring us worse luck than bad luck.’ The warlord looked Summerfield directly in the eyes, making him flinch. ‘And there you have my final, true word on the affair.’ Summerfield nodded, not without a nagging feeling that the Kaïd was hiding something from his feelings, and returned the man’s fierce stare with his own clear regard. ‘What’s more, I will give you a guide—Moulay—a man who grew up here, led caravans through the desert, fought in the 1925 uprising and decided to return. He knows the ways of the sea of sand. And two mules—one for Moulay and one for you and the white woman.’ He paused, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke. ‘Summerfield—Harry Summerfield—I am glad we met. Now go and tell Raja Tizni of your decision. That is all.’ And with a wave of his hand, the Kaïd gestured for Summerfield to rise and leave.
It was early evening when Summerfield trudged back from the high walls of the Kasbah. The tobacco had made his stomach feel even emptier and he could hear it rumbling and grumbling like the distant approach of thunder through his shirts. He felt increasingly helpless. As though any attempt at explaining to Raja would inevitably end in tears and conflict. He wondered whether to attack the subject immediately or leave it until the evening, but was unable to decide. As usual in such circumstances—a typical failing that he recognised—unable to plan correctly, he resigned himself to acting on the moment and adapting if need be to a changing situation.
Down by the stream, which had ran clear and fast since the beginning of the previous week, was Raja. As everyday, they had given themselves a meeting time and place. It was one of their favourite spots. For three months hidden by a slab of snow and only the sound of trickling betraying the river’s presence, the warming had caused the thick white cover to cave in along its course. Arches had formed from which stalactites dripped and disappeared smacking sunlight off the water. Like children, they usually sat and threw stones in an attempt to knock off the shards of ice. They laughed at the slightest grimace, the silliest of words. Sometimes they held hands. They made plans.
This time Summerfield felt unusually heavy, as though his heart had taken on ballast. It even affected his walk and his smile. As he approached her, the burden soured to a growing sadness.
To her usual black—still three months of mourning to go—she had added several blue and red ribbons, strips of material that fluttered in the breeze. Her skin had become bronze in the sun and snow and as he came to her Summerfield noticed—not without a pang of remorse—that she had made an effort to accentuate her eyes with kohl and blue shadow. She looked young and healthy and ripe with happiness. She rose and they stood for a few silent seconds at arm’s length, looking at each other. He held out his hand and touched hers briefly and it made him laugh inside how she looked guiltily about her upon this gesture, as though some elder might see the forbidden act.
‘Come, Raja’ he said, motioning with his head. ‘Let’s walk a little. I have something to say that is difficult for me.’
‘That there is no hope of ever eating meat again?’
Summerfield shook his head. ‘Don’t be silly, Raja.’
‘That there is a certain word in your head that trickles down to your mouth that forbids your tongue to say it?’
‘Raja!’ Summerfield laughed, unable to resist the playfulness. ‘And what would that forbidden word be?’
‘Oh, come now,’ taunted Raja, turning profile to let the wind mould her gown about her body. ‘Wouldn’t it be something beginning with L?’
‘You mean Lights?’
‘Oh! You ass!’
‘Letters?’ Summerfield goaded her. ‘Or Ladies?’
‘You snake!’ Raja’s voice was theatrical, that of a hurt little girl.
Laughing, Summerfield apologised and tugged on her arm which made her slip a little. She shrieked and this produced a further bout of laughter. When it died down, and their steps had taken them to water’s edge, and when Summerfield had cursed at himself in silence, he said:
‘Raja. Dear Raja—I am to leave the valley.’
She stared blankly at him, but when he didn’t answer, she said: ‘But this is not funny.’
Summerfield shook his head slightly and lowered his eyes.
‘I have to go away, Raja. I have to take Jeanne back to her people.’ He glanced up again, lips pursed, apologetic. She shook her head slowly, several times, unable to speak and he noticed a tear forming in her left eye that began to smudge her makeup. ‘I’m sorry, my dear Raja.’ Summerfield felt awful. ‘It is all I can say.’
For a moment, the young woman clenched her teeth, fighting back her anger. ‘If I were a man, I’d hit you, Harry Summerfield.’ Then her arms waved in a gesture of futility and she clasped her hands. ‘But I’m a woman and all I can do is cry or suffer silently or want to feel you against me. Harry, for the love of God—hold me.’
Summerfield stepped forwards, and against the tradition, clasped her against him. They were both shaking and he could feel her breath against his chest, rapid and fighting the urge to cry.
‘I love you, Harry—do you understand?’ she said, a whimper turning to a hiss.
‘Yes, my lion cub. Yes. Raja, I—’
She drew apart, her fingertips pressed against his lips and he remained silent, looking at her as she held on, her eyes shut tightly as though in desperate prayer.
‘I want to go somewhere warm, Harry. Somewhere we can sit and hold hands without being afraid.’
Summerfield shook his head. ‘We cannot go to my home, neither yours. People will see.’
‘Please, Harry. I cannot bear to let you go like this.’
‘The shelter—not far from here. And there’s a fire—we’ll be warm.’
Together, they picked their way up along a winding path made slippery by the thaw, past the sacred tree whose worship was a vestige of the old Berber religions and into an area that served as pastureland in the spring. Another ten minutes and they were at the door of the small shepherd’s hut. It gave in grudgingly and with a loud creak. Inside, it was dark until Summerfield, fumbling with his matches, found a candle, then another and lit them. Raja dug among the loose kindling lying by the small fireplace and with a series of cracks and snaps stacked it in under the chimney. Almost as quickly, Summerfield leant forwards with a another match. It fluttered then went dead. He struck another. This time, a dry leaf caught and then a small flame leapt from a stick and caught another. He drew back and stood by Raja, watching the flames grow strong.
They seemed hypnotised, but it was more through fear than the butterfly movement of the flames. At last, cursing himself for his childishness, Summerfield held out his hand to touch Raja’s arm. He turned and she turned to him. Slowly, surely, they edged together until the pupils of their eyes were big and black in the orange glow. Summerfield could smell her again, both her body and her breath. It came on his skin in little gasps, hot and smelling almost of gun powder. His hands moved down her arms, resting an instant on hers and then back again, this time pressing against her belly through her blouses. Her eyes were big and wide and wild, black stones whose strength and youth scared him a little and then his gaze fell on her mouth. Her lips were compellingly ruby, a full ripeness he had never seen the likes of and he was suddenly aware that Raja was beautiful and that she was somehow alive in order to be kissed by him. Their heads drew together, a twinge of electric as their noses touched and then they drew away, two snakes in a charm. Her belly, round an
d warm pressed against his hands, nudging him towards the slow, heady expanse of her unheld breasts. Through the cotton layers he felt their sweet soft rounded base, touch then not touch, touch then not touch. Again, he felt himself falling, his forehead touching hers, their noses, and their lips barely an inch apart, hot and almost painful with desire. They came together softly, hesitantly, pressing against each other, touching tongues that sent a shiver through his body. Summerfield felt that strange, powerful feeling of manliness enter him, the calm strength and assurance that preceded the moment before taking a woman. She was seventeen, six months away from eighteen and her girlish body turned woman teased him with excitement. Raja whimpered and he felt her hands firmly clasp his.
‘We cannot, Harry,’ she whispered.
‘Are you afraid?’ he answered softly. ‘My love, I will be soft with you.’
She gave a little flicking motion of her head. ‘No, not afraid. It is what I want. But I am virtuous and this means for me the greatest of gestures, the most beautiful of gifts between a man and a woman. Do you understand that, Harry?’
‘I understand,’ said Summerfield, kissing her softly. ‘Though the toughest thing to satisfy. You are beautiful, Raja and you cannot estimate how little you are away from being loved. I want you.’
Still gripping his hands, Raja buried her face into his chest and remained there, unmoving for several seconds. Finally, she drew back and smiled.
‘Come—let us sit before the fire,’ she said, leading him across the small open space of the refuge. ‘Take off your jacket, Harry and your shirt. Sit.’
As he obeyed, she herself stood before him, her fingers reaching for the buttons on her blouse. With a smile in her eyes, shy for a moment, she gripped onto her shirts—three layers of them—and slowly, not without difficulty, pulled them up, over her breasts that shook with the effort then came to rest and then over her head. For the first time, Summerfield saw the hard, round cheekiness of them, young and curving slightly outwards, the whiteness of them against her brown skin and the way they tapered to a point at her nipples, a deepest ruby brown, discs the size of dark copper pennies.