The House in Fez

by Dianne Noble

  ‘It must be so difficult for you,’ Juliet said softly, reaching for her mother’s hand.

  ‘It is. But he is my husband and I love him, so I…’

  ‘So you have to accept it?’

  She nodded.

  Juliet weighed her words before she spoke. ‘What about Portia?’ she asked cautiously.

  Miranda’s head snapped up. ‘That is an entirely different matter.’

  Startled, Juliet shrank back in her seat. ‘How so? Surely it takes two?’

  ‘Portia should know better. He is my husband. How could she?’

  ‘Wait a minute. You’re telling me you forgive Samir, yet—’

  ‘It is his way, his culture.’

  ‘But you can’t—won’t—do the same for your own daughter?’

  Miranda tossed her head. ‘No. I will not.’

  ‘But that’s—’

  ‘I can’t.’ The chair screeched across the tiles as she jumped up and walked away.

  Juliet stared after her. How could she do that? Did it, in some weird way, balance out in her mind? To accept Samir’s frankly unacceptable behaviour—he already had two women under one roof to have sex with—but refuse to forgive her own daughter’s misdemeanour? The brief closeness between her mother and herself began to evaporate. The friendship built with Zina seemed to be in tatters. Her plans of playing Happy Families were crumbling all around her.

  Portia

  As soon as the first light leaked in through the ill-fitting shutters, she got up and dressed, threw everything in her case, and clattered down the stairs. There was nobody in Reception and the thin cotton curtains haemorrhaged early morning sunlight.

  ‘Hello?’ she called, looking at a sliver of bare wall that had been missed by the emulsion. ‘Hello?’ Irritation prickled. ‘Well, bollocks then.’ She dragged the case back up the stairs, re-opened the door to her room, and threw a handful of dirhams onto the bed. No idea if she’d left enough—or too much—but tough titties. She slapped the key down on the counter then battled the door bolts before stepping out into the morning cool.

  Threads of mist lingered around the mean alleys, and she smelt burning. What a dump she’d just spent the night in. Well that would be rectified the minute she found a taxi. Without the faintest idea of which way to go, she followed a cat down an alley where, on either side of her, paint rose on house doors like scabs over bare wood. She had to pick her way through rubble, disturbing a flock of pigeons which rose into the air. An old woman staggered past her, bent double under the weight of a plastic container of water, which sloshed out onto the ground with every step she took. After that she saw nobody else as she passed silent homes, their windows blinded by shutters.

  Then, as she bent to tighten the strap of her sandal, she heard the distant rumble of traffic. That way, then. She changed course.

  When she reached the road, she waited at the kerb and watched out for a taxi. The few cars which passed her were driven by yawning, grey-faced men. There were more women now, all carrying water on their heads or shoulders. She jumped when she heard a great crash and turned to see a shopkeeper rolling up his metal shutters ready to start the day’s trading. Uncomfortably aware people were staring at her, she tried to smooth her crumpled clothes. Perhaps she should have had a wash before she came out, or at the very least brushed her hair. The traffic grew heavier—a bus, a couple of lorries and, at last, a taxi pulled into the kerb beside her.

  She opened the door. ‘As salaam alaikum.’

  He muttered a reply and she wracked her brain for well-known hotel chains. If she went through them all then surely he would recognise something? ‘Ramada, Sheraton…’ She struck gold with Marriott. He nodded and she clambered in, put her head back and didn’t open her eyes again until he jerked to a halt outside the Marriott Jnan Palace.

  The receptionist leafed through Portia’s passport, then stared at her with what seemed to be incredulity.

  ‘I’d like a room now, please,’ Portia said, shivering in the fierce air-con.

  ‘But…’ The woman glanced up at the clock which tick tick ticked as it dropped seconds.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what it costs,’ she said wearily. ‘I’ll pay for the extra day if you like, but I want a room and I want it now.’

  With her mouth pulled as tight as a drawstring bag, the woman produced a form and tapped a polished nail on the desktop as Portia filled it in. In a very short time she was standing on a balcony which overlooked manicured gardens while, behind her, hot water thundered into a capacious bath.

  How wonderful it felt. She lay back, dangling her cut arm over the side, and let all the night’s tension melt away. She breathed in the smell of bath oil, sank deeper and deeper. Maybe later she’d go to the sauna—she could keep her arm covered—and then have a massage. When had she last had one? It was the last time anyone had touched her body except… Her eyes snapped open. Don’t think about Samir. Just don’t.

  She sat up abruptly and water splashed over the bath’s rim and onto the tiled floor. Think about something else. Anything. Her stomach rumbled obligingly. Food. She would think about food. When did she last eat? She climbed out of the bath, wound a towel around her head, then enveloped herself in the large, white robe which hung behind the door. Wiping the steam from the mirror, she frowned. When did her face start looking so pinched?

  She thought the crisp, warm croissants and fresh, steaming coffee would revive her, but after she’d finished her breakfast she felt curiously flat. Now she was clean, in a comfortable hotel and fed—what next? The idea of sightseeing had lost its appeal. What else could she do? Read a book, watch television? Might as well be in England if she were to do that. But she couldn’t go home, not yet. Once there she’d have to set the wheels in motion, have to tell Gavin she was leaving him. She couldn’t face it. Not right now. Would she ever be able to face it? She closed her eyes. What was she doing here? What was the point of her life? What use was she to anyone?

  Her gaze strayed to her suitcase, as yet unpacked, then she looked away again. No. Don’t do it. You promised Juliet you wouldn’t.

  She took her phone out of her bag, switched it on and saw all the texts from her sister then, after a moment’s hesitation, called her.

  Juliet

  ‘Portia? Thank God, are you all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts but—’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I think so… I—’

  ‘Where are you? At the airport? Home?’

  ‘I’m still here—in Fez. I wanted a few days to get myself together, but now I don’t… I just…’

  She sounds flaky again. Her voice is wobbling all over the place.

  ‘Give me the address, Portia. I’m coming.’

  ‘Really? Oh, Jules…’

  ‘The address, Portia.’

  ‘It’s the Marriott Jnan Palace…Room 420… hang on a sec while I check… Avenue Ahmed Chaouki.’

  Now she knew where her sister was, the feelings of dread eased a little. ‘Stay right where you are, Portia. Don’t move, I’m on my way.’

  Halima looked tiny and terrified, lost in the middle of an armchair in the hotel lobby. She sucked her fingers and gazed at Juliet, who gave her an encouraging smile. Small wonder the child was regarding the marble pillars and vast expanses of floor with such enormous eyes. It would daunt anyone—it felt like the sort of place to talk in whispers.

  Portia returned from ordering refreshments, sank into the sofa beside Juliet and took her hand. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Jules. I don’t deserve you.’

  Juliet took in her sister’s white face, the black shadows under her eyes, and felt a pain on her chest. ‘Don’t talk crap,’ she said, squeezing her hand. ‘I’m the one at fault for doubting you. Well, I didn’t doubt you, honestly I didn’t, I just needed to hear you say it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘It got to the stage,’ Portia confessed, ‘where I wasn�
�t sure myself whether or not I’d given her a shove.’

  A waiter appeared with an ornate wooden tray and unloaded soft drinks and sandwiches onto the coffee table. Portia brushed away tears with the back of her hand and signed the bill.

  Juliet looked around, feeling a little awkward. ‘Is this okay?’ she whispered. ‘With it being Ramadan?’

  Portia nodded. ‘That’s why I sat us over here in this corner. They’ll serve food and drink to non-Muslims, but it’s only fair to be a bit discreet about it.’

  Juliet perched on the edge of Halima’s armchair and steadied the glass of apple juice while the child gulped it, but she still managed to spill some down the front of her dress. ‘Messy child.’ She grinned at her and put the glass down and, as she dabbed at Halima with tissues, the child reached up and wound her thin little arms around Juliet’s neck. She hugged her as tight as she dared, smelt the soap she’d washed her with earlier, and breathed her in with grateful gulps.

  ‘Would she like something to eat?’ Portia selected a sandwich, put it on a plate and held it out.

  Halima snatched it up, then crammed it whole into her mouth. Cheeks bulging, she held out her hand for another.

  Juliet laughed. ‘Just wait, you greedy little madam.’ Her smile faded as she caught sight of Portia’s fingers drumming on the arm of the settee. She’s still so tense. I thought once she got away from the riad she might be better.

  Portia looked up and met her gaze, then put her hands in her lap. ‘So—what’s the score back at the happy home?’

  Juliet swallowed. ‘It’s all gone spectacularly tits-up, hasn’t it?’

  Portia nodded, didn’t take her eyes off Juliet’s. ‘How are things with Miranda now she’s had time to think about it?’

  She ran a finger round the rim of her glass as she watched her sister’s expression battle between hope and fear. What should she say? What could she say? ‘Well, she’s still upset, but she seems to be taking the view that boys will be boys.’

  Portia’s face darkened. ‘So you’re saying Samir will be forgiven because, after all, he’s her brand-new, young and handsome husband who can’t help his urges.’

  Juliet, mouth dry, nodded.

  ‘Whereas it’s different with me?’

  ‘It seems… that’s the way she’s looking at it, I’m afraid.’

  Portia slammed her glass down on the table. A nearby couple broke off their conversation and turned to look. ‘It’s not really the issue of Zina at all, is it?’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered a whole lot to our mother if I had pushed her. Let’s face it, she’s a thorn in her side.’ She jumped up. ‘How can she do this? She needs someone to blame. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Portia. Everyone’s staring.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit. She’s supposed to be my mother.’

  Halima scrambled down from her chair and threw herself at Juliet, who pulled her on to her knee, and soothed her while she searched for words to help her sister. There were none.

  On the way back to the riad, she felt mired in the quicksands of worry. She went over and over the conversation she’d just had with Portia. Should she have been less honest about the situation with Miranda? But she had to know, sooner or later. The memory of Portia’s defeated expression, the slump of her shoulders, troubled her. Could she have done more to help her? But what? They’d arranged to meet again the same time tomorrow. Maybe by then she’d have rallied a bit. Thoughts and fears buzzed through her mind like a swarm of bees until she had a splitting headache.

  When they all gathered for dinner that evening, Zina chatted to Samir and Hasan in Arabic, but refused to meet Juliet’s eyes. She felt wounded. They had spent so much time together before her fall, and now it was as though those happy days had never happened.

  Miranda darted back and forth from the kitchen bearing plates of meat and bowls of couscous with vegetables, attentive to Samir, serving him with food and speaking to him in low tones. Each time Juliet caught her eye, Miranda smiled in a manner that seemed almost apologetic.

  She struggled to swallow anything. The lamb with pumpkin tasted greasy, the harira soup over-spiced. Even the coffee was tar-like and viscous, coating her tongue and teeth.

  ‘Not hungry?’ Miranda gave her a look of concern.

  ‘Sorry. Think I’m a bit tired. Would you mind if I went up?’ Picking up some pastries to pacify Halima whose dinner was about to be cut short, she smiled apologetically around the table. Samir nodded, but Zina and Lalla ignored her. Tears threatened. Whatever had made her think she was part of this family? She rushed away, a protesting Halima clamped under her arm.

  She expected sleep to be a while coming, but it proved impossible. She listened to the clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation, the sounds from the medina. Eventually the night grew quiet save for the sound of Halima’s breathing. The sheet beneath her was damp enough to propagate cress and her bladder felt uncomfortably full. She tried to ignore it, but the pressure grew.

  ‘Damn it.’ Shadows flared on the walls as she lit the candle. Halima stirred and muttered in her sleep. Holding her breath, Juliet waited, but the child slumbered on.

  When she came back out of the bathroom, she stood a moment in the cool of the courtyard. In the black sky a sliver of moon hung like a tilted smile. From Lalla’s room came the sound of snoring. Was Portia awake too? She thought of the times they’d stayed awake together as children—Christmas Eve; a summer’s night when it had stayed light for hours and hours. The memory faded to smoke before she could catch it. What was going to happen to her sister? What would happen to any of them?

  Back in bed, she blew out the candle and lay there, the worry constant, like a splinter under her skin, until she fell into a troubled doze where she was running, searching, frightened.

  She sat bolt upright in bed, her heart hammering so loudly she feared it would burst through the wall of her chest. In the inky darkness, she fumbled for her clothes, then pulled them on. Something had happened to Portia. She knew it, she just knew it.

  She raced along the balcony and pounded on her mother’s door—she didn’t care if she woke the whole of Fez. ‘Miranda,’ she yelled. ‘Miranda, wake up.’

  Within seconds the door flew open. Her mother stood there in her nightdress, eyes wide. She grabbed Juliet’s arm. ‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Portia.’

  ‘Portia?’ She let go of Juliet and took a step back ‘What’s up now?’ she asked wearily.

  ‘I don’t know, but something terrible’s happened. I just know it. Help me. I need to get to her—I don’t know how to get out of the medina in the dark.’

  Miranda, motionless, stared at her.

  Juliet took hold of her shoulders and shouted into her face. ‘Help me, for fuck’s sake!’

  It only took Miranda just over a minute to pull a kaftan on over her nightdress and grab her bag, but Juliet paced frantically. ‘Hurry! Please hurry.’

  ‘Come on.’ Miranda took her hand. ‘I have to go,’ she called over her shoulder to Samir.

  ‘Halima’s on her own—ask Zina…’ Juliet shouted into the darkened bedroom.

  She ran down the stairs behind Miranda, stumbling in the dark, then waiting, beside herself with impatience, as Miranda struggled with the bolts on the door. At last, it swung open.

  ‘Where is she?’ Miranda asked.

  Juliet told her the name of the hotel and her mother nodded. ‘Okay. This way.’ Miranda sped down one dark lane and then another, through an alley, then stopped, Juliet cannoning into her. ‘Wait here.’

  ‘Why? Where are you going?’

  ‘To get the car. It’ll be quicker than trying to find a taxi.’

  She was back in a few minutes, and Juliet jumped in.

  Miranda drove like a lunatic, hurtling down lanes, roaring along rutted roads, brakes squealing on corners. The city was deserted, its buildings forming a dark geometry against the night sky. They screec
hed to a halt in front of the hotel, abandoned the car and raced to the lift, watched by the startled man on Reception.

  ‘Come on, come on.’ Juliet rapped on the control button again and again. At last she heard a clanking and waited in frustration as the lift made its slow and stately progress. It opened with a hiss and they both fell in.

  On the fourth floor, they ran to Portia’s room and banged on the door. No sound. Juliet knocked again. No response. She put her ear against the door and listened. Nothing.

  ‘Portia,’ she said. ‘I know you’re there. Let me in. Please let me in.’

  She waited. All she heard was the sound of the lift trundling downstairs again.

  ‘Portia, open the door. If you don’t, I’ll get Reception to come up with the master key.’

  She held her breath, then heard a click as the chain was released.

  Portia

  She wound the white towel around her arm, then made her way over and opened the door. She saw their anxious faces, heard Miranda’s sharp intake of breath. She looked down, almost in surprise, at the spreading scarlet stain. Someone thrust her feet into shoes, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, led her, gently, along the silent hotel corridor.

  It was so cold. Icy fingers ran over her body and her teeth chattered in the bone-withering chill.

  They were in the car now. Juliet pressed on her arm, her wrist. ‘Sorry, I must be hurting you.’

  The iron stench of blood filled the car as Miranda sped through the streets, cursing as she jumped red lights. Portia had no idea her mother knew such foul language.

  Now she was somewhere bright and white. She heard the clink of metal instruments. A drift of disinfectant, the sting of a needle, a woman’s face pushed into hers, but she couldn’t hear what she said for the roaring in her ears.