The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  His vertigo and headache had prevented him from keeping pace with Sabri. He had also stopped outside to console Malika, who was hysterical because Thomas had said that each additional person in the room was excruciating for her mother.

  “Shush, Monsieur Rouston!” Thomas whispered. “Noise causes her pain, but tranquility and darkness do her good, don’t they, madame?” He smiled at Aynur.

  The cramps that had made her slender body twitch as André entered had subsided. She was lying still. However, her back was stiff as a board, as though stretched between two pegs.

  André felt his way to the head of the bed. The sight of his wife, whose pretty face had been frozen into a ghastly mask, teeth bared, gave him a fright. He was only too familiar with this look. He had seen it often enough on his wounded comrades during the Algerian War.

  “The doctor will help you, ma chère,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

  He gently caressed her sweat-beaded brow with his fingertips. Immediately, her neck went into spasms, bending her head all the way back. André quickly jerked away, shaken to the core. Only by her eyes was his wife still recognizable. Deep black eyes, in which her agony, which she could not escape, was written. Since he had entered the room, these eyes had followed him, had stared at him without blinking. She wanted to say something to him with that look. André sensed what it was, but was too terrified to accept it.

  “Sabri, hand me the bottle of silver salts from my bag. I want to cleanse the wound again. And I also need fresh dressing material,” Thomas whispered.

  Sabri brought them over. “I got you some quinine powder as well, for the fever.”

  “Good idea.” Thomas treated Aynur’s wound with a few careful movements with Sabri assisting him and André holding the candle in his trembling hands. He carefully shielded her face from the light to spare her unnecessary agony. Still, her frail body was racked by spasms as soon as Thomas touched her ever so lightly.

  André was haunted by long-forgotten memories of helpless surgeons on the edge of battlefields, of shocked and frightened soldiers having to witness the agonizing death of their comrades. Aynur’s eyes with their dilated pupils were fixed on him as though in a silent scream. She knew what was in store, and she was begging him for help. His eyes welled up. He bowed his head and softly stroked her hair. “I know, ma chère,” he whispered. “I know what you’re asking me.”

  A short while later, he stood in front of the sickroom with Thomas and Sabri. He was white as a sheet and had to support himself against the wall. He had sent Malika away to make some tea for her mother. “I want you to be honest with me, Doctors. Is there anything you can do for my wife?”

  Thomas looked gravely at Sabri. “What do you think, my friend?”

  The young physician moved his head side to side. “Convulsions in the affected arm, risus sardonicus, musculoskeletal tension of the back, high fever, discolored margins, and greatly increased sensitivity. The wound is badly infected.”

  Thomas nodded slowly. “That’s my diagnosis as well.”

  “So it’s tetanus,” André concluded. “Is it still possible for you to amputate the arm?”

  The two physicians exchanged looks. “You’re familiar with this, Monsieur Rouston?”

  He took a deep breath. “During the war in Algeria, I became better acquainted with the deadly symptoms of tetanus than I care to recall. So, gentlemen, what is your opinion?”

  Thomas cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s too late for an amputation. I recommended it to your wife, but she wouldn’t hear it. By now, the toxins have spread all over her body.”

  “Apart from that, the patient is weakened considerably. The danger is great that she would not survive such a procedure,” Sabri added.

  André lowered his head. His chest felt like it might split in two. Yet nothing compared to the pain Aynur was having to endure. “How much time does she have?” he finally managed.

  “One day, two at most,” Thomas replied, and Sabri nodded.

  André thought about the look Aynur had given him. It was the last plea of a dying woman, and he vowed to comply with it, no matter how difficult it might be. He looked each of the doctors in the eye and said, “I know how this disease progresses and I have seen people die from it. But Aynur will not die that way. Her cramps will not break her bones. She will not suffocate from paralysis, drowning in fear. My wife will leave this world in a dignified and pain-free manner. That is her wish, and I will see it honored. My question for you, Dr. Hopkins, and you, Dr. bin Abdul, is the following: Can my wife count on your help?”

  The three men were silent. Thomas and Sabri exchanged tense glances. Thomas’s head was spinning. What about the Hippocratic oath that he and Sabri had taken, the holy oath of physicians to do no harm? For Thomas, that oath had been the solemn culmination of his medical studies, and he took it very seriously. He had seen much misery in the slums of London. He had personally witnessed the cruel death that a tetanus infection could mean. At times, he had caught himself quarreling with God and with himself when a patient had to die slowly and painfully, especially where children were concerned. Nonetheless, until now, he had not dared interfere with the Lord’s decisions.

  “I realize what I’m asking you to do.” André’s voice cut through the silence. “But my wife’s death is certain, and you are asking much more of her than I am of you if you deny her peace.”

  Thomas looked intently at Sabri. “I believe that she should be allowed to die a peaceful death. What do you think, my friend?”

  Sabri looked unblinkingly at Thomas. Then he said quietly, “Amin, so be it.”

  Thomas felt a profound sadness over his inability to save Rouston’s wife. He cleared his throat. “I have belladonna extract and laudanum tincture. Both are anticonvulsants and analgesics but, like many other medications, they are poisons. Ultimately, their effect depends on the dosage.”

  André nodded.

  Thomas took a deep breath. “Come to my room in one hour. I will give you a little bottle. You will administer its contents with a spoon. It is of the utmost importance that you give her all of it so that it . . .” He hesitated. “Works.”

  “I thank you both.” André’s voice sounded rough. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I will speak with the children now and prepare them to say good-bye to their mother. Then I will come to you, Dr. Hopkins.”

  The sun was sinking behind the western hills when Aynur died. Narrow beams of light were falling into the sickroom through the closed shutters and lent a warm shimmer to her pallid face.

  Her children had been with her a short while before. They had cried a lot, particularly André Jr. But they had felt that their mother was no longer really with them, that she was already on her way to a place where they could not accompany her.

  Now only André was with her. He looked at her, lying calmly on her back. Her chest rose and fell weakly under the blanket. Her head lay in his lap. He caressed her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids. Her skin felt cold, but her features were relaxed and peaceful. Then he placed his hand on her lips and felt her breath becoming weaker. When it had become almost imperceptible, André, who had long ago stopped believing in a god, began to pray quietly as Aynur slipped gently away.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Mogador, December 1861

  Consul Willshire closed his Bible and rose. “My dear compatriots and friends, I wish you a blessed second Sunday of Advent. Until next Sunday.”

  “Advent under palm trees,” sighed Victoria, drowned out by the noise of chairs being pushed back. She took little Charlotte by the hand. “I would so very much like to experience a winter season with snow and a service in a real church for a change!”

  “I really can’t see what you’re complaining about,” John replied, picking up Selwyn. “I’d much rather attend a service under the open skies of Morocco than freeze in a cold, drafty church in England!”

  Consul Willshire and his wife held services among blossoming o
range trees and fragrant oleander in their garden. While the sultan allowed Christians to practice their religion in his country, he insisted that they do so discreetly and prohibited worship services celebrated by priests in churches.

  Victoria and John slowly made their way toward the exit. Sibylla and Emily were directly ahead of them, bidding the consul and his wife good-bye. Emily was wearing the embroidered jacket Malika had given her and a wide skirt that barely covered her calves. She wore soft leather boots and numerous jangling silver bangles on her wrists. She stood out like a cheerful, colorful bird among the dour Englishwomen in their corseted black Sunday dresses and stiff hats. Victoria overheard one of the wives whispering to another, “Ever since she returned, she’s been dressing like a Berber woman. Very inappropriate indeed, especially on a Sunday!”

  “Well, just look at the mother,” the other whispered behind her hand. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Indeed, my dear, indeed.” They eyed Sibylla’s purple silk pants, long silk shirt, and the embroidered scarf around her shoulders with a mixture of distaste and fascination.

  Victoria looked over at John but he was sharing a joke with Selwyn and had not heard. She considered how to react. Deep down, she shared the women’s opinion. However, her relationship with Sibylla had finally thawed, and it irritated her to hear outsiders making unkind remarks about her mother-in-law or Emily.

  She cleared her throat. “Ladies, I’m certain I misheard you just now, or did you really speak disparagingly about two members of my family?”

  The women regarded her uneasily.

  “You can consider yourselves fortunate that my husband did not hear,” Victoria went on. “He would not stand for having his mother and his sister spoken ill of. In order not to jeopardize the good business relations between the Hopkins family and your husbands, I am willing to overlook this rudeness—provided I do not hear of any further instances.” Victoria was nodding condescendingly when she suddenly noticed that Sibylla was watching her.

  “Well done! Thank you!” Sibylla mouthed.

  Victoria blushed. Ever since she had caused such strife with her revelation about Emily’s father, hardly a day had gone by that she did not regret her outburst. The idea that she had just atoned for it in a small way filled her with pride.

  Now it was Sibylla’s turn to say good-bye to Sara Willshire. “That was a lovely service,” she said, and Sara replied eagerly, “I am genuinely pleased that you are attending our little gatherings again. Perhaps you, and, of course, Emily, will do me the favor of attending afternoon tea soon?”

  That André Rouston—and not Benjamin Hopkins—was Emily’s father was now an open secret. But no one spoke of this twenty-year-old scandal anymore. Emily was well liked and it was obvious that her family stood by her. And besides, Rouston was a reputable man, who, unlike Hopkins, had never been involved in any shady business.

  “Thank you for the invitation. Perhaps we will do that soon,” Sibylla replied with a smile. “Good-bye, Sara.”

  They joined John on the street. He was having fun with Selwyn by rubbing his stomach with exaggeration and announcing, “We’re starving, aren’t we, and we’re looking forward to a lovely piece of roast lamb!”

  His son nodded and mimicked the gesture with a giggle.

  “You go on ahead,” Sibylla said. “I’m going to stop by my office in the harbor to pick up a file that I want to go through this afternoon.”

  “I’ll come with you, Mother. I feel like walking.” Emily linked arms with Sibylla.

  “Hurry!” John called after them. “I don’t want to have to wait too long for my dinner!”

  At the harbor, a strong wind off the ocean swept the last clouds from the bright blue sky and tousled Emily’s curls.

  No ships can come in today, thought Sibylla and held on to her shawl. Just that morning, John had once again been saying that days like this were far too frequent in windy Mogador and that the resulting delays were very costly for merchants and ship owners.

  “That wouldn’t happen in Tangier,” he effused. “It doesn’t get nearly so stormy nor so foggy there, and the harbor will connect the Pacific Ocean with the Atlantic, once the Suez Canal is opened.”

  Maybe he’s right, Sibylla thought. The harbor in Mogador really was too small for modern ships, especially if steamboats were indeed the future. And fewer and fewer caravans were coming to Mogador. They went directly from Marrakesh to Rabat, Casablanca, and Tangier.

  She looked at the harbor entrance, where the waves were breaking and foaming against the rocks. What would become of her if John moved the business to Tangier? Her children were grown and leading their own lives. If she stayed in Mogador, she would not even have her work to keep her busy.

  And in Tangier you will be too far away from André, a voice whispered.

  Sibylla pushed the thought aside. Yet something strange had happened since her return from Qasr el Bahia. She had dug out the worn edition of One Thousand and One Nights that she had buried under a pile of old files after her falling-out with André. When she was alone in her bed at night, she would furtively leaf through the stories and discover that they evoked the same confusing fantasies now as they had twenty years earlier. Ecstatic images of passion and lovemaking that followed her into her dreams and made her blush in the morning. She resolved to stash the book away, but then she would find herself reading it again, greedily, and with flushed cheeks, like a drunkard needing his spirits.

  Sibylla sighed and looked out at the fishing boats moored to the pier. Some fishermen were using this time to mend their nets, while others repaired their hulls. The rest stood together, smoking shisha and complaining about the Almighty having created such weather when honorable fishermen wanted nothing more than to do their job.

  “I feel sorry for those people out there,” Emily shouted against the hissing wind and pointed to a few merchant ships dancing on the waves like nutshells and waiting for the wind to die down so that they could enter the harbor.

  “When I came to Mogador, there was a storm,” Sibylla reminisced. “And fog. We had to wait for two days before we came on land. The ship we sailed on, the Queen Charlotte, is in the harbor now. When she is fully loaded, she’ll sail directly back to London. You could go along, perhaps with Victoria.” The idea for making her homesick daughter-in-law happy had come to Sibylla when she heard Victoria defend her and Emily.

  Emily, however, was not enthused. “You just want to keep me away from Sabri,” she countered suspiciously.

  Mother and daughter were standing in front of the warehouse of the Spencer & Son Shipping Company. Sibylla took out the key to the heavy gate, but found it already unlocked. “Strange,” she muttered and peered inside. But the warehouse was quiet and empty; nothing seemed amiss, so far as she could tell in the semidarkness.

  “What’s the matter?” Emily asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Perhaps Aladdin is here working. Sunday is for him an ordinary day, after all. Wait here, will you? I’ll be right back.”

  When the sound of her mother’s footsteps on the wooden stairs had faded away, Emily walked aimlessly through the large hall and looked at the variety of merchandise stored there. In front by the gate were piles of leather from Fez, which were first in line to be shipped. Behind, there were several rows of wooden barrels with palm oil and on the other side of the gate were crates in which smaller orders could be shipped. Emily was reading the labels when she heard Sibylla shriek.

  “Robbers! Thieves!”

  Without hesitation Emily grabbed an iron rod normally used to prop open the gate and rushed up the stairs. “Mummy! Where are you? Do you need help?”

  She found her mother in front of the large oak cabinet in her office. The doors were wide open. One of the two large earthenware jugs Sibylla used to store the saffron lay shattered. She held the other in her hand.

  “They stole all of the saffron!” she cried. She turned the jug over and one last dried blossom floated to the floo
r. “Everything in the jugs and the four sacks from André as well! I wanted to keep his harvest safe for him. And now this! The thief took the cash box too, almost a thousand English pounds plus as many pesetas and ducats! I had planned to give them to Comstock on the Queen Charlotte.” Sibylla’s voice faded. “But the loss of the saffron is much worse. Of course I’m going to—”

  “Mummy!” Emily looked around nervously. “Maybe the thieves are still lurking. We should get out of here!”

  Thomas was waiting for them in the salon when they arrived home half an hour later. Already overwrought, Sibylla feared another misfortune. “You’re back already? Is Monsieur Rouston worse?”

  “Would that be a reason for me to be here, Mother?” Thomas sounded surprised. “No, I can assure you, Monsieur Rouston is on the road to recovery. But his wife . . .” He paused, for he was still haunted by Aynur’s cruel fate. “She has died.”

  “My God!” Sibylla sputtered. “Her poor children are all alone.”

  “So is Monsieur Rouston,” Thomas replied. “He is grieving for his wife.”

  “Of course.” Sibylla wiped her brow with her hand. Her head swam. She longed for André, wanting him to take her in his arms and console her. But André was mourning Aynur, and Sibylla had no one.

  Thomas turned to Emily and kissed her on the cheeks. “Hello, little sister.” He held her at arm’s length and looked her over. “You look strange. Has something happened?”

  Sibylla had told her that she wanted to be the one to share the news of the theft, so Emily said only, “Is Sabri back in Mogador as well?”

  Thomas nodded. “He is with his family. But he instructed me three times to give you his regards. Also, he’s brought along your little patient with the broken arm and his parents. They’re staying at the maristan and we shall be looking after the little one until he is well.”

  The door to the salon opened and John stuck in his head. “Can we please eat now? I’m going to get very cross if I don’t get my roast lamb soon!”