‘It’s normal. Many Imazighen play the drums. It’s in our blood.’
Omar begins to sing a song from one of Yassine’s CDs: ‘Sudani, wehey ay, Sudani, wehey ay.’
Amine joins in. A woman in the crowd holds a hand up to her mouth and ululates. The shrill warble floats on the air like birdsong. A couple of small boys spin and dance, giggling as they catch the eyes of the foreign tourists. Addy joins in the clapping.
‘You are enjoying Morocco?’ Rachid asks as they clap out their different rhythms.
‘Very much. Omar’s a wonderful help.’
‘Omar likes you very much.’
Addy glances at Rachid. ‘Does he?’
‘Your name is always on his lips. Adi. Adi. Adi. Perhaps you will marry him.’
‘I … I …’ Addy loses the beat.
‘You have a big welcome in our family. But let me say one thing.’ Rachid makes a gesture as if he’s letting something small drop out of his fingers. ‘When a pebble drops into a pond, the smooth water is disturbed. The waves grow larger and larger until the pond is no longer still. If you and Omar were to marry,’ he places his hand on his chest, ‘marhaba, you are welcome in our family. But you must know you will be changed. Morocco is charming, but life here is not easy. Tourists don’t see the real situation.’
The chemo room and the looping tubes of the Red Devil. No one ever sees the real situation.
‘Life can be difficult anywhere.’
‘It’s true. But, Madame Adi, it is not only you who will change. You would be the pebble in the pond of Zitoune. Omar will change. His family will change. In some way, everyone you meet will change. Sometimes change is good.’ Rachid shrugs. ‘Sometimes change is not good. Many people find change difficult. Especially in Morocco. We are a very traditional country here.’
Addy regards Rachid’s worried face. The African sun and the struggles of life have left their mark on him. Lines fan out from the corners of his golden-brown eyes and an indentation is etched in his forehead from years of squinting at the blinding sun.
‘Are you saying I shouldn’t encourage a relationship with Omar? Because you needn’t worry—’
Rachid holds up a hand. ‘No, no. Do not mistake me.’ He touches his hand to his chest. ‘I only ask that you understand that what you do with Omar affects us all.’
The song finishes. The crowd claps and whistles. Amine takes Omar’s baseball cap from Addy and moves through the audience, soliciting for tips.
Omar sets the drum aside and stands, waving his arms like a conductor. ‘Merci, tout le monde. Thank you, everybody. If you like Berber music, come to the beautiful Cascades de Zitoune and ask for me, Omar. I will make you a good tour. Si hablo español, français, Deutsch, italiano, English, Tamazight, Al-Arabiyah.’ He counts off the languages he speaks on his fingers. ‘So, I will see you soon? Welcome to Morocco.’
Rachid’s warning is like a splash of the icy Pacific water Addy had swum in as a child. She shivers involuntarily. Maybe Hanane’s family hadn’t approved of her father. He wasn’t Moroccan. He wasn’t a Muslim. He couldn’t possibly have been the husband they would’ve wanted for her. Did they marry? Could they marry? Omar had told her that Muslim women are forbidden from marrying non-Muslim men. Was the baby illegitimate?
The water drop smashes through the pond’s surface. Her father couldn’t have done that to Hanane and their baby. Or could he? He’d abandoned Essie and Philippa, but Essie’s wealthy family were there to help. It would’ve been a catastrophe for Hanane. And for the baby. What kind of man was her father?
Omar hugs Addy, lifting her off the ground. ‘So, you like Berber music?’
Addy pushes against his chest. ‘Omar, put me down.’
He sets her down. ‘What happened?’
‘You’re just my guide.’
‘You’ve been talking to my uncle, isn’t it?’
Rachid places his hand on Omar’s shoulder. ‘Adi is a good lady. I can see that well. You must treat her with respect.’
‘Adi, you have to know with all my heart I respect you well. I say it in front of my uncle to be clear.’
Addy stares at Omar. She’s the pebble. Just like her father.
Chapter Nineteen
Essaouira, Morocco – May 2009
‘There! There it is.’
Addy points to the round window framed with key stones in the tower’s thick stone wall.
Omar takes Addy’s hand and they climb the stone steps up to the fortified wall with Rachid and Amine close on their heels. They head up to the fortified tower. Waves crash on rocks below, turning the grey Atlantic water into a stew of swirling foam. They stop on the rampart. An old man, as grey and wizened as an old heron, breaks off bits of bread and tosses them over the water. The screaming gulls dive and fight each other for the scraps.
Addy looks down to the wall protecting the harbour from the crashing Atlantic waves. ‘These fortifications don’t look very Moroccan.’
‘No, that’s right,’ Rachid says. ‘It’s Portuguese. From many years ago when Essaouira was called Mogador. It was a place for trading and for the Barbary corsairs.’
‘Barbary corsairs?’
‘Pirates. Very skilled. The navies of Europe avoided them as much as possible. They took many slaves from the coasts of Europe. It’s said they even sailed across the Atlantic to Newfoundland to raid the coasts for slaves and concubines. The sultan and the administrators loved the ladies with white skin and red or yellow hair. It’s one of the reasons you see fair, blue-eyed Berbers in the mountains sometimes.’
Omar hugs Addy against his side. ‘I’m your Barbary corsair, Adi.’ He brushes Addy’s fringe from her eyes. ‘You should grow your hair longer a bit. It would look lovely.’
She pulls away and steps towards the window, running her fingers through her short hair. ‘I like it short.’ If only he knew.
‘Mashi mushkil. I’m sorry if I say something wrong.’ He points at the round window. ‘It’s a nice view there, habibati. It’s lovely for your book.’
The same view exactly as in her father’s photo. Just missing his and Hanane’s clasped hands. Addy kneels on the stone and focuses her lens, capturing the diving gulls and the view of the town through the window, while Rachid contemplates the horizon, and Omar and Amine straddle a European cannon, teasing the gulls as they pretend to toss sandwich crumbs into the sea.
They leave Amine trailing after the technicians by the stage and head down stone steps dusted with sand to the beach. Addy hands Rachid her leather bag as she leans on Omar to remove her sandals. Her feet sink into the warm sand.
He grabs Rachid’s hand and holds it aloft. ‘You see, Adi? In Morocco, it’s normal for men to hold hands. Even to hug each other and to kiss each other. But it’s haram to do this with ladies unless you are private with your wife.’
‘What do you mean, haram?’
‘It means it’s sinful,’ Rachid says as he slips the strap of Addy’s bag over his shoulder.
Omar slides his fingers through hers. Addy extricates her fingers from his grip.
‘This is not a problem for me for you to hold hands,’ Rachid says. ‘Marhaba.’
‘You know I don’t mind for peoples, Adi.’ Omar grasps her hand. ‘If I want to hold the hand of my wife, then I will.’
Addy chokes and tugs her hand free. ‘Your wife?’
‘You are like my wife in my heart, even yet.’
Rachid pats his nephew on the back. ‘When you have your wedding you can have your celebration in my house in Casa. My wife and daughters will be very happy for that.’
‘Wait a minute …’
Omar tuts. ‘No, no, Uncle. The wedding will be in my house that I will build in Zitoune, one hundred per cent.’
‘Hold on, hold on.’ Addy stops short, her feet sinking into the sand. ‘Omar, you’d have to ask me first.’
Omar winks at his uncle and they both laugh. ‘Adi, in Morocco it doesn’t matter to ask the lady. I must ask your fath
er. If he says yes, then we go. If he says no, then no problem. I find another lady.’
‘My father’s in Paradise already.’
Rachid presses his hand against his heart. ‘I’m so sorry for your father. Maybe you have a brother?’
‘No. No brother.’
‘An uncle?’
‘No. I have an older half-sister, though. She’d be happy to sign me over.’
Rachid shakes his head sadly. ‘This is a problem. There is nobody to ask.’
‘I guess you’d just have to ask me, then, Omar.’
Omar scratches this forehead. ‘This is not the Moroccan tradition, Adi. So, since you have no man to protect you, I will carry you away with me to be my wife, like a Barbary corsair.’ He picks her up and throws her over his shoulder like a sack.
Addy slaps him on the back with her sandals. ‘Put me down. I’m heavy.’
‘Not so heavy. It’s easy for me.’ He anchors her over his shoulder with one arm across the back of her knees.
‘Omar, we’re attracting attention.’
‘Mashi mushkil. If they say something, I will say you’re my wife and you make me troubles.’ He turns to Rachid. ‘So, Uncle, your family is well? My aunt is well? My cousins are well?’
Addy pounds the back of Omar’s green denim jacket. ‘Omar! This is embarrassing.’
Omar releases his grip and Addy slips down the front of his body until her feet touch the sand.
‘Thank you.’
‘Mashi mushkil.’ He leans over and rubs his back, groaning exaggeratedly. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to marry you any more.’
‘Oh, really? Why’s that?’
‘You are heavy like potatoes.’
‘What?!’
Rachid says something to Omar in Tamazight and Omar rubs his chin, nodding.
‘What did he say?’
‘My uncle made me a good offer to be your husband, Adi. You can be his second wife. You can live with my aunt and my cousins. They will teach you well how to cook and to clean to be a good wife.’
Addy presses her hand against her heart and smiles her most winning smile at Rachid. ‘Thank you, Rachid. You are most kind. I will consider your proposal and let you know.’
Rachid bows his head and touches his hand to his chest. ‘Marhaba, Madame Adi. I await your answer with anticipation.’
Omar drops his arm across Addy’s shoulders and pulls her against him. ‘Okay, okay. I don’t like this joke any more. I’m jealous.’
Addy pokes Omar’s arm. ‘You said I was as heavy as potatoes.’
‘I’m joking with you, darl … Adi. You are skinny yet. You must eat well to be fatter like the Amazigh dancers. It’s good to be healthy. Even if you are heavy like an elephant I don’t mind. Then if I lift you, you will crush me and I will die and go to Paradise happy.’
Omar slips his fingers between hers and they continue their walk along the beach, the sun turning the waves to molten gold as the first fingers of orange streak across the sky.
Had Gus and Hanane walked along this beach, hand in hand, ignoring the curious stares of onlookers? Had they seen the town’s lights slowly flutter on as the day faded into night? Seen the way the sea turned gold in the waning sunlight? They’d been here. On this beach. She could feel it. If only she could find someone who remembered them.
Chapter Twenty
Essaouira, Morocco – May 2009
Yassine and Mohammed have their arms around two women. Amine trails behind them, dreadlocks from his new cap bouncing around his face like tassels. The women are young. They wear tight skinny jeans and sleeveless T-shirts with D & G and Chanel spelled out across their breasts in gold sequins. Their high-heeled sandals leave peg marks in the sand like the tracks of a wounded animal. Their long black hair lashes through the wind, tangling around their designer sunglasses and sticking to their glossy red lips.
‘Hello, my brother,’ Yassine says to Omar. ‘We find some nice ladies of Essaouira. It’s Layla and Nabila. They are sisters.’
Omar greets the women in Arabic. Addy offers her hand and one of the girls gives it a limp shake.
‘Hello, my name’s Addy,’ she says in French. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘Un peu. Leetle English. I am Layla.’ She gestures to the other girl. ‘My sister, Nabila. I have twenty-three years. Nabila have twenty-one years.’
‘Your English is very good.’ Addy extends her hand to Nabila, who releases her grip on Mohammed’s arm to shake the tips of Addy’s fingers. She has long nail extensions painted magenta.
‘Okay, we go.’ Omar grabs Addy’s hand and strides ahead.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t like those ladies.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re Arab ladies. Not Amazigh ladies.’
Mohammed catches up to them, puffing with the effort.
‘Omar, wait!’
He’s abandoned Layla to his nephew. Amine is trying to keep Layla from toppling over without touching her, waving his hands around her body as she teeters through the sand.
‘It’s good, it’s good,’ Mohammed says as Rachid joins them. ‘We can have a place at the apartment of the girls. It’s very cheaper. It’s hard to find a place in Essaouira. Many peoples come for the festival.’
Omar shakes his head, the crease running between his eyebrows. ‘I don’t like it.’
Mohammed rests his arm on Omar’s shoulders, his fake Rolex and heavy silver rings glinting in the fading light. ‘My friend, my friend. It will be fine. It is good we found a place to sleep. No necessity to worry.’
Omar shoves Mohammed’s arm off his shoulders. ‘No way. No possibility of that.’ He heads off towards the stone steps to the promenade, pulling Addy behind him.
‘It’s true,’ Rachid says as he catches up to Omar. ‘I have been looking for a room since I arrived this morning for my interview at the school, but no success.’
‘It’s no problem, Uncle. We’ll find another place.’
Addy glances over at Omar as he hurries her along the promenade towards the car. The lines of his angular face are sharp with tension.
‘What is it, Omar? What’s the matter?’
‘I don’t like you to be with those ladies.’
‘Just because they’re Arab and not Amazigh?’
‘It’s no problem they are Arab.’
‘Then what?’
Omar stops short. ‘They’re whores.’
Omar orders Addy a nus nus coffee and a mille-feuille from the bow-tied waiter at a café table on the square by the harbour. They strike up a conversation in Arabic and the waiter scribbles something down on the back of the receipt. Omar slips the paper into his back pocket and hoists his knapsack over his shoulder.
‘Enjoy your pastry, Adi. Rachid and I will go to see some rooms.’
‘What about Amine?’
‘He stayed with his uncle. It’s his choice. Rachid and I will come back soon.’
Addy roots through the clothes in her leather overnight bag for her diary. Her finger catches on a jagged slice in the leather.
She lurches to her feet and tears the clothes out of the bag, tossing them onto the black metal chair. No wallet. No passport. She finds her cell phone inside a shoe. Dead. Her laptop is there, too. Her heart pounds as she scans the square for Omar and Rachid. The waiter approaches from the café carrying a tray with a small glass of coffee and the pastry. He sets the items onto the mosaic-topped table and hands Addy the bill. He eyes the pile of clothes on the chair as he hovers beside her.
‘Pas de monnaie.’ Addy points in the direction Omar has disappeared. ‘Il a le monnaie.’ Heat spreads across her face. ‘I don’t have money. He has the money.’
The waiter shrugs and walks back into the café.
She flops into a chair and tries to let the cries of the gulls and street vendors numb her escalating panic. What has she done? What if this has all been a huge set-up? Didn’t Philippa warn her about trusting Moroccan men? And tho
se two girls. Maybe they were in on it, too. Naive. You’re so naive, Addy. Think. Think.
Her hands shake as she tears open a sugar sachet. The brown crystals drop like pebbles through the milky foam. Breathe, Addy. Breathe, drink the coffee, find the police.
Hands cover Addy’s eyes. She screams and jolts out of the chair.
‘Adi, what happened?’
‘Jesus Christ, Omar. Don’t ever do that. You scared the life out of me.’
‘Darling! Don’t swear. It’s not nice.’
‘Sorry. You surprised me.’ She collapses into the chair. ‘And stop ordering me around. Say “Please don’t swear.” It’s politer.’
‘Sorry. Jesus is a prophet of Islam as well. We call him Isa. I feel bad if you swear his name like that.’
‘Sorry. You sound like my mother.’ Addy holds up her leather bag. ‘Someone slashed my bag. My wallet and passport are gone.’
Omar runs his finger along the slash in the brown leather. He frowns. ‘Yes, it’s a knife that did this, for sure. Did you lose anything else? Your phone? Your camera is fine?’
‘My camera’s here. It’s just the wallet and passport. It must have happened when we were in the souk. I remember getting pushed around when you were buying the kefta.’
‘So, no problem.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Omar sets down the leather bag. He unbuttons a pocket on the leg of his jeans and places Addy’s wallet and passport on the table.
‘You gave them to me when the police stopped us. I said Essaouira has many thiefs.’
‘Thank God.’
Addy picks up the passport and flips to the photo page. Her unsmiling face peers back. Her hair’s long and curly. Pre-Red Devil.
‘It’s your passport, yes? You don’t want to check your money is there? Maybe you think I’m a thief, as well. I can see it.’
‘I’m sorry. For a minute I thought …’ She shakes her head and hands him back her passport. ‘Sorry. Here, you better keep it until I get a new bag.’
‘Mashi mushkil.’ He slides the passport back into his pocket. A vein in his temple throbs. He opens Addy’s wallet and counts out twenty dirhams in change. Addy grunts and he glances at her. ‘Your money is my money. My money is your money, Adi. Same same.’
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