Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘Extraordinary,’ offered Summerfield, a little lost at the brash young lieutenant and his odd report of events.

  ‘We’re about thirty per cent down on numbers—poor bastards spewed their insides up and just couldn’t go on. And I wouldn’t be surprised if the sardines finished by blowing up. Goddamn stench!’

  ‘Listen, Clanger. I hope things get better for you and your men—’ Summerfield smiled reassuringly at the American who was now eyeing him suspiciously—‘Really. But you wouldn’t happen to know where Headquarters has squatted, would you?’

  ‘HQ?’

  ‘I have to report in with some information we gathered. We’ve just driven in from the east across the desert.’

  The lieutenant seemed to ease down and his stance changed from one of are you taking the piss, Limey to one of respect. He tipped back his helmet and glanced at Summerfield’s insignia. ‘You’re one of those Desert Rats—thought you looked a bit local in that fez you’re wearing.’

  ‘Cheiche, actually. But—doesn’t matter.’

  As Clanger gave him directions, a few inhabitants began to appear timidly at windows and out of cellars. In the space of a few minutes, there was much talking and the beginnings of barter were underway. Summerfield returned to his jeep leaving Clanger, somewhat overwhelmed by the thickening crowd, to police the situation.

  Summerfield led his convoy back along the lines through the streets—tarmac now—towards the port. American engineers were busy laying telephone lines and securing defensive positions while columns of infantry and Stuart tanks, freshly disembarked from the secured port, moved up towards the front in the opposite direction. Native Moroccans, in twos and threes, stood warily on street corners, looking unsure if they should welcome this foreign invasion or hide.

  They passed the town hall on which the first American assault troops had hung a giant Stars and Stripes. Its façade was pockmarked with bullet scars and the impacts of tank fire. Several windows were black and burnt and a row of charred bodies—Vichy soldiers—lay to the left of a headless statue, watched over—as if they would resurrect and flee—by a Royal Navy detachment with bayonets fixed.

  Two more streets and then the telephone exchange building—Allied HQ. Here too, Summerfield saw that resistance had been stiff. The roads and pavements were littered with thousands of spent cartridges and not a single window remained intact in the street. Large, brownish pools of blood stained the ground and a good dozen corpses, covered over in tarpaulins—HQ staff oblige—still lay where they had fallen. To one side of the road, on the corner of the exchange, was the wreck of a Vichy tank—an old R35 from before the war and no match for the American Shermans. Coming to a stop before it, Summerfield and his men peaked through the curious hole punctured in its hull and grimaced at what they knew to be hidden inside.

  The hour he spent at HQ was fruitless. Once past the security check, there were too many people with too much to do. Finally, deciding to leave, it was then that Summerfield chanced asking the duty sergeant—a huge bull of a man whose helmet seemed three sizes too small for him—and received the answer he had been hoping for.

  Leaving his men to make their way to the port and stock up on supplies, Summerfield shouldered his Sten and proceeded on foot.

  A first bar had been ransacked, its innards tipped out of the gaping window and spilling across half the road. A second more modest bar, not so farther along the street, was intact. A small, frayed and faded parasol had been wedged against a chair announcing it was open for business and Summerfield smiled to himself—yet another odd and serendipitous event in a war characterised by boredom, solitude, horror and fear. He walked up to the open door, removed his headscarf and stepped in.

  The interior was cool and Summerfield was caught momentarily off guard by the dimness. As his sight grew accustomed, he saw that the bar was painted a pale green. A hastily made threesome of paper flags—US, British and Free French—had been pinned to the wall above the shelves of bottles and glasses. It was surprisingly empty, surprisingly silent: two navy officers, one British, one American, sat reading revues and sipping orange juice in the corner; a US Army captain asleep, with his head resting in folded arms. And finally the man he had come looking for—a broad-shouldered, good-looking, well-build chap in his early thirties, approximately Summerfield’s age and wearing the uniform of a major in the US Intelligence Corps. He seemed to be waiting, staring at something on the wall. Judging from the expression on his face, he seemed to have been waiting for something for some time. Summerfield stood and watched the man pick up his glass, study the contents and then finish it off. It was at that moment that he glanced up, his eyes a deep, bright blue—unfocused for an instant, then questioning, then widening in disbelief. Summerfield nodded slightly and felt himself breaking into a grin.

  ‘Jim Wilding—what the hell are you doing in a hole like this? The whole town smells like a ripe sardine.’

  They embraced, Wilding’s initial shock turning to loud joy that woke the army captain from his sleep with a cry. Finally, he ushered Summerfield to his table, called noisily for alcohol, and they sat, unable to speak for several minutes. Wilding looked in good shape and the neat cut of US officer fatigues gave him a debonair look, something of a cross between Fred MacMurray and Tyrone Power. But it was when he spoke that Summerfield really recognised him. That rich, deep warmth sent his mind back to recalling memories of Gibraltar and Marrakesh almost five years before and he almost felt tears coming to his eyes.

  ‘I won’t say we’ve changed, Jim,’ said Summerfield, with a little irony. ‘We meet up so rarely that it’s too plainly obvious.’

  Wilding shook his head. ‘Holy Jesus, what happened to you, Harry? Where to start? And me and—’ Wilding stopped and a look of pain entered his face for a few fleeting seconds. ‘Harry?’ He looked away and then back again, raising his eyes to look steadily into Summerfield’s. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.’

  Summerfield returned his regard, noticed the lines of regret on the American’s face, the haggard look.

  He shook his head slightly—‘I know, Jim’—and Wilding frowned.

  ‘There’s something for you.’ Summerfield’s hand went to his battledress, searched for his inside pocket and pulled out a tattered letter. ‘Sorry it’s in such a state. It’s travelled far,’ said Summerfield, his voice mellow. ‘It’s a letter for you Jim—written some time ago—from Jeanne.’ Wilding’s eyes widened. ‘She’s all right. Safe. She’s in Cairo.’

  ‘My God…’ Wilding seemed to collapse, his face muscles sagging.

  ‘She needs you, Jim. She says she loves you.’

  Two days later, Summerfield stood on the airstrip with Jim Wilding watching the Dakota going through the flight check. Its two engines coughed and growled and settled to a steady throb. Wilding picked up his kitbag.

  ‘Say hello to her from me,’ said Summerfield, taking the American’s outstretched hand.

  ‘I will, Harry. I’ll be forever grateful for everything you’ve done for her—for us.’ Summerfield looked down, feeling himself reddening. ‘You’re one hell of a swell guy, Harry. Completely mad, but swell even so!’ They laughed. ‘Gotta go now,’ said Wilding, pursing his lips. ‘Cairo, here I come.’

  ‘Take care, Jim. See you anon.’

  ‘Hey—Harry?’ said Wilding, turning back mid-way to the Dakota. He dropped his kit bag and cupped his mouth with his hands. ‘I didn’t ask—what are you gonna do now?’

  ‘Oh,’ Summerfield hesitated, frowned. ‘I’ve done my job. I’m going home, Jim.’ Wilding grimaced and brought a hand to his ear. ‘I said I’m going home,’ repeated Summerfield.

  ‘Where’s that?’ shouted Wilding, perplexed. He picked up his bag again, took a few steps and began climbing into the plane. ‘To England?’

  Summerfield shook his head. ‘No. To the mountains.’

  ‘Mountains? Here? You’re mad, Harry.’

  Summerfield grinned and gave a brief wave. ‘There’s Ho
pe waiting for me there!’

  ‘What was that? Hope, you say?’ Wilding made a sign that he wasn’t sure and gave a sheepish smile.

  Summerfield nodded and grinned. ‘That’s right, Jim—Hope.’

  60

  Many years later, in the near suburbs of Marrakesh, Achik Radoun, a plasterer by trade, was making the last preparations to a wall before lunch break. Achik considered himself lucky. He had a long term contract with a subsidiary of a French parent company with offices based in Casablanca, and at the end of every month sent home three-quarters of his pay to his parents and family. It was his third job for them, travelling south to join in the refurbishment of an old school building that was to be one of those luxury, five-star hotel complexes for Europeans holidaying in the royal city. Achik had never seen so many gold-plated doorknobs piled up in the storerooms, such an extravagant number of containers loaded with toilets and bathtubs so vulgar in their sophistication. It was all so very far from the traditions that had kept his land still wild and untamed for so long.

  Rafik, Achik’s foreman, shouted up from the overgrown gardens below. ‘Hey—Achik—time to stop. Prayer time then lunch, my friend—they cannot wait!’

  Achik shouted back and was about to leave, when what he took as a twinge of conscientiousness took hold of him. He turned back and found himself frowning.

  The room had once been rather small. Only two days ago, the breakers had knocked down the adjoining wall using sledge hammers and it now formed a shockingly over-sized future bedroom suite with its neighbouring bathroom space. Achik looked at the debris collected around him—the thick, faded green tatters of old wallpaper, the broken chairs, scattered rags of clothing, twisted metal, the broken picture frame that housed a faded black and white photo of an old, rather large, Christian nun. She had the faintest of smiles on her lips and to Achik it looked as though she were telling the camera she knew something that no one else did. It must have been her room. What had it once been—a monastery or something? A school? The place had been abandoned since the early seventies, one of the last vestiges of French presence in the great pink city. And now Morocco was growing strong, thought Achik. Strong with tourist palaces and electronic toilet seats. Things were changing fast. So fast that he could hardly recognise certain districts when he returned back home to his family.

  Again he heard Rafik’s cry from below, impatient but well-intentioned. And again, Achik turned to leave but hesitated. His eyes instinctively sought the only remaining job to do before he was to lay the plaster that afternoon: the plinth. With a sigh, he picked up his crowbar, leant downwards and with a sharp, upwards tug, tore off the fragile wood in one movement. It snapped loudly from its nails and wobbled free to come to rest in a small cloud of dust. Achik nodded to himself, pleased and then froze. There was something pale wedged in the slats behind where the plinth had been. He peered closer, stooped and pulled it free, his heart beginning to pound with the thought that maybe he had found a wad of hidden money. But no—it was a bundle of old papers. Letters, perhaps. With a grin and a look heavenwards, he stuffed the bundle in his jacket pocket and went to join Rafik.

  Later that evening, after work, Achik sat on his bunk bed, texting a message to his family on his mobile phone. He waited until the beep confirmed reception and then put the phone aside. He sighed—he was happy. He had eaten well. A good day’s work and now a well-deserved sleep awaited him. Most of the other men were now playing cards in the small rest area they had arranged outside the clutter of prefab huts in which they were billeted. He didn’t feel up to it. Not this evening. While making ready his affairs for a pre-sleep shower, he suddenly remembered the bundle in his pocket. He stopped with his preparations and, leaning over, sought out his jacket pocket and removed the papers.

  There were more than a dozen, he judged, all tied together with a piece of flaking raffia. He brought out his penknife, flicked open a blade and neatly cut it. The papers slid out and he hastily nudged them onto his bed covers. They smelt old and mouldy and the writing, in French, looked as though it had been written with a fountain pen, layers and layers of neat, precise lines. His fingers touched the letters, coming to rest on one that looked in better shape than the others. Prising it open, it ripped slightly at the fold and he held it aloft for a second before laying the flimsy paper to rest in his lap.

  ‘So, what could the old nun have to say?’ he said to himself. He squinted at the loops and lines and began to read:

  I would dearly love to kiss you, just once, and say: t’was I who writ these rhyming words upon a hook and bit the catch of love myself…

  Achik looked up, amazed and a laugh escaped him. ‘Incredible! The old devil of a Sister!’ He shook his head and felt somehow enchanted: Such a cold sacrifice for a life of loneliness, and such a hot heart that should live on…

  61

  He had forgotten that when spring came to the Atlas, it was said that God had forgiven their winter and blessed them once again with the purple buds of wild thyme, slopes full of tumbling blossom and valleys rich with the greenest shoots he’d ever seen.

  Climbing the paths upwards, his muscles burning and the sweat gathering in beads that rolled down his neck and back, arms and legs, the colourburst made his heart swell with something approaching a sense of complete attachment to the world. It soothed the blisters on his feet despite the regular scolding rub with the ground through the worn and unheeled soles of his army boots. It wet the dry thirst of his mouth.

  He made his way instinctively, not in need of a compass or a guide, certain that the valley was somewhere before him, another crest, another dip perhaps beyond. Picking his way through a copse of thorn bushes, counting another hundred and thirteen steps on a thin path through the stones and he saw the crest of his valley barely thirty yards in front and heaved himself forwards in a joyous, though painful scrabble to the top.

  Summerfield closed his eyes. The wind came to his face, cool and boisterous and he remembered. The valley and its smells—sweet-dry dust, the olive presses, musk and cinnamon, cumin and sweat, honey and the metallic nip of well water—came to him. The colours and the people, and those like Badr who had died and most of all Raja.

  It was not difficult for a man to get lost in a war. The battalions moved on and the stragglers, the injured, the deserters or the unbelievers were left to wander among the chaos of logistics and ruins left behind. It had taken him five months to find his way to the mountains. Travelling by night and early morning, he had swapped his officer’s Sten gun for a soldier’s Lee Enfield and kept it with him much out of Berber tradition. A warrior does not return without an arm, a trophy. In some places they had fed him, thinking him a liberator. In others, they had run, seeing in his blue eyes and increasingly fading khaki memories of the Legionnaires and colonial Vichy and the German detachments sent south to reinforce Pétain’s French. He had lost much weight and his hair had grown too long for comfort. Somewhere along the way, lice had found a home oblivious to the carbolic soap which as the weeks passed wore to a translucent slither and then evaporated. He often scratched. He let stubble grow. When he discovered the first few grey hairs of his early thirties peep through his nascent beard, he shaved. Thus he kept the rhythm up—four days’ stubble then shave—telling him of how time passed and how each ritual brought him farther south, farther east and nearer to his home.

  He opened his eyes. For several moments, oddly saddened, he could not smile though his senses were full and bloated ripe with what he saw. It was the valley—that great, wide, sweeping, winding cleft in the deep pink mountains that was home to the tribes that had adopted him, to Raja who had saved him, to his heart which had lead him on. He understood then that when the alchemy of happiness is so full, so complete, it simmers into the sweetest of melancholies.

  In the distance, he saw what he thought was the village of Zemghort, only the shadows of its clustered, pink wattle walls a sign that it lay nestled on the slopes. His own, Aït Itmolas, was out of view, somewhere belo
w him and hidden by the rocky outcrop on which he now stood. Little shapes moved mechanically in the distance—not the women in their fields but their donkeys munching grass. It must be somewhere near three in the afternoon, rest time—no wonder there was no one about. A yellow finch flew overhead. Gathering his greatcoat which he had used as a blanket in the winter months on the plains, and slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he set off.

  The outcrop proved hazardous and several times Summerfield slipped, grabbing onto the roots of the thorn bushes and ripping his skin. A third time, slipping for several yards downwards over the smooth rock, his heart beating with panic at the height, he decided on another path. Crawling right, crab-like, he made his way across the domed surface for fifty yards and found another path that led round and downwards to the valley.

  The first glimpse of the terraced roofs of Aït Itmolas, some three hundred yards off, fuelled his confidence and burnt away the strange, timid apprehension he had been feeling. Stupid questions, silly doubts, like What if they have forgotten me? What if they don’t recognise me? What if Raja has gone? Then, picking his way through a cluster of large cacti, some of which reached shoulder height, and stepping into a small clearing, he saw a small boy squatting by a pool of water in the rock. The little boy gasped and immediately stood up, a look of stubbornness and fear on his chubby brown cheeks.

  ‘Salaam,’ said Summerfield, cocking his head. ‘Labess—how goes?’

  The boy’s eyes grew wide and wild. He must have been no older than five. They darted to Summerfield’s shoulder and the muzzle of his rifle and then back again to his long tangle of hair bleached fair in the sun and his eyes, his eyebrows too having grown white and almost non-existent. Summerfield took a step forwards. For a second the boy’s face fought with indecision, then closed firm, and with this he abruptly turned and ran letting out a series of yelps.