The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  Haji Abdul’s expression was sorrowful. I should never have allowed Sabri to travel to the land of the English, he thought sadly. He has adopted the foreigners’ customs more and more. His Christian bride will be a good wife to him, but will she raise his sons in the true faith outside of his parental home?

  He was startled to see Almaz standing in front of him, smiling under her thin muslin veil.

  “Their own home, how wonderful!” she said dreamily. “I wonder if Emily will furnish it in the European style. I will, of course, gladly be on hand to give her advice—”

  “Your place is in my house!” he snapped more harshly than he had intended.

  Almaz looked as though she’d been struck. “Do you mean to break my heart? Will you stop a mother from visiting her son’s home?”

  Looking sour, he turned away from her to look for his first wife. As one born into the true faith, she, at least, was loyal to God’s laws! Poor Haji Abdul froze in horror. There was his first wife next to the Engliziya, seemingly unconcerned that she was exposed to the gazes of all the men. She was handing the bride and groom a glass of tea with a large cube of sugar.

  “Drink up!” she cried for all to hear. “Drink up and let your mouths find sweet words for each other!”

  Gnawa musicians were moving through the tent making a deafening clatter with their qarqabas and bass drums. They were a group of freed slaves who lived in shacks outside the city gates and entertained people at festivals and processions. Children swarmed around them excitedly, stuffing silver coins in the pockets of their garments adorned with cowrie shells and crying, “Yalla, yalla! Faster, faster!” as the men turned in circles to the beat.

  After the gnawa came a group of nomadic Marrakchi people, who breathed fire and swallowed swords. They were accompanied by Berber women who danced with snakelike agility. Malika jumped to her feet and joined them. The men gave her admiring—and the women shocked—looks as the silver coins she had woven into her hair jingled and her embroidered skirt whirled around her legs.

  Emily could not dance because her dress was too heavy. She sat on a round leather pouf next to Sabri’s grandmother’s chair and helped her spoon quince puree and chopped lamb onto a small piece of flatbread.

  “My grandson was right to take you,” said the old woman and patted Emily’s cheek with shaky fingers.

  Sabri stood with Oscar, André, John, and Thomas in the back of the tent. Oscar had already drunk plenty of the heady French wine and was describing at length how he had, at the tender age of sixteen, helped Eton beat Harrow in a legendary cricket match.

  “Cricket is a sport that you in the East really must adopt,” he decided and slapped Sabri’s shoulder. “That’s how a man learns team spirit, fair play, and seizing your chance at the right moment. Just the qualities a good businessman needs!”

  “That’s all well and good, Uncle Oscar, but Sabri is a doctor.” Thomas chuckled. “Has he told you that we plan to take the empty rooms at the maristan and turn them into modern operating rooms?”

  “Has Uncle Oscar told you that we are planning to visit Tangier together?” John interrupted.

  Thomas held out his champagne glass for a servant to fill. “So you really mean to leave Mogador?”

  His brother shrugged. “Businessmen need to be wherever their business is. Trade is shifting to the north of Morocco, where Europe and Africa, the Atlantic and the Pacific intersect.”

  Oscar nodded. “We’re going to explore the possibility of establishing a trading station in Tangier.”

  “First we must see that the port there is suitable for steamships made of steel,” John added with a sparkle in his eyes, thinking of his father-in-law’s steelworks.

  But Thomas seemed doubtful. “Does Mother know of your plans? I cannot imagine that she’ll agree.”

  “Our mother is a clever woman,” John replied firmly. “She is well aware that the Europeans are putting pressure on the sultan to open Morocco even more to international trade. And that, of course, is going to happen first in the northern cities, where our influence is greatest.”

  “It seems that all of us have new challenges to face,” Sabri said and looked over at André. “What are your plans, Ab?” Since his return from Lisbon, he had been addressing André with the Arabic word for father.

  “I shall transfer more responsibilities to Frédéric and Christian to prepare them for the day when they must run Qasr el Bahia by themselves. I would like André Jr. to attend school in Mogador. He has a sharp mind. And further than that . . .” He stopped. Since Aynur’s death, he had lived from day to day and avoided looking too far ahead. It was as though his old place in life was gone and he had not yet found a new one.

  His eyes fell on Sibylla. She was laughing and applauding the dancers. He thought how wonderful it had been to spend a few days and nights before the wedding as a guest under her roof. He had been conscious of her nearness the whole time, even when she was in a different room. He stifled a sigh when he realized how much he would miss her when he returned to Qasr el Bahia.

  At that moment, she turned around and looked over at him with a little smile on her face, and André knew what he wished for his future.

  As the sun went down, Emily and Sabri snuck away. While the festivities inside the tent were still in full swing, they stood together on the beach and watched the orange ball of light slowly sink into the ocean. Finally, there was nothing left but a glimmer of light on the black water.

  Emily had taken off her shoes and wriggled her toes in the sand. The wind smelled of salt, and laughter and music from the tent mingled with the steady rush of the waves.

  Sabri put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Are you happy, Emily?”

  “Deliriously, my love.” She clung to him. “This is just the beginning!”

  André took a bottle of wine, two glasses, and an oil lamp from a table in the back of the tent. It was the same dark wine that he had drunk with Sibylla many years before in the ruins of the Portuguese church.

  “I want to show you something,” he told her. “Will you come?”

  She looked at him from the side and noticed the smile wrinkles that danced around his eyes, the curly hair now streaked with gray, the narrow scar on his temple. The last two years had left their mark on him, and she felt their connection more deeply than ever.

  “I would love to,” she replied.

  André’s smile deepened. He placed his hand on her back and guided her through the throng of partiers.

  Outside, it was almost dark. Torches were burning around the tent. In the day’s last light, Sibylla saw a man and a woman standing close to each other on the beach. She nudged André and whispered, “Look, it’s Emily and Sabri.”

  He looked in the direction she indicated. “It seems they won’t be needing us anymore today.”

  “And you?” she asked with a throbbing heart. “What is it you wanted to show me?”

  Grinning sheepishly, he pointed to the neck of the wine bottle protruding from his pocket. Then he turned away from the water and pointed to the city wall, where the ruins of the old Portuguese church rose above the flat roofs of the houses. The destroyed walls of the steeple were black against the dark blue sky. “Do you recall that we were once very happy there?”

  “How could I ever forget?” she whispered.

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then he led her away from the beach and the tent, in which the wedding guests would celebrate Emily and Sabri’s future life together until daybreak.

  The hinges of the door to the old church creaked as they opened. The interior was completely black. There was a smell of dust and the refreshing coolness of stone. Stars twinkled through the broken roof. André slipped off his jacket, laid it on the ground, and pulled Sibylla down with him. She heard a cork pop, then smelled the delicate aroma of the wine.

  He handed her a glass. “I want to drink a toast with you, Sibylla. To the years to come, to the future, and to life, whatever it may yet bri
ng us.”

  “I don’t quite know what that will be for me,” she said after taking a sip. “My children are grown and it is time to turn over my work to them. I fear I shall have a lot of time on my hands.” She took another sip. “I could write my own story, perhaps. You know—the true, one-of-a-kind adventures of an English merchant’s wife in Morocco.”

  “A marvelous idea, but you can do that later,” he countered. “First, I think you ought to go on a journey.”

  “A journey?” she echoed. “Where?”

  “You have inherited a plantation in Cuba, have you not?”

  “Oh my goodness, yes!” she exclaimed. “A plantation and slaves! But why do you say I should go there? Rather I should get rid of all that as quickly as possible.”

  “Sometimes it’s better to take a careful look before making a decision.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she replied. “But I shall not be a slave owner.”

  “It’s possible to run a plantation with paid laborers, you know.”

  “Still, that’s not an easy decision,” she muttered.

  André held his breath, but Sibylla said nothing more for a long time. His heart sank.

  At last, she asked very softly, “Suppose I do travel to Cuba. Would you come with me, André?”

  “I feared you’d never ask! Do you really still want me, Sibylla?”

  She put her hand on his cheek. “I’ve been missing you my whole life.”

  Afterword and Acknowledgments

  Mogador, present-day Essaouira, was founded in 1506 as the Portuguese fortress of Magdoura and today is a small coastal town. In 1765, Sultan Sidi Mohammed Ben Abdallah expanded it into Morocco’s largest seaport at the time. Until the middle of the nineteenth century, it was Morocco’s gateway to the world, from which approximately forty percent of Moroccan commodities were exported. However, the emergence of the steamship and the disappearance of caravans during the nineteenth century led to its decline.

  A few historical facts were altered for the benefit of the novel’s plot, especially the French bombing of Mogador, which did not take place in 1840 but in 1844.

  We wish to thank the research fellows of the Übersee-Museum Bremen and the German Maritime Museum for their help in answering our questions, as well as Henk J. Vroom of Sunshine Art BV and Dottore Alberto Peroni of Castello Del Trebbio. We would like to express our particular thanks to Zahira Efeturk for enlightening us about the Arabic language. If by any chance our readers come across any mistakes, we ask their pardon. They are solely our fault.

  About the Authors

  Photo © 2016

  Julia Drosten is the pseudonym for a two-person writing team based in Münsterland, Germany. This novel was originally published in German under the title Die Löwin von Mogador and was an Amazon bestseller in Germany.

  The authors have written many other works of historical fiction in German, and they greatly enjoy conducting research for their novels, diving into history and making the past come alive. They count flying in a historic biplane, watching butchers work in a butcher’s shop, exploring Egypt, and being pampered by a beautician among their research pursuits. The Lioness of Morocco is their first novel translated into English.

  About the Translator

  Photo © 2014 Paul Galvani

  Christiane Galvani is a professional translator and an adjunct professor at Houston Community College. She earned her bachelor of arts degree in French and German at the University of London and her master’s degree in German at Rice University. Galvani is a licensed court interpreter and an ATA-certified translator. She currently resides in Texas.