The Lost Letter from Morocco

by Adrienne Chinn

  Fatima looks up from refilling the syringe. ‘The day of the market.’

  ‘Why don’t we go to the market? I’ll take some pictures.’ Addy glances over at Jedda, who’s watching Fatima like an old cat spying on a nervous mouse. ‘Jedda can come, too.’

  Fatima drops the syringe on the table and claps her hands, her face suddenly alight. ‘Oh, yes. I want some new shoes and Omar doesn’t choose well.’

  Addy waves her naked arm at Fatima. ‘After you finish my henna tattoo.’

  Fatima pulls Addy’s arm over her lap. ‘Which hijab should I wear, Adi? The pink or the blue?’

  ‘It’s only the market, Fatima. Wear whatever you like.’

  Jedda knocks her stick against Fatima’s leg and mumbles to her. A smile lights up Fatima’s face.

  ‘Jedda says we must to buy you a hijab so you will be a good Muslim wife for Omar.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about that.’ She looks over at Jedda. ‘How did your grandmother know we were talking about hijabs? She doesn’t speak French.’

  ‘Jedda understands every language even if she doesn’t speak them. She’s a shawafa.’

  ‘A shawafa?’

  ‘Yes. A djinni came to her when she was a girl. Since then she can see the future and hear the thoughts of people. It doesn’t matter what language.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘Yes. You don’t believe in shawafas in England?’

  ‘Well, some people do. My sister does. They’re called witches. Or psychics. It’s all a bit hocus-pocus for me.’

  Fatima frowns. ‘Hocus-pocus?’

  ‘Umm, magic. Make believe. It’s hard to believe it.’

  ‘When you know Jedda well, you will believe in shawafas.’ Fatima drops the empty syringe into the henna bowl. ‘I think I’ll wear the pink hijab today.’

  Fatima and Addy each hold one of Jedda’s arms as she waves her stick in front of her like an orchestra conductor to clear the way through the crowded market.

  ‘Adi, what are you doing here?’

  Addy turns towards Omar’s voice. He’s standing with Yassine and Amine in front of a stall selling bootleg CDs.

  ‘Omar? I thought you said you were guiding tourists today.’

  ‘It was only a small group today. I gave it to another guy since it’s better to come to the market.’ He frowns. ‘You bring everybody. They know I can buy everything they need. They don’t have to come here.’

  Addy squints up at the clear blue sky. ‘It’s such a lovely day, I thought it’d be nice for Fatima and Jedda to get out of the house.’

  ‘The ladies visit each other all the time in their houses. They’re not in prison.’

  Addy juts out her chin in defiance. ‘Exactly. That’s why I thought it would be nice to come over to the market. Jedda wants me to buy a hijab. She thinks you’ll marry me if I wear one.’

  ‘You don’t have to have a hijab for me, Adi. I like you as you are.’ He sighs and shakes his head. ‘Anyway, it’s nice to see you with my sister and my grandmother. Everybody is looking at you.’

  Yassine greets Jedda like she’s a beautiful young girl, telling her she’s zwina, and the old woman grins back at him toothlessly. Fatima chews her bottom lip as she concentrates on the men slicing open watermelons on the back of a truck, the bright pink flesh dripping water over the rusty green fenders.

  Addy catches Yassine’s eye.

  ‘You are well, my sister?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. And you?’

  ‘I am well now that my sun has come to the market of Zitoune.’

  Omar jabs at Yassine’s shoulder. ‘It’s my sun, not your sun, Yassine.’

  ‘But the sun, it shines on all of us. It’s true, my friend?’

  Addy rolls her eyes. ‘I think I’ll go and look for the shoe stall with Fatima and Jedda. Fatima wants some new shoes.’

  ‘Mashi mushkil, darling. I’ll come in a while.’ Omar peels several notes off a roll of dirhams and hands them to Amine. ‘Here. You go with them, but don’t talk to Fatima or I will beat you like a gorilla. If the ladies like some shoes, buy them, but make a good negotiation for their honour.’

  As they wander through the market, people call out greetings to Jedda, some of the younger women stopping to kiss the old woman’s gnarled hand.

  ‘Jedda’s very popular,’ Addy says.

  Fatima nods. ‘When she was young she did the Hajj to Mecca with my grandfather, so she is a Hajjah. It’s a big honour. Inshallah I will go one day with my husband.’

  Addy bends over and kisses Jedda’s hand. ‘Hajjah Jedda.’

  The old woman pats Addy’s cheek and says something in Tamazight. Addy raises a questioning eyebrow at Fatima.

  ‘She says you and Omar must marry soon because she is an old lady. She wants to see her grandchild before she goes to Paradise. Inshallah, Adi.’

  Marriage? A child? Why can’t they just let things be? Addy opens her mouth to speak, but the words refuse to form. She takes hold of Jedda’s hand and follows Amine through the crowd.

  Progress to the shoe stall is slow, as the villagers greet Jedda, and Addy photographs the abundance of vegetables on display – shiny green and red peppers, fat courgettes, tomatoes so ripe they look about to burst, and ropes of garlic and onions hanging off the bamboo struts of the lashed-together stalls. Fragrant green herbs spill over tabletops and stacks of silvery tin teapots glisten in the sun. They pass a stall where thick ripe watermelons drip pink juice onto the tabletop and Addy urges Amine to buy them all wedges.

  On the shoe stall, men’s, women’s and children’s shoes tumble over a blue plastic sheet spread over the dry earth. Addy collects the watermelon rinds from Jedda and Fatima, and hands them to Amine.

  ‘Can you find a stool for Jedda to sit on, Amine? I think she’s getting tired.’

  Amine cups the dripping rinds in his hands. ‘Mashi mushkil.’

  Fatima holds up a pair of high-heeled black plastic shoes with large gold buckles. ‘You like, Adi?’

  Addy grimaces. ‘Non. Pas bien.’ She roots through the bizarre selection of second-hand shoes, sandals and trainers and finds a flat black leather shoe. Jedda nods her approval. Fatima pushes out her lower lip and grabs a purple faux-suede platform shoe with gold leather straps, which she dangles in front of Addy like an exotic fruit.

  Addy waggles her finger in a circle at her temple. ‘You’re crazy, Fatima.’

  Jedda knocks Addy’s arm with her stick and copies Addy’s gesture. Fatima and Addy break into giggles. Suddenly, Fatima slams her mouth shut as she stares over Addy’s shoulder. Addy turns around. She’s face-to-face with Zaina.

  Addy extends her hand. ‘Bonjour, Zaina.’

  Zaina scowls at Addy’s splayed fingers. She spits into the palm of her hand and wipes it against her djellaba.

  A screech from the shoe stall. The purple shoe flies from Fatima’s hand past Zaina’s ear. Zaina screams and ducks. Another shoe sails past and popcorn shoots out in all directions from a direct hit on the popcorn stand. The popcorn seller throws up his hands and bellows out his objections. Jedda whacks Zaina on her bottom with her stick as the two girls shriek at each other. Villagers and stallholders push towards the mêlée. Amine squeezes through the crowd, carrying a battered wooden stool. ‘What’s happen?’

  Addy looks over at him. ‘Zaina showed up and all hell broke loose.’

  Omar breaks through the wall of djellabas. ‘What goes on here?’

  The popcorn seller pulls at Omar’s arm, protesting as he jabs at the popcorn littered over the earth like fat grubs.

  ‘Amine, what happened? You were responsible.’

  ‘I’m so, so sorry, Omar. I get a chair for Jedda and when I come back, everybody is fighting.’ His eyes dart over to Fatima, who blushes and looks quickly away.

  Zaina’s eyes flick from Fatima to Amine.

  Jedda pokes her stick into Zaina’s side and gabbles something that causes the crowd to suck in its breath.

  ‘Adi, tak
e Fatima and Jedda to the house,’ Omar says. ‘I’ll come soon.’

  When she’s by the roadside, Addy casts a quick look back. Zaina clutches Omar’s arm as he bends to listen to her.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘What?’

  Addy turns over in the bed as Omar enters her bedroom. ‘Zaina.’

  Omar pushes the mosquito net aside and sits on the foot of the bed, bending over to untie his trainers.

  ‘Don’t mind, Adi. She’s jealous of you. It’s her problem.’

  ‘Why? What did she say?’

  ‘She said you insulted her.’

  Addy sits up against the pillows. ‘I insulted her! How?’

  Omar’s face is outlined in the moonlight streaming in from the window.

  ‘You didn’t kiss her on the cheeks when she said hello.’

  ‘What? I held out my hand to her and she stared at it like I was carrying some infectious disease. Then she spit in her hand and rubbed it on her djellaba. It was pretty insulting. Did she tell you that?’

  Omar rubs Addy’s naked arm with his knuckles. ‘Never mind, habibati. It’s no problem for me if you insulted her. It’s her problem.’

  Addy slaps the mattress. ‘But I didn’t insult her. I tried to be polite.’

  ‘She said Fatima tried to kill her.’

  Addy grunts. ‘Well, that’s true. Shame Fatima’s aim wasn’t better.’

  ‘For sure, darling. I have to pay the popcorn seller two hundred dirhams because he is so angry. I made a punishment for Amine.’

  ‘Amine had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘I left Amine to be in charge. I was going to pay him to be your bodyguard. But now I won’t pay him. It’s his problem. I have to punish him.’

  Addy falls back on the pillow and scowls at the outline of a ceiling beam. The faint lace of a spider’s web drapes from the beam to a corner. Spiders everywhere.

  ‘I don’t need a bodyguard. I can take care of myself.’

  Omar pulls off his baseball hat and T-shirt and tosses them onto the rug. He yawns. ‘I must make sure you’re fine even when I’m away.’

  Addy squints at the web, trying to make out where the spider is. Is Omar her spider? Is she a fly caught in his web?

  ‘Why weren’t you at dinner, Omar? I helped to make a tagine.’

  ‘I had to make things well in the market.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Never mind for that. I’m so, so tired.’

  The book. The Polaroids. Tomorrow. It has to be tomorrow.

  Omar pulls back the sheet and climbs into the bed. Kissing Addy quickly, he turns onto his side and settles into the pillow. Addy gazes at the brown expanse of his back.

  ‘Omar?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Addy runs her hand along his shoulder. ‘What did your grandmother say to Zaina?’

  ‘She cursed her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She said Zaina will never have a baby.’

  Out of the corner of Addy’s eye, a large black spot springs to life. It scurries across the web to the beam.

  ‘What did Zaina do?’

  Omar turns over in the bed. ‘She cursed Fatima and she cursed you. Don’t worry, habibati. Nobody can hurt you if Omar Chouhad breathes on this earth. Even the djinn.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Zitoune, Morocco – June 2009

  Omar sits up in Addy’s bed and rubs his hand over his face as he blinks at the bedroom door. ‘Chkoun?’

  ‘Mohammed.’

  ‘Mohammed?’

  ‘Naam.’

  Addy props herself against her pillow. ‘How did he get in?’

  ‘He knows where the key is. He hid it there.’ Omar throws off the sheet and reaches for his jeans.

  ‘What do you think he wants?’

  ‘I’ll see.’ Shoving his feet into his trainers, he picks up his T-shirt and his tagelmust from the floor. ‘I’ll come soon. It’s early yet. You can sleep.’

  Addy burrows under the covers. The bed’s warm from Omar’s body. Her mind grasps for the thread of sleep, but the thoughts that have been niggling at her for the past few weeks spin around her head. Only a few more weeks before her visa runs out. What then? What’s going to happen with Omar and her? Then there was Nigel. What would she do about him when she went back to London? And Hanane and the child. And Omar. What was going on there? How did he get her father’s book? Then there was the question of how the photos from her father’s Polaroid camera ended up in Fatima’s photo album. It’s like she’s splashing through murky water that closes over her head every forward stroke she makes.

  The window shutters slam against the bedroom wall. Addy jolts upright and blinks at the sharp morning light. Omar stands outside, his turbaned head and shoulders silhouetted against the sunlight.

  ‘Adi, you must come quick. Somebody looks for you. Come to the house.’

  ‘Who’s looking for me?’

  But Omar’s already gone.

  The blue metal door to the house is ajar when Addy arrives. It groans like an old man when Addy pushes it open.

  ‘Chkoun?’ Aicha calls from the kitchen.

  ‘Adi.’

  Omar’s mother pops her head around the kitchen door and points to the living room as she wishes her good morning. Addy enters the living room, squinting as her eyes adjust to the darkness from the courtyard’s bright sunlight.

  ‘Philippa?’

  Her half-sister perches on a banquette in neatly pressed cotton chinos, grimacing at the tea glass she holds delicately in her long fingers. She’s knotted an Hermès scarf over her striped Ralph Lauren shirt, and a cream Prada handbag sits beside her on the banquette like a pet. Her expensive leather loafers are splattered with something that looks like donkey manure.

  ‘Pippa? What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘That’s hardly the friendliest greeting for the sister who’s trekked out into the middle of nowhere to find you.’

  Addy stumbles over to Philippa and kisses her on the cheeks. ‘Why did you come? I’m fine.’

  Philippa brushes a strand of hair off her forehead. ‘You’ve hardly been peppering me with missives about your Moroccan adventure. After the phone incident with this Omar person, I had no option but to come out here myself to see that you were all right.’ Philippa’s expression stiffens as she clocks the plastic matting, the nylon damask upholstery, the plastic flowers, the rolled-up prayer mats in the corner, the flat-screen TV on the wall beside the door. She swats at a fly. ‘Quite frankly, I’m not sure you’re in your right mind.’

  Aicha enters the room carrying a tray full of plates of olives and dates, a basket of fresh bread, and bowls of olive oil and honey. The bread fills the room with delicious yeastiness. Fatima follows close behind with a plate stacked with msemen and a bowl of small triangular cheeses wrapped in foil.

  Jedda shuffles into the room behind them. The ageless black-and-white cat’s at her feet, winding itself around her cane. Jedda stops abruptly to peer at Philippa with her good eye and stamps her stick on the plastic mat as she mumbles under her breath. She teeters across the room and eases herself onto the banquette as far away from Philippa as she can manage. The cat curls against her feet.

  Addy points at her half-sister with a piece of bread. ‘Watnasse Adi, Philippa,’ she says to Aicha. My sister, Philippa.

  Aicha claps her hands together. ‘Marhaba. Yamma Phileepa.’

  ‘Omar’s mother welcomes you. She says she’s your mother.’

  ‘That would be a biological impossibility.’

  Aicha drags a stool up beside Addy and tears off a hunk of bread, dipping it into honey. She offers Philippa the sticky bread. ‘Marhaba. Eeesh lafdoure.’

  ‘This is Omar’s sister, Fatima,’ Addy says to Philippa. ‘You should take it. She’ll only insist until you do. She’ll be offended if you don’t eat it.’

  Philippa picks the pancake out of Fatima’s hand and tears off a small bite. She nibbles at it like it’
s a piece of wet cardboard.

  ‘Delicious. Just like mother used to make.’

  Addy nods towards Jedda. ‘That’s Omar’s grandmother. Everyone calls her Jedda, which means grandmother. You’re meant to kiss her head.’

  ‘I’m meant to what?’

  ‘Kiss the top of her head. It’s a sign of respect. You should do it. Otherwise you might get the bad eye and, take it from me, you want to avoid that at all costs.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’

  Philippa sets down the pancake and edges towards Jedda. The cat yowls and darts out of the room. Philippa kisses the scowling woman on the top of her bandana. Jedda waves her away as she babbles something to her in Tamazight.

  Fatima laughs. ‘Laa, Jedda. Wallo Tamazight.’

  Addy wipes the honey off her fingers with a small towel that Aicha hands her. ‘So, you can see I’m all in one piece. And a few pounds heavier. What else do you need to know?’

  Philippa dabs at her fingers with a handkerchief. ‘After that last phone call, I wanted to see for myself that you weren’t the star attraction in some sex slavery ring.’

  ‘Pippa!’

  ‘I’ve convinced my Russian clients that they want a Moroccan-themed cinema room, so I’m officially on a buying trip. Those white Moroccan rugs with the zigzags are all the rage in London. I’ll buy them cheap and sell them to the Russians for a killing.’ Philippa’s eyes dart around the room. ‘I had no idea you were living in a hovel.’

  ‘Don’t be rude. It’s perfectly comfortable here.’

  ‘Addy …’ Philippa dabs at her fuchsia lips with her handkerchief.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s something you should know.’

  The metal door slams against the clay wall in the courtyard. Omar steps into the living room, his face a blank mask under his blue turban.

  ‘Omar?’

  Omar moves aside. Her ex-fiancé, Nigel, stands in the doorway. He runs his hand through his expensively cut brown hair in the familiar nervous gesture. His hazel eyes have the look of a pet dog who knows he’s disappointed his owner.

  ‘Hi, Della. Surprise.’

  ‘Nigel?’ Addy glances at Omar. ‘He’s a friend of mine from London.’