“You’re the best mother there is, as far as I’m concerned,” Emily declared firmly and kissed her.
“I would have tried to shield my children as well,” Victoria affirmed.
“You carried a heavy burden for all of us, Mother,” Thomas added and John nodded in agreement.
Sibylla wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl. She had kept Benjamin’s dirty secret for more than twenty years. Only now did she realize how onerous it had been.
André went to her, took her hands, and pulled her up from the divan. “The past is behind you now,” he said and tenderly enfolded her in his arms. “You are free.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mogador, June 1862
“I don’t want to go to bed, Mummy!” Charlotte made a face. Selwyn copied her and whined, “I’m not sleepy at all, Mummy!”
Since Victoria’s return from Lisbon, the two of them had managed a couple of times to wear their mother down with persistent whining, but tonight she was steadfast. “If you don’t go to sleep, you’re not going to go to the wedding tomorrow. Now kiss your aunt Emily good night.”
Nadira came to take over for her, but Victoria stopped her. She wanted to tuck the children in herself. She had missed them terribly during her six-month journey and now spent every available moment with them.
She took Charlotte and Selwyn by the hand and crossed the roof garden of Sibylla’s riad to Emily, who was sitting on a cushion surrounded by Sabri’s sisters and Malika.
Charlotte regarded her with curiosity. “Why are you holding your fingers like that, Aunt Emily?”
“Because the design on my hands has to dry. See?” She held her palms out to show them the swirling henna painted on them.
“It’s very pretty,” Selwyn squeaked in his little voice. “Just like the princess in my fairy-tale book.”
Emily laughed. “At my wedding celebration tomorrow, I’m going to be a princess too. Good night, you two!” She waved after the twins. “Sweet dreams!”
“Are you thirsty? Would you like some tea?” asked Malika.
Emily’s half sister and Sabri’s eldest sister were her negafas, her indispensable helpers during the three-day festivities that had begun yesterday with a visit to the hamam and would end tomorrow with a lavish feast on the beach.
Emily nodded gratefully and Malika ran to Firyal and Nadira, who stood next to a table with cake, fruit, and sweet sorbets, and retrieved a glass of green tea.
“Here you are, Sister!” She handed Emily the glass. “But not too much. You know you mustn’t go to a certain place while the henna on your hands is still wet.”
Sabri’s unmarried sisters giggled and Emily sighed. “I doubt that Sabri has to suffer so much pain and inconvenience to marry me!”
At the hamam, attendants had cleaned and scrubbed her from head to toe, removed all hair save that on her head. They’d also given her the extra bridal treatment: a bath in donkey’s milk, so that she might enchant her bridegroom with especially soft skin.
Today was the beberiska, the henna ceremony. No men were allowed. They had assembled at Consul Willshire’s to fete Sabri while the female guests—an unusual confluence of Arab women, the wives of European and Jewish merchants, and Emily’s half sister, Malika—celebrated in Sibylla’s rooftop garden. Emily was particularly happy to have her extended English family there. Oscar had left the business in the hands of his son, Edward, and taken the first trip of his life with his wife, Eugenie, and their adolescent daughter, Arabella. The three of them were enjoying their adventure to the fullest and were already making plans for an extended tour of Morocco.
The women had been sitting together since late that morning, keeping the bride company while she rested on a cushion and the hennaya painted ancient symbols of good luck and magic on her hands and feet. As they passed the time enjoying tea and delicious food, music, song, and dance, evening had come, the sky above Mogador turned dark blue, and the stars sparkled in the warm early-June air. Now, Nadira and Firyal were lighting torches, and voices, laughter, and instruments could be heard, accompanied by the hoarse singing of Sabri’s old grandmother.
The hennaya had mixed a fresh paste called earth of paradise using the ground leaves of the henna bush, black tea, and tamarind juice, and filled a piping bag with it. She was an old Arab woman, a widow who lived in a modest hut by the city wall and who also made her living as a matchmaker, arranging marriages between the affluent Arab families of Mogador. Malika held up a lamp to provide light while the hennaya bathed Emily’s feet in a bowl of orange-blossom water.
“The attendants in the hamam have done good work. Your skin is as smooth as silk, my little dove,” the hennaya said with satisfaction.
“You should see her Venus mound!” Haji Abdul’s first wife cackled. “Sweet and fragrant as a rose blossom. But how she squealed when the servant pulled off the sugar paste! Like a puppy taken off the teat.”
“There are no hamams in Lisbon.” Emily laughed. “Yet somehow we managed without it!”
“My poor son!” Almaz exclaimed with exaggerated concern. “How on earth did he find the path through all that thorny briar?”
It was part of the berberiska ceremony for married women to initiate the bride into love’s secrets by telling lewd jokes. It did not bother anyone that Emily was already familiar with these secrets.
When the laughter died down, the hennaya said, “If you will permit me, my little dove, I am going to paint the magic signs of good fortune, love, and prosperity on your feet now and interweave them with the name of your beloved.”
“Rather paint the signs for desire and fertility,” Sabri’s eldest sister piped up. “They’ve been sharing the same bed for months already, and her belly has not grown fat!”
“How could it, if I’ve had to be separated from my husband since our return?” Emily sassed back. “Good thing the astrologer recommended we wed in early summer. We surely would not have been able to forgo the pleasures of love much longer!”
The women appreciated Emily’s ready wit, which, much to her relief, distracted them from her childlessness. There was a simple reason for that: small sponges, soaked in lemon juice, which she inserted into her vagina before lovemaking. Malika had told her this secret during her stay at Qasr el Bahia.
“Tell us about your first night!” Sabri’s youngest and still-unmarried sister begged, casting a furtive glance in her mother’s direction. But Haji Abdul’s first wife was too engrossed in a conversation with Sibylla, Eugenie, and Almaz to notice.
Emily looked dreamy and smiled. “It was terribly romantic. All the other passengers congratulated us. The sailors serenaded us and the captain let us have his quarters for the first night. But that’s all I’m going to share with you.”
Sabri’s youngest sister looked at her with deep disappointment.
“When you celebrate your own wedding, you’ll understand,” Emily consoled her. “The memory of our first night belongs to my husband and me. But I will tell you this: it sealed our love more profoundly than any wedding vow ever could.”
“And you lovebirds have had to live abstinently for a month now, oh dear, oh dear! You will have to be doubly careful not to be consumed by your own fire tomorrow night,” the eldest sister jested.
Almaz added with dignity, “May the fire of your love always be stronger than the wooden log that turns to ash, and may you, Emily, be the water for my son that keeps him from dying of thirst.”
Sibylla smiled to herself. Just one month earlier, Almaz would never have uttered such a wish, but ever since Benjamin had attempted to kill Emily, Sabri’s family had forgotten what remained of their reservations about the Christian bride and the wedding. Almaz and the first wife had even called Emily their beloved daughter. For his part, Haji Abdul had been very impressed with André’s bravery. He had Sabri describe to him again and again how André had grabbed Benjamin and thrown him through the banister. He would nod his head and ceremoniously announce, “The daughter of such a man
shall bear strong and healthy sons. You made a wise choice, my son.”
Early on the morning of the tenth of Dhu al-Hijjah of the year 1278 after the Prophet’s departure from Mecca—June 8, 1862, in the Western calendar—music and singing enticed the inhabitants of the medina from their homes. A bevy of women, diaphanous muslin veils wafting around them like a silvery morning mist, danced through the alleyways to Sibylla’s house to collect the bride and adorn her for her great celebration.
Musicians played flutes and vihuelas, beat tambourines and plucked the lute. Young girls sang about the bride being sweeter than honey and lovelier than the full moon, and children scattered rose petals and jasmine blossoms along the path. Four sturdy eunuchs in baggy pants and multicolored turbans carried an empty palanquin on their shoulders. Next came the solemn bridegroom and his father, dressed in white djellabas, belts with decorative daggers set with precious stones at their hips, and red tarbooshes with black tassels atop their heads. They were followed by servants carrying baskets and boxes with the morning gift for the bride, then Sabri’s uncle, his brother-in-law, and his cousins.
Victoria, who had been watching the procession from the roof garden, ran to Emily’s bedroom and flung open the door. “They’re coming! Hurry up!”
“Did you see Sabri? How does he look?” Emily called from the edge of the bed. Malika was in the process of removing the muslin bandages that had protected the henna overnight.
There were loud knocks on the front door and voices calling, “Open up, we’ve come to collect the bride!”
“Are you happy?” Malika asked, while Victoria wanted to know, “Are you nervous?”
Emily’s eyes shone and her cheeks glowed rosily. “Of course I’m happy!”
The door opened again and Sibylla entered. She was wearing her best dress and a fringed shawl that shimmered in all the colors of the rainbow, and she looked every bit as excited as her daughter.
“Good morning, my little girl!” She kissed Emily. “I’m sure you’ve heard that the bin Ibrahim women are here. Nadira is giving them tea, but they’ll come to get you any minute. You’d better get dressed quickly unless you want to be carried through Mogador in your nightie.”
André received the gentlemen in the large salon with his three sons, as well as John, Thomas, and Oscar by his side. Sabri beamed from ear to ear and embraced everyone while his father looked on, bursting with pride. The uncles and cousins supervised the bearers as they unpacked Emily’s morning gift and placed the items on display in the middle of the room.
When the door swung open and Sibylla entered with Eugenie and Victoria, André’s heart skipped a beat. He thought that Sibylla, with her silvery hair and sparkling blue eyes, was the most impressive person in the room. He was beside himself with joy when she gave him a special smile before greeting everyone else.
“Assalamu alaikum, gentlemen! May I offer you some refreshment?”
She signaled Firyal, who had been waiting by the buffet, and who began pouring tea. A young boy who often helped out in the kitchen offered flatbread, fresh yogurt, dates, and plums.
Eugenie and Victoria fairly gaped at the gifts, Emily’s mahr. They picked up the precious gold jewelry, sniffed the valuable perfumes, fingered the bright fabrics, silk rugs, porcelain, and silver candlesticks. Haji Abdul really had spared no expense, even though, according to custom, he was responsible not only for the mahr, but also for the cost of the feast. André and Sibylla were not allowed to contribute, because that would have called into question the bride’s virtue. Their wedding gift was a house for the young couple. Consul Willshire and his wife were returning to England in a few weeks, and André had used his ties to Sultan Sidi Mohammed to enable him and Sibylla to buy the Willshires’ house.
But for now, Sabri and Emily had no idea.
After the guests had partaken of food and drink and André expressed his thanks effusively to Haji Abdul, Sabri and André left to go to the qadi to sign the marriage contract. Sibylla proceeded to the party tent on the beach in order to supervise the preparations there.
The tent held two hundred guests. It was turquoise like the sea, and with pennants and ribbons blowing in the wind it resembled a fairy-tale palace. It was filled with thick rugs, soft sofas, and leather floor cushions. Coal basins on low tables emitted the scents of frankincense and amber, cinnamon and cloves.
The guests trickled in, listened to the musicians, chatted, or tasted from the overwhelming abundance of delicacies.
Three sheep and a large swordfish were roasting on spits in front of the tent and, for those whose faith did not prohibit it, there was wine and champagne that André had bought from the French consul. For the rest, there was orange-blossom water, almond milk, and tea. The other concession to the Christian and Jewish guests was that men and women would celebrate together. For now, though, there was little evidence of that. The Arab women gathered behind the screens set up for them on the left half of the tent, with most of the Christian and Jewish ladies keeping them company. The men, meanwhile, were buzzing around the bridegroom on the right side of the tent, slapping his shoulder and making jokes about the pitfalls of married life.
Sabri had changed and was now wearing his most resplendent jabador. He sat on one of the two decorated armchairs that had been placed in the middle of the tent and did his best to appear dignified and relaxed. He knew it was the bride’s prerogative to keep her groom waiting, but the tension was almost too much to bear. To calm himself, he counted the eggs that his sisters had arranged in an elaborate pyramid—one of many symbols of fertility and good fortune that were part of the celebration. He could hear the women chatting behind the screen. André paced in front of him in his Chasseur d’Afrique uniform, looking as nervous as if he were the groom himself. Outside the tent, a horde of children ran back and forth, screaming that they still could not see the bridal procession.
“You look like you could use something to calm your nerves.” Thomas held out a porcelain cup to Sabri.
“Thanks, that’s very nice of you, but I really don’t feel like any tea.”
“Take it and drink up!”
“Doctor’s orders?”
Thomas grinned.
Sabri put the cup up to his mouth and sniffed. “Ah, I see,” he said and grinned back at Thomas.
“Hurry up. Your father is right over there.”
Sabri put the cup to the lips and emptied it in one go. “Ah, that feels good. Thank you, my friend!”
The children stormed into the tent led by André Jr. “She’s here! She’s here!” they screeched, dragging Sabri out of his chair. “Come! Emily looks beautiful!”
The negafas had helped Emily into her most precious garment, a takchita consisting of floor-length red brocade, which the embroiderers from Fez had turned into a veritable piece of art with lace, pearls, and trim. It had long, wide sleeves but was form-fitting on the torso and had a broad sash around the waist.
Emily’s black curls fell over her shoulders. She wore heavy gold earrings and the coral necklace given to her by the mother of the little Berber boy with the broken arm.
She was an attraction the likes of which had not been seen in Mogador for quite some time, arriving in the palanquin carried by four splendidly dressed black slaves. The many curious onlookers who had followed her to the beach clapped their hands and cheered. Now Malika and Sabri’s eldest sister were walking directly behind her, singing verses from the Koran, followed by Almaz, Sabri’s other sisters, and Haji Abdul’s first wife.
It’s really happening, thought Emily as the reflecting midday sun seemed to transform the dome of the tent into liquid gold. She took a surreptitious glance at the fine lines on her left palm. Almost two years ago, Malika had read those lines and foretold that she would experience passionate love. Sabri and she had overcome obstacles just as Malika had predicted, but not until today had her prediction really come true.
The four slaves carried Emily into the tent, and now the ladies ventured out from behind
the screens to cheer her on. Emily saw her mother and her father, her brothers and Sabri’s sisters, Victoria, Oscar, Eugenie, and Arabella, their many friends and acquaintances. Everyone was beaming at her.
Then she spotted Sabri stretching out his hands to help her out of the palanquin. Next to him stood Nadira with a pitcher of almond milk. After Emily had alighted, Sabri took her right hand and gently turned it over to make a bowl. Nadira handed him the jug and he poured a little almond milk into Emily’s palm, then leaned forward and drank from it. She took his hand and repeated the ritual.
“Now we are forever united,” Sabri whispered to her.
“Ana behibak, I love you,” she replied, deliriously happy.
Next, the negafas helped Emily into another of her ten gowns behind the screens. Meanwhile, outside the roast sheep and fish were taken off the fire and carved. Sabri’s sisters giggled at Eugenie’s and Victoria’s clumsy attempts at eating with pieces of flatbread instead of silverware, and Haji Abdul gave a long speech about the virtues of a married woman. After that, André rose and declared that the moment had come for the bride to receive her dowry according to Christian custom.
He threw a long, loving look at Sibylla and announced, “We, as Emily’s parents, have decided to give the newlyweds a home of their own.”
He paused for effect and to enjoy the look on Emily’s and Sabri’s faces.
“You will not only live in the Willshires’ lovely house,” Sibylla continued, “it will really be yours. Sultan Sidi Mohammed has sold it to us.” She smiled at Sara, who looked almost as emotional as the bride and groom. “When you return from your honeymoon in London, everything will be ready for you to move in.”
“By God, what a wonderful gift!” Sabri muttered, moved.
“You could not have given us anything more beautiful!” Emily was fighting back tears. She had feared having to live under Haji Abdul’s roof, where she would have been under the thumb of not only Sabri’s grandmother, but also his mother and the first wife. But now she would have her own house, in which she could do as she pleased.
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