Amazir
Page 57
‘Super,’ said Summerfield out loud, and bringing his hands to his hips. ‘I’ve got to start again all over, I suppose!’
He shook his head, braced himself and began once more to descend the slope to the village. He caught a few seconds’ glimpse of the tall, squat tower of the Kasbah—three years ago his prison—turned left on the path that wound round a series of huge, moss-covered boulders and exited onto the valley floor and an onion field. The earth was rich here, the pink turned to deep reddish brown and his boots took on the clod weighing down his stride.
Following the irrigation gullies, he came to an olive grove in bloom. On the branches, washing out to hang—great swathes of cloth in different shades of blue, ruby red and black. His heart beating fast now, feeling himself grinning with exhilaration, he cast away his greatcoat. Approaching the trees, he un-slung his rifle and backpack and tore off his faded army jacket, rifling the pockets for his belongings and stuffing them into his trousers. Then, walking up to the strips of coloured cloth he hesitated, sorted, then chose a shirt of indigo blue. He held it up, smelt the waft of olive soap on its rough hemp fibre, checked the size. Okay, he said, and wriggled it over his head.
Once again, he gathered his things. And then he stepped back into the shade cast by the trees. Looking up, he had seen her: Raja. Suddenly timid, suddenly filled with self-doubt, he watched as Raja moved away from an open doorway with a group of women and crossed the ground towards him. She was petite, still had that lilting walk which suggested a boyish character and carried the basket laden with dates with nonchalant ease. A white smock covered her, faded and grey in several places, and she wore a bright blue and red headscarf, the sequins of which glittered in the sun. She was talking and the warble of her words and the twitter of laughter from the women reached him. Raja, the talker, the clown. Raja the sweet one with her boisterous eyes. Raja the beauty with her olive brown skin and fine face. Raja now the woman waiting to be loved. Summerfield felt himself shudder—the weight of time and absence—the beginnings of tears, and he gulped them back, cursing silently, not wishing to make a show of himself. She was the most beautiful thing Nature had ever created. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forwards.
When she saw him, a random glance away from her friends, the world stopped. Her face struggling with an almost agonised smile, Raja suddenly folded up on herself and sank to her knees.
Summerfield rushed to her and bent down, enveloping her in his limbs. He felt her shoulders, her arms, the brush of her loose left breast upon his wrist. She did not speak, trapped between laughter and tears. He placed his hands on her cheeks and brought her eyes to his. They did not seek each other’s lips—it could not be done—and instead Summerfield teased away her headscarf to kiss her hair.
‘Habibi Summerfield—my darling Summerfield,’ she whispered. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
Summerfield held her to his chest, like a father clutching a child, and breathed the cinnamon, the musk, the faint nip of wood fire that was her smell.
‘As sure as the stars, I knew I’d find you,’ he said.
Then, clutching each other they rose as a gathering of children and the curious came. Someone shouted The Englishman! And Raja turned to them as she held his arm and said:
‘Summerfield, the Amazigh—the free man, one of us.’ And then, to him: ‘Will we have a house, Harry?’
‘Yes, my love, we shall.’
‘And will we have a proper bed, my Amazir?’
‘A bed that will be hard to leave, my wild one.’
‘And will we have children, Harry?’
‘Many,’ grinned Summerfield, squeezing her am. ‘And I will sing them Bobby Shaftoe to remind them of the English sea.’
‘And I will tell them of how silly and stubborn you can be.’
‘Raja!’ Summerfield drew back, saw her surprise at his reproach and then clasped the sweet little woman to him again. ‘With Hope comes Charity—will you not spare me some? I’d forgotten your beauty was born of both a fox and a dove.’
‘Come, my lion, my Amazigh—come talk to the Mullah. He will be very happy for he has had time to think of many great inventions for the village.’
Together they walked, under the dust raised by the running children and the harvest song that the womenfolk had begun to chant, across the pale pink earth and the irrigation gullies trickling clear and fast, the orange glow of the eve of evening and the warm, still air of the valley, their home. To the east, the steep slopes turned mauve and to the west, gold. It was an end of a journey, the closing of a book. Summerfield held Raja tight and his mind strayed back afar, across the years, the lands he had belonged to and fought through. How some good men had turned bad and others better men still. It was strange, he mused, looking at the mountains around him, feeling the heat of Raja’s warmth, how the present always seemed so—an odd word, this—so engaging.
Acknowledgements
Writing itself has always been an adventure for me and something of an enchanting process, where all the dots of a lifetime join up to create a text and a story. Looking back on this journey, I’d like to give special thanks to the following: my grandfather, Alfred Suckling for his wartime tales and inspiration; Joan and Tom, my mother and father, for everything that they were; Tim, Jane and Emily – my dear and adventurous children; Lydie Keo – my love and encourager; Azziz Radouk, Moroccan guide and friend, who led me to the real people of the mountains; Ben Mohammed Zoubir, Mauritanian guide and friend, a true leader whose adventures in the desert I shared; Lahcen Belahcen, a Good man, for his guidance and knowledge of Arabic/Berber culture; Ashaka, my cat, who provided much companionship during Amazir; the people and children of the Atlas – whom I keep in my heart; and finally – and not least - Simon Petherick, and his diamond, Beautiful Books.
Copyright
First published 2010
Beautiful Books Limited
36-38 Glasshouse Street
London W1B 5DL
www.beautiful-books.co.uk
ISBN 9781907616419
9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Tom Gamble 2010.
The right of Tom Gamble to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library.
Cover design by Ian Pickard.
Typesetting by Misa Watanabe.