The Lost Letter from Morocco

by Adrienne Chinn

  A couple of men rush out of the showers – one is still drying his hair with a towel; the other clutches his wet shower bag against his red shirt, a damp circle spreading across his chest like a wound. Omar stands in the doorway and beckons Addy to enter.

  ‘Are you sure it’s okay?’

  ‘Mashi mushkil, Adi. You must have a hot shower. Your clothes are wet a long time. I insist for it.’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘Don’t mind. It’s clear. I made an arrangement for the plumber to come again next tomorrow to fix your water. I insist to him to make it well or he will be in troubles with me. He has gone to a wedding in Azaghar today.’

  Addy shifts the plastic bag of toiletries and the towel that Omar’s retrieved from his mother’s house from one hand to the other.

  ‘Will my camera equipment be okay?’

  ‘I put it in my room. Nobody will go there. It’s forbidden.’

  ‘Did you tell them we were coming here?’

  ‘Nobody was home. It’s fine, Adi. Don’t worry. I come here all the time. It’s normal. It’s not many places to have a shower in Zitoune. Everyone use the hammam.’

  She looks down at the pink plastic shopping bag. ‘Okay then.’

  Inside, six shower cubicles line up against one wall, yellow plastic shower curtains hanging on rails in front of each. A row of shelves sits under a mirror opposite them.

  ‘Did you chase those men out of the shower?’ Addy’s voice echoes off the white tiles and wet cement floor.

  Omar leans against a metal trough and folds his arms across his chest. ‘I tell them a European lady needs to have a shower. They were frightened of that. They ran away.’

  ‘You’ll make sure nobody comes in while I’m showering?’

  ‘For sure, honey. I’m a bodyguard for you. I’ll wait outside by the door. If anybody comes I’ll give them troubles. Mashi mushkil.’

  Addy tugs aside a yellow curtain. The tiled walls are dripping and tepid water trickles out of the shower head. She takes the shampoo bottle and soap out of the plastic bag and sets them down on the concrete floor inside the cubicle, then she hangs the towel on a hook by the trough.

  Once she’s in the cubicle, she peels off her wet clothes and shrugs off her leather sandals. Her feet are covered with pale pink dust, which turns blood-red when she steps onto the wet concrete floor. She squints down at her left breast. It looks like a small, sharp-toothed creature has bitten into it. She prods at the pink scar with her fingertips. No lump.

  Bundling up her clothes and sandals, Addy peers around the curtain into the empty room. She shivers as the damp air slides around her body. She makes a lunge for the shelves, but the curtain catches her foot and she lands with a thud on the wet floor.

  The door opens a crack. ‘Honey? What happened?’

  ‘Don’t come in! I’m fine.’

  Addy clutches the curtain around her body and shuffles over to the shelves. She dumps her bundle onto a shelf and hobbles back to another shower cubicle. She drops the torn curtain onto the floor and steps into the shower. She turns on the water. Pins of hot water penetrate her skin like acupuncture needles. The tension in her shoulders melts away.

  A brown hand holding a shampoo bottle thrusts through the side of the curtain. She gasps and shields her body with her hands.

  ‘Adi, don’t mind. It’s me. You left the shampoo in the other shower.’

  Addy grabs the bottle. ‘I almost had a heart attack. Who’s at the door?’

  Omar’s left hand offering the bar of soap appears around the other side of the shower curtain.

  ‘It might be you need the soap, too.’

  She takes the soap and holds the white bar and the shampoo bottle against her breasts like weapons.

  ‘Thanks. Now go.’

  ‘I’m a good servant, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very good, thanks. Go back to the door before someone comes in.’

  ‘Maybe you need to have help to wash your back?’

  ‘No! Go away.’

  ‘Okay, no problem. Anyway, I’m a bit smelly, too. I’ll have a shower next to you.’

  ‘What? What about the door? What if someone comes in?’

  The sound of the metal belt buckle clinking against the rivets in his pockets.

  ‘Mashi mushkil. I paid a boy to wait outside, honey.’

  The metal curtain rings slide against the rusty metal pole in the next cubicle, water splashing as Omar turns on the water. His hand reaches around the partition between the two cubicles. ‘Can I have the shampoo, darling?’

  ‘Stop calling me darling.’

  Addy hands him the bottle. She stands under the coursing water, her brain whirling with confusion. She hears Omar moving around under the water on the other side of the partition. The sooner she gets out of here the better. She reaches her hand around the partition.

  ‘Could I have the shampoo, please?’

  Omar slides his fingers into Addy’s and he steps through the curtain into her cubicle. He folds his arms around her and kisses her. His body’s like wet brown stone.

  ‘You are my darling,’ Omar whispers against her ear. ‘You are the water for my desert. I’ve been thirsty, Adi. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.’

  Addy feels her arms slide around his body. But as he pushes her against the shower’s tiles, worry jabs at her like a mosquito. She can’t. She mustn’t. Her life is too complicated. She’s too old for him. She lives in another country. He’s Muslim. He wants children. What will he think about her scar? Maybe she’s just an easy tourist lay. Addy, what are you thinking?

  ‘Omar. Stop.’ She pushes him away. The cold tiles press against her back. ‘This is crazy. We could be arrested.’

  Confusion clouds his fine, angular features.

  She stumbles out of the cubicle and picks up the torn shower curtain. She drapes it around her body like a shield.

  Omar steps out of the shower, the water dripping off his naked body.

  ‘Adi. Darling. I’m so, so sorry.’

  She holds up her hand like a traffic cop. ‘Don’t come near me.’ A flare of anger. How could he have put them in such a dangerous situation? How could she have been so stupid? They could be arrested.

  Omar grabs the towel off the hook and wraps it around his waist.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, darling. You have to know I respect you well, Adi.’ He presses his hand against his wet chest, his amber eyes imploring. ‘You are the wife of my soul.’

  Addy turns her back on him. ‘Go. Just go.’

  She hears him pull on his clothes. The door slams as he leaves. Her body shakes. She can barely breathe. She sinks down onto the floor, the yellow curtain billowing out around her, and cries.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009

  The muggy air sits on Addy’s chest like a fat, wet cat. The damp sheets hang off the bed in an avalanche of crumbled white cotton. A spasm grips her stomach. She leans over the side of the bed and heaves into the plastic wastebasket. Flopping back against the pillows, she throws her arm across her forehead, but the spasms start again. She needs the toilet.

  Stumbling out of bed, she crawls like a baby across the thick wool rug and the cool concrete floor to the bathroom. She lifts herself onto the toilet just in time. When it’s over, she lies on the floor and surrenders to its welcoming coolness.

  She’s swimming in a green sea. The sea dissolves into a photograph of a face swathed in blue cloth. A man in a blue turban. The man’s features waver and float until they suddenly align. She cries out and reaches for him, but she’s drowning. He looks at her and shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ her father says. Then he’s gone.

  She flails in the stormy sea. Philippa appears holding a Tarot card with a picture of a crumbling tower. A lightning bolt strikes the tower, and a man and a woman fall out of its windows towards jagged rocks below. The couple turn to look at Addy as they fall. She feels herself scream, but the sound locks inside he
r throat. It’s Omar and herself.

  There are voices, muffled by the rising storm. Someone lifts her up and lays her on a bed of red roses. Something cool touches her face. Like the soft, cool rain of Vancouver Island. A woman’s voice is singing. Then Addy’s swimming up through layers of a rainbow. A rooster crows somewhere far away.

  Someone has opened the shutters. Bright sunlight reflects off the whitewashed walls. Addy squints at the room and her heart jumps. Omar’s grandmother is sitting on the foot of the bed, resting her head and hands on her stick as she stares at Addy with her one good eye.

  There are sounds of movement in the kitchen. Addy opens her mouth to call out, but her throat is dry and nothing emerges except a cough. Fatima’s hijab-covered head peeks around the bedroom door.

  ‘Adi? Bonjour. Sbah lkhir. Tu vas bien?’

  Addy’s stomach rumbles and she throws her hand across her mouth. Fatima runs across the room and holds up the wastebasket. Addy retches up what little remains in her stomach.

  ‘Poor Adi. Someone give you the bad eye.’

  Addy wipes her mouth and flops back into the pillows. ‘I think it was the water from the shower. I should be more careful.’

  Jedda shuffles across the floor, her stick stabbing the concrete like a hobbled donkey. She pokes Addy’s shoulder with her bony finger, her silver ring digging into Addy’s skin, mumbling something in Tamazight.

  ‘What did she say, Fatima?’

  Fatima dips a cloth into a bowl of water on the nightstand and dabs at Addy’s forehead.

  ‘She say it’s the bad eye. It’s many people who are jealous in Zitoune. All the ladies are jealous that Omar looks only at you. You look like the Queen of Morocco. For sure it’s the bad eye. But my mother have a very good medicine for that. In one day you will feel better. Jedda insist for it.’

  Addy grunts. She’s been sick like this before. Usually a takeaway curry. It’ll probably be over in twenty-four hours. She reaches over to Jedda and gently squeezes the old woman’s gnarled hand. The crosses and X’s on Jedda’s ring make an indentation into Addy’s palm.

  ‘Shukran, Jedda. Shukran, Fatima.’

  Fatima leans over and kisses Addy on the cheek. ‘You are my sister, Adi. It is my pleasure.’

  Where’s Omar?

  Aicha sits on the foot of Addy’s bed holding a white chalky lump. She raises Addy’s right hand and circles it with the white lump three times. Then she repeats the process with Addy’s left hand. Finally, she leans over and circles Addy’s head three times. When she’s done, she beams at Addy with her bright, false-toothed smile. She pats Addy’s shoulder and leaves the room.

  Addy looks at Fatima. ‘C’est tout?’ That’s it?

  ‘You will see. You will feel better tomorrow.’ Fatima tucks the sheet snugly around Addy. ‘I will come in the morning with the breakfast.’

  ‘No, no breakfast.’

  ‘You will see. You will be hungry tomorrow.’ She kisses Addy on both cheeks and places her hand over her heart. ‘Adi is like the baby of Fatima.’

  ‘You’ll be a good mother one day.’

  ‘Inshallah.’ If God is willing.

  When Fatima arrives the following morning, Addy’s already up and sitting on the veranda. A light breeze wafts through the leaves of the grapevine and she lifts her face to the cool air.

  ‘Sbah lkhir, Adi,’ Fatima calls as she climbs up the path. In her orange djellaba and purple hijab, she’s a jolt of colour on the muted landscape. ‘Allô, Fatima.’

  Fatima mounts the steps, a basket covered with a red-and-white checked cloth hooked over her arm. She kisses Addy’s cheeks and unloads plates and a feast of flat square crêpes, discs of warm bread, a jar of runny honey, marmalade, olive oil and shiny black olives.

  ‘Fatima. It’s so much food.’

  ‘Eesh, Adi, eesh. I will make some tea.’

  The scent of the warm bread is heady. Addy’s stomach rumbles. She tears off a piece and drizzles it with honey.

  ‘It’s so good to see you are better.’

  She spins around in her chair. Omar leans against the old olive tree by the path, the blue tagelmust wrapped around his head into a turban.

  ‘It’s okay if I come? I must talk to you serious, Adi.’

  Addy chews the bread as she eyes him. ‘Fine.’

  He mounts the steps and sits on a chair at the far end of the table. His amber eyes bore into her. Dark circles shade the skin under his eyes.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, habibati. I made a big mistake.’ He sighs and rubs his eyes.

  Anger and confusion churn up Addy’s blood like the fizz in a glass of cola. ‘Get me in the shower and fuck me. That’s what you do with tourists here, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it’s not like that for me. I swear it.’ Omar leans his elbows on the table and buries his head in his hands. ‘My family is so, so angry with me to take you to the showers. They think I made you have the bad eye. They said you should have a hammam to be private. I should protect you well.’

  Addy sets down the crêpe and wipes her fingers on the checked cloth. She holds tight to her anger. Knowing that her anger is the only thing that protects her from falling into an unknowable future with Omar.

  ‘I don’t need a protector. I can take care of myself.’

  Footsteps approach from the house. Fatima emerges on the veranda carrying a plastic tray laden with an ornate silver teapot and tea glasses.

  Omar mumbles a greeting to his sister. He looks back at Addy. ‘It’s okay for me to have some breakfast with you? I didn’t eat for one day. I suffered with you.’

  Addy glares at him as Fatima picks up the teapot and pours the steaming mint tea in a perfect arc into a small glass. She tips the tea back into the teapot and repeats the procedure twice more before filling the glasses with fragrant tea.

  ‘The mint is good for the stomach,’ Omar says. ‘I told Fatima to pick it fresh from the valley for you.’

  Fatima hands Omar a plate with a crêpe. He spreads a pancake with marmalade, folds it into a sandwich and wolfs it down.

  Addy eyes him across the table. ‘You’re hungry.’

  ‘Yes. If you couldn’t eat, I couldn’t eat as well.’

  Addy tears off a piece of crêpe and spreads it with a thin layer of marmalade. The tart orange melts into the doughy crêpe in her mouth.

  ‘You like it, Adi?’

  Addy swallows and wipes her lips with her fingers. ‘Delicious. I’ve never put marmalade on pancakes before. I’m a maple syrup girl.’

  ‘It’s called msemen. Moroccan crêpe. Fatima makes the best in Zitoune.’

  She wipes a dab of marmalade off her chin. ‘C’est très délicieux, Fatima.’

  ‘Marhaba, Adi.’ Fatima loads another msemen onto Addy’s plate. ‘Eesh msemen. Eesh.’

  ‘Fatima loves you a lot, you have to know about it. You made a big impression on my family. Even my grandmother is angry at me for you being sick. She insisted to come here yesterday to stay with you. She said you are a good lady.’

  ‘Your family has been very kind. It’s you I’m not so sure about.’

  ‘My grandmother agrees with you. She said I’m a bad man. She said if I was smaller, she would punish me.’

  Omar reaches across the table for her hand, but Addy slides her hands into her lap.

  ‘You can be sure about me, darling. I would never hurt you. I would die one thousand times if you are hurt.’

  He picks at his msemen and chews without enthusiasm.

  The last embers of Addy’s anger sputter out. ‘It wasn’t all your fault, Omar. I shouldn’t have gone into those showers. I knew it wasn’t a good idea.’

  ‘No, Adi. It’s not your fault at all. It’s my responsibility.’ Omar presses his right hand against his heart. ‘I apologise a million per cent.’

  Addy sips the sweet tea and sets down the glass. Parameters. That’s what they need. She’s not ready to get involved with anyone. Not with her damaged body. How could anyone possibly want
her now?

  ‘Apology accepted, but I have work to do here. I’m going back to London in two months. I have some travelling to do. I have to go to Essaouira, Casablanca, the desert. I’ll soon be out of your hair and we can both get on with our lives.’

  A shadow crosses Omar’s face. ‘As you like, darling.’

  ‘Please, no more darlings or honeys, okay? My name’s Addy. Look, why don’t you help me work out my travel itinerary around Morocco? You told me you’ve done that before for other tourists. You can help me find a driver. I’ll pay you. It’ll be a professional arrangement.’

  Omar sips the hot tea and rubs at a drip on his chin with the end of his tagelmust.

  ‘I know Morocco well. I can do it. I can go with you to be your bodyguard.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said help me. There’s one more thing …’

  ‘What’s that, dar … Adi?’

  ‘What happened with that white stuff your mother used on me yesterday?’

  Omar pops an oily black olive into his mouth and spits the stone out over the railing. ‘She put it in water.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘If it fizzed everywhere then it means she took away the bad eye. If it didn’t fizz then you don’t have the bad eye and you must go to the doctor.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  Omar asks Fatima something in Tamazight. She waves her hands in circles and exhales her breath like a deflated balloon. ‘Poussshhh.’

  Omar reaches for another msemen. ‘Very bad eye.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Zitoune, Morocco – January 1984

  Hanane pulls the brown wool djellaba tightly around her body and rubs at the rough fabric shielding her arms from the cold winter air. Under her feet the earth is hard and uneven, frozen into ghost prints of mules and donkeys. The night is black and silent, the canopy of olive leaves lit silver by the moonlight. Only the puff of her breath breaks through the still air, hanging like a cloud before it dissipates like a lost thought into the night.