The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  Sibylla laughed. “Tell them that men in northern countries have hair like this as well and that no one has more power than God has given him.” Then she waved for the woman who had asked the question to come closer and touch her hair. The woman approached almost timidly and then proclaimed proudly in Arabic as Nadira translated, “This is human hair, only its color resembles gold.”

  “Or the fur of a lioness,” another added.

  Little by little, the women calmed down and Sibylla was able to distribute her gifts.

  Next, they partook of some refreshments in the garden. To Sibylla, it seemed like paradise, with its floral fragrance, fountains, and birdsong. They all settled on brocaded cushions around a rectangular pool in which ornamental fish swam. Rusa, Lalla Jasira, and the others urged her to try delectable peaches and pieces of melons, raisins, and candied blossoms. One servant held a parasol over Sibylla while another fanned her.

  But the party erupted again when they learned that Sibylla was already twenty-four and had not had a baby yet. This was shocking, indeed! Nadira translated rapidly as the conversation surged.

  “You ought to make a pilgrimage to the grave of Sidi Magdoul on the outskirts of the city,” Wahida, Hash-Hash’s favorite concubine, advised. “He will help you to have many children, just as he helped the Prophet Ibrahim and his wife, Sara, to become parents many times over even at an advanced age.”

  Sibylla laughingly assured Wahida that she did not require Sidi Magdoul’s assistance as she shifted her dress to allow the women a glimpse at her round belly. They rejoiced and showered her with advice for an easy pregnancy and a successful birth. The fourth wife wanted to send her midwife to Sibylla, while the third gave her an amulet, a small silver hand with an engraved eye. “If you wear this over your heart, Fatima’s hand will protect your unborn from the evil eye.”

  As the eldest and the qaid’s mother, Rusa was the senior member of the harem and respected as such. Lalla Jasira was second and did justice to her name, which meant “the gentle one.” After her followed the second, third, and fourth wives—and only then the concubines. Wahida was granted a special position and the title Umm Walad, the mother of her children, for already having borne her master two sons.

  Rusa had wrapped the shawl Sibylla had given her around her shoulders. She was not seated on the cushions, but on an easy chair to the left of their guest. Lalla Jasira was perched on a thick, round cushion on Sibylla’s right. Nadira stood behind her, ready to translate. Rusa clapped her hands and a slave appeared with a bowl of baked goods, which Rusa broke into small pieces and threw to the fish. Sibylla was impressed by her graceful movements and her soft, manicured hands.

  “The qaid’s women are just like these fish,” Rusa told her. “They live together in a beautiful home, lovingly cared for by a benevolent master. They want for nothing.”

  “That is true, no doubt,” Sibylla countered. “But does this basin not obscure the fish’s view of the open ocean?”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Sibylla wanted to kick herself for offending her delightful hostesses. She wondered if she would ever learn to hold her tongue.

  Yet Rusa merely smiled and Lalla Jasira replied, “One need not summit the mountain to look into the distance. If we desire, the world comes to us here in the palace. For example, thanks to you we are learning how women live in faraway England.”

  Her dark eyes scanned Sibylla’s light hair, her European-style dress, and came to rest on her thin silk stockings and the flat satin slippers.

  “Those babouches you’re wearing,” said Lalla Jasira, “are really very pretty. Do all the ladies in your country wear them?”

  Nadira translated and Sibylla nodded with a smile. “With your permission, I will present some to you. Tonight I will write a letter requesting a shipment for you and the other ladies.”

  Rusa and Lalla Jasira exchanged meaningful glances and asked to take a closer look at the shoes. They examined the workmanship and spoke to one another for several minutes. Then Rusa returned to her easy chair and addressed Sibylla.

  “El Sayyida Rusa and Princess Lalla Jasira would like to make a business proposition to the honorable English lady Mrs. Hopkins,” Nadira translated. “They would like to order five hundred pairs of the English slippers and they are offering to pay thirty gold benduqui.”

  “Are these women permitted to engage in trade? Do they even have their own money?” Sibylla could not help her astonishment.

  Rusa wanted to know what Sibylla’s question was and once Nadira had translated it, had her reply, “The Prophet, in his infinite wisdom, has granted women the right to manage the wealth that he has put at their disposal. El Sayyida and His Excellency’s four wives have free access to their dowries. In addition, His Excellency pays every one of the ladies in his harem one falus per day.”

  The question piqued Lalla Jasira’s interest, prompting her to inquire if the honorable Mrs. Hopkins herself did not have a bride price.

  “Oh, I do,” Sibylla mumbled and thought of the trust with her dowry. “But it took some doing for me to have the right to manage it myself.” She turned to the two women. “It would be an honor for me to do business with you. But thirty gold benduqui will make me lose money. One hundred benduqui will just about cover my costs.” She smiled shrewdly. Sibylla did not really know whether that was a fair price, but she had heard that bargaining was considered something of a sport in the Orient.

  Rusa and Lalla Jasira nodded approvingly before making a counteroffer using flowery language. They eventually agreed on sixty benduqui.

  Lalla Jasira clapped her hands and gave an order to a slave. The woman hurried back to the palace and quickly returned with two little leather sacks, which Lalla Jasira then ceremoniously placed in Sibylla’s hands. “Count it, Mrs. Hopkins; you get half now and the other half when the babouches arrive.”

  Sibylla took a look into the little sacks. The idea of engaging in trade without the permission of her father or husband thrilled her. Back home in London, this would never have been allowed, yet somehow, here in a harem in Morocco, it was possible!

  “For whom are the five hundred pairs of slippers intended?” she inquired.

  “Princess Lalla Jasira is certain that the ladies in His Esteemed Majesty Sultan Abd al-Rahman’s harem will be interested in this fashion. She is acquainted with many of the ladies since she comes from one of the ruling houses of the Alaouites.”

  Sibylla nodded slowly. Five hundred women for one man. Sara Willshire had been right in saying this place was very different from England.

  She pulled herself together and said, “Nadira, please inform the ladies that I agree to their proposal. I shall make all the necessary arrangements.”

  Benjamin was waiting for his wife in the reception courtyard of the governor’s palace as the muezzin called the faithful to afternoon prayers from the minaret of the mosque. The qaid, his relatives, and his translator had already taken their leave. Only Samuel Toledano remained.

  “I don’t suppose you or those damned Moors have ever heard of fair play, or have you, Toledano?” Benjamin was in a filthy mood. “And don’t try to look so innocent. After all, it’s your fault that the governor is unwilling to sell me the exclusive rights to the leather trade. I saw how you signaled him to turn down my offer.”

  The meeting had begun harmoniously enough. Qaid Hash-Hash had proudly shown his guest his weapons collection, his gyrfalcons, and his Arabian horses. But later, when they sat together over tea and Benjamin presented the contracts drawn up in England, Hash-Hash had rebuffed him.

  “Toledano is quite capable of handling the leather trade. Furthermore, His Majesty’s decisions are sacrosanct. They need not be put in writing by a peddler,” Hash-Hash had declared with disdain.

  Toledano had looked utterly innocent during that exchange, and at this moment too, the merchant appeared equanimous. “Do not give up so easily, Señor Hopkins. Here in the Orient, one seldom comes to an agreement after the first meetin
g. Come to see me at my home in the mellah, directly behind the souk. We will find a way for you to do profitable business as well.”

  Benjamin made a face. Toledano was speaking to him in Spanish, a language Benjamin spoke well, having been responsible for Spencer & Son’s Caribbean trade, but this man’s archaic dialect irritated him. It did not matter that Nuri bin Kalil had tried to explain that the Moroccan Jews had retained the language of their Spanish origin since having fled from the Inquisition in the fifteenth century.

  “I strongly suggest that you not waste your time dispensing advice,” Benjamin grumbled, thinking of his impatient father-in-law back in London.

  Toledano remained friendly. “You are impatient, Señor Hopkins. If you want to do business in Morocco, remember this: you Europeans have clocks, but we in the Orient have time.”

  Chapter Six

  Mogador and Marrakesh, September 1836

  “Please pardon me for being so frank, dear Sibylla, but your plan is pure foolhardiness!” Sara Willshire frowned with disapproval while threading a needle.

  Sibylla folded the diaper she had just finished seaming. “No, it isn’t,” she declared. “We’ll be gone a mere twelve days, and I am still six weeks from giving birth. And besides, I’m feeling quite well!”

  The two young women were sewing baby clothes in the interior courtyard of the Hopkins residence in the shade of an olive tree. It was warm and still with the soft scent of roses and mimosa flowers filling the air. Sibylla and Sara met almost daily and talked about everything and nothing while the mound of gowns, bonnets, and diapers in the basket at their feet grew. Sibylla had just told the consul’s wife that she planned to accompany her husband on his trip to Marrakesh. Sultan Abd al-Rahman had invited Mogador’s merchants for an audience.

  Qaid Hash-Hash, who was accompanying the group, had explained that His Most Gracious Majesty wanted to assure himself that the infidels entrusted to his protection were not lacking for anything.

  Sara shook her head. “Morocco is not England,” she warned. “We don’t travel on established roads in a comfortable stagecoach. We sit in the saddle and at night we sleep on the floor in a tent or, if we’re lucky, in a caravanserai! What’s more, the interior is hotter than the coast. Even in September, the temperature in Marrakesh is above eighty-five degrees. I have made the journey several times and, believe me, I don’t relish having to go again. We’ll be riding five consecutive days from morning till night! If the stress were to bring about premature labor pains, you would find no doctor or hospital.”

  “I’m a good horsewoman,” Sibylla replied stubbornly. “And I’m not as fragile as all that. Besides, I’ll have Nadira with me.”

  Just then, the servant appeared with a jug of orange-blossom water, glasses, and a plate with fresh figs. Sibylla smiled gratefully. Nadira had become indispensable to her in the four months since she had arrived in Mogador. During her many years in the service of foreigners, the young woman had developed a feel for their wishes. Sibylla spent far more time with Nadira than with anyone else. Thanks to her, she was learning everyday customs. During the last few weeks, she had even begun to learn Arabic. She would point at an object and her servant would tell her its name.

  “Does your husband accept your desire to accompany him?” Sara asked.

  The question angered Sibylla. It was her decision alone whether and where she traveled! “Of course. And why not? After all, we English are a sporting lot.”

  Benjamin had, indeed, expressed the same concerns as Sara. But once he saw how irritated Sibylla was, he had quickly backed down. She rarely saw her husband anyhow. He was busy either in the port or at the customs station, meeting with ship captains or inspecting merchandise. He complained constantly that Arabs were unreliable business partners whose every move he personally had to monitor in order to avoid being swindled. Unlike Sibylla, he was making no attempt to acquaint himself with the habits of the people. Yet Richard sent long letters praising his engagement. And although Benjamin had not succeeded in obtaining exclusive rights to the leather trade, Toledano was supplying him with leather of outstanding quality from Fez in return for a commission. In addition, Benjamin was trading in gum arabic, crucial to the production of paints and medicine, and in grains from the fertile northern plains and the ancient royal city of Meknes.

  “The baptismal water arrived yesterday,” Sibylla reported.

  Consul Willshire, who conducted Bible readings at his residence on Sundays in lieu of church services and who was responsible for the salvation of the English souls in Mogador, was to baptize the baby.

  “I have also received letters from home. My brother, Oscar, finished school last summer and Father has made him an apprentice clerk. My stepmother writes that he hates having to rise so early in the morning.” She smiled to herself, lost in thought for a moment. “I was determined to get out of London, but now I realize that I do miss my family. They are so very far away. Sometimes I yearn just to hear their voices.”

  “Oh yes, and how I miss the shops!” Sara exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you just love to look through the sewing patterns at Debenhams or wander through Covent Garden?”

  “I would rather attend the theater,” Sibylla replied. “I do find it strange that there is absolutely no public life here in Morocco, no theater or opera, no balls or sporting events.” She rummaged in a box until she found a small button and held it against a tiny white cotton gown to see how it looked.

  “Social life takes place behind thick walls in this country. It took me a while to become accustomed to that as well,” Sara admitted.

  “And that is precisely why I have to escape from this confinement for a few days!” Sibylla persisted. “I spend almost all day in this house with its tiny windows or else in the courtyard. When I go out walking, I reach the city walls within ten minutes at most. I’ve seen nothing of the countryside!”

  “I do understand you, my dear Sibylla.” Sara said with a sigh. “But I think it is a very bad idea.”

  The foreign merchants and their consuls from England, Spain, Portugal, France, the Netherlands, and Denmark had joined a caravan arranged by Samuel Toledano. It consisted of fifty heavily laden camels, five camel riders, and several assistants, who took care of the animals. Once in Marrakesh, they would join other caravans to become a giant caravan, consisting of several hundred animals, that would then head through the Western Sahara to the legendary city of Timbuktu. The caravans traveling south transported dates, oil, henna, salt, cotton cloth, glass beads, metal products, rugs, and ceramics. On their return, they brought ostrich feathers, ivory, gold, and, most important, slaves.

  To protect the small caravan from bands of thieves on its way from Mogador to Marrakesh, it was escorted by thirty riders from the sultan’s cavalry. The governor of Mogador himself rode along on a magnificent Arabian stallion, his most prized gyrfalcon on his arm.

  The road to Marrakesh, a dusty, well-trodden path, led directly eastward. Not far outside the walls of the city, they rode through groves of argan that, according to Sara Willshire, grew nowhere else. These primeval trees with their wide crowns bore plumlike green fruit with kernels from which the natives extracted a nutritious, gold-colored oil. Apparently, the fruit was popular with goats as well—to her great amusement, Sibylla spotted several grazing up among the branches.

  The argan groves were followed by juniper bushes and low-growing shrubs. Every now and then they saw some abandoned, dilapidated mud huts and small harvested fields. They crossed through brooks that were almost completely dry after the long summer and offered just enough water for man and beast. Intoxicating oleander bloomed along the banks. Nadira pointed out grasshoppers and chameleons to Sibylla and Sara, and once, even the papery skin out of which a snake had slipped. The farther east they traveled, the sandier the ground became. Finally, the Atlas Mountains became visible in the blue haze.

  The first two nights, they pitched tents. Dozens of little campfires sparkled in the darkness. Nadira made tea and ricelik
e couscous, to which she added olive oil and butter. Sibylla sat next to her husband on a flat stone near the fire and thought it very exciting to be traveling in a way which had long been relegated to the past in Europe.

  “This is our second picnic together,” she whispered to Benjamin, scooping up her couscous with a piece of freshly baked flatbread, as per local custom.

  “True,” he replied and glumly regarded his tin bowl. “Only back then the food was better.”

  The second night, they were awakened by loud shouting and rifle shots. Horses neighed, camels howled, and donkeys screamed.

  “Hyenas,” Consul Willshire explained when Benjamin and Sibylla stumbled out of their tent. “No need to worry. The sultan’s riders have shot a few and chased off the rest.”

  Heading out the next morning, they were confronted by the bodies of the large predators, which the cavalry had laid out as deterrents around the edges of the camp. Sibylla shuddered at the sight of their powerful fangs.

  By the third day, she began to feel the effects of the heat. She felt exhausted and dusty when, toward evening, they rode through the arched gate of the only caravanserai along the route. The lodging for travelers and traders was no more than a plain building made of rammed earth, its four walls surrounding an interior courtyard with enough room for two caravans the size of theirs. Storage rooms and stalls for the animals were on the first floor and the travelers slept in simple windowless rooms on the second. There was also a small prayer room. The gate was locked at night for protection.

  Nadira was building a fire to cook over when a group of women came into the courtyard. They immediately attracted Sibylla’s attention as they were not veiled. They circulated among the travelers with baskets filled with flatbread, eggs, goat cheese, and dried meat for sale. Sibylla was fascinated by their proud, open faces. The skin on their suntanned foreheads and chins was tattooed. They were barefoot, their wide skirts decorated with multicolored braids and tassels. They wore blouses and colorful scarves on their dark hair.