The Lost Letter from Morocco

by Adrienne Chinn

  ‘Right.’

  Addy chews the mille-feuille as Omar piles her clothes back into the leather bag. How much does she really know about Omar? In Zitoune he sometimes disappears for days. And the phone calls. So many phone calls. Who are the callers? He said he had a friend who was a drug dealer. And Yassine is hardly a pillar of virtue. Should she get her passport back? But, it would be rude to ask now, after she’s just given it to him. She’ll get it tonight. She pushes the plate with the pastry away and looks at Omar. What has she got herself into?

  ‘Where’s your uncle?’

  ‘We found a flat in the souk. It’s a recommendation of the waiter. Rachid is having tea with the owner lady. She insist for it. I am your guardian angel, Adi. You have to know it.’

  ‘You know about guardian angels?’

  ‘For sure.’ He holds up his hand and counts off his fingers. ‘Jibrail, Mikail, Israafiyl – a lots of angels.’

  ‘Gabriel, Michael, Raphael. Same angels. We’re not so different, really.’

  ‘Not really. But a bit.’ He tucks Addy’s leather bag securely under his arm. ‘Are you fine, Adi? I will walk slow for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I looked at your passport. You have forty years. It’s close to be the age of my mother.’

  ‘That would’ve made her seven when she had you.’

  Omar laughs. ‘Forty, fifty, sixty. I don’t know for age. It’s no problem for me, habibati. I don’t mind you are older. We are lucky to be on the earth together. I could have been born one hundred years ago. Then we don’t meet each other. This would be the tragedy of our lives.’

  That evening, they meet up with the others in front of the stage in the square. Omar wears his blue tagelmust and embroidered blue gown, and he grips Addy’s hand as he parts the crowd like a blue-sailed ship cutting through the waves of Moroccans and tourists.

  Yassine’s yellow, red and green turban bobs amongst the crowd in front of the stage. He wears a blue gown like Omar’s and Nabila is tucked under his arm like a bright red package. Layla leans against Mohammed, smoking a thin cigarette as she pulls strands of wayward hair out of her lip gloss with her lacquered nails. Addy spies Amine perching on the stage scaffolding like a bird, his fake dreadlocks bouncing to some inner rhythm.

  Yassine pulls Omar to him in an embrace. ‘Hello, my brother. What happened for you? Why you didn’t come with us to the house of the ladies?’

  ‘I found another flat with Adi and Rachid.’

  Yassine shrugs. ‘Mashi mushkil.’ His eyes dart down to Omar’s hand, and his eyebrow twitches when he sees Omar’s and Addy’s entwined fingers. ‘You spent a good time in Essaouira, Turquoise? Omar was a good guide?’

  Addy glances at Omar, but he’s chatting with Mohammed and hasn’t heard the nickname.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I took a lot of photos for my book. Rachid told us all about the Barbary corsairs.’

  ‘Ah, the pirates of Morocco,’ Mohammed says. ‘They were the kings of the ocean.’

  Addy nods at Amine. ‘Amine already has the pirate dreadlocks. He could be a Barbary corsair.’

  ‘My nephew? He is only a boy and he has the skin of a leopard. The corsairs must be brave and handsome. Like Omar.’ Mohammed taps his broad chest. A gold tooth glints as he smiles. ‘Or me.’

  Omar waves his hand impatiently. ‘I don’t mind for corsairs and sultans and harems. It’s all in the dust now.’

  ‘You are not a man of history and romantic stories, Omar?’ Rachid asks.

  ‘History is finished. It’s only today that is important. But I am romantic in my own manner.’

  Yassine leans towards Addy, garlic and beer wafting from his hot breath. ‘It is easy to be romantic with Adi because she is so beautiful.’

  Omar pushes Yassine’s shoulder, knocking him off balance. ‘Allah i naal dine omok,’ Omar swears.

  Nabila teeters on her heels and unleashes a stream of irritated Arabic.

  ‘Be careful, my brother,’ Yassine says as he regains his footing. ‘If you curse my mother, you curse your mother. We are brothers of the milk.’

  ‘Be fine, Omar,’ Rachid warns, resting his hand on Omar’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ll be fine, Uncle. But you’ – he points his finger at Yassine – ‘you must be careful like a rabbit from the eagle. You are my friend from a long time, Yassine, but I will fight with you if you disturb me, Yassine, one hundred per cent.’

  A band of Senegalese musicians beat out a trance-like rhythm on African drums and cymbals. The lead singer sings out and the other singers respond in low, repetitive tones, moving and swaying to the hypnotic rhythm. Another group of musicians ambles onto the stage. Black-skinned Tuareg Berbers from Mali, dressed in blue gowns and turbans. The music becomes a thunder of drumming. The crowd’s infected by the drug of the beat. Addy’s feet and hands join the percussion. The music dampens down the friction between Omar and Yassine. In the square on a warm spring night, they all become the beat, and the beat becomes the world, and the world is a fishing village on the Atlantic coast in Morocco.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Zitoune, Morocco – January 1984

  Gus holds the small tin teapot high in the air, watching in deep concentration as the tea streams into the small tea glass on the low wooden table. The remains of a chicken tagine sit in a tagine pot with a stack of dirty plates under the hulking wooden frame of the olive press.

  ‘You’ve been practising,’ Hanane says in French.

  Lifting the spout, he hovers the teapot over a second glass, aiming carefully. ‘You have no idea how much tea I’ve wasted learning to do this.’ He sets down the teapot and reaches for a glass, offering it to Hanane.

  She sips at the steaming liquid. ‘Very good. Sweet. You made it the Moroccan way.’

  ‘It tastes better that way.’

  She sets down the glass and moves to rise from the striped donkey-blanket cushions he’s strewn over a cactus silk rug on the beaten earth floor.

  Gus rests his hand on her arm. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To wash the plates and the tagine.’

  ‘I’ll do it later, Hanane. You’re my guest. What kind of host would I be if I made you do the washing-up? Besides, there’s no water here. You’d have to wash them in the river and it’s cold out there. And the middle of the night.’

  Hanane sits back on the cushion. ‘I almost didn’t come.’

  A gentle squeeze on her arm, or did she imagine it? His hand drops to his knee.

  ‘Then I’d have had to eat all this myself. I’m a very good cook.’

  Hanane smiles. ‘You’re okay for a man.’

  Gus pulls a face of exaggerated disappointment. ‘Just okay? I think that’s called damning with faint praise.’

  Hanane draws her eyebrows together. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m just delighted you ate it.’ Gus stares at his tea glass, jiggling it until the fronds of mint swirl like a cyclone in the pale yellow brew. He looks over at her, his eyes as blue as the sky in the lantern light. ‘I’m delighted that you came, Hanane.’

  How can she tell him that her heart was about to burst with the joy of being here with him? ‘I had to.’

  ‘You’re my first guest, you know.’

  ‘I’m honoured.’

  ‘Not counting Omar.’

  Hanane laughs. ‘Omar goes everywhere. He’s become your shadow.’

  ‘He’s a clever boy. I’m teaching him English. I just gave him my book of Shakespeare. My grandmother gave it to me when I was a boy. It felt right to pass it on.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to teach him.’

  ‘It’s a fair exchange of services.’

  Gus reaches for a paper bag sitting on the cactus silk rug. He pulls out a fat red-skinned pomegranate.

  ‘A pomegranate? Where did you get that? The season is finished.’

  ‘Omar has sources. He won’t tell me. I teach him English and he br
ings me fruit and nuts.’

  ‘He’ll be a good businessman one day.’

  ‘One day? He’s already a good businessman. He takes my shoes when I’m sleeping, polishes them up and then insists I pay him before he returns them. He says he’s holding them as collateral until I pay. I taught him that word. I think I’ve created a monster.’

  Hanane chuckles, pulling the end of her headscarf across her lips. Omar’s always been like this. How else would she get her hands on the lipstick and mascara she loved? Cosmetics in return for her doing his Arabic literature homework. A fair trade.

  ‘I like to hear you laugh.’

  ‘You say funny things. You make my heart light.’

  He smiles, the lines around his blue eyes deepening. ‘I make your heart light?’

  ‘When I’m with you, I feel like my feet are floating above the ground. Like I’m a bird.’

  ‘And if you were a bird, where would you fly?’

  Hanane fixes her eyes on his. ‘I would fly to my future.’

  A flash in the blue, like the sun flickering through cloud.

  ‘Where’s your future, Hanane?’

  ‘That depends on you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Essaouira, Morocco – May 2009

  As Omar slides the key in the lock, the door to the flat is yanked open. A man in his late twenties stands at the foot of the stairs, barring their way. He jabs his finger in Addy’s direction and yells at Omar in Arabic. Omar and Rachid attempt to placate him, and he finally moves aside to let them enter. At the top of the stairs, Addy looks back. The man is a black silhouette against the yellow light emanating from a street lamp. She can feel his eyes burning into her back as she follows Omar and Rachid into a bedroom.

  ‘He’s the son of the lady who rented us the flat,’ Omar says. ‘He doesn’t like that a foreigner lady is with a Moroccan guy. I could go in jail for that.’

  ‘Jail? Why? You’re sleeping in the other room with your uncle.’

  ‘I know. But he didn’t believe that. I told you before, Adi. In Morocco, people must be married to be together.’

  Rachid rubs his neck and emits a tired groan. ‘It’s true. It’s illegal for Moroccans and foreigners to be a couple if they are not married. If the police think you and Omar are together, you could be deported and Omar can be put in prison for several months.’

  ‘But I saw a lot of mixed couples at the concert tonight.’

  Omar nods. ‘Yes, it’s true. Even so, we must be careful. Some people have bad eyes for foreigners and Moroccans together. They like to make trouble, even if it’s not their business.’

  Addy sits on the striped cover of the large bed. ‘What should we do?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Madame Adi,’ Rachid says. ‘We told him I am a driver and Omar is a tour guide and you are a journalist who is writing about Morocco for a newspaper in England. He was satisfied with that. For the moment, anyway.’

  ‘It’s a good story, isn’t it? My uncle is clever.’

  Addy rubs her temples. ‘He won’t bother us any more?’

  ‘Don’t worry. My body will be sleeping in the room of my uncle, even if my heart is sleeping in the room of Adi.’

  The sun glints off the waves of the English Channel beyond the white sprawl of Brighton in the distance. Addy strolls across the rolling green hills of the South Downs near the South Coast of England. The air trills with birdsong. It’s springtime and her heart pings with joy. Her doctor’s called. The lump is benign. There’s nothing to worry about. She doesn’t have cancer.

  She and Nigel are marrying in the summer. She’s found a tiny shop near the Brighton seafront where she’ll set up her photo studio. From somewhere far away in the valleys, carried over the fresh spring air, the soft baas of sheep float up to her as she stands on the crest of the Ditchling Beacon. Nearby, someone cuts wood – chopping and hammering. The sound is muted, as if the axe is covered in moss.

  Addy opens her eyes. Someone’s knocking on her door, but softly, as though they don’t want anyone else to hear. Addy slides out from under the sheet and tiptoes over to the door.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Omar.’

  Addy’s heart skips in her chest. She unlocks the door. He stands in the hallway, his figure a palette of soft greys in the moonlight.

  ‘Omar.’

  He enters the room and locks the door. Reaching for Addy’s hands, he holds them down by her sides as he walks her backwards until her thighs knock against the bed. He rubs his nose against her neck, tracing a path with his lips.

  ‘I had to come. You are in my blood, Adi. You are behind my eyes.’

  Addy closes her eyes. Her blood is honey. ‘I’m glad.’

  He kisses her. His tongue is soft and insistent in her mouth. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he presses her down onto the bed. Addy traces her fingers along his neck, over his shoulders, down to the curve of his back. He lets out a sound, almost imperceptible, like a gust of air through an open window.

  He switches on the table lamp. ‘I must see you, darling.’

  The blue of his tagelmust and gown glow violet in the fluorescence. He lies on the bed beside her and leans his cheek in his hand, his elbow pressed into the pillow. His cheekbones and jaw are even sharper from this angle, throwing his deep-set eyes into shadow. Addy follows his gaze and sees that the sleeveless T-shirt she’s been sleeping in has shifted, exposing her left breast. He touches the scar, tracing its outline with his fingertip.

  ‘What happened, darling?’

  Addy swallows and closes her eyes. How can she tell him about the cancer? She opens her mouth but the word locks in her throat.

  ‘It’s a wound of life.’

  Omar leans over her and kisses the scar. She brushes her cheek against his. He smells of soap and musk and sweat. The bed creaks and he’s on top of her. He spreads his arms and legs over hers until they’re mirrors of one another.

  ‘You fit me well, Adi.’ He rolls his fingers through hers and holds her arms out to her sides. ‘Allah made me for you.’

  He kisses her and her mouth opens to his probing tongue. He whispers words in Tamazight as he presses soft kisses on her neck, along the round curve of her shoulder. She kisses him deeply and he moves against her, finding the place. She opens up to him and takes him in. A flush of fire over her neck and her breasts, the waves washing over her, spreading out from her belly to her breasts, her shoulders; circles of eroticism, her body contracting. A death of pleasure.

  ‘If I die today, habibati, I’ll die happy.’

  Omar reaches across their entwined bodies and raises Addy’s hand to his lips. He opens her palm and presses the gentle plumpness of her Mound of Venus against his mouth.

  Addy smiles. ‘I’m happy for that, my darling.’

  ‘In Arabic you say habibi. It means my love. For a lady it’s habibati. So you are habibati for me.’

  Addy rolls over and kisses Omar’s neck just under his ear.

  He sucks in his breath. ‘It makes me crazy when you kiss me there. It’s a special place for me.’

  ‘I need to find all your special places, habibi.’

  Addy traces her fingers along Omar’s jawline to his throat, resting for a moment in the dip between his collarbones, then moving down his chest, detouring around his brown nipples, down along his smooth chest to his belly. She rests her hand there, tracing circles on his smooth brown skin with her fingers.

  Someone pounds on the bedroom door.

  Addy drops her hand. ‘Who could that be?’

  ‘Habss.’ Omar throws off the sheet and pulls on his jeans. He grabs his blue gown from the terrazzo floor and drops it over his head. ‘Go to the toilet and put on your clothes, darling,’ he whispers. ‘Be quick, habibati.’

  Addy jumps out of the bed, grabbing her jeans and her kaftan top out of her leather bag as she hurries across the room to the bathroom. When she emerges, Omar and Rachid are waiting for her. Rachid has Addy’s leather overnight bag
in his hands, the slash repaired with electrical tape.

  ‘Where are we going, Omar? It’s the middle of the night.’

  ‘The police station.’

  ‘The police station? Why?’

  ‘The son of the owner is upset,’ Rachid says. ‘He insists we go to the police station.’

  The colour drains from Addy’s face.

  ‘Don’t worry, habibati. It will be well. But we must be clever. You remember what we told the guy before?’

  ‘That I’m a journalist?’

  ‘Yes. It’s okay for you?’

  Her heart jumps around like a loose spring. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It will be well, Adi,’ Rachid says. ‘You have a camera. You have a laptop. If we must say a lie, it’s better to say one that is like the truth.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Essaouira, Morocco – May 2009

  The landlady’s son, Abdul, keeps up an assault in Arabic on Omar and Rachid as he drives a battered green Dacia through Essaouira’s dark streets. On the outskirts of the town he stops the car in front of a square grey building. An illuminated sign hangs over the door. Underneath the Arabic script, a word flickers blue in the black night: Police.

  Omar turns around to Addy from the front passenger seat. ‘It’s okay?’

  She smiles weakly, her stomach a knot of nerves.

  They follow Abdul up the steps into the police station. A policeman with a broad, acne-pitted face sits behind an old wooden desk. He looks up as they file into the small room. Abdul launches into Arabic, flapping his arms like an agitated bird. The policeman scans the group, his eyes narrowing every now and again after some specific accusation.

  He rises, his chair scraping against the concrete floor, and gestures to them to wait. He walks down a hallway and stops in front of a door. A muffled voice answers his knock. He opens the door and disappears inside the room.

  Addy shivers. The night has turned cold. She blows on her hands. Her warm breath coats her hands with damp.

  The door opens and the policeman emerges. He waves at them to enter.