The House in Fez

by Dianne Noble

  She needed to focus. There wasn’t much chance of a room in the medina therefore she had to get out into the city. She knew the way to the Nejarrine Musee and she’d be able to locate the leatherworks from there, by its smell. After that—if she remembered rightly—it would be a fairly straight path to the Bab Guissa, one of the gateways. Once outside, she’d surely be able to find a taxi to take her to a hotel.

  Juliet

  Halima sat alone at the table littered with half-finished meals and rapidly cooling food. A solitary fly hovered above the roast lamb, then homed in.

  Juliet rushed over and scooped the child up in her arms, felt her entire body shaking. ‘I’m so sorry, shush now.’ She rocked her backwards and forwards. ‘Sorry I left you. I’m back now and everything’s all right.’

  If only that were true…

  Holding her close, she put a hand over Halima’s ear to block out the sounds of shouting coming from the kitchen. Should she take her upstairs, or stay here and try to defuse the situation? But where would she start? As she dithered, a grim-faced Samir strode out of the kitchen and went to Zina’s room. Maybe she ought to make a getaway? But shouldn’t she try to calm her mother down?

  Halima had fallen asleep. Juliet pulled the scarf away to reveal her tiny, pinched face swollen with tears. She sank down into a chair. Why had she asked Portia if Zina’s accusation was true? Didn’t she know her own sister? But did she, after all these years? Did she really know her?

  The doorframe of the kitchen silhouetted Miranda as she glared at Juliet before marching over to the table. ‘Did you know about this?’

  Halima whimpered in her sleep and again Juliet covered her ear. ‘There was nothing to know,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It was just a kiss, really it was.’

  ‘Even if that’s true, isn’t a kiss enough? I leave the country and…’ She put a hand to her forehead.

  Oh Lord, she’s back on the stage.

  ‘…and, in my absence, my daughter, my own daughter, throws herself at my husband and—’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ Juliet said wearily.

  ‘How do you know? Were you there?’

  I don’t know. I can’t be certain. How can I know the ins and outs of it all? How do I know that was the only time?

  Looking at her mother’s stricken face, pity filled her. Why did they have to do this? Why couldn’t they keep their hands off each other?

  ‘Did she want to take him from me? Because she’s younger than me and beautiful? Is that what it was all about, and she saw her opportunity when I went to England?’ Her voice rose and Halima began to cry.

  ‘Miranda, don’t—’

  ‘How could she? She has everything—money, a good husband, a comfortable lifestyle.’ She was crying now, a loud, ugly sobbing which shook her whole body. ‘Why would she want more?’

  How can I comfort her? What can I say? Grasping Halima under one arm, she stood and went to Miranda, tried to hug her but she backed away, wild-eyed.

  ‘Keep away from me,’ she yelled, her voice thick with crying. ‘How do I know you weren’t in on it?’

  Sick at heart, Juliet turned and walked away. She went to her room and sat on her bed with Halima, rocking her so she would go back to sleep. A wave of grief engulfed her. Everything, everything had been spoiled. When Halima had dropped off, she settled her in Portia’s bed, even though it felt strangely disloyal. She looked around the room, thinking how empty it seemed without her sister’s belongings strewn everywhere, her long-sleeved tops, the perilous heels she’d been wearing when they met at Heathrow.

  Oh, Portia. Juliet dropped onto her bed and held her head in her hands. Where had she gone? Would she be all right?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  JUNE 17th

  Juliet

  She began the slow climb out of sleep and then, as the events of the previous evening flooded back, woke abruptly. Picking up her phone, she checked Halima was still asleep before creeping outside to send a message to her sister. Where are you? Are you okay? Please text me xxx.

  Sunlight had slid across the rooftops before Halima’s eyelids opened and she held out her arms to be picked up.

  ‘Finally come round then, sleepyhead? Let’s get you downstairs for a pee and a quick wash, then we’ll see what we can find for breakfast.’

  It was well after eight when they emerged from the bathroom. Workmen were hammering in one of the rooms, but the courtyard itself was deserted. Samir must have taken Hasan to school while she and Halima slept.

  She opened the kitchen door cautiously, then relaxed. No sign of Miranda. ‘Let’s have something to eat, shall we?’

  Halima regarded her seriously.

  ‘You don’t understand a single word I say, do you?’

  Still the same unblinking stare.

  Juliet smiled, poured a cup of milk and handed it to her. ‘Right, bread and honey, and I can see some apricots over there. That should do for you. Me, I need strong coffee and plenty of it.’

  She drained her third cup and watched Halima sucking honey from her fingers. There was no getting away from it, she would have to try speaking to Zina. After all, they had been friends for a while. Hadn’t they? As she stood up, Halima held out her arms.

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘This might not be a suitable conversation for young ears.’

  Halima’s eyes welled with tears, but she hardened her heart. ‘No. Stay there.’

  Sun beat down on her head as she went to Zina’s door and knocked. She glanced back at Halima but the child had picked up an apricot and was biting into it.

  No reply. She rapped again, more insistently. ‘It’s Juliet. Can I come in?’ she called. Still no response, but she turned the handle anyway and pushed the door open. Through the gloom she saw a mound of bedclothes, a large, wooden chest, and a low chair crouched in a corner. ‘Zina?’

  How hot the room felt, hot and stuffy with the fusty smell of stale clothing. A rivulet of sweat snaked down her back. ‘Zina? Are you awake?’

  An insect buzzed and the bedclothes moved. Juliet moved to Zina’s side, helped her into a sitting position and propped pillows behind her. ‘Would you like me to bring you some breakfast?’ she asked. ‘Coffee, maybe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’ She stood back. ‘Zina—why did you say Portia pushed you?’

  Zina gave a dismissive shake of her head.

  She knows what I’m saying. I’m sure of it.

  Nevertheless, she had another try. ‘Portia pushed you?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ She became agitated, hectic spots of colour blooming on her usually pale cheeks. ‘She push.’ She raised her hands, she made a shoving movement with them.

  ‘But Zina, it was an accident. She wanted you away from Fatima and—’

  ‘She push,’ she shouted, grabbing Juliet’s arm and digging her nails in.

  Juliet tugged herself free and backed away. Zina’s supposed to be my friend. We were getting to know each other… why would she do this? Unless she’s telling the truth and… what a bloody mess. She felt the cold draught of loneliness. No Portia and now no Zina.

  Back at the table with Halima, she checked her phone again. Still no response from Portia. She picked the child up and went upstairs to send another message. Please, please tell me where you are xxx.

  Portia

  The medina in darkness was spooky, threatening. She heard a burst of conversation immediately cancelled by the closing of a door. All the houses contained extended families who probably loved each other, she thought, feeling bereft. She paused outside a large riad which had been turned into a hotel and glimpsed lighted lamps through the slats of a shutter. Should she ask if they had a spare room? For a moment she wavered, then trudged on. The medina felt claustrophobic and she wanted to escape it, go outside its walls to find a place that would be light, bright and airy.

  She stumbled often on loose stones, her case bouncing and juddering behind her as she dragged it over the cobbles. Shadows pooled in corne
rs and she quickened her pace. A shape loomed in front of her, a man in a djellaba, hood pulled over his face like a monk’s cowl. He pushed by her, a cloud of cigarette smoke following him like a vapour trail.

  Once past the Musee Nejjarine she hesitated outside the sweatshop. Was Fatima alone in there? Would she be sleeping? She lifted a hand to knock, then dropped it again. The child would be terrified to hear a bang on the door. Tomorrow—she would come back tomorrow and bring more food. She continued, and she only needed to follow her nose to find the tanneries, the reek of the cow urine and pigeon droppings used for soaking and softening the hides. However shallow her breathing, the taste filled her nose and mouth and made her retch.

  Standing outside the entrance to the sweatshop, hand pressed over her face, she looked down the alley, at the dense scribbles of wiring, at the walls of the houses which bulged outwards with not a straight line to be seen. Which way to the Bab Guissa, the gate—one of the gates—leading to the outside world? A man stood in the shadows, watching her. He discarded his cigarette, making an arc of red sparks in the darkness. She hurried down the nearest lane, but it soon tapered into a narrow alley and her case jammed between the dank, crumbling walls.

  ‘Shit.’ After tugging it free, she retraced her steps, peering ahead of her into the gloom, tripping over a mangy cat. The second lane was wider with silent lock-ups on either side and black shadows flitting between heaps of refuse. After a couple of minutes it culminated in a small square, a dead end. Battling the tears of frustration and self-pity which threatened to overwhelm her, she backtracked. Success this time. The farther she walked, the wider the lane, and the brighter the light until she passed beneath a vast, stone arch and saw traffic and streetlights.

  Cars and buses reeled into view and raced past, everyone—except her—having somewhere to hurry to. There were precious few red Petit Taxis, and each one she saw was stuffed with passengers. The hot backdraught from the vehicles carried grit, making her eyes sting.

  Watching and waiting at the roadside, she grew uncomfortably aware of the stares and shouts of passing men and looked down at the ground, kicking loose stones, coughing at inhaled exhaust fumes. Now she no longer had to concentrate on finding her way through the medina, the full horror of Zina’s words came back to her. How could the girl have lied like that? Or did she really believe that was what happened? Portia stiffened. Had she pushed her and her mind blocked it out?

  She didn’t, at first, notice the taxi idling by the kerb. When it registered, she bent to the open passenger window and poked her head in. ‘Hotel?’

  The driver’s expression didn’t change. The street lights shone on the silver stubble of his chin.

  ‘Hotel? Four star? Five star?’

  He nodded, then opened the door and eased himself out of the car. He straightened, holding his back. Then, with a grunt, he walked around and picked up her case, then threw it in the boot.

  ‘Please take me to a good hotel,’ she said when they both in the vehicle.

  Making an impatient noise under his breath, he started the car, pulled away with a spurt of gravel, and accelerated. The worry beads dangling from his rear-view mirror swung wildly as he wrenched the steering wheel for first one corner and then another. In the back, Portia closed her eyes. If I die, I die. All I want right now is for this god-awful day to be over.

  When they stopped, she looked out of the window at the peeling, mould-stained building. Shit. This place wouldn’t merit half a star, leave alone five.

  ‘I don’t think…’ she started, but the driver had already climbed out and opened the boot.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, does it matter? It’s only the one night and tomorrow I’ll find somewhere comfortable.

  Or should she go back to England? No. The list of reasons not to return to Gavin had grown and grown until it curled down to the ground like Rapunzel’s hair. Their marriage had only been held together this far by spit and willpower. Hers. No, she’d stay here a bit longer, pamper herself somewhere luxurious. After she’d got through the night.

  The stuttering strip light over Reception and the rustle of cockroaches made her waver for a moment, but she feared she wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else. She could cope for one night. She checked in.

  The room seemed clean enough, if Spartan, although she had to keep the bathroom door shut because of the smell. She didn’t bother unpacking, just threw off her clothes and got into bed. The sheets smelt fresh, but the mattress felt as stony as Brighton beach. The sound of a television from the room below and a buzz of conversation next door emphasised her loneliness, and a few tears escaped.

  No matter how she tried to distract herself from thoughts of Zina, the angry scene kept playing over and over in her mind—Samir covering his back, Miranda, her own mother, not believing her, and the look of doubt on Juliet’s face.

  The bad feelings rose, one by one, to the surface and floated there like shit in the sea. She pictured the knife in her case, its steel glinting, calling to her like a friend, and she half-sat up. Just once, just a little, to relieve some of the pressure…

  With a great effort of will she lay back down again. Keep going until tomorrow. Things might look better by then. Just until the morning. You can do that.

  The television was switched off, to be replaced by Arabic music. Loud Arabic music. She buried her head under the pillow, shifted about in the bed until the sheet ruckled into ridges beneath her. Relax. Try to let go. You’re going to have to sort yourself out, girl. There’s nobody else to help you. It seemed she was back on her own again. Tomorrow she’d find a good hotel, be a tourist for a few days, then go home, pack her belongings and leave Gavin. Set up on her own. And stay on her own. Other people were not to be trusted. They always, always let you down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  JUNE 18th

  Juliet

  Halima knelt on the chair, chattering to herself as she scribbled on the sheet of paper laid on the table. Every couple of minutes she paused, wax crayon held between her fingers, and gazed up with dark, solemn eyes at Juliet, sitting opposite her.

  It’s like she’s checking I’m still here.

  If only she could talk to the child; but her Arabic comprised a few phrases at best and Halima knew no English at all. How could she, coming from the depths of the country straight into the home of that dreadful woman? Presumably she’d never been to school. She thought about Halima’s parents. Did they have any contact with her after she left? Would they ever even see her again? It seemed unlikely.

  Troubled, she watched Halima make bold strokes with an orange crayon, then brushed away a fly that had settled on the child’s scarf, no doubt smelling blood from her head wound. Nobody had ever given Halima anything, and what did she have to offer, other than affection and a roof over her head? Had she been naïve, rescuing her? But how could she have left her to be battered?

  She wondered, for the thousandth time, where Portia had gone. None of her texts had been answered. She wiped sweat from her face. So hot today. The shade offered by the fig tree was patchy and sun bounced up from the courtyard tiles. She closed her eyes, the drone of insects making her feel drowsy, and almost nodded off until the sound of the workmen’s voices drifted out from the salon which was next on their list for renovation.

  She’d had a look earlier at the rotted support beams and collapsing floor, but had been entranced by the tiny blue tessera on one wall, something like four hundred handmade tiles to the square metre. If Samir planned to replicate all that then he’d be talking big bucks. Miranda would have to dig deep, probably would have to sell her house. Did she plan on going back to England again soon to see about it? There’d been no sign of her since yesterday, nor of Zina.

  Her phone rang. Thank God. She snatched it up and tore up the stairs. ‘Hello?’ she said, trying to catch her breath. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Darren said, a frown in his voice. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  Her heart sank. ‘Sorry, i
t’s just—I’m not sure where Portia’s got to.’

  ‘She’ll doubtless turn up. How are you, love? What’s new?’

  Halima turned to look up at her, squinting in the sunlight. Juliet waved down to her, smiled and, seemingly reassured, she went back to her colouring.

  What’s new? Where do I start? Miranda’s having hysterics because Portia’s involved with Samir. The filleting knife is missing from the kitchen and I’m terrified Portia took it… and, oh, by the way, I’ve snatched a child from a neighbour and I’m keeping her.

  ‘Oh, same old, same old. Hot sunshine, feeling well. How about you? How’s the job going?’

  ‘Great. I’ve had even more enquiries and—’

  ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘Sure is. You’ll soon be able to have anything you want, love.’

  When he’d rung off, she went slowly back downstairs to Halima. Have anything she wanted? What might that be? A new house, away from the cramped cul-de-sac of grey buildings they lived in now? A joyless little pocket of depression if ever there was one. No. It wouldn’t be enough.

  A shadow fell over the table.

  ‘Hello, you two.’ Miranda’s eyelids were puffy and her hair hadn’t seen a brush. ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  Halima glanced up briefly, then turned back to her colouring, tongue between her teeth.

  ‘I’m sorry about… I don’t really know what I’m sorry about,’ Miranda said, fiddling with the buttons on her shirt.

  Juliet didn’t know what to say so said nothing.

  ‘Samir, he…’ She looked up, and Juliet’s heart twisted to see the misery in her mother’s eyes. ‘Men here can have a rather… relaxed approach to other women, particularly foreign ones.’