by Jane Johnson
‘If you need a guide – ’
‘That too is arranged.’
He fixed me with an earnest look. ‘You must be very careful about guides here in Morocco, sometimes they are not what they seem, I mean they are not to be trusted and may tell you many lies. It can be dangerous for a lady who travel on her own.’
The woman opposite me caught my eye and held my gaze for several heartbeats, then looked away.
‘Thank you for your kind advice,’ I said, smiling. To signal that our conversation was at an end, I dug out my Rough Guide and applied myself to it, nerves jumping. I felt his regard on me like a physical touch, and my skin began to crawl. He’s only being friendly, I told myself fiercely, he’s concerned for your welfare.
I went out into the corridor and phoned Alison.
‘Hi. I’m here.’
‘Where’s “here”?’
‘On the train to Rabat. It gets in in about twenty minutes.’
‘You OK?’
It was reassuring to hear her voice. I thought about her question for a split second, felt foolish at my paranoia, smiled. ‘Yes, fine, actually. People are really pleasant and helpful. How are you?’
‘Great. I was going to phone you later. Something amazing’s happened. We’ve found something – you’ll never believe it, it ties up with Catherine’s book.’
I waited, pins and needles tingling at the base of my skull. Alison said something inaudible. ‘What? Say that again?’
‘Sorry, it’s just that Michael’s here. I’m going to hand you over.’
A pause.
‘Julia?’ Michael’s voice, a continent away.
I closed my eyes, remembering the last time we had spoken. ‘Go away,’ I said softly.
‘What? Julia, I can’t hear you. Look, you’ve got to come back – get a flight tomorrow, Anna and I will pay for it – we really need the book, you won’t believe what we’ve found –’
‘Go away,’ I said, and turned the phone off, my heart hammering.
A portly middle-aged man in a tunic and wide trousers waited for me in the concourse of Rabat’s main railway station holding a handwritten cardboard sign bearing the legend MME LOVEIT. I walked right past him before it clicked. A fit of the giggles threatened to consume me. Mastering it, I retraced my steps. ‘Hello. I’m Julia Lovat.’
His face broke into a huge, gap-toothed grin. ‘Enchanté, madame. Bienvenue, welcome, welcome in Maroc.’ He waddled up and pumped my hand effusively, and at once relieved me of my suitcases.
‘Are you Idriss el-Kharkouri?’ I asked. He was not at all what I had been expecting: somehow, from the refined tones of Madame Rachidi, I had pictured an elegant cousin with a scholarly air and the ability to march me around the city at speed, filling my head with arcane knowledge. It did not look as if Idriss was in the habit of walking anywhere at all; nor did his lazy smile intimate the razor-sharp intellect of an expert guide. But I knew nothing of what might lie behind the façades of this culture: perhaps I should not leap so swiftly to judgement.
He looked puzzled, so I repeated my question, adding: ‘Idriss, le cousin de Madame Rachidi, mon guide?’
Now he shook his head vigorously. ‘Ah, non, non, non, désolé, madame: Idriss ne pouvait pas m’accompagner. Il est occupé ce soir. Moi, je suis Saïd el-Omari, aussi cousin de Madame Rachidi.’
Another of Madame Rachidi’s cousins, I slowly translated for myself, following in his wake as he staggered along with my cases, not realizing, or perhaps disdaining, the efficacy of the handle and wheels. Popping open the boot of a small rusting blue Peugeot bearing an official taxi sign, he stowed my luggage, helped me into the back, performed an illegal U-turn and headed at speed down the main road of a city that looked as blandly European as the centre of Casablanca. Monumental government buildings, a vast post office, rows of modern shops, municipal gardens lush with colour, office blocks, car parks. As the nondescript trappings of a modern city sped past me, I allowed my mind to hover for a moment – like an insect over a Venus flytrap – over my brief conversation with Alison and Michael.
Whatever could they have found that was so important it would prompt Michael to offer to pay my fare back? And what, my guts clenched, had he said to Anna about it all? Before I had left London, aware of the many perils that can befall a traveller, I had taken the book to a copy shop in Putney and carefully photocopied every page, laying the book as flat as I could without damaging the spine, and using the most complicated graphics settings the machine offered to capture as best I could the soft pencil script. It had taken me several false starts, a great deal of finicky care, well over an hour and cost the best part of ten pounds, but it was worth both cost and effort for some peace of mind. A more prudent person would probably have left the original at home and taken the copy with them, but I could not bear to be parted from the object itself, so I had lodged the copy with my solicitor.
My hand strayed to the bag on my knee. Delving inside, I caressed the cover of The Needle-Woman’s Glorie. I have often wondered whether pet owners stroke their animals for their own or the pet’s benefit; now, the feeling of the soft calfskin under my fingers calmed me, reassuringly solid and present, and I suspected it might be for the former reason. I held Catherine’s book pressed to my chest as we passed from the modern city through an archway into the crumbling terracotta pisé walls of the old medina.
Immediately I was craning my neck, all thoughts of England forgotten. This was truly foreign territory. People thronged the streets – old men in hooded robes, veiled women, teenaged boys in a mixture of garbs from the downright medieval to the saggy jeans and bling of classic hip-hop culture. Music pervaded the air: percussive and insistent, traditional North African voices mingling with the occasional throb of drum and bass. The taxi dodged at a snail’s pace through the flow of people on bicycles, mopeds and donkey carts, giving me a privileged view of market stalls overflowing with produce, narrow alleys bordered by tall, windowless houses with ornate doors of aged iron-bound wood, elegant towers topped by shining green tiles, wrought-iron gateways offering a tantalizing glimpse of hidden courtyards verdant with orange trees and bougainvillea. We turned a corner and a great wailing voice shivered on the twilight air: the muezzin, the call to prayer. I closed my eyes, listening – ‘Allah akbar. Allah akbar. Achehadou ana illah illallah. Achehadou ana mohammed rasoul allah. Achehadou ana mohammed rasoul allah. Haya rala salah. Haya rala salah…’ – and suddenly felt myself inside the heart of Western Islam.
Some minutes later the spell was broken as Said hurled the taxi up on to a broken sidewalk, and the engine shuddered to a halt. I looked around. By now it was full dark, and here particularly so, the only brightness visible being the blue-white fizzing light of a man arc-welding his car across the road, an activity which threw off alarming shadows that leaped and danced like dervishes. Something moved fleet and close to the ground in my peripheral vision. I whipped around, and it froze in mid-pace: a black cat, thin as a stick. Its eyes flared at me as the welder’s light reflected in them, then it flicked its tail and vanished into the night.
‘Allez, madame, with me. Dar el-Beldi this way, par ici.’
I followed him down an alleyway so narrow I could touch it on both sides without stretching out my hands. The houses had walls of rough adobe and were incised with grand doorways. In one of these an old woman sat crouched on a doorstep. As we approached, she smiled up at Said, and her eyes were all white with cataracts, shining up at me like those of the cat. She stretched out a dry, brown bird’s claw of a hand. ‘Sadaka all-allah.’
Despite being laden with my bags, Saïd stopped, dug in a little pocket set aslant in his tunic, withdrew two coins and pressed them into her palm.
‘Shokran, shokran, sidi. Barrakallofik.’
He was already past her, stepping into the shadows opposite and knocking on a vast iron-studded door. A small door within the door swung inwards, and golden light flooded out on to the alley. There was a loud staccato burst of
Arabic between Said and the person on the other side; then he waved me forward. I skirted the old beggarwoman with a nervous smile and fled into the welcoming light of the riad.
19
To Sir Arthur Harrys
Master of St Michael’s Mount
Kenegy Manor House, Gulval Hills, Cornwall
24th daie of August, anno 1625
Sallee, in Barbarye
My duty be remembered to you, & may your health in the Lord be goode. Pray, from the goodnesse of your hearte pay the person who brings you this post from us poor captives in Sallee, where wee lye in the handes of crewel tyrants, at whose behest I wryte this letter, in feare of my lyf.
Myselfe, & those I liste belowe represent all those who were taken from the attack on Pen Sants and survive to this daie, that ys alle who have not perished of the voyage or of other paines & endurances, or beene taken away I knowe not where. Sir, I must beg your supportation, for there ys no one else wee maie turne to for our deliverance, & I knowe you to bee a goode Christian man who would not willingly see your countryfolk left unredeemed & forced into apostasy. Every daie they offer us threats & blandishments for turning Turke and becomyng Mahometan, & I feare some maie bee perswaded rather than face the galleys or the bastinadoe. I liste heere those peple whose fate I knowe, but there were taken many more, & I knowe not what has become of them, or what wille become of us in the long weekes it maie take for this post to reach you.
Viz. of youre owne householde:
Catherine Anne Tregenna, ladys maide – £800
Eleanor Chigwine, house keeper (your servant William Chigwine perished on the voyage) – £120
Matilda Pengellye, house maide – £250
Others taken from the church in Pen Sants:
Jane Tregenna, my mother, widow – £156
Edward Coode, Esq., draper – £100 and wyf Mary (my uncle & aunt) – £140. I feare both my nephews are lost
John Kellynch, fisherman of Market-Jew – £96, sister Henrietta – £125 & mother Maria Kellynch – £140
Walter Truran, preacher – £96
Jack Fellowes, farmhand of Alverton – £96, wyf Ann – £180 & children Peter & Mary, twelve & eight – £280 the paire
Alys Johns – £250 & her child James, five – £104
Ephraim Pengellye, fisherman of Pen Sants – £96
Anne Samules, spinster of Pen Sants – £80
Nan Tippet, widow of Pen Sants – £85
I knowe not why the price they have putte on mee ys so hie. I knowe that I am not worthie of such costlie sum, sir.
Of Mayor & Ann Maddern, & Alderman Polglaze & Elizabeth hys wyf, I knowe not how they fayre, but I am towlde they are to be ransomed separately.
There are also wyth us others taken from various divers places, marriners from shippes & ports around the West Country, but they have made their own testimonies, so I wille not trouble you wyth such heere.
May it please you Sir Arthur the Mahometan corsaires who holde us claim a ransome of some three thousand four hundred and ninety-five pounds (or seven thousand Spanish doubloons) for the return of all those of whom I wryte. It is a fearfull summe of money & I knowe not whence it maie bee raised, but I do pray you that some meanes bee found to redeem us from our miserable fate, & that our sighs will come to your eares & move you to pitee & compassion. Deny us not in your prayers if you can do nothyng else, & please remember mee kindly to Lady Harrys, who has my gratitude every daie for her goodnesse in teaching me my letters, & pray also pass my greetings to my cozen Robert. As Preacher Truran saies, we did never so well understand the meaning of that psalm penned by those poore Jewes held in Babylonish captivity till nowe: ‘By the waters of Babylon we sat down & wept when we remembered thee, O! Sion.’ O! Cornwall, how we do miss your greene hills & vales, the clene aire & the free & ordered lives we once enjoied, now that wee are confined in darknesse & filth in feare for oure lyfs & limbs.
I am towlde in London there maie bee merchant shippes who stille have trading contacts in this region. If you have an opportunity thus to do, I pray you maie sende worde within a month or six weekes, or for sure wee shall perish in this terrible place.
Thus ceasing to trouble you, I rest
Your most dutiful & obedient servant
Catherine Anne Tregenna
20
Catherine
August 1625
Cat laid aside the pen and sighed. In truth, she had no hopes that her former master would even receive the letter she had just drafted, let alone be minded to act on her entreaties. Three thousand, four hundred and ninety-five pounds, of which she knew a full eight hundred to be her own redemption price. It was a fortune: at Kenegie she had been paid just eight pounds a year, from which was deducted her bed and board; Matty earned barely four. Cornwall was a poor county: there was never enough money to go around. Taxes and tithes had to be scraped together; doctors’ fees were a luxury – many a child had sickened and died because its parents could not find a shilling for the chirurgeon. The cost of a decent burial forced many families to cast themselves on the mercy of the parish for the price of the simplest service. Cat had witnessed the use of sackcloth as a winding sheet; even once a body blessed by a mendicant priest for a bowl of gruel and taken by night by one of the local fishermen to be consigned to Davy Jones’s locker.
‘Done?’ The large, rough-faced, rough-handed woman into whose care Cat had been thrust now stood before her, hands on ample hips, waiting impatiently.
Cat nodded reluctantly. ‘It’s finished.’
‘Give.’
She handed over the sheet of paper and the woman took it and stared at it suspiciously, turning it around and around in her callused fingers. Cat could tell that the woman could not read a word of what she had written, but she made a satisfied noise and rolled the paper into a scroll.
‘I take to the Djinn.’
Cat frowned. ‘Al-Andalusi?’
In response, the woman hissed at her and bustled off into the shadows. Cat sank back into the cushions and tilted her face up to the sunlight, which streamed down through the twining jasmine, releasing its confectionery scent into the still air. She was sitting at a table set within a recess to one side of a tiled courtyard. Overhead, in the vines that climbed the intricate trellis to the balcony that ran around the whole inside square of an elegant two-storeyed house, tiny reddish-brown birds sang. An orange tree spread its limbs across one corner of the courtyard; in the opposite corner a small patterned rug had been set, its once-bright colours faded by the sun, and in the centre of it all a fountain splashed into a raised marble bowl scattered with pale-pink rose petals. The light and scent and exquisite artistry of this tranquil place were so far removed from the vile mazmorra, the pitch-dark and stinking of shit and piss holding-pen in which she and the rest of the captives had been thrown, that all she wished for now was to be allowed to remain here, even if it meant writing the wretched letter a thousand times over.
She had spent only three days in the mazmorra (reckoned by the cries of the muezzin, for no sunlight penetrated their cell), but already it had replaced every other image for Hell that her mind had ever conjured. They had all been confined together – men, women and children – in such filthy conditions that it was clear their captors cared little whether they lived or died. Early this morning two men had come for her, calling her name in an accent so heavy that it had taken several moments of confusion before anyone realized it was Cat who was being summoned. They had bundled her up in a black robe and veil, tied her hands and dragged her, stumbling and blinking, through the narrow streets to this house. She had been pushed into a cool, dark room, the door thudding closed behind her. The contrast between the blinding sunlight of the streets and the dimness of the interior had been disorientating, so that when the familiar voice had broken the silence, she had fair leaped out of her skin.
‘So, Cat’rin Anne Treg-enna. How you like your new quarters?’ And he had laughed, a cruel sound which brought stinging tears to her ey
es. He snapped his fingers, and a black-skinned boy, who had been squatting silent in the shadows, sprang to open a shutter. Sunlight flooded the chamber, gilding the walls and pouring in an amber wash over the handsome furnishings and the man who reclined on the cushioned divan.
Al-Andalusi was garbed in a robe of cerulean-blue embellished with swirls of golden embroidery, his head swathed in a white turban. He looked like the embodiment of gracious summer, and in contrast Cat felt more than ever the lice-ridden, filthy savage she had in such a short time become.
‘You will write the letter of ransom on behalf your fellow townsfolk,’ he had told her. He outlined the form the letter should take, the money that should be demanded, ignoring her gasp of horror. ‘You will tell them how terrible are the conditions in which you live; also that we beat you mercilessly and threaten you daily to convert to our faith –’
Cat stared at him. ‘No one has been beaten since we left your ship,’ she said boldly. ‘And no one has made any attempt to force us to your religion.’
Al-Andalusi’s eyes glittered. ‘B-a-s-t-i-n-a-d-o-e,’ he spelled out and made her repeat back to him. ‘Do you know what it means?’