The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  Yet this was a learned technique. The expressiveness with which she drew had never been taught to her. Monsieur Rouston had once remarked that she expressed the soul of her subjects. And for her fifteenth birthday, he had given her an easel, canvases, brushes, and paint.

  Emily especially liked to draw at the harbor or in the souk, wherever there was a lot of activity. Many of Mogador’s inhabitants knew her and were happy to have her draw their portraits, while others did not like it, as representative drawing was considered a sin against God, the sole creator of everything.

  But the fisherman by the quay wall did not mind. Every now and then he smiled at Emily. She sketched the folds of his kaftan with very few lines and smudged them with her thumb to show shadows. When the drawing was finished, she scribbled her name and the date at the bottom and placed it in a leather portfolio. Then she propped herself up with her hands on the rough stone wall, leaned back, and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her skin and the wind in her curly hair.

  In three months, she would turn nineteen, and she knew it was about time for her to figure out what to do with her life. Most of her peers from school had traveled to Europe to be introduced into society and meet suitable husbands. Some had written her to tell her that they were engaged. John’s wife, Victoria, was only one year older than Emily and already a mother! But Emily felt no longing for marriage or motherhood and was grateful that her own mother did not press her. Her greatest desire was to attend an art academy in Europe to study painting and perhaps even learn about the new art of photography.

  She had shared this wish with her mother not long ago. “Why not?” Sibylla had answered, much to her Emily’s delight. “But it’s impossible just now. You cannot travel to Europe by yourself and I cannot abandon the business here. Once your brothers return from Europe and John can take over some of the business, we’ll talk about it again.”

  Now that Thomas and John were about to return from England, Emily passionately hoped her mother would keep her promise.

  A shadow fell on her face. She opened her eyes and recognized Mr. Philipps, the harbormaster, standing next to her.

  “Good morning, Miss Hopkins. I have received word that the Urania is coming through the port entrance. If I am not mistaken, that’s good news.” He winked at her congenially.

  Emily jumped up. “Tom and John are back! I must tell Mother right away! Thank you, Mr. Philipps!”

  “It’s unimaginable that Emperor Nero had saffron strewn on the streets of Rome for his triumphal procession,” André remarked and ran his fingers through the tiny dried pistils. Just a few weeks before, they had still been embedded in the heart of the small crocus plants that had created a thick carpet of lilac blossoms. Soon they would tickle fastidious taste buds in dining rooms and restaurants all over the world.

  “With the quantities that would entail, I suspect that he resorted to marigolds and the like,” Sibylla replied dryly. She unlocked the wooden cabinets, took out two round earthenware vessels and a scale, and placed everything on her desk. After weighing the saffron, she filled the two pots with it, returned them to the cabinet, and checked that the padlock was locked.

  “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “Avec plaisir.” André was delighted.

  “How has business been this year?” he inquired, after Aladdin’s brother had placed the steaming glasses on Sibylla’s small table.

  “Please, take a seat.” She pointed to the low table with some chairs in the corner of the room. “To be honest, this year has been patchy. On balance, Spencer & Son has not suffered any losses, but the years of drought have definitely impacted the local leather, our main export.”

  He grinned. “Businessmen always complain. I am sure that your brother in London will still be pleased. He knows that no one is better equipped to handle the Morocco trade than you.”

  “You know, I believe you are right,” she said, flattered.

  “Of course I’m right. If he weren’t pleased, he would have sent someone else to Mogador.”

  Sibylla took a sip of tea. “Luxury items are what sells best these days. Qaid Samir’s wives do the most exquisite embroideries for me.” He could hear the enthusiasm in her voice. “The fashion-conscious ladies in Europe can’t get enough of handkerchiefs, shawls, and cushions embroidered by dainty hands in an exotic Oriental harem. I’m negotiating at the moment with embroiderers in Fez and Marrakesh because the demand is so great. Unfortunately, I am in competition with the merchants of Casablanca and, since the harbor there is larger and more modern, I don’t fare very well. Sultan Sidi Mohammed ignores all my contributions to the expansion of the harbor here.”

  After ruling Morocco for thirty-seven years, Moulay Abd al-Rahman had died that August, and his son, Sidi Mohammed IV, had succeeded him. The new ruler was already a mature man of fifty-seven years and had inherited an onerous task. His country was deeply in debt, and the populace was discontented and ready to revolt after several crop failures and a devastating cholera epidemic. At the same time, France, England, and, most recently, Prussia were competing for the greatest possible influence in his country. Their consuls in Mogador and Tangier were saying quite openly that it was only a matter of time before one of three countries incorporated Morocco into its colonial empire.

  Sibylla finished her tea and rose. “How long will you be in Mogador?”

  “One week. I have been given a terribly long shopping list. I’m probably going to need a pack donkey to get everything home.”

  He noticed too late how Sibylla’s cheeks flushed, and he could have kicked himself. He knew any mention of his family in Qasr el Bahia could endanger their tenuous truce.

  Sibylla stiffly looked at the floor and declared, “I have to go to the warehouse anyway. If I don’t get the numbers to the qaid’s simsar, I won’t be able to ship my leather tomorrow. Good-bye, André. I wish you a merry Christmas.”

  He wanted to thank her, but all he saw was her back.

  As Sibylla stormed down the stairs, she asked herself if she would ever be able to forgive him for deceiving her with Aynur.

  There was one moment when she had been ready to do so—when she first held her newborn daughter, a tiny bundle with her father’s dark curls. But a few weeks later, Nadira had reported the gossip from the souk that André’s wife had given birth to a baby girl in Qasr el Bahia, a mere six weeks after Emily’s birth. Sibylla felt more betrayed than ever. Had André not implored her to examine his saffron five years later, she would not be speaking to him to this day.

  Sibylla was about to open the door to the warehouse when Emily burst in. “The Urania is here, Mother! Tom and John are back!”

  André, who had followed Sibylla, could not take his eyes off Emily. The lovely young woman had an unusual beauty. She wore her long black hair down, with a colorful scarf to keep it off her face. Her eyes were a deep, almost lilac blue. Like her mother, she favored Arab clothing, but hers was colorful and bright. From afar, she might have been taken for a Berber girl if not for her height.

  André had been fond of her ever since he had first seen her, a cheerful five-year-old, who had trustfully taken his hand and shown him her toys. He felt for her the same strong love as for his four children with Aynur. Yet Emily was Benjamin Hopkins’s daughter, at least according to Sibylla. Of course, André could count and knew that pregnancy lasts nine months and not almost eleven. Years ago, he had cautiously attempted to speak to Sibylla about Emily’s parentage. She had practically turned to a pillar of salt and threatened that he would never see Emily again if he ever put ideas in her head. But as Emily grew older, it became painfully obvious that she was his child. André longed to have the truth come to light, but he did not wish to discredit Sibylla nor ruin Emily’s future with a scandal. So he told himself that, at least on paper, Benjamin Hopkins was the best possible father for Emily.

  Sibylla interrupted his musings. “Excuse me, André, if I say good-bye now, but I want to welcome my family.”

  H
e nodded politely. “Of course, it’s been far too long since you’ve seen them. Please give them my best regards. Joyeux Noël à toute la famille.”

  “That’s your mother?” Victoria whispered incredulously. She sat next to her husband on a slimy plank on the small boat that was ferrying them from the Urania to shore.

  “I haven’t seen my mother for five years but yes, I am fairly confident that’s her,” John replied dryly. “And next to her, that’s my sister, Emily. The older man in the black kaftan is the harbormaster, Mr. Philipps. The donkeys for us to ride home on and porters for our baggage are ready.” He looked over at the three donkeys waiting in the background with their drivers.

  “Donkeys?” Victoria cried in dismay. “You can’t be serious! Does your mother not have a carriage?”

  John convulsed in laughter. “A carriage would be of no use here! The alleyways in the medina are much too narrow. And besides, the streets here are very bad, and we would have a broken axle after just a hundred yards. No, dear Victoria, in town we usually go on foot, and to cover distances, donkeys. You’ll get used to it!”

  While Victoria was busy recovering from this information, she studied her mother-in-law and sister-in-law. They were certainly not dressed like Victoria, who was wearing a dress with a bodice and loose crinoline as well as a fashionable hat with feathers. They were each wearing—what was that anyhow?—a nightgown with trousers? And no hats. Her mother-in-law wore only a shawl loosely covering her hair, and Emily had a colorful scarf that held back her wild curls. With her hair blowing in the wind, she resembled—Victoria searched for a kinder expression—a Gypsy. It was unfathomable that these two women belonged to one of England’s most respected merchant families. Mother isn’t going to believe it when I write to her, Victoria thought, shaking her head.

  Before she had even set foot on Moroccan soil, she was already feeling alienated. The strange-looking Arabs with their black eyes and their scruffy beards. The half-naked slaves rowing their boat. A shocking sight! She nervously eyed the bare torsos of these men, whose pitch-black skin glistened with perspiration. She was embarrassed even to see her own husband exposed in such a way, but complete strangers . . .

  The boat pulled up to the quay wall with a little jerk.

  “Here we are!” John extended a hand to help her out. Next, he took Charlotte on his arm while the nanny carried Selwyn. Thomas and Sabri were last to disembark.

  Sibylla hurried to them with a radiant smile. However, as Victoria reached out to greet her mother-in-law, she found her words drowned out by hideous cries of lament. Horrified, she covered her ears. Yet no one but she and the nanny seemed upset. She watched as the donkey drivers and porters rolled out small carpets. They picked up some dirt from the ground and rubbed it over their faces and arms as though they were bathing and then kneeled on their rugs, foreheads on the ground, mumbling to themselves. A few minutes later, the Moors rose, rolled up their rugs, and began loading trunks and baskets as though nothing had happened.

  Victoria wondered what bizarre kind of conspiracy she had just witnessed.

  “Do not worry, dear girl. The men were complying with the muezzin’s call to midday prayers. Arabs pray to their god five times a day. They fulfill this duty seriously and solemnly,” explained Sibylla, who had been watching her.

  Victoria stared at her and Sibylla continued, “You’ll soon get used to the local customs.” She embraced her daughter-in-law. “So, you are John’s wife. I am so glad to meet you at last and to be a second mother to you from now on! Did you have a pleasant crossing? I remember well how cramped and uncomfortable it was to be on a ship!”

  “To be honest, the journey was a nightmare. The North Sea was so rough that I feared we might be shipwrecked,” Victoria reported.

  Sibylla nodded empathetically. Then she turned to the two little children. “And you are my grandchildren! Do you want to say hello to your grandmother?”

  Charlotte looked at her with curiosity. Selwyn, however, hid his face on his nanny’s shoulder. Sibylla stroked his little head.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me, little man. Look at the big stork’s nest over there. You don’t have anything like that in London.” She pointed to the qasbah tower. The little boy hesitantly looked before a coughing fit racked his body.

  “There, there now. That’s still the filthy London air in your lungs. Not to worry, the climate here will soon make you well.” Sibylla took Selwyn from his nanny’s arms and patted his back.

  Victoria watched in amazement how her son trustfully snuggled up against Sibylla. “He’s usually so reserved with strangers.”

  “Oh, but we’re not strangers. We’re getting along quite well already, wouldn’t you say, Selwyn?” Sibylla kissed the little one again and handed him back to his nanny.

  “Hello, Mother. Do you finally have time for your son?” John jested. The twenty-two-year-old resembled his father so much that, for a few perplexing seconds, Sibylla felt herself transported to the days when Benjamin had courted her. With tears in her eyes, she took her younger son into her arms. “I am so happy! Now we shall be able to celebrate Christmas together.”

  Thomas and Sabri stood next to each other on the quay. “You’re not praying, my friend?” Thomas asked.

  “God does not have a religion as far as I’m concerned,” the young man replied. “I often speak to Him, but not always when the Koran prescribes.”

  “Your father would not be pleased to hear that,” Thomas remarked. Sabri’s father, Abdul bin Ibrahim, was the headmaster of the zaouia of Mogador. He had even made the pilgrimage to Mecca and was thus allowed to call himself haji. He was one of the most highly regarded men in the city.

  “I am a son of two worlds,” Sabri explained. “As you know, my mother was a member of the Christian Orthodox churches of her country. When she became my father’s second wife, she converted to the faith of the Prophet.”

  Sabri’s mother, Almaz, came from Abyssinia. His father had bought her in a slave market near Mecca and brought her back to Mogador. When she gave birth to Sabri, Haji Abdul’s only son, he took her as his second wife.

  Thomas patted his friend on the back. “Here comes my mother.”

  When Sabri smiled and turned his head, he saw not Sibylla but Emily. He had not seen her since he left for Fez to study Arab medicine, and he hardly recognized her. The skinny little girl with the long arms and legs had become a woman. She returned his gaze for a moment, then quickly looked down. She blushed slightly and threw her hair back with a graceful motion. Her earrings caught a ray of sunlight, and Sabri noticed that they were the same unusual color as her eyes. He desperately wanted her to look at him again with those amethyst blue eyes and, just as this wish passed through his mind, she did so with a mischievous smile. He admired the little dimples in the corners of her mouth.

  “Dr. bin Abdul. How nice that you have returned to Mogador,” Sibylla said.

  He grudgingly took his eyes off Emily and bowed before his friend’s mother. “Assalamu alaikum, Mrs. Hopkins.”

  He watched as Emily greeted her brothers. She seemed so full of life. Just looking at her filled Sabri with joy. After she had embraced Victoria, she finally turned to him. “Assalamu alaikum, Dr. bin Abdul.”

  He bowed. “Miss Hopkins, is it really you—little Emily?”

  “I’m really not little anymore, Dr. bin Abdul,” she replied impishly.

  He nodded earnestly. “Indeed, Miss Hopkins! You have become a young lady and more beautiful than all the stars in the sky.”

  Suddenly shy and speechless, she stared at Sabri as though hypnotized.

  No part of this exchange was lost on Sibylla. Sabri was an honorable young man, but what would it mean to Sabri and Emily if they fell in love? A Muslim and a Christian. What would it mean for Emily if they desired a shared future? Would she have to convert to Islam? Or perhaps even lead a life as a low-ranking concubine?

  Sibylla had raised Emily to be an independent young woman. She certain
ly did not want her hidden away in a harem. She placed a protective arm around Emily. “It’s time we went home, dear. Ma’assalama, Dr. bin Abdul. Please pay my respects to your honorable parents.”

  “Ma’assalama.” Sabri bowed.

  Emily took one last look at him. Without realizing, she let out a soft sigh.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mogador, July 1860

  “We’ll never find a new nanny for Charlotte and Selwyn. No one wants to come here, no matter how much we pay!”

  Victoria stormed into John’s study and threw a letter on his desk. Her husband looked up from his paperwork with annoyance.

  “Here you have it: Grandmother Mary writes that twenty governesses with outstanding references answered her ad, but when they heard the position was going to be in an African country, they all withdrew!”

  John needed to prepare for an important meeting with the harbormaster, the governor, and Consul Willshire, and did not wish to be disturbed. He was well aware that Victoria was unhappy in Mogador, but told himself it was because she had not yet settled in. Ever since the twins’ governess had impulsively resigned and returned to England, Victoria had become upset at the slightest provocation.

  “Please calm down,” he bade her in as controlled a voice as possible. “Nadira is doing an excellent job of taking care of the children. And my mother is supporting you as best she can.”

  “You might not mind that our children are being raised by a Negress,” Victoria hissed. “But do you also want her to turn them into Moors? This morning, I caught her showing Charlotte how people in this country pray! I want an English nanny, John, one who knows manners and who raises our children properly!”