The Tenth Gift

by Jane Johnson

His face went very still. “Many things that are illegal still happen,” he said stiffly. “But there is a social code here; people try to respect it. That is perhaps the difference between my culture and yours.” He paused, as if assessing the effect of this strike, then added, “My mother also said you are very beautiful.”

  I felt myself coloring furiously. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said that about me before.” It was meant as a lighthearted remark to fend off such an unexpected statement, but as I said it I realized it was true. Not even Michael had said that of me in all the time we were together—especially not Michael, as tight with his compliments as he was with his emotions, and his money.

  “Well, then, you have surrounded yourself with people who do not value the truth, or maybe do not wish to see it.” And before I could say anything to this, he disappeared again.

  When he returned it was with a huge platter of couscous—a mountain of yellow grains studded with slices of zucchini and carrot, squash, green beans, and fennel, and gilded with the glistening spicy sauce. He was soon followed, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, by a crowd of people, everyone talking at once: his mother, Aïcha; three children (including the little girl who had accosted me outside); a tall, grave young man in a suit, introduced as Aïcha’s husband, Rachid; another who looked like a younger version of Idriss (“my brother Hassan, means ‘handsome’ in Arabic—It suits him, no?”), who was all smiles and charm, with a pair of sunglasses balanced on top of his head; and an older couple (“my uncle and aunt”): a man in a well-worn robe, and a dumpy woman with iron-gray hair who nodded solemnly at me, then winked. Everyone took their places around the table, on the low sofas or on leather pouffes, after a murmured prayer, and began to eat fast and neat with the fingers of their right hands, rolling the couscous and vegetables expertly into little balls. The older man made a large pellet of the mixture and flipped it nonchalantly into his mouth from an arm’s length away, much to the delight of the children, who made as if they would try to emulate him until Aïcha chided them. “Mange, mange,” Idriss’s mother exhorted me, proud of her French.

  I smiled weakly and caught Idriss’s eye. He was watching me expectantly, as if waiting to see how I would handle this tricky situation. I set my jaw. I would not, I decided, be such a feeble European as to ask for a plate and fork. I plunged my fingers into the grain mountain and almost yelped, for it was extraordinarily hot. Then I hit on the idea of using a piece of carrot like a spoon and managed to get a large mouthful down me without scattering it all over the table.

  The tajine at the Dar-el Beldi the previous night had been toothsome, but this was yet another venture into the world of spices. More subtle than Thai seasoning, more complex than Indian food, more demanding than Chinese, it was a rich and powerful experience.

  “Here.” The young man who looked like Idriss pushed a piece of soft orange pumpkin toward me. “Is best: We call it Berber cheese.”

  “Shokran.”

  They all nodded in approval at my mastery of the language, and soon everyone was picking the choicest morsels out of the mountain and pressing them upon me until I could eat no more.

  LATER, MUCH LATER, as it seemed—after I had fended off questions about my life, my family, my friends, my marital status, life in London, why I was in Morocco, how I knew Idriss, and why I was staying with them—I found myself up on the roof terrace, smoking the first cigarette I had touched in twenty years. It tasted horrible, but I persisted with it anyway. My nerves had been rattled so many times today that I felt I needed to do something to break the pattern.

  Idriss leaned against the wall, the smoke from his cigarette curling up into the tranquil night air. “So tell me, Julia, why it is you hide from this man who calls himself your husband?”

  I sighed and took a final drag on the cigarette to delay the need to respond. I had been waiting for this question ever since we left the Dar el-Beldi, and I still didn’t know how I was going to reply, whether I would trust this stranger with the truth or offer a strategic lie. Down below us lay the remains of a little market: striped tarpaulins jerry-rigged over scaffolding posts, drifts of rubbish, strewn vegetables. A thin cat sat in the middle of this, having taken back its territory for the night, grooming an outstretched leg. At last I said, “I have something he wants, something valuable.”

  In the darkness it was hard to tell whether the gleam in his eyes was one of mere curiosity or of avidity. “He must want this thing very much, to have crossed continents to find it.” He dropped the dead end of his cigarette and ground it underfoot until its glow was extinguished. “Or perhaps it is you he wants.”

  “I don’t think so!”

  “You say that very definitely, and if I may say so, with some bitterness.”

  I stared at him, then looked away.

  “Is he your husband? Or perhaps he was once your husband?”

  “No. Not now, not ever. Why are you so interested, anyway? You’ve only just met me.”

  “Julia. I never saw a woman look as terrified as you looked this afternoon at the riad. Something about this man has frightened you, and I do not like to see that. But I promise you, here you are safe. My house is your house, and while you are here you are a member of my family. On my honor: No one can threaten you here.”

  Tears pricked my eyes. I leaned my forehead against the balustrade and it was cool and rough against the flush of my skin. “You said earlier you know someone at the university who’s an expert on the corsairs?”

  He nodded. “A friend, yes, Khaled. He is a historian, he lectures there.”

  “Have you known him a long time? Is he trustworthy?”

  “He is a good man, a friend of my father since their childhood together in the mountains. He is like an uncle to me. If you ask me if he is worthy of trust, then yes, most certainly, yes.”

  “Could we go and see him tomorrow, do you think?”

  “He will be teaching in the morning, and after that he will visit the mosque, but maybe he can see us in the afternoon. If you like I will call him.”

  “Thank you.” I glanced up, feeling some relief.

  But he was not looking at me. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the night sky behind me. “Look!”

  His hands were warm on my shoulders as he spun me around just in time for me to see a star tumble through the black air. “Oh!” In the northwest sector of the sky, right over the distant sea, another fell, then another. “Shooting stars …” I had not seen such a thing since I was a child, sitting on the little pebble beach near our home with my father at the age of seven, when the future held unimaginable promises and everything was full of newness and magic.

  “Beautiful, no? My jeddah, my grandmother, used to tell us they were the Devil’s fireworks. But those are not stars that are falling but a meteor shower—the Perseids, at this time of year. It is great good fortune to see them.”

  “Perhaps I won’t need to burn any chameleons for a while.”

  I felt his laughter as a vibration that trembled through his hands and into my bones. His breath was warm on the back of my neck; for a terrible moment I thought I was going to turn and kiss him. Tremors of intent ran through me. In a split second I had imagined the contours of that strong, dark face between my hands, the sensation of his lips upon me, his lean hands roaming beneath my shirt. Sexual tension grasped us like a vise; then I stepped quickly aside and broke free of it.

  “Come with me,” I said, a decision made. “I want to show you something.”

  “THIS IS THE thing that Michael wants so much that he followed me to Morocco to get it.” I took The Needle-Woman’s Glorie from my bag and handed it to Idriss. Then I sat down on the bed as he moved the chair closer to the candle and bent his head over the book, touching its calfskin cover reverently, opening it as carefully as if its pages were the petals of a fragile and long-dead pressed flower. For a long time, he scanned it silently, then he read out loud, haltingly and with many self-corrections: “‘… I feare my future, for on account of m
y foolish lye hee stille thinkes wee are of a riche familly who wille paie a grate ransom for oure return. But hee also threttens mee with being solde to a sultan, who I beleeve is lyk unto a kyng in ther countrie, for he saies I wille fetch a goode price at Sallee’s market wyth my redde haire and faire skyn. How I wishe I had took old Annie Badcock’s advyse and gone home with Rob to Kenegy …’

  “I’m sorry, my English is not really up to this task—it is difficult for me to read. But if I understand it at all, it seems to be the account of a female captive taken by the corsairs, written by her own hand?”

  I nodded.

  “Is it real?”

  “It depends what you mean by real. I believe it’s authentic, but I need an expert opinion.”

  His eyes were shining. “But this is extraordinary. If it is real, you have here a piece of the true history of Morocco in your hands, Julia Lovat. It’s a miracle, a magical window into the past. L’histoire perdue. I never heard of such a thing, not so early as 1625, and certainly not by a woman. C’est absolument incroyable!”

  He kissed the book; then, as if by oversight, he crossed the room and kissed me, four times, on both cheeks. I could still feel the impressions of his fingers on my upper arms when he sprang away again.

  “I am sorry, forgive me, please.”

  I forced a laugh. “There is really nothing to forgive. It really is an amazing thing, isn’t it?”

  “Truly. But one thing I do not understand—what are these pictures?” He indicated one of the embroidery patterns, a pair of pretty birds with their necks twined about one another, enclosed by a bower of leaves and roses.

  “They’re slips, embroidery slips,” I explained, taking the book back from him. “Simple patterns for girls to follow in their needlework.” I mimed the act. “To decorate their dresses, or things for the home—bed hangings, tablecloths, that sort of thing. English women spent a lot of time on this art through the ages. Some of us still do.” I retrieved my bag from the floor, placed Catherine’s book inside, and then drew out the piece of embroidery I was currently working on— the scarf at three of whose four corners peacocks’ feathers flared in gorgeous emeralds and aquamarines. I thought I might change the motif for the last corner, but inspiration had not yet struck me.

  “You did this?”

  “You needn’t sound so surprised.”

  He smiled. “It’s just … well, I thought women like you were too busy, too modern, to spend time on such things. It’s the sort of thing my grandmother might embroider. You must show her when she comes back from her visit. She loves the feathers of this bird, the paon—she has some in a vase in her room.”

  “The peacock?”

  “Peacock, yes. Jeddah will be here tomorrow evening, or maybe the next day. Rachid is driving to fetch her.”

  I frowned. “I’m not sure I’ll still be here then. If we can see your expert tomorrow and get his view on the book so that I know what I’m dealing with, I’ll probably take the train back to Casablanca immediately after and fly home the next day.”

  An unreadable expression crossed his face. Then he said, “Wait here.”

  He returned a short time later with something draped over his arm.

  “I thought tomorrow you might like to wear this, in case we pass your … Michael? in the street.”

  It was a djellaba of midnight blue, very plain, but of good-quality cotton, though the embroidered cuffs and hems were machine-stitched and unremarkable in style. With it came a length of white cotton to use as a hijab.

  I laughed. “I’ll look like a nun if I wear that.”

  He frowned. “A nun?”

  “Like a monk, a frère but a woman … a soeur?”

  Now it was Idriss’s turn to laugh. “I do not think you could look like a soeur if you tried. Not with eyes like yours.”

  I didn’t know what to say to this, so I said nothing. Seeing that he had embarrassed me, Idriss bowed his head. “I must go now and see my brother before he retires. There is something I would like my grandmother to bring with her from the mountains. I wish you good night, Julia. Timinciwin. Ollah” He covered his face with his hands, kissed the palms, then drew them down to his heart. “Sleep well.” And he was gone.

  I OPENED THE shutters and sat on the little prayer mat to watch the moon sail over the rooftops of the medina. How long I sat there I do not know. The muezzin rang out and the stars wheeled and I thought about Michael and how life had brought us to such a strange pass that he should have pursued me across continents to take back the gift that symbolized the end of our liaison. After a time it occurred to me that I could not picture him anymore. I could imagine his eyes, his mouth, the shape of his skull, but I couldn’t imagine them all together, couldn’t picture his whole face, or a single expression. Just who was it I had been having a relationship with all this time? The harder I tried to think of Michael, the more he eluded me, and after a while I began to think that this in itself was significant, that I had spent the last seven years living inside my own fantasies, acting out a role with a man who came and went only when it suited him.

  With all this playing through my head, I went to bed. It felt odd to be lying in a single bed for the first time since I was a teenager, odd but somehow comforting to be so constrained. Even so, I tossed and turned, my sleep interrupted by fragments of imagery from a day spent walking around Rabat and Salé, filled with veiled and hooded figures who chased me through narrow streets where I became lost in a maze of alleyways, or trapped in dead ends past doors that wouldn’t open.

  In the dead of the night I suddenly became convinced that someone had followed me all the way to Idriss’s home, that they had come into the house and entered the very bedroom in which I slept. I sat up, sweat running between my breasts and my pulse racing. There was no one there. Of course there wasn’t. I lay back down with my heart hammering and willed myself to relax, but try as I might, sleep would not come.

  At last I swung my legs out of bed, padded across the room, and lit the candle. The sky showing through the slats of the shutter was a deep, rich black: Dawn was still a long way off. I decided that I would read some more of Catherine’s journal, and perhaps that would help me sleep again. I positioned the candle on the bedside table so that it would provide a pool of light in which I might hold the book, then pulled my bag toward me and reached inside. My fingers felt blindly around among the contents: wallet, passport, mobile phone, hairbrush, makeup bag, tissues, chewing gum. In the second compartment I found only my embroidery, a notebook, and a pen.

  But of The Needle-Woman’s Glorie there was no trace.

  I went cold all over. My immediate thought was that my dream had been no dream. But that was surely crazy. I got out, smoothing the blanket in case I had suffered a failure of memory and left the book on the bed before falling asleep. Of course, it wasn’t there. Neither was it on the floor, the chair, or the bookcase. Given the sparsity of the room, there really was nowhere else to look, and I was left with no alternative scenario than that someone—Michael?—had indeed come into this room and stolen it while I slept.

  I threw the djellaba over the T-shirt and knickers in which I had slept and made my way downstairs through the still, dark house. Anger carried me down two flights of stairs, but by the time I reached the third, it was giving way to uncertainty. As I reached the ground floor, something made my heart skip a beat. Flickering light danced across the tiled corridor and threw sinister shadows against the wall, making me think, unwillingly, of the tales of the djinn I had come upon in the Arabian Nights, spirits formed of subtle fire, bent on torment and destruction, or leading astray the unwary and the foolish. I took a deep breath, pushed down my superstitious fears, and approached the source of the light.

  It came from the open door of the salon, wherein a single candle burned, casting a golden circle over the head of a figure hunched over a book. My book: Catherine’s book.

  As preternaturally aware as a drowsing cat, Idriss turned just as I stepped over the
threshold. We both spoke at once.

  “What are you—”

  “I am sorry—”

  We stopped and gazed at each other, each of us mirroring the other’s dismay. Idriss beckoned me in. “Come, sit with me, and listen to this.” And he showed me the page he read from.

  “‘They putte mee on the blocke and parted my robe to shew my red haire and white skin. They mayde much of my blew eyes and towlde how I was virgine and pure and many men made bidde for mee just lyke I was a prize yew untill I was sowlde and taken aside. That was the last tyme I saw my mother or my aunte which was a crewel partyng, but the worst separation was from my goode Matty and wee both wept sorely as they tooke me away …’”

  CHAPTER 24

  CATHERINE

  THEY COVERED HER IN A DARK ROBE FROM head to foot and took her by mule from the marketplace through the streets of Old Salé. With only her eyes exposed, none could look upon her; she moved through the crowds, an anonymous woman on a starved mule led by a silent man. The silent man had a hard, fierce face and a bald head that gleamed with sweat in the sullen afternoon light. His hands were burned almost black by the sun and he wore a dirty white robe tucked up between his legs and looped over his belt. When she asked him who had bought her and where they were going, he did not so much as turn his head. If it had not been for the chafing of the mule’s sharp bones against her own, she would have felt as insubstantial as a ghost.

  She looked to left and right—but what was the sense in seeking an escape? There was nowhere to run to, no one to help her. The thought of being sold into the hands of some stranger was terrible to her, but what was the alternative? To run through a strange city, only to be captured by a vengeful mob whose language she could neither speak nor understand? Or to throw herself off the city walls into the sea? She shivered. She had no wish to die yet.

  They left the medina and came at last to the wide river’s bank, and there a boat waited, the oarsman leaning on his pole, silhouetted against the somber waters of the Father of Reflection. As Cat stepped into the boat, she thought of the tales Lady Harris had told her of Charon, who ferried the souls of the ancient dead across the black river into Hades, a passage marking the relinquishing of their old life and the beginning of a new, grim existence. All she lacked was the coin in her mouth, Cat thought, that and the loss of her memories. As the ferryman poled the boat away from the bank of Slă el Bali, Cat gazed into the water that spooled away behind them and thought of her old life at Kenegie, with its easy duties among people whom she might not always have liked, but largely understood. She thought of the green and gold landscape of Cornwall, the grass and trees and gorse, the soft rain and hazy sunshine. She thought about her lost family: her dead father, her dead nephews, her mother gray and stripped naked. Turning her thoughts sharply from that painful image, she thought instead of her cousin Robert Bolitho, whose heart she had spurned, and wondered if she could ever have reconciled herself to the little life he had promised her. It was, she thought bitterly, a question she need never ask herself now, for that was her old life, and ahead lay another, and that was the way of things. Better be like the dead and accept one’s crossing over and not torture oneself with a future that could never be. Cat set her jaw and turned to watch the walls of Slă el Djedid looming before her.