The Lost Letter from Morocco

by Adrienne Chinn

  Omar waves his hand without turning around. ‘No problem, darling. She’ll be fine. She’s always like that in a car.’

  Droplets of sweat glisten on Aicha’s top lip and Addy thrusts her straw hat at her. Fatima presses the end of her hijab against her mouth and gags.

  ‘Now! Stop now!’

  Yassine slams on the brakes, jerking the car to a stop on the side of the road in a cloud of red dust. Aicha and Fatima stumble out of the car and lean over a ditch, heaving and retching. Addy climbs out to help. Her straw hat lies in the dust, full of Aicha’s breakfast.

  A car door slams shut with a bang. Omar strides over to his mother, clutching a large bottle of water. Aicha rinses out her mouth and splashes water onto her face. She hands the water bottle to Fatima, who drinks thirstily. They dry their faces with the ends of their hijabs.

  ‘I’m sorry for your hat, Adi.’

  Addy shields her eyes with her hand. ‘I’m going to need a hat today. Otherwise, I’ll turn as red as a tomato.’

  Omar picks up the hat by the loop on the brim and slaps it against a rock. He takes the water bottle from Fatima. Holding the hat away from him like a soiled nappy, he splashes it with water until the straw is clean and hands it to her.

  ‘There. It’s clean. Now we go.’

  ‘You have no records of a woman named Hanane from Zitoune marrying a foreigner in 1984? You’re sure?’

  The clerk looks up from the Polaroid and hands it back at Addy, his fleshy face dull with disinterest. ‘Non, madame.’

  ‘I told you it was impossible, Adi. It’s a long time ago. You should forget about it.’

  ‘I know, Omar. I thought it was worth a try. I don’t know what else to do.’

  ‘It’s better to go forward than to go backward.’

  ‘But I might have a half-brother or a half-sister in Morocco somewhere. If Hanane had had a child, I’d be its sister.’

  Omar raises his eyebrows. ‘It’s true?’

  ‘Yes, we’d have the same father.’

  Omar shakes his head. ‘It’s a crazy situation. Anyway, fate doesn’t want you to know about it. The door is closed.’

  ‘Why doesn’t anyone in Zitoune remember her? She was very beautiful. Everyone knows everybody in your village. You were young, so I know why you wouldn’t remember her, but Mohammed? Your mother? Jedda? The policeman? They’re old enough to remember.’

  ‘Maybe the lady was from another village.’

  Addy sighs as she wraps the Polaroid in her father’s letter. ‘You’re probably right. It looks like I’ve hit a dead end.’

  Yassine swings the car onto a large square of waste ground surrounded by the backs of shop buildings. To the right, a windowless orange clay building abuts a stony hill. Women and girls dressed in colourful djellabas, hijabs and babouches pass through a tall green metal door.

  ‘It’s the hammam,’ Omar says. ‘Today is the day for ladies only.’

  Another cluster of chatting and giggling women exits the building.

  ‘How long will we be here?’

  ‘A while. I don’t know for time.’

  ‘A couple of hours?’

  Omar sighs. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll come when you’re finished.’

  ‘But how will you know when?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Adi. I’ll know. I’ll go with Yassine and we’ll come later.’ He gestures to her camera. ‘You must give me your camera. It’s forbidden to take pictures in the hammam.’

  She lifts the strap over her head and hands the camera to Omar. ‘Be careful with it.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’m not a rubbish guy. I can take pictures well. I learned from the tourists since I was a boy. You have to know, your camera is safe.’

  A sturdy woman in a lime green djellaba pays an old woman, as brown and wrinkled as a prune, who sits behind a wooden table. Three small children, a boy and two girls, wrap their arms around the woman’s green bulk. The old woman groans, clutching her back as she levers herself up from her stool. She shuffles over to a shelf stacked with washing mitts and small packages wrapped in wax paper, and hands one of each to the woman in green. The woman thanks her and waddles over to a long bench, the children clinging to her all the way.

  Aicha steps forwards, handing her net bag to Fatima. She chats with the old woman as she retrieves a small leather pouch rattling with coins out of a slit in the side of her djellaba. Addy offers her money, but Aicha wags her finger at her.

  ‘Laa, Adi.’ She puts her hand on her breast. ‘Yamma Adi.’ I am the mother of Adi.

  The old woman supplies Aicha with washing mitts and three small waxed paper packets. The palms of her hands are dyed red with henna.

  Addy peels open the packet. A sticky brown goo clings to the waxy paper. She holds it up to her nose and sniffs.

  Fatima makes a scrubbing motion over her arm. ‘Savon.’

  ‘Soap?’

  Fatima nods. ‘Soup.’

  Aicha pulls the towels out of her net bag and stuffs them into one of the cubbyholes lining the walls. She fills the bag with the mitts and packets of soap, then steps out of her babouches and Addy follows suit, kicking off her sandals. Addy eyes Fatima and Aicha to see how much clothing to remove. Her jeans are around her knees when she hears the chatter of female voices. Three young women appear around a corner, naked except for the bikini underwear clinging to their slim brown bodies. Their long, wet hair spiders across their shoulders and breasts.

  Their chatter stops abruptly. Addy recognises Fatima’s friend Zaina, who sweeps her eyes over Addy’s pale body. Holding Zaina’s gaze, Addy steps out of her jeans and reaches behind her back to undo her bra. Zaina flicks her eyes over Addy’s breasts. The scar on her left breast is still red and angry, but Addy resists the urge to cover it with her hand.

  Zaina says something to Fatima; Addy catches Omar’s name. Fatima snaps back at Zaina in Tamazight. Addy shoves her clothes into a cubbyhole. When she’s done, Aicha loops her arm through one of Addy’s. Fatima slings the net bag over her shoulder and does the same. Then they stroll, arm in arm, past the girls and into the hammam.

  Nothing that Omar’s said prepares Addy for what she sees when they pass through the wooden door into the bath house. Crumbling Corinthian stone columns flank walls hewn out of the stony hill. Fingers of light filter through the steam from circular holes in the high domed ceiling. Intricate mosaics of smiling dolphins, curling waves and bare-breasted sea nymphs cavort across the floor. A muscular stone Neptune with a broken trident poses on a pedestal at the centre of the vast room.

  The space is alive with women – washing, chatting, pouring buckets of water over their hair and bodies. The water plasters the wet fabric of their underwear translucently against their bodies. Naked children run squealing over the mosaic sea world.

  Addy slips across the wet floor, struggling to keep her balance as Fatima pulls her over to a small wooden stool. Aicha drags over two more stools and hands Addy a packet of soap and a mitt, while Fatima fetches a plastic bucket of steaming water from a water spout beneath Neptune. Aicha demonstrates how to rub the sticky brown goo into the mitt, wet it in the water bucket and rub it over her body.

  The soap seeps into Addy’s pores like glue. As she scrubs with the coarse mitt, pellets of black dirt roll off her skin. Aicha rubs at Addy’s back until Addy’s convinced several layers of skin are peeling off with the dirt.

  Fatima gestures for Addy to get up and she stands, self-conscious of her short red hair plastered over her forehead, her reddened skin and her exposed nipples. She clutches her arms in front of her breasts, glad of the black bikini underwear that protects her from full exposure. Fatima pours the bucket of hot water over her like a shower.

  Dripping with water, Addy shuffles behind Aicha and Fatima through an archway into a smaller domed room. The mosaic floor is dry and warm, and women lie stretched out on it like starfish. Ancient leather-skinned women, their breasts hanging loose like empty sacks, pummel the women’s bodies.
/>   Aicha calls over one of the women. Addy lies down on the warm tiles and rests her head on her arms as the woman pounds and kneads the tensions of the past year out of her flesh. The warmth of the heated floor seeps into her skin, until she’s floating in a warm green sea, the waves circling and kneading her body.

  A crash of freezing water. Addy jolts upright, coughing and sputtering. Above her, Fatima holds an empty bucket, giggling. Aicha stands next to her, a hand up to her mouth, her eyes wide with alarm.

  Addy staggers to her feet. The chatter of the women in the spa trickles to a stop. Fatima’s giggles fade away, swallowed up by the silence. Addy extracts the bucket from Fatima’s hands and strides across the floor to the cold water tap. She fills the bucket to the brim and carries it over to Aicha, gesturing at Fatima with her chin. Aicha’s worried face breaks into a wide grin. She grabs the side of the bucket and they swing it between them, deluging Fatima with icy water. The room erupts into peals of high-pitched laughter.

  ‘Marhaba, Fatima.’

  Laughing, Fatima wrings the water out of her long black hair. She flings her hair over her shoulders and grabs Addy, kissing her on her cheeks.

  ‘Adi watnasse Fatima.’ You are my sister.

  ‘I’m glad for that,’ Omar says when Addy tells him about the experience in the hammam. ‘I made you a good experience so you can carry it with you all your life.’

  She rolls over on her bed to face him. ‘I saw Fatima’s friend Zaina there. She always looks at me like she’s sizing me up. I don’t think she likes me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about her.’

  Addy picks at a loose thread on the sheet. ‘Has she been a friend of Fatima’s for a long time?’

  Omar looks up at the ceiling and frowns. Addy follows his gaze. A large black spider hangs from a web in the corner.

  ‘For sure. They been to school together. Her family lives close to our house. Zaina comes all the time to see Fatima. It’s normal.’

  ‘So, she’s the same age as Fatima?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe twenty-five years.’

  ‘Twenty-five? And she’s not married yet?’

  Omar reaches over to the bedside table and picks up his cell phone. He starts running through his messages.

  ‘It might be she will marry soon.’

  ‘She’s very pretty. I’ll bet she makes a good tagine, too.’

  Omar sets down his phone and rolls over on his side. He leans on his elbow. ‘For sure. She cooks well. She helps Fatima to make the bread sometimes. Don’t mind for Zaina.’

  ‘She’ll make someone a good wife someday.’

  ‘If it’s her fate, it’s her fate. No reason to be jealous.’

  ‘I’m not jealous.’ Addy leans over and kisses him. ‘You’re mine and I’m yours.’

  ‘You’re sure, Adi?’

  ‘Yes. What do you mean?’

  Omar rolls off the bed and pads across the floor. He picks up Addy’s camera from the top of the chest of drawers. Flopping down on the bed, he scrolls through the images and stops at a photo of Nigel and Addy, arms around each other, smiling in front of a Christmas tree in their flat. Her heart sinks.

  Omar taps the screen and Nigel’s face grows until only his hazel eyes are visible. ‘He’s your boyfriend?’

  She bites into her lip. ‘Not any more.’

  Omar flips through the photos. More of her and Nigel with Philippa at his birthday dinner the past October. She places her hand over the screen and prises the camera out of his hands.

  ‘None of this matters, Omar. It’s over.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘A hundred per cent?’

  ‘A hundred per cent.’

  He reaches his arms around Addy and pulls her against his chest. ‘It’s a hard situation, habibati. You go back to England soon and you’ll forget about me. You’re in my blood, Adi. If you leave me, I’ll throw myself in the waterfalls. It’s not a possibility for me to live without you. Full stop.’

  So this is why he’s been acting so strangely today. He’s jealous of Nigel. He’s afraid she’ll abandon him as soon as she’s back in London. Addy rests her cheek against his chest. Everything’ll be okay. They’ll find a way. She shuts her eyes and listens to Omar’s heartbeat. A vision floats into her mind.

  Zaina.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Zitoune, Morocco – May 2009

  Addy’s cell phone buzzes and spins on the table. Philippa. She should’ve phoned her back.

  ‘Hi, Pippa. Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve been really busy with the book.’

  ‘Finally. I was about to ring Interpol. Why don’t you answer any of your bloody messages?’

  ‘Sorry. I was going to call you today. Honestly.’

  Philippa snorts. ‘How busy can you be? What’s there? A desert and some mountains. It’s hardly a hotspot on the jet-setter’s guide to the high life.’

  Addy swings her bare feet onto the wooden table and leans back in her chair. ‘Well, there’s the sex, of course.’

  Philippa chokes and coughs. ‘Good God, Addy. I’ll have to remember not to call you when I’ve got a gin in my hand. It’s all over my new Stella McCartney. Don’t tell me you’re shagging the goatherd?’

  Addy unwinds the white tagelmust from around her neck and flaps at a fly. She wasn’t going to let Philippa get the better of her this time.

  ‘You know how they say sex is good for the skin? Well, they’re right, Pippa. My cheeks are as soft as a baby’s bottom.’

  Philippa sucks in her breath, the ‘sss’ of the saliva sloshing against her teeth. ‘Addy, are you mad? Do you have any idea what you’re getting yourself into? The next thing you know he’ll be asking you for money. Mark my words.’

  ‘He’s not like that. He works really hard, he’s smart and funny, and good-looking. You should see him when he wears his turban. So, well done me.’

  ‘Oh, rub it in, why don’t you? You know I haven’t had a date since shoulder pads were in fashion.’

  Despite herself, Addy laughs. ‘Sorry, Pippa. About getting annoyed. Not about the shoulder pads.’

  ‘Fine. Apology accepted.’ The line goes silent.

  ‘Pip? Are you there?’

  ‘Addy, I hope you’re sitting down.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nigel’s been in touch.’

  The stones on the path crunch and Addy peers over the railing. Omar is strolling up the hill to the house, a straw hat swinging from his fingertips.

  Addy lowers her voice, covering her mouth with her free hand. ‘He’s been texting me. I haven’t answered.’

  ‘He dropped by my house and cried on my shoulder for an hour last week. He feels awful about what happened. He said he was suffering from post-traumatic stress or some such rot. I actually started to feel sorry for the wanker.’

  Nigel’s handsome face, flattened into a mask of panic after the doctor had given Addy the diagnosis, floats into Addy’s mind. She squashes the image like a bug. The steps up to the veranda creak.

  ‘That’s all water under the bridge, Pippa. Listen, I have to go.’

  ‘There’s something else.’

  Omar tosses the straw hat to Addy like a frisbee. She points to the phone and mouths ‘Philippa’.

  Pressing a finger against his lips, he tiptoes across the stone slabs. He grabs the phone and presses the speakerphone button.

  ‘I … I really should get back to the book, Pip.’ Addy eyes Omar nervously. ‘Still lots to do and time’s running out.’

  ‘Oh, all right. So, I don’t need to call Interpol then?’ Philippa’s clipped vowels echo around the terrace. ‘You haven’t been kidnapped and sold as a sex slave?’

  Omar backs away from Addy, holding the phone to his ear. ‘Allô? Allô?’

  Addy swings her legs off the table and grapples for the phone.

  ‘Hello? Addy? Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s Omar.’

  ‘Would you kindly put my s
ister back on the phone, please?’

  ‘No, it’s not possible.’ Omar winks at Addy.

  Addy’s eyes widen and she shakes her head at Omar.

  ‘Why isn’t it possible?’ Philippa’s words shoot down the phone connection like bullets.

  ‘It’s not a good situation to discuss.’

  Addy lunges for the phone, but Omar sidesteps her.

  ‘Give me the phone, Omar.’

  ‘Addy? Are you okay?’

  ‘She’s okay. Don’t worry. Mashi mushkil.’

  ‘Give me the flipping phone, Omar. This isn’t funny.’

  ‘Mashy what? What do you mean it’s not a good situation? Put Addy back on the phone this minute. Addy? Can you hear me?’

  He holds the phone up out of Addy’s reach. ‘I think Adi will stay in Morocco.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Put Addy back on the bloody phone right now, you idiot.’

  The corners of Omar’s mouth twitch. ‘No, I’m sorry for that. It’s impossible. She’ll stay in Morocco. So, goodbye.’ Omar ends the call and drops the phone into Addy’s hand.

  She stares at the phone. He has no idea what he’s just done. Philippa’ll never forgive him.

  ‘Omar! Why did you do that?’ Pressing Philippa’s number, Addy holds the phone up to her ear as she shoots daggers at him with her eyes.

  Omar slaps his hands on his legs and bursts into laughter. ‘Don’t worry, darling. It’s a big joke.’

  ‘That wasn’t funny.’

  ‘Omar?’ Philippa’s voice has risen several decibels.

  ‘It’s Addy. Don’t worry, Pippa. I’m fine. I’m so sorry.’ Addy glares at Omar. ‘Omar was being a total idiot. He thought he was being funny.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You can talk freely?’

  ‘I’m fine. Everything’s fine.’ She glares at Omar who is doubled over in laughter. ‘Except I’m probably going to kill him after I hang up.’

  Philippa expels a long breath. A faint clink of ice against glass and a loud swallow.

  ‘You’re turning me into an alcoholic. Maybe we should have sorted out a safe word. Like umbrella.’

  ‘Okay, umbrella. I’m okay, really. Don’t worry.’

  The ice clinks. ‘Tell your bloody boyfriend he’s a total ass.’