Addy shoots Omar another ugly look. He’s wiping tears from his cheeks with the end of his tagelmust.
‘I already did.’
‘Will you get the bloody hell out of there as soon as you can? My nerves can’t take much more of this.’
‘I’ll be home before you know it.’
‘Fine. Just please answer my messages or I will call Interpol. You’re the only family I have. Don’t go leaving me an orphan.’
‘Don’t go getting mushy on me, Pips. I prefer you when you’re stroppy. I promise I’ll call.’
‘Good.’
‘Oh, was there something else you wanted to tell me?’
‘Never mind. It can wait.’
‘I’m really sorry about this.’
‘You’re forgiven. This time. Just remember where your home is. It’s not in the middle of bloody nowhere with a fucking idiot. And I hope he heard that.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Zitoune, Morocco – May 2009
Her reflection stares back at her in the hospital cubicle mirror. Her beige linen trousers puddle over her tan loafers, too long, but she hasn’t had the time to get them hemmed. Blue veins spread over her breasts like vines. A white plaster hides the puncture wound left by the needle biopsy. She leans into the mirror and pokes at the plaster. The lump underneath is hard and throbs from the puncture. An odd pressure encircles her neck. She puts her hand on her throat. Lumps erupt through her fingers. She digs at the lumps with her fingernails until her fingers run red with blood.
‘Adi! Habibati! You been dreaming.’
She opens her eyes. Omar’s face hovers over her. She gasps and reaches for her neck. The lumps are still there. She sits bolt upright. A rope of turquoise stones falls into her lap.
Omar picks up the necklace and fastens it around Addy’s neck. He sits back on the bed and smiles.
‘It’s so nice on you, honey. You’re like an angel of Zitoune. I know you love this colour.’
Addy runs her fingertips over the stones, as large as Medjool dates. She brushes a stone against her teeth – slightly rough, like a large blue-green pearl. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘I looked for turquoise for you, darling. I heard Yassine call you Turquoise in Essaouira. I don’t like it at all. I find the most beautiful necklace of turquoise for you in Azaghar when you were in the hammam. Now, if anybody calls you Turquoise, you will think of me.’
After Omar leaves to meet a tour bus from Marrakech, Addy stops by Aicha’s house to return a cooking pot. Jedda sits on a stool in the courtyard, the black-and-white cat snoozing at her feet, slitting open peapods with her fingernail and popping the bright green peas into a large pot.
Addy drags over a stool and perches on it, setting the cooking pot on the ground by her feet. She picks up a handful of the peapods and dumps them into her lap. She runs her fingernail along the ridge of the peapod, but it snaps in two. Omar’s grandmother Jedda flashes her a toothless smile. She demonstrates her technique as she chatters to Addy in Tamazight. Addy slides her fingernail along another peapod and flicks the peas around the courtyard to the squawking delight of the chickens.
Fatima emerges from the kitchen with a basket laden with vegetables. ‘Bonjour, Adi.’ She sets down the basket and kisses Addy’s cheeks.
Squatting beside her grandmother, Fatima takes a paring knife out of her apron pocket. She selects an onion from the basket and prises at the papery skin with the knife. Tears trickle down her cheeks.
‘Oh, la la. Labass?’ She brushes away the tears with the back of her hand.
Addy points to the onions. ‘Labass? Onions?’
‘Oui. Awnyonz.’ She reaches into the basket and holds up a carrot. ‘Zroudiya.’
‘Zroudiya. Carrot.’
Jedda grabs a potato and pretends to bite it.
‘Batata,’ Fatima says.
‘Batata. Potato.’
Fatima and Jedda grin at Addy.
‘Awnyonz, krut, badado,’ Fatima repeats as she points to the vegetables, like she’s revising for an exam.
Someone pounds on the metal front door. The tinny sound reverberates around the courtyard.
‘Chkoun?’
‘Zaina.’
Fatima drops her knife and the half-peeled onion into the pot and crosses the courtyard to the door. Zaina enters carrying a basket of laundry. When she sees Addy, her eyes narrow for an instant before she recovers herself.
Reeling out the familiar greeting, Zaina kisses Fatima on her cheeks and Jedda on the top of her head. Addy extends her right hand.
‘Sbah lkhir, Zaina.’
Zaina touches Addy’s hand with the tip of her fingers as if she’s contagious. Fatima tugs on Zaina’s arm and the girls disappear into the kitchen. Addy picks up Fatima’s knife and a potato. She rasps the knife along the brown skin. Glancing up, she sees Jedda staring at her with her clear blue eye.
Jedda picks up her stick and jabs it at the kitchen.
Addy nods. ‘Zaina.’
Fatima and Addy break out of the shade of the olive grove near a shallow bend in the river, safely away from the churning current. A woman’s voice calls from the path behind them. A tall, slender woman carrying a plastic basket of laundry joins them by the river. Her skin’s as black as liquorice and tendrils of pure white hair escape from her red headscarf.
‘Lamia! Sbah lkhir!’ Fatima greets her, kissing the woman several times. She turns to Addy. ‘Lamia lives in the mountains. She likes to be private. She never marry. She knows my grandmother a long time.’
‘Sbah lkhir,’ Addy says as she smiles at the woman. She looks around for Zaina but she’s striding ahead towards the women washing laundry in the river.
Fatima calls out to Zaina. She turns around and glares at Addy, huffing as she shifts her laundry basket over to her other hip.
Addy sets down the pink plastic basket full of Omar’s dirty laundry that Fatima has given her and rubs at the red dents in her fingers. Half a dozen women stand knee-deep in the cold water, chattering in Tamazight as they scatter washing powder over clothes like snow. Others beat and twist the clothes in the water to force out the dirt. The women shout greetings when they see Fatima and Lamia. Fatima puts her arm around Addy and calls out Addy’s name.
The women wave and shout. ‘Marhaba, Adi.’
They join Zaina on the riverbank and set down their laundry baskets. Fatima, Lamia and Zaina roll up their pyjama legs then discard their socks and shoes. Addy pulls off her sandals and sits on a rock to roll up her jeans over her knees as the others grab clothes out of their baskets and head out into the water. Fatima beckons to Addy, pointing to a bag of washing powder she’s left on the riverbank.
‘Prendre le Teede.’
Addy collects the plastic bag of Tide detergent and an armful of Omar’s laundry then wades out into the water. She shivers as the cold water creeps up past her knees. The river current pulls at her ankles and she wavers on the slippery stones as she tries to stay upright.
They settle a short distance from the other women, where the water is relatively calm. Addy sprinkles the washing powder over the dirty clothes and hands the detergent to Fatima. As Addy rubs the white granules into the fabric, the hard grains scrape against her knuckles like sandpaper. She sucks on a knuckle, coughing and spitting as the residue of the washing powder coats her tongue.
‘Laa, Adi.’ Fatima laughs as Addy rubs the end of her kaftan top against her tongue.
Lamia wades over to join them. She moves with such youthful grace that it’s only when she’s close that Addy sees the deep lines around her eyes.
Fatima taps the skin on her cheek. ‘I am dark like Lamia. The mans like ladies to be pale. Only poor mans ask to marry me. I don’t want to marry a poor man.’
A crash of water. A scream rips through the air. Addy, Fatima and Lamia spin around and see the current sucking Zaina out towards the river, her washing drifting around her like water lilies. She screams as she flails in the current.
The women rush towards her and reach out to her, but the current pulls her away from them faster than they can get to her. Addy takes a deep breath and dives into the churning river. The current wraps around her body, tugging her into the middle of the river. She gasps and chokes as she’s swept along. The water pushes her against a submerged rock. Addy clings to it like a lifebuoy. She sees Zaina being pulled along the river towards the waterfalls. She hears Fatima scream. She doesn’t see the branch that hits her. And then, nothing.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Zitoune, Morocco – May 2009
‘Adi?’
Addy chokes and coughs, water spewing from her mouth. Someone pulls her to a sitting position and slaps her back. She gasps and opens her eyes.
‘You are fine?’ A familiar face with worried brown eyes hovers over her.
Addy wipes her mouth and gulps in air. ‘Amine?’
‘Adi!’ Fatima throws her arms around her and covers her face with kisses.
‘I’m okay. Je suis bien.’ An ache spreads across the back of her head. She sucks in her breath when her fingers touch the soft lump.
‘A tree, it hit you,’ Amine says.
She scans the faces crowding over her. ‘Where’s Zaina?’
‘Mashi mushkil,’ Amine says. ‘She went on a rock and we take her out of the water. She’s okay. They take her to the house of her family.’
‘Good.’ Addy wipes droplets of water from her eyelashes. ‘What happened?’
Amine squats down beside her. His clothes are dripping wet and he shivers. ‘Omar tell me when he go for guiding to watch you to make sure you are fine. When you go to the river to make the washing, I follow you.’
‘You’re soaking.’
‘I go in the water for you. Mashi mushkil.’
‘Amine, you could’ve been killed.’
Amine’s teeth chatter. ‘It’s fine. I swim many times in the river.’
‘It happened so fast. It seemed safe where we were, but when Zaina fell, I—’
Fatima wails to Amine in Tamazight and points frantically at the river.
‘What is it, Amine?’
‘She say Zaina fall in the water because she is jealous for you. She make a theatre.’
‘No one would do something like that.’
‘It might be.’
Amine and Fatima pull Addy to her feet. Her clothes stick to her body and her teeth click against each other. Lamia, her skirt and pyjamas sodden, emerges from the crowd with a blanket and wraps it around Addy’s shoulders. She rubs Addy’s arms and pats her on the back like a baby.
‘Lamia’s almost as wet as you,’ Addy says to Amine.
‘She help me get you out. She’s very strong.’
‘You must be freezing, Amine. You’re as wet as I am.’
‘Mashi mushkil.’ He flashes Addy a bright smile through his shivers.
Fatima and Lamia wrap their arms around Addy’s waist. They hug her close and follow Amine along the riverbank back to the house. The crowd slides around them, murmuring and patting Amine on the back.
No one mentions Zaina.
‘Adi? Where are you?’ The front door rattles against the clay wall.
‘In here.’
Omar rushes into the living room, the deep crease of worry between his eyes. Addy is perched on the banquette in Aicha’s living room drinking tea, wrapped like a Buddha in layers of blankets. Jedda sits next to her, mumbling as she stamps her walking stick on the ground. On the opposite banquette, in Omar’s Chelsea T-shirt and a pair of Omar’s jeans, Amine sits munching on one of Fatima’s home-baked cookies.
‘What happened, habibati? When I went to the café of Yassine, he told me you fell in the river. I left the tourists and I ran here like a wild animal.’
‘I went to help Fatima and Zaina with the washing. Zaina fell and I tried to help her but I got into trouble in the current.’
Omar draws his eyebrows together. ‘Fatima!’
‘Don’t blame Fatima. It’s not her fault.’
Fatima and Lamia enter carrying trays of tea, cookies and bread, with bowls of honey and olive oil.
‘Naam?’
Omar rips into Fatima in angry Tamazight.
‘No, Omar.’ Amine wipes cookie crumbs off his chin. ‘It’s true what Adi say. Zaina fall into the water and Adi try to rescue her but a tree hit Adi on the head.’
‘You are supposed to watch her. Allah i naal dine omok. You been sleeping.’
Addy shakes her head. ‘If it wasn’t for Amine, I’d have drowned. I owe him my life.’
Lamia glances over to Jedda. Addy catches the exchange. Is there a nod? A blink? No, she must have imagined it. Lamia taps on Omar’s arm and whispers to him urgently.
Omar looks at Addy. ‘She says Zaina pretended to be in trouble in the water so you would drown.’
‘That would’ve been a crazy thing for her to do. It’s too dangerous.’
‘It’s not so dangerous for her. She knows the river well. She knows where there’s a big rock to be safe.’
‘Why would she hate me enough to want me to drown?’
Jedda whacks her stick on the floor and mumbles angrily.
Omar’s eyes narrow. ‘Jedda says Zaina has a bad djinni in her. She has a big jealousy for you. She says Zaina wants you to be died so I will marry her. She says Zaina put the bad eye on you.’
Jedda nudges Omar’s arm with her stick and says something. Addy glances at the old woman. Her clear blue eye is staring at Addy, sharp and intense.
‘What did she say?’
‘She says she put a bad eye on Zaina as big as the waterfalls. Zaina will be in troubles now. My grandmother has a big magic.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Zitoune, Morocco – May 2009
A knock on the metal door of Aicha’s house and it squeaks open. Fatima is midway through pouring a graceful spout of mint tea into tea glasses. Amine crosses the threshold, his smile bright and wide in his mottled face. His jeans and T-shirt are spotlessly clean and he wears glowing white Adidas trainers.
Addy waves him over. ‘Hello, Amine. Come, have some tea.’
Fatima collects the empty Chinese plate from the table and disappears into the kitchen. Aicha rises from her stool and points to the heavy wooden door leading to the stable yard.
‘Ighiyoule.’
Addy looks at Amine. ‘Ighiyoule?’
‘Donkey.’
Aicha grins, her porcelain teeth gleaming as she heads towards the door. ‘Dunky. Dunky.’
Fatima enters the courtyard with a tea glass and the Chinese plate stacked with msemen. She sits down beside Amine on her mother’s vacated stool and fills the tea glass with steaming mint tea.
Addy rolls up a pancake and drizzles it with honey. ‘Have you seen Omar?’
Amine peels a pancake from the top of the stack. ‘He go to the waterfalls with the tourists.’
‘The tour bus was early again today?’
‘It might be.’
‘And you’re here to keep an eye on me, I suppose.’
Amine spreads honey over another msemen. ‘I have to. It’s for your safety.’
For her safety? Seriously? She’d play along with this charade for now, but on her own terms.
Addy smiles at Amine. ‘Well then. I think I’ll go for a walk along the river today. Omar said the source of the waterfalls is a few kilometres south towards the mountains. I’ll bring my camera and take some photos.’
Amine looks at Addy in panic. ‘It might be it’s better to stay in the house to make the cooking with Fatima.’
‘No. I think a walk is exactly what I’d like to do today. Fatima, would you like to walk by the river with me?’
Fatima’s eyes widen. ‘Une promenade?’
‘Omar didn’t say—’
Fatima scoops the tea glasses onto her tray. ‘Yalla, Adi. Eesh, Amine. Eesh.’
Amine grabs at the plate of pancakes. ‘I will be in troubles with Omar.’
‘Don’t worry.
I’ll tell Omar I was stubborn and wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’ll sympathise with you completely.’
Addy strolls along a deeply rutted lane with Fatima and Amine, who carries Addy’s tripod bag over his arm like a golf caddy. Addy links her arm with Fatima’s, who’s changed from her household pyjamas into a blue hijab and a pink djellaba that skims her purple Crocs.
After half an hour, they break from the dark shade of the olive grove into a field knee-high with green grain. They stroll along the narrow path, past shivering ash trees and pink flowering oleander bushes. On a hill overlooking the river, someone’s dug foundations for a building.
Did her father ever stroll along this path with Hanane? Did they walk to the source one day, all those years ago? The air’s full of ghosts and Addy looks down at the dusty path, imagining that she sees footprints: a man’s and a woman’s. But she blinks and they’re gone.
They come upon a mud-walled shed, the wooden door studded with nails. Addy points at it.
‘What’s that for?’
‘It’s for the harvest of olives,’ Amine says. ‘The donkey, he go inside and they tie him to a press for the olives. He walk around like this.’
Amine circles them, braying like a donkey as Addy unzips the bag and sets up the tripod and camera. Fatima giggles and buries her face against Addy’s shoulder.
‘The olives go flat and the oil comes out.’
Addy presses the shutter and peers at the image on the screen. She checks the histogram, adjusts the exposure and takes another shot.
‘When’s the olive harvest? I’d love to photograph that.’
‘The time of winter. Novembre. My English is not so good.’
‘Your English is very good.’
‘I practise with many tourists in the restaurant of my uncle. I want to be a guide like Omar so I can be richer. Then I can make a good family.’
Addy adjusts the tripod and focuses the lens on Amine’s face. He’s made an effort to comb down his straight black hair with gel, but a cowlick sprouts from his crown.
‘I’m sure you’ll make a great guide one day, Amine. When we get to the source, why don’t you practise on me? You can tell me all about it. I’ll give you a pass or a fail, just like a teacher.’
The Lost Letter from Morocco Page 20