The House in Fez

by Dianne Noble

  ‘I’ve enjoyed it. I feel like I’ve been here years, not two weeks. It’ll be hard when I have to leave.’

  ‘You do not have to go,’ Samir said.

  ‘How could… I’d need a job and—’

  ‘Of course you would not. You could help Miranda and Zina in the house if you wanted to. We would be honoured if you stayed.’ He looked at Miranda who smiled and nodded.

  ‘That’s so kind of you.’

  ‘It is not kind at all. You are family and there will always be a home here for you.’

  She looked from Samir to her mother then back again. Could she? Could she really? Was there a way to make it possible?

  ‘Think about it.’ Samir patted her hand.

  Portia appeared when everything was done. ‘How was the hospital visit?’ she whispered.

  ‘She looks well considering the huge bandage around her head and a broken leg.’

  ‘She must be heartbroken about the baby.’

  ‘I think they both are. Still, they’re young enough to have more.’

  Portia fiddled with the cutlery on the table. ‘And she still doesn’t remember the accident?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s going to be tricky when she comes home—she’ll have to sleep downstairs, and she won’t be able to get about for ages.’

  ‘When is she coming out?’

  ‘Don’t know. She… oh my God, look at all these people arriving.’

  Wave after wave of relatives arrived, old and young, large and small. Men in freshly-pressed jellabas and women in embroidered robes. Children darted, shrieking, around the tables, a baby wailed, and Miranda rushed backwards and forwards with dishes and plates and pots. And yet, when the lamps made pools of golden light on the tables and everyone had started eating, it all felt so right. Juliet felt a warm glow as she saw the happy faces. Family. Each of these moments was a bright bead to be collected and cherished.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  JUNE 15th

  Portia

  ‘Lord, this is endless,’ Juliet said, up to her elbows in soapy water as she washed the dishes from the previous evening.

  ‘Isn’t it, though?’ Portia took a plate from her, dried it, and added it to the towering pile. ‘All those people…’

  She heard voices in the courtyard and darted to the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of Samir, but it was only the carpenter, muttering to himself as he balanced a length of timber on a trestle. Not that she needed to see Samir, he was there now every time she closed her eyes. ‘Where was I? Oh yes, the cousins and the aunts.’

  ‘D’you think they’re all moving in when the riad is finished?’ Juliet paused to push damp hair back from her hot face.

  ‘No, I think it’s just immediate family. Brothers and sisters for now. The aunts and uncles will doubtless follow.’ Portia giggled. ‘Did you see Attila last night? Trying to lay claim to the pastries before the others could dive in? She looked like she was fighting for a bag of rice from a UN helicopter.’

  ‘I did.’ She grinned.

  ‘How many more pots have you got in there?’

  ‘Nearly done. Then I’ll take Hasan to school.’

  ‘You take him every day now.’

  ‘I enjoy it. He’s such a sweetie. Why don’t you come with us?’

  ‘I will.’ She suddenly longed for the sweet surge of sugar. At home, she ate chocolate biscuits every day. ‘Maybe we can find a cake shop open somewhere—Attila beat me to it last night.’

  ‘Okay.’ Juliet dried her hands, which were wizened and prune-like after their long immersion in hot water. ‘I’ll just go and fetch Hasan.’

  The little boy skipped along between them, one hand in each of theirs, backpack bouncing up and down. Only 7.20 and silence lay over the medina like a cool sheet.

  ‘Is he still wetting the bed?’ Portia whispered.

  ‘No need to whisper, he doesn’t understand much. His bed was dry this morning. I think now he’s seen his mum he’ll be okay. I did tell Samir he should take him to visit her, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  Portia snorted. When did any man listen? It always had to be their own idea.

  A few minutes later they arrived at the school where mothers, clutching scarves tightly around their heads, ushered their children through the door. Hasan turned up his face and, when Juliet had kissed him, looked at Portia. She bent and kissed him on both cheeks, felt the feathers of his breath on her face, then watched him scamper away after his friends.

  ‘Is it free?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘School. Is it free?’

  ‘Yes, for seven to thirteen year old, but not everyone goes.’

  ‘Do they teach them English?’

  ‘Yes. When they’re a bit older. French too.’ She glanced around, at the shuttered shops, the piles of festering rubbish, and wrinkled her nose. ‘Let’s try and find some cakes. We can start looking up there.’

  The farther they walked, the more heaps of refuse they saw. The number of flies increased with every step.

  ‘Looks like the street cleaners have taken the day off,’ Juliet said, covering her nose with her hand.

  An air of quiet weariness hung over the alleys. There were few people about.

  ‘Mind yourself,’ Portia said, flattening herself against the wall as a cart weighed down with scrap metal clattered past. When it had gone, they walked on.

  ‘There don’t seem to be any bakeries around here,’ Juliet said.

  ‘There will be, somewhere. It’s one of the five essentials: bakery, mosque, school, bathhouse, and water fountain.’

  ‘Well, there’s a mosque…’ As they came closer she stopped. ‘Can I go in?’

  ‘No, only women past childbearing age are allowed. And even then—oh look, there’s a bakery.’

  Juliet waited outside while Portia joined the horde of women, shouting and waving their money in the air. They didn’t seem to do queues in Morocco.

  By the time Portia had been served in the bakery, her clothes were wet with sweat and her stomach gave an audible rumble at the almond smell rising from the warm paper bag she carried. ‘Well, I’d love to break out these macaroons,’ she said, ‘but we’d better not.’

  ‘Why can’t we?’ asked Juliet. ‘Let’s have one now, they smell just wonderful.’

  ‘Because, my normally sensitive, politically-correct sister, it wouldn’t be the greatest of ideas to be stuffing our faces in public when nobody else can.’

  Juliet grinned at her and gave her a shove. ‘Well, let’s get back fast then, while they’re still warm. Which way do we go?’

  She wavered. ‘Maybe up there?’ As the days went by it became easier to navigate the medina. She still got lost—often—but always saw something she recognised after wandering around for a while.

  ‘Look at that.’ Juliet pointed to an ornately-carved wooden door bearing a brass knocker in the shape of a hand.

  ‘It’s the hand of Fatima. Keeps away the djinns.’

  ‘The evil spirits?’

  ‘Yes. Jolly useful things, djinns. They get blamed for everything that goes wrong, even things you’ve cocked up yourself.’

  ‘How do you know all these things?’

  She laughed. ‘I know stuff—stick with me, kid. Hang on, got a stone in my shoe.’

  As she leaned against a wall and slipped off her sandal, a faint sound of voices began to grow in volume until six men appeared from around a corner, chanting as they walked. They were visibly distressed. They carried what looked like a corpse rolled in a length of dark red carpet.

  She shivered as she bent to buckle her sandal. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  They walked single file through a narrow alley with dark walls smelling of mushrooms, then had to reverse to make way for a herd of goats coming the other way.

  ‘Hold tight to those macaroons,’ Juliet said. ‘Don’t let these goats get a whiff of them.’

  As they rounded the last corner to the riad, a piercing scream split
the air, followed by a dull thud and then another squeal. A child shrank against the wall as a woman raised a length of wood above her head.

  Juliet

  Juliet didn’t think, didn’t plan it. She flew at the woman, knocked her to the ground, wrenched the piece of wood from her hand, and raised it high in the air.

  ‘Whoa!’ Portia yelled. ‘Don’t hit her.’

  Her voice seemed to come from far away. Juliet blinked, looked down at the cowering woman, then up at her own hand brandishing a weapon. Her entire body began to shake. Never in her entire life had she committed an act of violence against another person. Dropping the wood, she turned to Portia, horrified.

  ‘I might have killed her,’ she whispered. ‘If you hadn’t shouted I think I would have done.’

  ‘She’d have deserved it. I’m impressed, Jules.’ Portia aimed a kick at the woman as she scrambled to her feet and scuttled through the open doorway.

  Still in a state of shock, Juliet watched Portia pick up the child. ‘She’s the slave girl,’ she said.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘The woman who lives in this house…’ She swallowed, then continued in a stronger voice, ‘Samir said she got her from a family in the country. She bought her. Her parents couldn’t afford to feed her.’

  ‘Bitch,’ Portia said venomously. ‘I shouldn’t have stopped you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. I frightened myself with how murderous I felt.’

  They looked at the child, her filthy dress and headscarf and face a mask of blood.

  ‘I think she’s okay, apart from the cut on her head.’ Portia examined the child’s arms and legs. ‘Loads of bruises when you get past the muck. She whiffs a bit though.’

  The child shrank back as Portia touched her and Juliet’s heart contracted. Poor, poor little soul. ‘What are we going to do with her?’

  Portia shrugged. ‘If we don’t send her back in there…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to take her home with us. It probably won’t go down too well with Samir…’

  Juliet gave her a doubtful look. ‘But we can’t let her go back to that.’

  ‘I agree. We can’t.’

  They left a cluster of feral cats yowling and hissing as they fought over the dropped bag of macaroons.

  Inside the riad the sounds of tapping echoed in the still air.

  Juliet said, ‘If you sit the girl on your knee I’ll fetch a bowl of water to clean her up. Or should we just stand her under the shower? What do you think?’

  ‘Better check her head first; it’s still pouring with blood. Mind you, head wounds always bleed a lot so…’

  Miranda came out of the kitchen with a half-plucked chicken under one arm. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked sharply.

  Juliet explained while the girl whimpered and clung on to Portia.

  ‘I don’t think…’ Miranda began.

  ‘We couldn’t leave her there,’ Portia snapped. ‘We couldn’t let the old witch keep on battering her.’

  Miranda compressed her lips. ‘I wasn’t suggesting you should. However, she belongs to one of our neighbours. You must see that it wouldn’t be—’

  ‘She’s not a slave,’ Juliet burst out.

  ‘She is, actually,’ Portia said.

  Miranda glanced towards the Yellow Room. ‘I don’t know… it could cause problems with the neighbours. I’ll have to ask Samir.’ She put the chicken down on the table and wiped her hands on her apron.

  Juliet watched her departing back in dismay.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Portia said. ‘Can’t she think for herself anymore?’

  When Samir appeared, he did not look happy. Before he could speak, Juliet grabbed his arm. ‘She was beating her, with a lump of wood.’

  ‘That woman…’ He muttered something in Arabic. ‘This is not the first time. When her husband arrives home, I will speak with him. He will give her a beating.’

  Juliet released his arm. ‘Would he really beat his wife?’

  ‘Yes. The Koran gives permission to—’

  ‘But will it do any good?’ Portia’s voice rang around the courtyard. ‘Will it stop her doing it again?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Samir admitted, ‘but what more can I do?’

  ‘It’s not enough.’ Portia’s voice was growing shrill.

  ‘Please, Samir…’ Juliet gave her sister a nervous look. ‘If we keep her, just for a little while, maybe the woman will learn her lesson.’

  ‘I do not think…’

  Sensing weakness, she pressed on. ‘Please, Samir, just for now. Isn’t Ramadan the time when Muslims are extra charitable?’

  ‘Well, yes but—’

  ‘So do the decent thing,’ Portia yelled.

  Samir flushed and a pulse began to throb in his temple.

  Damn Portia. She’s going to bugger this up. She flashed her sister a warning look, wondering if it would be worth appealing to Miranda. She discarded that idea almost immediately. ‘Samir, please, will you let me look after her? Just for a while?’ She held her breath.

  He hesitated, looked at the child, then back at Juliet. ‘Very well. I will allow this because you have helped me, and also because you have been kind to my son.’

  She felt like throwing her arms round him but restrained herself. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I promise you won’t regret this.’

  Portia

  ‘Samir—just a minute,’ Juliet called after him.

  He turned back with a ‘what now?’ expression. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you ask her what her name is?’

  He spoke a few words in Arabic to the child who buried her head in Juliet’s chest and whispered something. ‘Her name is Halima.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him.

  Portia saw his face soften as he looked at her sister. He’s really fond of her. It shows every time he looks at her. But he hates me now. Maybe he never was that taken with me. After all, you don’t have to be in love with someone to want to get into their knickers. A wave of longing engulfed her. She could still taste him; still feel his fingers tangling in her hair, his body pressing against hers—

  ‘Will you help me, Portia?’

  She came back to the present with a jerk, then took the child from Juliet and sat her in her lap, holding her still while Juliet examined the wound in her head.

  ‘It doesn’t look that bad… oh!’ Juliet leapt back with a squeal.

  Halima let out a loud wail and struggled to get free.

  ‘What’s up?’ Portia asked.

  ‘Her hair… moved. Oh my God, I think she’s got nits.’ Her face had turned quite pale.

  ‘Well, we’ll have to do something about it then, won’t we?’ She stood up, thrust the child into Juliet’s arms, and headed for the kitchen. ‘Miranda, can I borrow some scissors? The kid’s got lice.’

  Miranda reached up to unhook a pair from a nail in the wall, then got down onto her hands and knees to pull some old newspapers out from under the sink. ‘There you go.’ Wincing as she straightened up, she then handed the papers to her daughter, her gaze searching her face. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Because… I wouldn’t want you to—’

  ‘To what, Miranda?’

  ‘Look, I know Samir sent Fatima back, but don’t be resentful that Halima’s—’

  ‘It’s hardly fair, though, is it?’ she burst out. ‘Fatima was—’

  ‘He let her stay while she recovered. The same will happen with Halima.’

  In the silence the tap dripped into the sink—plop, plop, plop.

  ‘Sorry, sorry…’ Portia battled with the tide of tears which threatened to engulf her and turned away.

  ‘Wait—are you going to cut all her hair off?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe I won’t need to.’

  ‘They have a saying here: “Trust in God, but tie your camel well.” I suggest you chop it all off to be on the safe side.’

>   ‘All right, but she’ll need something to cover her head—and¬ to keep the flies off.’

  ‘I’ll find her a scarf.’

  Halima trembled as the blades crunched through her hair. Clumps dropped with a soft plop onto the newspaper around her. When she had finished, Portia regarded her handiwork with satisfaction. Blood had begun to congeal around the cut and there didn’t seem to be any others, just a number of bruises—yellow, green, purple, and black.

  ‘Right, let’s get her in the shower.’ She folded up the paper and hair—she’d set light to it later.

  ‘What’s she going to wear? Her dress will most likely disintegrate if it goes in the washer,’ Juliet said.

  ‘Have you got a spare T-shirt? You’re smaller than me. It’ll still swamp her but…’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Halima fought and struggled as Portia held her under the stream of water while Juliet washed her as gently as she could, trying to remove the caked dirt from her skinny body. When they had finished, all three of them were soaking wet.

  Despite the thick towel swaddling her, Halima sat on the bed and shivered.

  ‘Surely she can’t be cold? It’s baking in here,’ Juliet said.

  ‘Fright, most likely.’ Portia examined the child’s broken toenails and overlong fingernails, still showing half moons of black. ‘Pass me my nail scissors, would you? They’re in my sponge bag.’

  As she finished trimming the child’s nails there was a sharp rap at the door. Halima went rigid and cast fearful glances towards it.

  Poor little bugger, she’s frightened to death. Portia tried to enfold her in her arms, but she pulled away and held out her arms to Juliet instead. The sting of rejection lanced through her.

  Miranda came in and placed some folded blankets on the bed. On top of them was a blue-flowered scarf and a safety pin. ‘Wrap it around her head and pin it under her chin,’ she said. ‘That’s how they wear them here.’

  They dressed the girl. When they were done, she looked like a little old lady, swamped by Juliet’s T-shirt, which they’d had to pin all the way down her back so it wouldn’t fall off her. Her peaky face looked out from the huge scarf.