Addy rubs her throbbing forehead. ‘Shove over, Omar. Let’s see if I remember how to drive a manual car.’
The car resonates with the snores of Omar’s friends. Omar sits next to Addy, his hand over hers on the gear lever. He follows her movements as she shifts gears. She catches him looking at her in the rear-view mirror.
A yawn in the back of the car. Omar moves his hand back to his lap and looks out of the window. The concrete block walls of half-finished buildings grow larger on the horizon as Addy drives towards them. A mass of children in white smocks emerges from one of the buildings. The children move off in different directions, their leather schoolbags flapping against their hips.
A car flashes them as she drives through the town.
‘Habss.’ Omar reaches over his seat and shakes Yassine’s shoulder. ‘It’s police ahead. Yassine, Mohammed, wake up. Amine. Wake up.’
A tinny clang and crush of beer cans as they struggle out of their doped sleep. Omar points to a half-finished concrete building with a rusty fuel pump sprouting from the dirt in front.
‘Adi, go there behind the station of gas. Do it quick.’
She swings the car across the road and down a bumpy track beside the petrol station. Pulling up on a patch of waste ground, she turns off the engine. Tattered plastic bags stick to the branches of a dead tree, and plastic water bottles and Coca-Cola cans glint amongst the dust and chunks of discarded concrete. The men fling open the car doors, kicking beer cans out into the rubble. Yassine kneels on the back seat and flicks kief roaches out of the car door.
A row of metal spikes is lined up on the asphalt like the teeth of a prehistoric dinosaur. A police car stands on either side of the road. A couple of white-gloved police officers in navy uniforms stand in the middle of the road, white gun holsters sitting on their hips.
A heavyset police officer with a thick black moustache waves the black Renault over to the roadside. Addy’s stomach spasms as she parks the car. Omar squeezes her hand on the gear stick. The black plastic knob is slick with her sweat.
The police officer removes a pad and pen from his pocket. Addy watches him in the mirror as he circles the car, peering inside as he passes the windows. He approaches Addy’s window and gestures for her to get out. She steps out into the dust and hears Omar’s door open. Omar hurries around the car and holds out his hand, greeting him politely. The police officer ignores him and addresses Addy in Arabic.
She shakes her head. ‘English.’
He repeats himself, slapping the palm of his gloved hand with the notepad.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
‘Your licence of driving,’ Omar says. ‘Show it to him.’
‘It’s in the boot, Omar. In my bag.’ With the alcohol.
He inclines his head almost imperceptibly. ‘No problem, darling. I’ll get it.’
He says something to the police officer and heads towards the boot. The police officer follows. Yassine swings open his door and jumps out of the car, waving three identity cards. He retrieves the registration documents and his driver’s licence from the glove compartment as he keeps up a stream of Arabic. The police officer scans the documents and beckons him over to the police car.
Omar thrusts Addy’s leather overnight bag at her. ‘Here, honey.’
She roots around her clothes until she find her wallet. She hands her driver’s licence to Omar.
‘Give him some money, Adi.’
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry. It’s the Moroccan manner. Give him some money. One hundred dirhams.’
Addy’s heart’s beating so hard she’s sure that even in his car the policeman can hear it. ‘That’s bribery.’
Omar lifts a one hundred dirham note out of her wallet. ‘If he asks you, say you don’t know about the money.’ He folds the bill between his fingers. ‘Give me your passport.’
Addy unzips a compartment in her bag and retrieves her passport.
‘It’s not so safe there. In Essaouira there are many thiefs.’
Omar strides over to the police car. A thin policeman with a concave chest and a sour expression joins them. He flicks his eyes back to Addy as he scans the documents. She rubs her arms nervously and gets back in the car.
‘Water?’ Mohammed offers Addy a large bottle of water.
She drinks thirstily and hands him back the bottle.
‘It’s no problem for the police, Madame Adi.’ Mohammed points the water bottle at the police car. ‘It happen all the time like that in Morocco. Many peoples go to the festival. The police look for terrorists.’
‘Terrorists?’
‘Yes, it’s many peoples at the festival so the police are careful for that.’
‘The festival is a terrorist target?’
He swigs from the bottle and passes it to Amine. ‘No problem, Madame Adi. If it’s fate, it’s fate.’
‘Fate?’ Omar slides into the passenger seat and drops the documents into Addy’s lap. ‘What’s fate?’
‘Mohammed’s saying that if we get blown up by a bomb in Essaouira, it’s our fate.’
‘Mashi mushkil, honey. Then we can go to Paradise together.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t go to Essaouira if it’s dangerous. We can go back to Marrakech or go straight on to Casablanca.’
‘No, no, it’s not dangerous, excuse me.’ Mohammed leans over the driver’s seat. ‘Many police are there. So, no problem.’
Amine nods vigorously. ‘No problem. Gnaoua music very good.’
Omar squeezes Addy’s hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’m your bodyguard. Nobody can touch you.’
Yassine emerges from the police car. He walks towards the Renault, his arm around the police officer. They’re laughing. Yassine shakes the man’s hand and slides into the back seat. The police officer waves for Addy to move on.
She quickly turns the key in the ignition. The gear stick slips in her sweaty palm and the car stalls. The sour-faced policeman steps in front of the car and holds up his white-gloved hand.
‘Attendez. Pas assez vite. Ouvrez le coffre.’
‘What’s he saying? What’s le coffre?’
‘Merde. He wants to see in back of the car.’ Omar jumps out of the car. ‘Mashi mushkil, mashi mushkil.’
Addy switches off the ignition and watches in the rear-view mirror as Omar opens the boot. The car’s boot rises, obscuring them from view. Addy catches Yassine’s gaze in the mirror. His face is like a mask, stiff with panic.
Omar appears at her window. ‘Adi, you can come out, please?’
She licks her lips; dry as chalk. She follows Omar to the rear and looks into the boot. Beer cans, bottles of liquor and the two bottles of wine, wedged between the knapsacks and her bag.
Addy looks at the policeman. ‘It’s mine. C’est pour moi.’
The policeman sweeps his hand over the boot’s contents. ‘Toutes sont pour vous?’ Is this all for you?
‘Oui.’
The police officer huffs. ‘C’est impossible.’
She meets his unblinking gaze and juts out her chin. ‘Je suis anglaise.’
The policeman’s eyes narrow and his lips curl into a sneer. He waves dismissively at Addy. ‘Bon. Va-t-en.’
Chapter Eighteen
Essaouira, Morocco – May 2009
The whitewashed buildings of Essaouira shimmer in the heat. The doors and windows are painted bright blue. Wooden fishing boats the same vivid blue fill the harbour as densely as stepping stones in a garden. Squealing gulls glide overhead, eyeing their chance to steal a fish head or broken crab leg from the fishermen offloading their hauls.
Addy shields her eyes from the sun’s glare as she looks out of the car window. ‘Why’s everything painted blue?’
‘So the djinn can’t come to make problems. The djinn don’t like the blue colour. It’s why Imazighen like the blue colour a lot. It’s nice that you have the blue eyes, honey. It makes you lucky. The djinn don’t like you well.’
‘What are djinn?’
‘Th
ey’re like spirits. They can change their shape. They can be an animal or a person. They can be good or bad. Sometimes they can go inside somebody. You can see the djinni in the eyes. This is not a good thing when it happens. Some people have their own djinni they can control.’
‘Like your grandmother,’ Amine pipes up from the back seat. ‘Everybody say she have a djinni.’
‘It’s true,’ Omar says, ‘but she don’t call it often. Anyway, it’s better not to disturb the djinn.’
Addy parks in a car park in the crenellated shadow of ancient stone fortifications. She shoves her camera and a couple of lenses into her leather overnight bag and slings it over her shoulder, rubbing her growling stomach as they head towards the blue-and-white open-fronted restaurants beside the harbour.
A mustachioed fish vendor in a white lab coat splattered with blood greets them effusively. He waves his hands in front of his display of glistening fish and sea creatures on an iced wooden table. Next to the display, fat slabs of fish grill over hot coals, the charring skins sizzling as the chef drizzles them with lemon juice and thick yellow olive oil. Addy captures images of the seafood and the vendors on her camera. She wanders over to the table Yassine and Amine have found and sits on the white plastic chair beside Amine. She focuses her lens on Omar and Mohammed as they haggle over the price of dinner with the fish vendor.
‘Excuse me, Adi,’ Amine says. ‘I go for toilet.’
‘Mashy mushkey, Amine.’
Addy sets down her bag by her feet and fusses with the zipper as she tries to avoid eye contact with Yassine. When she can’t avoid it any longer, she sits up and fiddles with a turquoise and silver bracelet she’d bought in the Zitoune souk as she watches the gulls fight for discarded fish heads.
Yassine reaches across the table and taps the bracelet. ‘I like this colour for you, Adi. It goes well with your eyes.’
Addy glances over to Omar, who’s deep in conversation with Mohammed and the grill chef. Yassine follows her gaze.
‘Omar is a good man. He’s like my brother.’ Yassine presses Addy’s hand against the table with his palm.
Addy tugs her hand free and glares at Yassine. ‘It seems everyone is everyone’s brother in Morocco.’
‘For us it’s like real brothers. I drink the milk with Omar from his mother when I was a baby because my mother was died from me being born. So, we are tied like brothers of the blood.’ He sits back and sweeps his eyes over her. ‘You are very beautiful, Turquoise.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
The corners of Yassine’s mouth turn up. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
Omar arrives back at the table holding hands with an older man. He swings their hands up and kisses a ring on the man’s finger.
‘Adi, it’s my uncle Rachid. He’s the brother of my father. I told you about him before. He lives in Casa. He is a teacher of English for children.’
Addy presses her right hand against her chest and smiles. ‘I’m very happy to meet you. Omar’s told me about you.’
The same high cheekbones and amber eyes as his nephew, but shorter and stockier, and there are twists of grey in his close-cropped curly black hair. Grey flannel trousers and highly polished black shoes peek out from underneath Rachid’s beige cotton djellaba, and a brown knapsack hangs over his shoulder.
Rachid touches his chest and his lips with his fingers. ‘I am very happy to meet you, madame. Omar has been telling me all about you. I understand you’re travelling around Morocco to take photographs for a book you are writing. How impressive. You must come to visit the Chouhad family of Casa. My daughters would be very excited to meet you. Maybe after Essaouira.’
‘That would be lovely. We’re planning to head to Casa in a few days anyway. Omar? What do you think?’
Omar grabs two white plastic chairs and hands one to Rachid. ‘Inshallah. If it’s our fate, then we will go. Sit beside Adi, Uncle, and we can talk altogether while we eat.’ He sets his chair beside Yassine and glances at Addy and back to Yassine. His eyes narrow. ‘Everything’s all right?’
Yassine squirms in his chair. ‘It’s good. Adi, she is a nice lady. She is like the special flower in the desert.’
Omar leans towards Yassine until their noses almost touch. ‘You be careful for Adi.’
Yassine laughs and stretches his arm across Omar’s shoulders. ‘I am your brother of the milk, Omar. I respect you well.’
Omar pushes Yassine’s arm off his shoulders. ‘Even if you are my brother, I will fight you like a lion if you disturb Adi.’
Mohammed sets down a large platter of grilled seafood on the blue-and-white checked oilcloth covering the wooden table.
‘Everybody’s okay?’
He shoves a plastic chair between Omar and Yassine and sits down. Amine appears with a plate of lemons and two large plastic bottles of Coca-Cola. A boy arrives with a stack of mismatched plates and glasses.
They dig into the mound of steaming seafood. Addy sucks her fingers for every drop of the unctuous grease and lemon. Omar calls over to the restaurant owner and soon two more plates of grilled fish and seafood appear. She’s never tasted food this good.
After the meal, they head towards the long stretch of beach that fans out in an arc in front of the town. A huge stage constructed of metal scaffolding is set up in the main square. Technicians mill around, fiddling with sound equipment. The whines and screams of feedback slice through the air. Vendors wander through the growing crowd selling knitted caps with fake dreadlocks to clusters of squabbling boys.
Addy kneels and takes her camera and her wide-angle lens out of her big leather bag. She changes the lens and focuses her camera on the white buildings glowing golden in the late afternoon sunlight.
Feedback screams from the speakers. The Rolling Stones’ ‘Start Me Up’ blasts out over the square. Addy thrusts her bag into Omar’s hands. She reaches out her arms and twirls around the square. The fresh breeze caresses her face and the salty air fills her lungs.
Omar laughs. ‘You’re crazy, Adi,’ he shouts.
She can’t stop smiling. In this moment she’s free and everything is as it should be.
They lose Yassine and Mohammed to a cheap bar by the waterfront.
‘As you like,’ Omar says to them when they try to persuade the others to join them. ‘It’s not a nice place for Addy. We’ll go to the souk to see some atmosphere. We’ll come back in one hour and we can go for a walk on the beach and look for a place to sleep.’
The lanes of the souk are filled with backpackers and foreigners jostling among the crowds of Moroccans. At a crossroads of two lanes, Omar stops at a kefta stall. The owner’s busy frying sweet-smelling onions on a grill. Omar signals for four sticks of the lamb meatballs as bodies push and jostle around Addy.
Omar divvies out the kefta to Rachid and Amine and thrusts one into Addy’s hands.
‘No, Omar. I’m full. I can’t eat another bite.’
‘You can. Enjoy, it’s good. You’re skinny yet.’
She licks at the garlicky grease trickling through her fingers and takes a bite of the succulent meat. Before long, there’s nothing left but the stick.
Addy follows Omar and Rachid through the crowds, Amine bringing up the rear like a bodyguard. They pass by stalls laden with wooden trinkets carved from fragrant Moroccan thuja cedar wood, stands full of argan oil soaps and body creams, and stacks of colourful babouches and jewellery. She watches Omar as he laughs with his uncle. As he teases Amine. He’s been on his best behaviour since the shower incident. Like a solicitous brother. Be careful what you wish for, she thinks. You might just get it. Why is it that now that she’s killed any chance of a holiday romance, all she can think of is the feel of his lips on hers, his hand on her breast at the waterfalls, his moan as she kissed him on the veranda?
She dabs scented argan oil onto her wrist and waves it under Omar’s nose. He smiles, but nothing more. She drapes a turquoise scarf embroidered with Amazigh symbols around her shoulders.
‘Miyat dirhams.’
Omar frowns and holds up three fingers with one hand and makes an O with the other. ‘Laa. Tlateen dirhams.’
The negotiations gallop on across the heads of the shoppers, the shop seller refusing to budge. Omar reluctantly hands over a fifty dirham note.
Addy runs her fingers over the intricate embroidery. ‘Thank you. It’s lovely. It’s like the one Hanane’s wearing in the photo with my father. Maybe they bought hers here, too. I know they came to Essaouira.’
Omar holds the end of the scarf up to Addy’s eyes. ‘It makes your eyes the colour of the sea in the days of summer.’ He kisses the scarf and lets it drop. ‘The guy made a hard negotiation. If you like something it’s better to tell me after we pass. Then I can go back after and pay Berber prices. If the seller sees you he will charge European prices.’
‘Fifty dirhams is cheap.’
‘If I was by myself I would pay ten dirhams. No reason to waste money, Adi. We’re not in Europe here.’
African drums, flutes and tambourines spread on the pavement in a jumbled display outside a music shop. Grabbing a drum, Omar sits down on the pavement and wraps his legs around the clay casing.
‘Can you give me your scarf, Adi?’
He hands her his baseball cap and wraps the scarf around his head into a turban. He starts a slow, steady beat on the drum.
‘Amine, Yalla.’ He gestures at a drum with his head.
Amine picks up a drum and perches beside Omar on the kerb. He starts drumming out a counter rhythm. His black nylon dreadlocks bounce around his head as he pounds at the animal skin.
Addy places her leather bag between her feet, resting Omar’s hat on it. She changes her lens again and focuses her camera on the two drummers, trying different angles, apertures and shutter speeds. The drumming quickens, the beat urgent. Her blood thrums to the beat. She watches Omar through the lens, stealing images of his hands, his eyes, his mouth.
‘It’s good?’ Rachid asks as he claps on the offbeat.
Addy blushes as she lets the camera fall against her chest. ‘I had no idea Omar played the African drums.’
The Lost Letter from Morocco Page 11