The Lost Letter from Morocco

by Adrienne Chinn

  ‘It is the name of love.’

  ‘You’re lucky to have a name like that.’

  She twists a curly strand of hair around her finger as she inspects Addy with her dark eyes. ‘I have eighteen years. You have how many years?’

  ‘A few more than you.’

  ‘You are beautiful.’ She touches Addy’s hair. ‘Zwina.’

  ‘Thank you. Your hair is beautiful too, Habiba.’

  Her round face lights up. ‘I love you.’

  Addy laughs. ‘Thank you, Habiba.’

  Habiba jumps up and grabs Addy’s hand, pulling her off the banquette.

  ‘Come to the room of Habiba and Salima.’ She slips her feet into her babouches and tugs at Addy’s hand. ‘Come with me, Adi. You are the best friend of my life.’

  Behind the blue door the small room has a narrow banquette against one wall, a large wooden cupboard and a dressing table. A piece of broken mirror sits on top of the dressing table, propped against the wall. Clear plastic is tacked over a small square window and another bare light bulb hangs from the ceiling. Salima is bent over brushing her black hair, which hangs to the floor, obscuring her face like a silk curtain. She stands quickly and her hair fans into the air in a graceful arc before settling into a mass of shiny black strands on her shoulders and back.

  Habiba grabs the brush from her sister and starts to sing an Arabic pop song into it. Salima twists her hair into a tight bun and fixes it into place with a couple of hairgrips while Habiba belly dances around her. She picks up her pink hijab from the banquette then wraps it tightly over her head and around her neck, securing it into place with a single straight pin. Addy catches Salima’s brown-eyed gaze and looks away quickly, aware that she’s been staring.

  ‘You like?’ Salima pats her hijab.

  ‘It’s very pretty.’

  Habiba drops the brush onto the banquette and swings open the wardrobe door. She pulls out a length of turquoise cloth and holds the cloth up to Addy.

  ‘You like hijab?’

  ‘You want to put the hijab on me?’

  Salima smiles. Her large, almond-shaped eyes are the colour of milk chocolate, framed by a fan of thick black lashes.

  ‘Omar will like.’

  Addy fingers the piece of turquoise cloth. ‘Okay, why not?’

  The two girls wind the cloth over her short hair, around her ears and neck. Salima retrieves a pin from the dressing table drawer and fastens the end of the cloth into place on top of Addy’s head. She stands back and smiles. Habiba grabs the mirror and holds it up. She flicks the fingers of her right hand at Addy’s face.

  ‘Zwina. Beautiful.’

  ‘We show Omar.’

  Addy stares into the mirror. Her face is so round, her nose so prominent.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe not.’

  Salima nods encouragingly. ‘Yes, he will like.’

  Addy glances from Salima to Habiba. Their delight at their handiwork overrides her reticence.

  ‘All right.’

  Rachid and Omar are watching a football match on the TV. Omar looks up at Addy and blinks. Rachid’s face breaks into a wide smile.

  ‘You are like a Muslim lady.’

  Omar clears his throat. ‘Adi, you are so, so beautiful. I never imagined you like that.’

  Nadia enters the room carrying a tray of tea glasses and cookies. ‘Aiyh! Adi zwina.’ She sets the tray down on a low table and makes her way across the living room floor to Addy, swaying like a ship sailing through waves. Her pregnant belly squashes against Addy when she hugs her. The baby kicks.

  ‘I must take a picture, darling,’ Omar says. ‘Where is your camera?’

  ‘In my bag.’

  ‘Mashi mushkil. I put it in another room. When I come back I’ll take a photo of everybody. It’s a good memory for you, and for me as well. It makes my heart go like an earthquake.’

  When Omar returns with the camera, Addy wraps her arms around the two sisters – Salima in her pink hijab on one side and Habiba with her wild hair on the other. What would Philippa say if she could see her now?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Casablanca, Morocco – May 2009

  They’re sitting on the banquettes eating from two platters heaped with lamb and prune tagine when a man strides into the room with two children – a boy of about five and a girl of about eight. He’s middle-aged, sturdily built, with a round belly pressing against his floor-length white tunic. He wears a white prayer cap, and a full beard streaked with grey obscures the lower part of his face. When he sees Addy his eyes widen and he spins around, pulling the boy with him through an open door into a room opposite the kitchen. Omar and Rachid exchange a glance. They rise and follow the man into the other room. Nadia picks up a platter of meat and several discs of bread and hurries after them as quickly as her heavy belly permits.

  ‘Malika, come here, sit,’ Habiba calls to the stranded girl.

  The girl gives Habiba and Salima a kiss on both cheeks and settles down beside Addy. She wears a white hijab and a white school smock over her black trousers.

  Addy extends her hand. ‘Hello, I’m Addy. I’m a friend of Omar’s. Do you speak English?’

  The girl nods shyly and touches the tips of Addy’s fingers with her hand before folding her arms tightly against her body. The girl’s eyes are beautiful – clear green with a ring the colour of sunflowers around the irises.

  ‘She is my cousin,’ Habiba says. ‘She learn English in her school. She speak French also. She is clever, but her father only want her to speak Arabic. He say he will take her away from school soon. He say it’s for girls to be wives and mothers in the house only. He say it only makes problems for mans when girls are educated.’

  Malika’s cheeks flush pink and she buries her head against Habiba’s shoulder.

  ‘Was that her father?’

  ‘Yes, he my uncle Farouk. He is the brother of my mother. His wife, she died one year ago. She had a baby but it didn’t go well. The baby, it died as well.’

  An image of the pregnant Hanane flashes into Addy’s mind. Is that what happened to Hanane? Did she die in childbirth? Was that why her father had never sent the letter?

  ‘I’m so sorry to hear that. It’s hard for the children to have no mother.’

  Habiba shrugs. ‘It was her fate.’

  Addy’s struck by this fatalistic acceptance of misfortune. By the idea that fate controls the lives of everyone, like a capricious puppeteer who pulls or cuts strings at will.

  ‘Does your uncle live nearby?’

  Habiba plucks a prune from the platter and pops it into her mouth. She spits the stone into her hand and drops it onto the table.

  ‘Yes. He come here many times for eating. My mother wash his clothes and the clothes of the children. He never talks to me or Salima. I don’t like him.’

  ‘Habiba, you must be polite,’ Salima admonishes as she scoops the date stone into her palm.

  Habiba makes a face at her sister. ‘He come here all the time. He never work. He only prays. He take money from our father. He make troubles for our mother and father.’

  The door to the other room opens and Nadia enters the living room, carrying the empty platter. ‘Salima, atay,’ she says as she heads into the kitchen. Salima wipes her hand on a piece of torn towel and rises from the banquette to follow her mother.

  The door opens again and Omar emerges. He flops down onto a banquette and leans over to grab a disc of bread from the table. Tearing off a piece, he dunks it into the oniony grease and plops it into his mouth.

  ‘So?’ Addy says.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Habiba says he’s Nadia’s brother.’

  ‘Yes. He doesn’t like that I’m with a foreigner lady. He told me to take you to a hotel, but I told him no. I told him you are with me full stop. If he doesn’t like it, it’s his problem. So he’ll go. Only he’ll first eat my uncle’s food to be fatter.’

  ‘Habiba says he’s very religious. That he prays all the tim
e.’

  ‘It’s good to pray. My mother, my sister, my aunt, they pray all the time. Even in the night, which is so hard. They pray for the goodness of the world. They pray for everyone to be happy. They’re good Muslims. But Farouk is fundamentalist. He’s very, very strict. He doesn’t like Europe or America. He doesn’t like my uncle because he’s Amazigh and he speaks English. He doesn’t like me, too, because I don’t pray often.

  ‘He made his wife who died wear a niqab to cover all of herself, even her hands and her face. It’s not so normal to do that in Morocco. I knew her when she was young. Her name was Radwa. She was a normal girl like Salima and Fatima. Then after she was married she stayed in her house all the time by herself with her children. It’s a pity for her. At least she’s in Paradise now so she’s free. He don’t like you for sure because you are a European lady. But I don’t mind for him.’ Omar shrugs. ‘So no problem.’

  Nadia hands Addy a lit candle to take into the toilet. When Addy closes the toilet door, she moves the circle of yellow light around the dense blackness. The room smells of urine. She holds the candle over the centre of the floor. Instead of a flat white Turkish toilet, there’s a hole in the earth.

  Someone knocks on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Omar.’

  Addy opens the door. He’s carrying a bucket of water.

  ‘You might need some water, habibati. It’s from the well in the car park.’

  ‘Thanks. They don’t have running water?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They have to go up to that tap every time they want water?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not so far.’

  Addy imagines Nadia carrying heavy buckets of water down the lane. ‘It’s hard.’

  ‘Yes. It’s fate.’

  ‘Fate doesn’t play fair, does it?’

  Addy sets the bucket down on the earth floor and closes the door.

  The flickering light from the candle throws ghostly shadows against the walls of Rachid and Nadia’s room when Addy enters. Omar lies under a thick flowered blanket on one of the two banquettes.

  ‘Where are your aunt and uncle sleeping?’

  ‘They sleep in the room of my cousins. My cousins sleep in the room of the TV. It’s fine.’

  Addy slips off her sandals and tiptoes across the straw mat to a vacant banquette. Her toe catches the corner of the mat and she stumbles.

  ‘Shit.’

  Omar chuckles. The wooden base of his banquette groans as he shifts and leans up on his arm. ‘You can turn the light on, darling. The candle is just for the toilet.’

  Addy sits down on the banquette and blows out the candle. ‘I don’t want to waste their electricity.’

  ‘Okay, it’s a good reason.’

  She slips under the blanket in her clothes and pulls it up to her chin to shield herself from the chilly night air. ‘It’s kind of your aunt and uncle to let us use their room.’

  ‘It’s true it’s not normal, habibati. But they insist for it. You are like my wife in their eyes since I bring you into my family.’

  A rustling, and Omar is on top of her, the blanket the only barrier between them.

  ‘It’s not a possibility for me to sleep away from you, Adi.’ He pins the blanket around her with his hands and kisses her. ‘You’re in my blood. You can eat me, I don’t mind. You can kill me, I will be happy for it. I’ll be a slave for you. You’re my fate and I’m yours.’

  Addy breathes in his scent, of soap and musk. ‘Come under the blanket with me, habibi. We must be quiet.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Casablanca, Morocco – May 2009

  ‘No, merci. I’m full, shukran.’

  Nadia ignores Addy’s plea and dishes another msemen onto her plate, drizzling it with honey.

  Addy watches the honey slide into the crevices of the pancake. ‘You’ll make me fat.’

  ‘It’s better to be fat,’ Habiba says, chewing on her msemen. ‘Fat is better for the belly dancing and for making the babies. Mans like it better.’

  ‘Habiba!’ Salima glares at her sister, oblivious to a dribble of honey running down her chin.

  ‘Habiba, you must be polite,’ Rachid reprimands. ‘This is not good conversation.’

  Omar pockets his cell phone and reaches for a msemen. ‘Habiba’s a crazy girl.’

  Addy sits back against the cushions and licks the honey from her fingers. ‘Did you finish your phone calls?’

  ‘Yes. I must organise guides for the tourists in Zitoune. Many drivers call me from Marrakech to be the guide. They don’t like me to be in Casa. I do good animation for the tourists so the tourists pay me well. So then I pay the drivers a good commission.’ He shrugs. ‘The money is flying away from me like a bird.’

  Addy looks at Omar and frowns. ‘I’m sorry. I promised to pay you for guiding me around Morocco. I don’t want you to be out of pocket for helping me.’

  ‘Don’t mind, darling. Money comes and money goes, and money will come again. It’s a vacation for me. It’s so nice for me to visit the family of my uncle in Casa, anyway.’

  Rachid pats Omar’s arm. ‘Marhaba. So, we will go to visit the mosque today? I am sure you will love to take photos for your book, Madame Adi. My wife wishes to come as well. She has never seen it inside. It will be nice for her.’

  Omar rises off the banquette and stretches. ‘I’ll go to the big road to get a taxi.’ He looks at Salima and Habiba. ‘But it’s not so big for everybody.’

  Rachid blows at the steam coming from his glass of tea. ‘Salima and Habiba must make some food for a wedding of a neighbour tonight. They will stay here.’

  Nadia hands Addy a piece of torn towel and Addy rubs off the sticky honey. ‘I’ll get my camera.’

  Instead of walking up the hill to the water spout, Omar heads deeper into the shantytown. Addy follows him through the twisting alleyways, ducking under lines of laundry flapping in the ocean breeze. Every few steps, she stops to capture an image on her camera. Door curtains twitch as they walk by. They collect a wake of children, who run up to Addy crying out ‘Stylos! Stylos!’

  ‘Laa.’ Omar shoos them away.

  ‘Why are they asking for pens?’

  ‘They want to sell them to buy candy. But if they sell pens they don’t go to school. It’s better for them to be in school.’

  They continue down the alleyway. The children whisper and giggle behind them.

  ‘Omar, isn’t your uncle a teacher?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Couldn’t he …’ The words blunder out of her mouth. ‘Couldn’t he live somewhere better?’

  Omar stops short. ‘You don’t like the house of my uncle? It’s a problem for you to be here?’

  ‘No, no. I’m honoured that your uncle has invited me into his house. It’s just that … I would’ve thought he could live somewhere else other than …’ She gestures at the shabby buildings. Her face burns. The words are coming out all wrong. ‘They’re building new flats all over Casablanca. I’ve seen the signboards.’

  Omar spins around and walks on ahead in silence.

  ‘I’m sorry, habibi. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘You think my uncle can buy a flat for a million dirhams? Are you crazy, Adi? They’re not for Moroccans those flats. They’re for Europeans.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know …’

  ‘It’s complicated in Morocco, darling. Tourists don’t understand the situation well. My uncle, he’s Amazigh. His wife, she’s Arab. He went away from the family of my father when he was young to find a job in Casa and to be educated and to send some money to my mother after my father died. My aunt met him in Casa and she respected him. So they married. But her family didn’t like that she married an Amazigh man. Only Farouk speaks to her because she feeds him, so she loves him for that. My uncle gave her family all his money to marry her, but they didn’t make a wedding, even though it was their responsibility. So he borrowed money from some not so good people to make a
wedding for her honour. He pays them yet.’

  ‘What about his teaching?’

  ‘My uncle went for work to teach many times. He went to Essaouira for a job when we saw him there. But always they hire an Arab teacher. What can he do? He must earn money for his family, so he does parking for cars by the cheap hotels. He has many daughters, so he must save money for them to be married. Already he has two daughters who are married in Italy and France with Moroccans. And he has a baby soon again. It’s a hard situation.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’

  ‘No problem, habibati.’

  Omar takes her hand and they walk down the lane, the children giggling behind them.

  Omar’s right. She knows nothing about Morocco. In London she’s in debt to the banks and credit card companies like everyone else. Even so, she’ll jump into a money-gouging black cab if she’s running late for a meeting. And she never goes without her grande skinny latte in the morning. Get an urge to travel to Morocco? Just bung the plane ticket on the credit card and hop on the plane.

  Is she just the ultimate tourist, dipping a manicured toe into this charming world of donkeys, and outdoor hammams, and roosters as alarm clocks before running back to her comfortable, vacuous life? Could she live this way every day? Would she be as cheerful as Habiba, as happy as Fatima, as dignified as Rachid, or as industrious as Omar?

  She looks inside herself and is ashamed.

  The petit taxi pulls up beside the water tap. Omar says something to the driver in Arabic and the man grunts and turns off the ignition. He pulls a pack of Camel cigarettes out of his checked shirt pocket and sits back in his seat for a smoke.

  Rachid and Nadia are waiting for them in the living room, dressed in freshly pressed djellabas. Despite the unseasonable spring heat, Nadia’s twisted a white wool pashmina around her head as a hijab.

  Salima and Habiba join them to stroll up the lane to the taxi. Salima loops her arm through Addy’s.

  ‘You come to the wedding later, Adi? It is the party of henna for the ladies.’

  ‘Yes, come to dance with Habiba.’ Habiba jiggles her hips like a belly dancer.

  ‘But I haven’t been invited.’