The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  The boy nodded seriously, then ran down the beach, kicking up sand behind him.

  “Now!” shouted André, as the line grew taut in Tom’s fist and the colorful kite rose into the blue sky, accompanied by the joyful cries of the children.

  “Be careful not to let it fall into the water,” he warned.

  Then he turned to Sibylla, who had been shouting encouragements to the boys as well, placed his hand on his heart, and bowed with exaggerated gallantry. “Now we’ll have some time to chat.”

  “Why not?” she replied.

  The wind tore at Rouston’s short black hair and Sibylla found herself wanting to touch it. She blushed again and reminded herself that this was madness. It would only end up making her unhappy.

  And yet she could not stop her heart from pounding in her chest. She felt powerfully drawn to this Frenchman with his suntanned skin, laugh lines around his dark eyes, and wavy hair.

  They had crossed paths several times since his heroics in the desert. She had seen him at New Year’s receptions at the European consulates and now and again at the souk, where he would be selling the Chiadma’s orange crop in spring and summer, the date crop in fall, and saffron and olives in winter. They had never been alone together and, still, every single one of their encounters was burned into her memory.

  She had told no one about her disturbing feelings, but at night, when she heard Firyal tiptoe into Benjamin’s room, she would find herself thinking about Rouston and wonder if he had a Chiadma wife, perhaps even children, or if he preferred a life without attachments.

  The strong wind carried them snatches of the muezzin’s call to asr, the afternoon prayer. André took off his jacket and laid it on the sand. “Please.” He smiled at Sibylla. “Do have a seat.” He sat down on the ground next to her and held out a paper bag. “Do you like roasted pistachios?”

  “I do!” She reached into the bag. “I love Moroccan cuisine. We just don’t have all of these delectable tidbits in England.”

  Rouston looked at her and a smile crossed his face. He too had felt an invisible bond from the first moment they met, and it made him happy in a way he had never known. He longed to tell Sibylla that he found her body, which her pregnancies had made fuller and more feminine, beguiling, and that the warmth radiating from her face made her the most beautiful woman in the world. But that was impossible. André had often wondered how fussy Hopkins, whose undiplomatic and grandiose demeanor had made him so unpopular with the Moroccans, could have been blessed with such an extraordinary woman as his wife.

  “Monsieur Rouston?”

  He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, dear madame. What was it you said?”

  “I asked you what brought you to Mogador. Do you have business in the souk? I’m there myself quite a bit. It’s a wonderful place, isn’t it? All the aromas and sounds! One alleyway smells of soap and perfume, the next has Persian carpets and Indian silks, and the next camel heads and freshly skinned sheep. How marvelous!”

  André tore himself away from her glistening blue eyes and answered, “You are correct, I was at the souk to sell the saffron harvested in November. The merchants were expecting it. But, of course, I had to deliver some to the sultan’s private chef before anyone else.”

  “Morocco’s red gold,” Sibylla said with a smile. “That’s what my father calls it.”

  “Because it is the world’s most precious spice,” André replied with excitement. “It is a secret in most of the world, but the Chiadma taught me how to grow it.”

  “And how is it that you, a European, came to be privy to this secret?”

  “I arbitrated between the sheikhs of the Chiadma and the sultan, and was thus able to resolve a feud. As an expression of their gratitude, the Chiadma initiated me into the cultivation of saffron. Because, you see, the feud between them and the Alaouites had persisted for centuries and had brought their people to the brink of destruction. So now they prefer to pay him the ushur, the agricultural tax, rather than try to usurp his throne.”

  “Perhaps one day you will sell the Chiadma’s saffron to us.”

  “I would, but your husband refuses to buy. He tells me the export taxes are too high and that he has other merchandise he can export at a lower price.”

  Sibylla looked him straight in the eye. “If you had negotiated with me, we would have found a solution satisfactory to all.”

  He gave her a mischievous smile. “I do not doubt it. One day, when I grow my own saffron, I shall come to you first, my lady.”

  “Benjamin had a hard time of it at the start,” Sibylla said, feeling the need to apologize for her husband. “But then, after Thomas’s birth, business began to take off. Now he is so busy that we hardly see each other.”

  She glanced over to the children. It was little Sabri’s turn to hold the line, but John was already impatiently tugging at his kaftan.

  “Benjamin did want to fly his kite with the boys,” she mused. “But then the Queen Charlotte came in earlier than expected.” Sibylla took another handful of pistachios. “Is it true that Sultan Abd al-Rahman often seeks your counsel? The rest of us foreigners are no more than useful infidels as far as he is concerned.”

  André laughed. “Well, I do allow His Majesty to beat me at chess. But to speak seriously: Abd al-Rahman is a great admirer of Napoleon and I was a major in the Chasseurs d’Afrique—though I did not join until 1823, several years after his death. And I am not certain that the sultan truly trusts me. I shall find out soon, though. The Berbers in Algeria and their leader, Abd el-Kader, have issued another jihad against us French. I have no doubt the sultan is having me watched to see if I will join my native country to wage war against the true believers.”

  “And? Will you?” Sibylla’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Mon Dieu, no!” André crumpled the empty pistachio bag. “I took my leave of fighting a long time ago. If I could, I would purchase a piece of land here and grow my own saffron. Unfortunately, the sultan does not permit Christians to own land.”

  Sibylla studied him with curiosity. Was this a good moment to ask if he planned to live in this country with a woman? Or if he perhaps already had a wife?

  They were interrupted by loud shrieks coming from the beach. John was lying flat on his stomach in the sand and bawling at the top of his lungs. Tom had one of the Arab boys by the collar and was yelling in Arabic. “Let go of the string, you swine, or the djinn’s curse be upon you!”

  The boy had apparently taken the kite’s string away from John, and Tom was coming to his beloved brother’s aid.

  “Dear me!” Sibylla laughed awkwardly. “I must remind the servants to watch their language in the children’s presence. Boys!” She jumped to her feet. “You are not to fight!”

  She ran to the children, and André followed. John scrambled to his feet and she picked him up. The little Arab boy had fallen into a clump of sea pink and had dried petals all over his clothing and in his hair. His face was very angry as the Frenchman gave him a stern talking-to. Eventually, he returned the line to Tom, his head hung low.

  “However did you manage to appease them so quickly?” Sibylla asked once they were sitting in the sand, watching the children play peacefully once more.

  “I threatened to unleash the ghosts of the Christian slaves who were walled in when this fortress was built,” André answered with a grin.

  “What? Immured people? That’s the kind of talk with which you frighten children? You can’t be serious!” Sibylla shuddered.

  “I’m not. To be honest, I am not sure if this old wives’ tale is true. In fact, I asked the boy if he was such a weakling that he felt it necessary to take things from a much smaller boy. And I could not help but notice, madame”—André scrutinized her with feigned severity—“Thomas can curse alarmingly well in Arabic.”

  Sibylla was embarrassed. “He must have picked it up from some playmates or the servants. There are some disadvantages to having your children learn the local language.”

  “
You must plan to stay in Morocco for some time.”

  She laughed. “In truth, there is very little that would entice me back to London. And what about you? What keeps you in this country? Is it a woman?” Sibylla reddened as the last question slipped out. “Please forgive my curiosity!”

  “Madame, there is nothing to forgive.” In fact, with those four jealous little words, she had just made him the happiest man in Morocco.

  If any woman could keep me here, it would be you, Sibylla Hopkins, though it is precisely because of you that I should leave as quickly as possible—after all, what could we hope for beyond a few stolen moments?

  But he said, “You’re wondering if I have taken a Chiadma wife. The answer is: no, I have not.” He was delighted by the relief on her face. He paused for a moment and then continued, his voice tinged with mischief. “But one might say that a Chiadma woman has taken me for her husband.”

  “Oh? Really?” She could hardly disguise her disappointment. “These Berber women seem to have rather loose morals,” she added a little disapprovingly.

  “No, no,” André countered unsmilingly. “That is far from true, madame. They are merely different from European and Arab women. The Berber tribes hold women in high regard. They are strong and free and make their own decisions. There are even some famous warrioresses among them. Have you ever heard of al-Kahina, the sorceress? When the Arabs invaded the Maghreb more than a thousand years ago, she united the tribes of the Zanata Berbers and led them against the intruders. The Zanata made her their queen. A captured Muslim she had adopted betrayed her to the enemy, and it cost her her life.”

  “She must have been a fascinating woman, a true Amazon,” Sibylla said quietly. How sheltered and uneventful her own life seemed by comparison—even if she had managed to escape her father’s strict supervision. Rouston, on the other hand, had married a Berber woman, who most likely was a second al-Kahina. Sibylla felt her heart sink at the thought.

  “Why does your wife never accompany you to Mogador? Do you wish to keep her from us foreigners?” She bit her lip. She had not meant to sound so resentful.

  “Sibylla,” André said softly, making her blush as he used her given name for the first time. “I am no longer married to that woman. She moved in with her oldest daughter, who married a man from the Rif Mountains. She wants to help her set up her household. And so she asked me to consent to the dissolution of our union.”

  “She can divorce you? Just like that? Just because she wishes it?”

  André nodded. “Idri was a widow when I met her. As a widow, she was entitled not only to choose all her subsequent partners herself, but also to divorce them.”

  “How unusual!” Sibylla marveled. She studied the floral pattern on her kaftan intently while trying to control the thought that was taking hold in her mind: If only I could get divorced so easily and simply! Yet she knew it was impossible. She had pawned her life to Benjamin in exchange for a little freedom, and nothing would change that until one of them died. She fought to suppress a deep sigh.

  André gently turned her chin so that she was forced to face him in spite of the tears filling her eyes.

  “Sibylla,” he began, and her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

  “Yes, André?” she whispered.

  “Sibylla, if only you . . .”

  “Mummy! John let go!” they heard Tom shout. “And now it’s gone! The kite is gone!”

  Sibylla and André jumped up guiltily.

  The group of children was standing at the beach not far from them, looking up at the kite as it fluttered off into the blue sky. Little Sabri stood next to Tom. They were about the same height and both held one hand over their eyes as they watched the red-and-yellow toy grow smaller and smaller.

  Sabri said something to Tom and gave him a huge smile before running off with the other Arab boys. John and Tom raced over to their mother.

  “Mummy?” Tom asked as he snuggled up to her. “Is the kite really going to fly to Mecca like the storks?”

  “Who told you that?” The question took Sibylla aback.

  “Sabri. He’s my friend,” Tom replied earnestly.

  Sibylla laughed and took both her boys by the hand. “Well, then I suppose it must be so. Come now, let’s go home.”

  André, who had shaken the sand off his jacket and put it on again, said, “If you permit, I shall escort you, Madame Hopkins.”

  She only nodded, but over the heads of the children, they locked eyes for a very long time.

  Chapter Eleven

  “And this is the sweet that the English serve to celebrate the birth of their highest prophet, the festival you call Christmas? It is certainly delicious, but should it not be sweeter, softer? Should it not be more exceptional for such a sacred occasion?” Lalla Jasira’s face belied her polite words of praise.

  Sibylla smiled. “I know what you mean. I used to adore gingersnaps. Our cook baked them for Christmas every year. But I must admit that three years of living in Morocco has refined my palate.”

  “Nonsense!” Rusa protested. “These pastries are very interesting. Can it be that I taste cloves and honey? Yes, and a hint of vanilla as well.”

  “You are too kind, Rusa,” Sibylla replied and set her unfinished biscuit on her plate. “But I only wanted to present you with a little something that has to do with Christmas at home.”

  “Would you rather be there now, celebrating with your family?” Rusa looked at her guest compassionately. She had known the Engliziya for more than three years, during which the Christian woman had become more than just a reliable business partner. She saw the woman with lion’s hair almost as a daughter.

  Sibylla watched the qaid’s many children playing on the lawn. Nannies and governesses sat nearby and made sure that the children played nicely and that none of the little ones fell into the fishpond. Normally, she brought Tom and John with her to the harem. But today, both had complained of a tummyache and so she’d left them at home in Nadira’s care.

  “Rusa, my family is here in Mogador,” Sibylla answered. “I am happy.”

  “Perhaps your family will grow soon, Sayyida Sibylla. You are able to give el Sayyid many more children,” Wahida said.

  When Sibylla had first met the qaid’s beautiful Abyssinian concubine, Wahida had already borne her master two sons. Now she had two daughters as well.

  Sibylla thought of Benjamin and Firyal. If there were to be any more babies in the Hopkins family, they would certainly not be hers.

  “Things are fine as they are,” she said without bitterness. “Two boys keep me busy enough.”

  Wahida contemplated her. It must have been a long time since the Engliziya had shared her husband’s bed. After all, her youngest child was already two years old. Of course, if she served her husband dry sweets like these, it was no wonder her womb remained empty.

  Wahida knew many secrets with which a woman could hold a man captive. She knew how intoxicating fragrances affected him and which ingredients in a man’s food not only delighted his palate but also enflamed his desire: “lady’s navel,” a moist, ring-shaped pastry with a flirtatious dab of whipped cream in the middle, for instance, or “lips of beauty,” which tasted sweeter than a kiss.

  But the Engliziya did not appear sad that her husband no longer wanted her in his bed. That could only mean that he either was very inept or preferred the company of boys. Or did the beautiful blonde Engliziya perhaps care so little about her spouse because she had taken a lover herself?

  Today, the end of Ramadan, was especially well suited for finding this out. Yesterday, the muezzin had announced the appearance of the new moon, signifying the beginning of the month of Shawwal and, with it, the end of fasting. For thirty days, the qaid’s Muslim wives had fasted and prayed, honored their dead, and given alms. And as a reward, the Prophet, in his infinite wisdom, had bestowed upon them the gift of Eid al-Fitr, the Feast of Breaking the Fast.

  When Sibylla had entered the harem’s garden shortly after noond
ay prayers, the mood was already festive. She had intended only to leave the silk stockings and ginger biscuits as gifts, but Rusa and Lalla Jasira had invited her to join in the celebration.

  Now she was resting on comfortable pillows by the water basin with the two most important ladies in the harem and the concubine Wahida. A slave had served Sibylla dove pâté and date ragout, lamb with pomegranate sauce, and swordfish wrapped in fresh mint leaves. Afterward, she had drunk tea flavored with cinnamon and cardamom, and, for dessert, the slave had brought apple sorbet with candied rose blossoms.

  My word, Sibylla thought as she savored one delicacy after another. No wonder these women find gingersnaps dull! I must take care not to get fat. I don’t suppose André’s Chiadma widow is fat.

  Ever since her encounter with the Frenchman on the beach three days earlier, she had been referring to him in her mind by his first name. She was sure that he had been on the verge of confessing something very personal, something concerning the two of them. But with the children’s interruption, the moment had passed quickly, and all that was left to her now was a wistful memory and thrilling words unspoken.

  She sighed and plucked a dark purple plum from the platter in front of her.

  How delicious the fruit here is, she thought, closing her eyes with pleasure. It was as if they absorbed the sun’s warmth, day in and day out.

  When she opened her eyes, they met Wahida’s. Her mahogany-colored eyes flashed. Lalla Jasira too was watching her with a little smile.

  “Look at our esteemed guest nibbling at this plum,” Wahida began. “Is it not as though she were stroking a man at his most sensitive place?”

  Sibylla’s cheeks grew hot. She knew the women in the harem were sometimes given to suggestive conversations. Rusa usually saw to it that these never turned too coarse, but during this special feast, they were permitted to get carried away a little. In any case, the qaid’s mother had nodded off after the sumptuous meal and was not paying attention to the salacious turn things had taken.