The Lost Letter from Morocco

by Adrienne Chinn

  ‘It would never happen like that for us. I’m not a rubbish English guy.’ Omar swears under his breath in Tamazight. ‘You are in my heart and I gave you the key.’ He sighs heavily and rests his head on her shoulder.

  She enfolds him in her embrace. ‘Omar, there’s something I need to talk—’

  He sits back. The crease deepens between his eyes. ‘I don’t like that your boyfriend is in your house.’

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend. I told him to leave. I told him I was with you, full stop.’

  ‘I saw you kiss him last night. It crushed me like I fell over the waterfalls.’

  ‘You saw that?’

  ‘I followed you. I been jealous, you have to know about it.’

  ‘I pushed him away.’

  Omar nods. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘I told him it’s over. I told him I love somebody else.’

  ‘Who do you love?’

  ‘You. I love you.’

  Omar pulls Addy against him and kisses her again. ‘I love you, Adi. There is no one else for me in this life. You have to know about it.’

  Her father’s book will wait.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Zitoune, Morocco – June 2009

  The shutters crash against the wall of Addy’s bedroom.

  ‘Habibati! Come to breakfast at my mother’s house. Be quick with your sister. We’re going to the desert.’

  She squints through the sharp sunlight at Omar’s blue-turbaned head, framed in the window like a portrait.

  ‘What? Today?’

  ‘Yes, with Yassine and Mohammed. You said you want to go to the Sahara, so I arrange it. Yassine will drive and Mohammed will be like the father between me and Yassine.’

  Addy throws off the covers and walks over to the mirror in the Beatles T-shirt Philippa had brought her from London. She grimaces in the mirror, pressing her fingers down on a spike of unruly hair.

  ‘Isn’t Mohammed busy with the hotel and the restaurant? Amine’s been playing hooky.’

  ‘I know what this means, hooky. Mohammed tell me. Mashi mushkil. Mohammed gave Amine the responsibility to be the manager of the restaurant when he’s in the desert. Amine is so, so happy for that. He love the responsibility. Mohammed loves to go to the desert. He makes good animation with the tourists and he tells them to come to his hotel in Zitoune. It’s good business for him, and for me, as well.’

  ‘I need a shower and we need to pack. And I have to show Fatima how to use the new washing machine.’

  ‘Mashi mushkil. Be quick. We’ll go for three nights. Don’t take so much luggage. The plumber is coming this morning for the washing machine. It’s a big honour for my family that you bought it. My mother loves you for it.’

  ‘I didn’t do it to buy her love.’

  ‘She loves you anyway. Now she loves you even bigger.’

  ‘I did it to help your mother and Fatima save time. It takes them two days to wash and dry all the laundry by hand, did you know that?’

  ‘Que sera sera.’

  Addy pulls off the T-shirt and heads towards her bathroom.

  ‘Habss. I hope your sister leaves soon. I been like a bachelor again.’

  Addy sticks her head around the bathroom door. ‘Can you imagine the bad eye if you were sleeping in the same house with me and my sister? Anyway, I thought you’d be used to me by now and would appreciate a rest.’

  ‘I’ll never be used to you, habibati. Even if I live one hundred years.’

  Omar, Yassine and Mohammed are in Aicha’s courtyard huddled around the new white washing machine with two other men when Addy and Philippa arrive at Aicha’s house. The bamboo birdcage with its silent green-feathered occupant has been set on an old table next to the kitchen door. Aicha, Fatima, Jedda, Lamia and several of the village women sit on cushions and stools around the low wooden table in the courtyard. They sip tea and munch on msemen and sugar cookies as they chatter and watch the installation.

  Omar looks over at her as she comes in. ‘Adi. How do you fix it?’

  A soggy pile of paper mashed into a muddy puddle catches Addy’s eye. She picks up the wad of paper and waves it in the air.

  ‘It would help if you read the instructions.’

  ‘Nobody in Zitoune has a washing machine,’ Omar says. ‘It’s a new situation.’

  ‘All the more reason to read the instructions. I’m not a plumber. I’ve never installed a washing machine.’

  Omar nods at the paper in Addy’s hands. ‘You can read the instructions and be our manager.’

  ‘They’re in Arabic.’

  Omar grabs the wad of paper and hands it to the scrawny man with a wrench standing next to him. The man shoves it into the back pocket of his grey flannel trousers and says something to Omar as he heads out of the front door. The barrel-chested electrician kneels down in the puddle of water and unscrews a wall socket. In his dirty black trousers and a thick yellow-and-black wool jumper he resembles a fat, mustachioed bee. Pulling out the electrical wires with the screwdriver, he fiddles with joining up the washing machine cables to the electricity supply.

  ‘He’s going to electrocute himself, Omar. Tell him to get out of the water.’

  The front door bangs open. The scrawny plumber enters dragging a long hose, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  ‘Mashi mushkil. The plumber will fix the situation.’

  Omar points with a piece of bread to the washing machine as he and the men head out of the front door. The plumber has connected one end of the hose to the back of the washing machine and the other to the courtyard tap.

  ‘Show Fatima how to use the machine of washing, darling. We’ll get the gasoline for the car in Azaghar.’

  Lamia and the other women take their leave, piled down with bags of fresh bread and cookies. Aicha follows Fatima and Jedda into her bedroom.

  Philippa turns to Addy. Her straw hat and oversized Jackie O sunglasses leave only the tip of her white nose and chin visible over the slash of vivid lipstick.

  ‘Where did they go?’ she asks Addy.

  ‘They went to pray in her room.’

  ‘Oh.’ Philippa’s lips twitch.

  ‘They’re very devout Muslims.’

  ‘And you’re okay with that?’

  ‘Of course. It’s a Muslim country.’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s just that … I’ve never been around Muslims so … so intimately before.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Pippa. We’re all just people. We all want the same things. Food, a home, an income, love, happiness. We just have different points of view. The road would be very crowded if we all took the same journey.’

  ‘What are you now? A philosopher?’

  Fatima emerges from Aicha’s bedroom dragging two overflowing pink laundry baskets.

  ‘Viens, Adi. Nous faisons le washing.’

  Addy helps her to sift through the clothes, showing Fatima how to separate the whites from the colours. She loads the coloured clothes into the machine and fills the dispenser with washing powder. After crossing the courtyard, she twists open the tap and shouts at Fatima.

  ‘Pousses le bouton!’

  Fatima presses the button. The washing machine jumps and rattles violently. Fatima leaps back. ‘Ooh, la la.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Addy. It sounds like it’s going to bore a hole down to China.’

  Addy rushes over to the washing machine and lifts the lid. She gives Fatima a thumbs-up. ‘Mashy mushkey.’

  ‘Are you sure buying them a washing machine was wise?’

  ‘I only did it to help lighten some of their workload. You wouldn’t believe how much time they spend washing clothes by hand. They do it in the river. It takes ages. I’ve done it with them. In fact, it almost finished me off, but that’s another story.’

  Aicha emerges from her bedroom carrying an old wicker basket stacked with towels and sheets. Addy gestures to the washing machine, but Aicha smiles and shakes her head, pointing towards the river as she crosses the courtyard t
o the front door.

  ‘What is it, Fatima? Your mother doesn’t like the washing machine?’

  ‘No, no, Adi. She love the machine of washing. It’s a big honour. But she like to go to the river to wash the clothes to see her friends.’

  Addy stares at Fatima. She’s been a fool. She’s taken away Fatima’s day of socialising with the women at the river. She’s closed down one of Fatima’s few escapes from the house. Fatima’s a caged bird, just like Farouk’s poor, silent present.

  ‘Would you prefer to go to the river to wash the clothes, too?’

  ‘Laa!’ Fatima shakes her head so vigorously that a black curl escapes from her hijab. ‘I will go with my mother to talk with the ladies, but I will wash my clothes in the machine of washing. I am a modern woman because of my sister Adi.’

  ‘Marhaba, Fatima.’

  It’s okay. This time it’s okay. But she has to be careful. Beware of good intentions. Every action has a reaction. Uncle Rachid had warned her.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Todra Gorge, Morocco – June 2009

  Philippa opens up her cream Prada handbag. ‘What? Why are you looking at me like that?’ She roots outs a tube of lipstick and a compact.

  ‘I’m just wondering if the Sahara Desert’s ready for you.’

  ‘What choice do I have?’ She peers into the mirror and dabs fuchsia lipstick on her lips. ‘Stay here and peel vegetables with Granny until you get back?’

  ‘You could always catch a tour bus back to Marrakech and hole up in the Mamounia Hotel. You could give Nigel a call, now that you’re best mates.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me. I’ve heard the Churchill Bar is divine. But, I’m here to visit you, darling sister. So visit you I shall, even if it kills me.’ She snaps the compact closed and drops it into her handbag with her lipstick.

  ‘It’s not you I’m worried about. I hope I survive the visit. The Nigel surprise almost gave me a heart attack.’

  Philippa peers over the top of her sunglasses. ‘I’m sorry about that. He’d given me such a sob story. I felt sorry for him. Can you believe it? I’m usually such a hard nut.’

  ‘Omar was furious. I’ve had a lot of explaining to do. Don’t you dare tell Omar that Nigel and I own a flat together.’

  ‘My lips are sealed. I haven’t told Nigel a thing about our desert jaunt.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to Nigel? Since he left Zitoune?’

  ‘Well … uh … he rang me.’

  ‘You didn’t have to answer.’

  ‘What would you have me do? Delete his number?’

  ‘There’s an idea.’

  ‘For your information, I’ve told him that my loyalties lie with you. Blood is thicker than water and all that rubbish. As far as I know, he’s been chatting up German tourists at the Club Med in Marrakech.’

  The wheels of a car crunch to a stop outside the front door. A horn blasts. Philippa loops the strap of her Prada bag over her shoulder and picks up the pull handle of her Louis Vuitton suitcase. ‘The desert. God give me strength.’

  A valley of palm trees twists far below the unpaved track of mountain road like a green river. Yassine steers the car towards a cluster of mud houses springing from the mountainside like anthills, weaving the battered Renault around tables jutting into the road. Fossils, straw hats, and pieces of cloth embroidered with neon zigzags and silver sequins, are on offer, but there’s no other sign of life.

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘It’s Friday,’ Mohammed says. ‘It might be they are at the mosque.’

  The road narrows as they exit the village. It becomes a single track lane rutted with potholes clinging to the side of the mountain’s red sandstone face. A tour bus rockets around a blind corner towards them like a heat-seeking missile. Yassine steers hard against the mountainside, flipping his side mirror into the car with his hand just before the tour bus tears by.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Philippa and Addy exclaim in unison.

  Yassine tosses the mirror over to Omar. ‘Mashi mushkil. It’s Moroccan driver. He don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, I bloody mind.’ Philippa roots around her handbag and pulls out a jar of Tiger Balm. She dabs a shiny smear on each temple. ‘Aren’t there any safer roads?’

  Omar frowns at Philippa in the rear-view mirror. ‘You think it’s easy to go to the Sahara? It’s far away. We must go over many mountains. It’s not like New York City.’

  ‘Phileepa, you must not worry,’ Mohammed assures her. ‘Yassine is a very safe driver. He is like the Ayrton Senna of Morocco.’

  ‘Didn’t Ayrton Senna die in a car crash?’

  Mohammed shrugs. ‘It was his fate.’

  ‘Fate is fate.’ Omar rifles through the CDs spilling out of the glove compartment. ‘If it’s your fate to die today, Phileepa, nothing can stop it. So, enjoy.’

  Philippa scoops out another thick dollop of Tiger Balm. ‘Bloody hell.’

  Yassine steers the car through a slit in the mountain face. The road disappears into dark shadow.

  ‘Where are we, Omar?’

  ‘Todra Gorge, habibati. Many people come to do mountain climbing here.’ Omar taps on his window. ‘Many years ago, a big river made this canyon. The river made the green palm trees in the valley we passed, even though everywhere else is dry.’

  The crevice opens up, revealing a concrete car park crammed with tour buses and jeeps. A hotel constructed of peach-rendered concrete, crowned with Berberesque crenulations, squats next to the stream. Brown goat hair and wool tents cluster in front of the canyon walls, and candy-coloured tagelmusts hang like bunting from rope strung against the orange sandstone mountainsides.

  Yassine parks the car beside a white tour van. Omar points to two specks of white high up on the side of the canyon.

  ‘It’s climbers there. You see?’

  ‘They’re idiots.’ Philippa adjusts her sunglasses and loops her handbag over her arm. ‘I need the loo. I’m desperate. I’ll see you inside.’

  Addy squints at the climbers. ‘I’d never be brave enough to do that.’

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘You’re a mountain climber?’

  ‘I had to do it for my mountain guide qualification. I have many secrets, honey. One day, maybe you will learn them all, just like I learn about you.’

  Philippa waves from a rustic wooden table set with napkins folded into the shape of chef’s hats. The room is painted bright orange, and red patterned rugs cover the concrete floor. Banquettes upholstered in a chaotic mix of vibrant stripes and florals line three of the walls.

  Addy picks up a menu as she shuffles along the banquette next to Philippa. ‘Nothing to your taste, Pips? You’ve got that face on you again.’

  Philippa tosses the menu onto the tablecloth. ‘It’s hardly Nobu’s black cod. I could kill for black cod. And a glass of wine.’

  Addy scans the menu. Salade Marocaine, Tagine d’Agneau, Tagine de Poulet, Tagine de Dinde, Brochette d’Agneau, Brochette de Poulet, Frites.

  ‘Never mind about black cod. I’m starting to obsess about spaghetti.’

  Omar takes Addy’s menu. ‘It’s not Italia here, darling.’

  ‘Don’t you ever get tired of eating the same thing?’

  ‘It’s Morocco, so you eat Moroccan food. It’s normal.’

  Philippa hands him her menu. ‘Salad for me. No dressing. And water. In a bottle.’

  ‘Me too. But I’ll have dressing. Lots of it. I’ve reached my tagine tipping point.’

  ‘As you like. You’ll be hungry later for sure.’

  ‘Where are the others?’

  ‘They went in the back to eat with the drivers. They know many guys from Marrakech and Casa.’ Omar tucks the two menus under his arm. ‘I’ll make the order with the waiter and I’ll go eat with them as well. It’s good for me to talk to the drivers. I might get some business.’

  ‘What time will we get to the desert?’

  ‘Not today. Tonight we’ll stay at a hotel in the mountains
and tomorrow we’ll go to the desert.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ The brim of Philippa’s straw hat flaps about her head like a bird attempting flight. ‘You mean we have another day in that car?’

  ‘Tourists always want to make a plan. It’s good to be natural. Que sera sera.’

  ‘Ignore her, Omar. Go and eat with your friends. After lunch, I’ll get my camera and you can guide Philippa and me through the gorge.’

  ‘Mashi mushkil.’ He holds up his hand and rubs his thumb and forefinger together and looks at Philippa. ‘I hope you’re rich. I’m a very expensive guide.’

  Omar tugs a turquoise tagelmust off a line of tagelmusts wafting in the breeze like long, graceful flags. He twists the fabric around Addy’s head and drapes the tail end around her neck in an elegant swag. She catches his gaze and his cheek dimples.

  ‘The colour makes your eyes turquoise. You know I love it.’

  Addy rubs the fabric between her fingers. Less than three months ago, Omar was a stranger to her, but now this man in a blue turban is her lover. Their lives are entwining and even though they’re from different worlds, it feels preordained. Like they’re two pieces of a puzzle locking together. Is it synergy? Fate? Random chance? Why does she feel her father is somehow involved? Then there’s the question of why Omar has her father’s book, and why Hanane was wearing her mother’s Claddagh wedding ring in the photo. Not to mention where Fatima got the old Polaroids of her family. Why does everyone she asks deny knowing anything about Hanane? Even the policeman in Zitoune looked at her like she was crazy, asking about a woman in a twenty-five-year-old photo. Something’s going on, and she needs to find out what it is.

  She’s returning to London soon and she’s no closer to finding out about Hanane and the baby. Enough is enough. Tonight she has to ask Omar how he got hold of her father’s Shakespeare book. No more hesitations. No more delays. If he has secrets, it’s time to find out what they are. No matter what the cost.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  High Atlas Mountains, Morocco – June 2009