The two women walked around the mosque and came to a house. The holy green of Islam on the door and roof tiles indicated that this was the zaouia of the city. A sign reminded visitors to enter this noble place only in accordance with religious rules—abluted and with respectful demeanor. Through an open window upstairs, Sibylla and Nadira heard a man’s deep voice reciting from the Hadiths: “Sometimes a revelation comes to me like the sound of a bell, and that is, for me, the most difficult form . . .”
“If Haji Abdul only knew how true his words are,” Sibylla remarked drily and looked up at the window from which a chorus of young boys repeated the teacher’s text.
The house of the Abdul bin Ibrahim family was adjacent to the zaouia. Like Sibylla’s, it was two stories, brilliantly whitewashed, with no windows facing the street and a blue wooden front door.
Nadira knocked. “El Sayyida Sibylla wishes to speak with Sayyida Almaz,” she told the guard looking through the hatch.
He disappeared and, a short time later, they were received by a female slave who led them across the inner courtyard to the women’s quarters.
Unlike the qaid’s harem, this private area was very plain. The living room was square and not particularly large. A stodgy cast-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling and quotations from the Koran on the walls were evidence of the inhabitants’ deep devotion. Woven rugs lay on the dark wood floor, sofas stood along the walls, and there was a low table with a ceramic bowl of dates and candied almonds. The only luxury was an artfully carved cedar table bearing a leather-bound and gold-embossed edition of the holy book. The silk rugs, silver chandeliers, elaborately glazed wall tiles, and crystal mirrors that made Qaid Samir’s harem so decadent and carefree were absent.
Sibylla recognized Sabri’s mother right away by her tawny skin, large brown eyes, and classically beautiful Abyssinian features. Consequently, the plump little Arab woman, whose gold-laden hands belied her demure black garment, had to be Haji Abdul’s first wife. The two wives sat as far apart as the small room would allow and did not deign to look at each other.
Three young women sat between them on a divan. They were wearing colorful garments and watched the visitors curiously with their kohl-rimmed eyes. Sibylla took them to be three of Sabri’s six younger sisters. The oldest was probably Emily’s age. She held a baby on her lap, and a toddler sat by her feet, contentedly sucking on a date. Lastly, there was an old woman wrapped in a blanket sitting in an armchair and staring at Sibylla with opaque, blind eyes: Sabri’s grandmother. Her nostrils vibrated with suspicion.
The women received Sibylla in silence and reservation compared to the exuberant welcome that she was accustomed to in Arab households. After all, standing before them was the mother of the girl who had turned their son’s head so much he had thrown honor and propriety to the wind. But Sibylla was determined not to let the cool reception discourage her.
“Assalamu alaikum,” she said pleasantly and stepped toward the old woman’s armchair to pay her respects. In doing so, she tripped over a baby’s rattle lying on the floor.
Sabri’s sisters giggled behind their hands and, finally, the first wife rose and came toward Sibylla. “Wa-alaikum salam, Sayyida Sibylla. My house is also your house.”
“Please give me the honor of presenting my modest gifts.” Sibylla signaled Nadira to present the silk shawls. She noted with satisfaction that the women’s eyes lit up with interest. It was obvious they would have liked to put them on immediately instead of placing them aside as etiquette demanded.
“Please allow me to share the foods of my home as a way of expressing my thanks.” The first wife clapped her hands and ordered slaves to bring tea and refreshments. Then she invited Sibylla to sit next to her. Nadira stood by the door.
While two slaves served fragrant tea, sweet almond pastry, and fresh labneh with pomegranate jelly, a third brought a basin with water and towels for hand washing.
The women ate, drank tea, and exchanged some small talk, but Sibylla knew that was only because hospitality here was sacrosanct. Once politeness had been established, one would come directly to the point.
And indeed, the first wife soon said, “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Sayyida Sibylla?”
Sibylla slowly set her tea glass on the table. She had thought carefully about how best to reach her goal and had come to the conclusion that it was best to speak mother to mother, even though it was impolitic to pass over the first wife.
“Honorable Sayyida Almaz.” She turned and looked at Sabri’s mother directly. “My daughter has gone away, and I am afraid that I will never see her again.”
Almaz’s eyes grew wide. She sat bolt upright on the sofa and Sibylla had the feeling she knew exactly what she was trying to say.
“Well, she’s not here,” the first wife said snidely, obviously feeling insulted.
Sabri’s grandmother chimed in as well. “That infidel girl has destroyed our domestic peace!” She beat the armrest of her chair with her bony hand.
The three daughters of the house were silent, their eyes flitting back and forth between Sibylla and Almaz.
At last, Almaz spoke up. Her voice was not loud, but calm and dignified. “No mother should have to give up her child, Sayyida Sibylla. But what does my son have to do with your fear?”
“My daughter and your son boarded a ship to England. I have just learned that they have gotten married on board this ship. They are now in Lisbon and fear the wrath of their families.”
The first wife wheezed in surprise and the old woman lamented, “Oh, that seductress! More treacherous than a mirage in the desert sand, she has lured the son of this house to his ruin!”
Almaz uttered a distraught cry, but one of Sabri’s unmarried sisters sighed longingly, “By God, how great a love that must be!”
Sibylla looked at Almaz. “Did you know about their plans?”
Sabri’s mother shook her head. “My son left a letter for his father in which he told him that he was returning to England to further his medical studies. He wrote that he did not wish to marry the bride his father had chosen for him. But he did not mention another bride.”
“Our lord is very angry about this letter,” the first wife interjected with a hint of triumph in her voice. “It was extremely humiliating for him to tell the qaid. Our lord managed to postpone the wedding, but he had to increase the mahr for the bride by several dirham.”
“Sabri is already married. The wedding to the qaid’s daughter will not take place,” Sibylla countered firmly. “Do you agree with me, Sayyida Almaz?”
“The opinion of the Abyssinian concubine means nothing. The master of this house will decide!” the old woman croaked.
“Then I will never see my daughter again, and you, Sayyida Almaz, will never again see your son. My daughter has written that she and Sabri will return to Morocco only if Haji Abdul accepts their union.” Sibylla signaled Nadira. She gave her Emily’s letter, which she read from aloud.
There was silence when she finished, then Almaz sobbed loudly. Sabri’s sisters sat frozen in their seats. Only the baby gurgled, unperturbed by the general tension, and reached for his mother’s dangling earrings.
Sibylla said emphatically, “Our children love each other, and if we do not show them that we love them too, they will leave us!”
“Love! Such a big word,” the first wife snarled. “But honor is a big word as well. And the honor of the qaid’s own daughter has been besmirched by these two unfortunates!”
“Please, Sayyida Almaz,” Sibylla urged, suddenly fearing that Sabri’s mother might surrender to the first wife. “You want to see your son again, and I don’t want to lose my daughter. Please let us write to our children to assure them that they will always be welcome in their parents’ homes!”
“We do not wish to lose our dear brother,” the eldest sister declared and the other two nodded emphatically.
Almaz wiped her eyes with the corner of her veil. “You’re right, Sayyida Sibylla,” she manage
d to say at last. “I want to see my son again. We will write this letter at once.”
“The wedding of our son, Sabri, with the daughter of the qaid will not take place, my husband. But there will be another wedding,” Almaz announced that evening. She was heeding Sibylla’s advice to simply present him with facts and doing her best to sound resolute.
Haji Abdul, wearing only a long white shirt, reclined on a cushion-covered bed and smoked shisha, watching appreciatively as his wife undressed.
Now, however, a deep furrow of irritation developed between his eyebrows. “Has God robbed you of your senses, woman? What are you saying?”
He did not wish to think about his son right now. Sabri’s flight had hurt him badly and caused a lot of unpleasantness. In the souk, the hamam, the mosque, no matter where he went, other men gave him contemptuous looks. He had the impression they were whispering behind his back and, in the tearoom on Friday, after the last prayers of the day, the qaid had let it be known that another bridegroom might be more suitable for his daughter.
He had a nerve to say that, considering I doubled the mahr for his daughter, thought Haji Abdul as he sucked grimly on his pipe. And now Almaz was talking nonsense!
“Be silent, woman, and come to me!” he demanded and patted the bed invitingly with his free hand.
But Almaz, his gentle, favorite wife, would have none of it. The flickering light of the candle made her beautiful face appear like a mask of stone. “I had a visit today from Sayyida Sibylla. We spoke about our children and decided that, as soon as they are back from Lisbon, there will be a big wedding celebration.”
“Excuse me?” Haji Abdul was confused. “Who is celebrating a wedding? And why Lisbon? Sabri is in London.”
“Your son and the English girl Emily are going to marry.”
“Stop!” Haji raised his hand. “What are you saying? Are you feverish?”
Almaz crossed her arms. “Sabri and Emily have eloped. They saw no alternative because some fathers are more willful than a mule and more stubborn than a camel. Now they are waiting in Lisbon until they are allowed to return to the bosom of their families.”
Haji Abdul gasped. Not only had his only son taken an infidel for a wife, he was also threatening to live abroad forever. The thought almost broke his heart. At the same time, he was furious to learn that every single member of his household was apparently acting without regard for propriety and morals.
“Never!” he screamed when Almaz informed him that the women, his own mother included, were conspiring with the infidel merchant’s wife to host a wedding celebration. “I will never permit this madness!”
“According to the law of the infidels, they’re married already. And Sayyida Sibylla and I do not want to lose our children. We have written a letter in which we ask them to return and celebrate a real wedding in Mogador according to our customs and with their parents’ blessing. The honorable first wife has already summoned an astrologer to determine the best date, and your daughters are going to the souk tomorrow to choose material for their dresses. Surely you cannot have any doubts now!”
“Doubts?!” Haji Abdul bellowed. “Our son has a bride! I just had to double the mahr to make sure she’ll still have him!”
“But she won’t have him, my lord,” Almaz told him quietly. “You’ll have to go to the qaid and speak with him. If he announces that his daughter is breaking the engagement because she has found a better husband, her honor will not be blemished.”
The first wife had thought of this solution. Once everyone had assimilated the outrageous news of the elopement, Sabri’s sisters had announced that their brother and his wife must celebrate a real Arab wedding. Everyone had liked the idea, even the first wife and Sabri’s grandmother. A wedding would bring welcome distraction from their monotonous, circumscribed lives. By the time Sibylla left that afternoon, the planning was well underway.
Almaz had accepted the terrible task of informing the man of the house. But now that she saw him before her, confused, angry, and hurt, she felt sorry for him. Her lord was not a bad husband. He had always provided for her and had never beaten her, not even when she was still his slave, and he was a tender and considerate lover. If only he could bring himself to understand and seize this opportunity to regain their beloved son.
But on the contrary, Haji Abdul snorted angrily, “You women are like cats that lie in wait for their prey just for the pleasure of playing with it. If you think that I’m going back to the qaid to make a fool of myself, you’re all sadly mistaken!”
“But there is no other way, my lord.” Almaz sat down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want your family to fall apart? Do you want to lose your only son? Never play with his children on your lap? Not see them grow up?”
Haji Abdul drew on his pipe and was silent. His family meant everything to him. He had been so proud of Sabri when he became a doctor, but now he was horribly disappointed. For years, he had been watching the infidels creeping into Morocco with their consulates and commercial settlements, with their money, with their modern weapons and armed fleets. Twenty-two years ago, the French had aimed their cannons at Mogador, and two years ago, after some bloody battles, the Spaniards had annexed the city of Tétouan in the north. The infidels were gnawing like rats at his beloved country and dictating the ruler’s every move. He ran into them everywhere in Mogador: the qaid’s palace, the hamam, some of them even trespassed at the mosque, and now his own son had brought them into his family! And his wives had helped him do it!
Almaz watched him silently. She gently took his right foot, placed it on her lap, and began delicately massaging it. “God is merciful. He wants you to forgive your son and his wife. Remember: the worst man is he who accepts no apology, forgives no sin, and excuses no mistake.”
“Don’t try to teach me wisdom, daughter of infidels!” he growled.
Almaz did not reply and continued massaging his foot.
Haji Abdul sighed. “You’ll find out soon enough what your intrigues bring, woman!” He placed his other foot in Almaz’s lap. “Every mother-in-law gets the daughter-in-law she deserves.”
Qasr el Bahia, May 1862
André squatted next to the furrow Christian had just plowed and crumbled a handful of dirt. “Again, no larvae. It really looks as though we’ve overcome the infestation.” A smile spread across his emaciated face. He stood up and patted his son on the shoulder. “This deserves a celebration! Malika has made something special: shoulder of lamb with caramelized onions.”
The fifteen-year-old turned away and busied himself with the mule’s harness. “Imma’s was better.”
André laid his hand on his back. “I’ll tell you what, we’ll have a glass of French wine with dinner. I’ll get out a bottle from my stash. You’re working like a man and that kind of work needs to be rewarded.”
Christian did not turn around. “Are we done here, Baba? Can I unhitch the mule?”
“Go ahead.” André watched the boy leave, trudging next to his mule in the direction of the main gate, his shoulders pulled up.
The assault on Qasr el Bahia six months earlier had changed them all. Christian was quiet and withdrawn, Frédéric directed his anger into working furiously on the estate, André Jr. had lost his childlike cheerfulness, and Malika tried with all her might to replace Aynur.
André looked past the estate to the old holly oak. Malika visited the graves of her mother, her sisters, and Tamra every morning and left little nosegays made of fragrant herbs and flowers that André Jr. had picked. The young boy spent a lot of time with his sister. Together, they had created fieldstone borders around the graves.
We are all looking for ways to come back to life, thought André. And sooner or later, we will succeed.
The terrible events had left a mark on him as well. Outwardly, not much was visible aside from a narrow scar on his forehead. Like his eldest son, he sought oblivion in his work. But his children were not alone in missing Aynur.
André knew he would never t
ruly make peace with her agonizing death. But he hoped that life could return to Qasr el Bahia now that the last of the locust larvae had hatched and flown away.
Normally, they should have begun harvesting the barley next month, but this year, he had not sown any to avoid providing nourishment to the larvae. In the humid warmth of late spring, they had hatched in huge numbers like a terrible ghost of the previous fall. But after just a few days, the infestation was over. Without sufficient nourishment, they had to move on and soon disappeared in the direction of the sea.
“So you really didn’t find any more larvae?” Frédéric had come from the stables to make sure it really was true. He was eighteen now, taller than his father, muscular, with broad shoulders.
André nodded with a smile. “We can plant the saffron bulbs soon.”
“That’s good.” Frédéric placed his fists on his hips. “We can’t keep on living off our savings.”
He had accompanied his father to Mogador that winter. They had bartered part of their saffron supplies for provisions, seeds, and grain for the horses before returning directly to Qasr el Bahia. André had not visited Sibylla. He was not up to answering her questions or enduring her scrutinizing, pitying looks. He wanted to be alone, to take care of his children and his land.
“Someone is here.” Frédéric looked nervously toward the south. A rider was climbing the hill, still too far away to be recognized. André instinctively felt for his gun over his shoulder. Since the assault, he was careful to have his weapon within reach at all times. But as the rider came closer, he relaxed and went toward him. “Asselama en ouen,” he welcomed the sheikh of the Ait Zelten.
“Asselama.” The sheikh looked closely at André. “You don’t look well, my friend. If a man lives without a woman for such a long time, his loins dry up. I’ve always told you that one woman is not enough for a man. You,” he said, pointing a bony finger at Frédéric, “should start out with two. There are many beautiful girls in my village who would love to get a strong young fellow like you!”
The Lioness of Morocco Page 38