In the town, the shop sellers have re-emerged to flag down the passing traffic with their offerings of fossils and trinkets. Yassine leans on the horn as he inches the car through the village, following a narrow road newly paved with pungent asphalt down the mountainside into the desert valley spotted with date palms. Despite Philippa’s huffing, Yassine stops regularly for Addy to capture pictures of the mud-walled houses clinging to the mountainside, the ancient castle-like kasbahs tattooed with Amazigh symbols, or a flash of vivid colour where someone’s hung a rug from a window to air in the breeze.
The sun’s throwing its last rays over the valley when they reach the hotel, another concrete new build, painted in orange render and stamped with zigzags and crosses. It perches on an outcrop of orange limestone, which drops away to the arid skeleton of a river far below. A concrete mixer sits next to a newly poured path covered by wooden planks. Yassine parks on the roadside behind two white tour buses and wanders with Mohammed to join the drivers, who lean, smoking, against one of the buses.
‘You couldn’t have found us a finished hotel, could you, Omar?’ Philippa complains as she lumbers with her luggage over the wooden planks to the entrance doors. She stops short in the doorway. ‘Bloody hell. It’s like Buckingham Palace during the Changing of the Guard.’
A dozen Japanese tourists mill about the lobby dragging suitcases across the terrazzo floor. At the reception desk, a Japanese woman in the smart navy suit of a foreign tour guide flaps a piece of paper, protesting in broken English to the receptionist, who shakes his head and lifts his hands in incomprehension.
Omar sets down his knapsack and Addy’s tripod bag. ‘I’ll go to fix the situation.’
Philippa parks her Louis Vuitton suitcase next to Addy’s feet. ‘Watch this for me, would you? I’m going to have a nosy around while Omar saves the world.’
Addy watches her sister wander over to a seating area and pick up a sequinned handira wedding blanket to inspect the large silver sequins. The room is large and its orange polished plaster walls, still bare of any pictures or wall hangings, echo with the Japanese voices. The only concessions to sound dampening are the upholstered banquette and thick black-and-white Beni Ourain wool rug in the seating area.
Omar waves a room key above his head and shouts to Addy over the Japanese tourists. ‘Come for the keys.’
Shifting the camera bag onto her shoulder, Addy grabs the handles of the two suitcases and wades through the sea of tourists to the front desk.
Omar hands Addy the keys. ‘It’s a nice room, honey. It’s for the honeymoon.’
Philippa pushes her way through the tour group. ‘Why on earth didn’t you come over to us with the keys, instead of making us fight through this lot? It would’ve been the intelligent thing to do.’
Addy frowns at her sister. ‘Pippa. Be nice.’
‘I’m hot and I’m tired, and every bone in my body’s been rattled out of alignment. My osteopath will have a miracle to perform when I get home to civilisation.’
‘It’s better to come to the desk, Phileepa.’ The vein in Omar’s temple is pulsing. ‘It’s more intelligent.’
Philippa plucks her sunglasses from her face and tucks them into the top of her wrinkled linen shirt. ‘Whatever. Thank God I have alcohol. I’ll bring the vodka to dinner and we can all have a drink. I think we deserve it.’
Omar purses his lips. ‘I don’t drink alcohol. I’m Muslim.’
‘Fine. All the more for Addy and me.’
‘She doesn’t drink also.’
‘That’s news to me.’
Addy holds up her hands. ‘Calm down. Both of you. Please. It’s been a long day and we’re all tired. Omar, if I want a drink, I’ll have a drink. We’re far enough from your family for no one to get upset.’
‘It’s not good to be drunk, Adi.’
‘Since when did you ever see me drunk?’
Philippa grabs her suitcase handle. ‘Enough already. The last thing I need is to be dragged into a domestic. I’m bringing vodka to the table and I’m more than happy to drink it all myself.’
Omar presses a light switch in the dark hallway, but nothing happens. He peers into an ornate lantern protruding from the wall.
‘There’s no light inside.’
‘Quel surprise,’ Philippa says.
Omar takes out his cell phone and shines its light on the room numbers until he finds Philippa’s room. He unlocks the door and presses the light switch. A small lamp by the bed lights up.
‘At least there’s electricity, Pippa,’ Addy says.
Philippa tosses her straw hat onto the bed. ‘Thank heaven for small mercies.’ She shivers and rubs her hands together. ‘It’s bloody cold in here.’
‘It’s the High Atlas Mountains, Phileepa,’ Omar says. ‘It’s colder here, especially in the night-time.’
Omar opens the bathroom door. He flicks the light switch. Nothing. He runs the tap and re-enters the bedroom, wiping his wet hands on his jeans.
Philippa throws herself on top of the large bed, which is strewn with embroidered cushions. ‘Oh, bliss. I’m just going to lie here and let my bones settle back into place. Knock on my door when you’re going to supper. Till then I think I’ll pass out.’
Omar glances around the dark hallway. He grabs Addy’s shoulders and kisses her hard on her mouth.
‘I miss you, habibati. I been patient, but your sister gave me a headache.’
‘Join the club. She’s not an easy woman.’
‘I must be polite because she’s your sister, but it’s not so easy sometimes. I apologise for that. You have to know it upset me a lot she brought your boyfriend here.’
‘Yeah. I wasn’t happy about that either. Don’t worry, I told her.’
He checks the number on the door across from Philippa’s with the light from his phone and unlocks the door. When he flicks the light switch, ornate iron lanterns on the bedside tables switch on, casting coloured light into the vast room.
‘Lovely,’ Addy says. ‘Two bulbs even.’
Omar takes Addy’s hand and guides her towards the bed. ‘Come, darling. I been patient. But I’m not patient any more.’
‘I should take a shower. I’m sweaty from the trip.’
Omar pulls Addy down onto the bed. The golden light from the lantern turns his eyes a clear amber. ‘Don’t mind for a shower. There’s no hot water.’
Addy slides out of bed and pulls on her kaftan top as she pads across the thick red wool rug to the bathroom.
‘I guess there aren’t any showers in the desert, are there?’
‘No, darling. No showers or no toilets.’
‘No toilets?’
‘It’s the desert, darling. It’s camels and it’s tents. Full stop.’
‘Philippa’s not going to like that. She packed her hairdryer.’
‘She’s a crazy lady. I told you to pack simple stuff only. Why did you bring your suitcase? You should bring your bag only. It’s a problem, darling.’
‘The electrical tape came off. Things would just fall out. My underwear would be all over the desert.’
Omar grabs his knapsack and tosses it up onto the bed.
‘You think I’m a crazy lady too sometimes, don’t you, Omar?’
He looks up at her, a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste in his hand. ‘What do you mean?’
Addy sits on the tumble of blankets and sheets beside Omar. ‘I know I’m not always the easiest person. I can be moody.’ She sighs. ‘Maybe … maybe you’d be better off with someone else. Someone younger.’
Omar frowns, the crease between his eyes deepening. ‘Why do you say that? You must stop it, darling. I’m a serious guy. I made my decision. Maybe you think I’m a rubbish guy like Yassine who has a foreigner lady from Holland even though he’s married. The shit guy from England thinks I’m a rubbish guy. Your sister thinks I’m a rubbish guy for sure.’
‘No, she doesn’t.’
‘They think I’m a kidnapper.’
‘Philippa was just jok
ing when she said that.’
‘It’s not a funny joke for me, darling. I made a mistake to do that phone call before, one hundred per cent. I’m so sorry for that.’ He looks at Addy, his eyes shining like polished marble in the dim light. ‘What about your boyfriend?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘Why did he come here? You invited him?’
‘I had no idea he was coming. It was Philippa.’
Omar rubs his temples. ‘I don’t like the situation at all. It makes me want to hurt him. For sure I could do it easy.’
‘Nigel’s not worth fighting. He means nothing to me any more.’
‘It might be. But I know you been with him before. It makes me jealous like a lion.’
Addy stares at Omar. She’s been so selfish. She’d never considered Omar’s feelings about her relationship with Nigel. It was shaking him off his foundations as much as it was jolting and jarring hers. Rachid’s words come to her again. She’s the pebble thrown in the pond and the ripples are becoming waves. More than waves. A tsunami.
It was time. She treads across the rug to her suitcase. Unzipping it, she takes out her father’s Shakespeare book. She clutches the red book to her chest.
‘Where did you get this book, Omar?’
A shadow crosses Omar’s face. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘On your desk. I was resting in your room one day and I wanted to read something. I found this.’
She sits on the bed and opens up the book to the inside cover. ‘“To my darling Augustus from Nanny Percival, Christmas 1945”. This was my father’s book. You knew my father, didn’t you? Why did you lie to me when I showed you the photograph?’ She slides the fading Polaroid of Gus and Hanane out from the pages of Othello.
Omar takes the photograph. He stares at the grainy image and rubs his thumb across the faces of Addy’s father and the young Moroccan woman.
‘He did a big mistake, Adi. It’s better not to talk about it. It’s a long time ago.’
‘So, you did know him?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened? I never knew he’d come to Morocco until I found the photo after he died. I didn’t come to Morocco just to take photos and write. I came to Zitoune to see if I could find Hanane. To find the baby, who must be about twenty-four by now. Or find out what happened to them.’
Omar lets the Polaroid fall onto the blanket. ‘Many people will be angry if they know he was your father.’
Addy thinks of her father, laughing and rolling around the grass with their collie, Kip, while she swings in old tyre from a branch of the oak tree in their Nanaimo garden.
‘I don’t understand that. He was a wonderful father to me. Well, he was when he was at home.’
‘You were lucky, darling. He was a bad man in Zitoune.’
Addy’s heart jumps. A bad man? Her father? Had he done something terrible? Perhaps that was why he’d never mentioned Hanane and the baby. And why Mohammed, the policeman, Aicha and Jedda all denied recognising Hanane. Maybe there was a scandal.
‘What did he do? What happened to Hanane and the baby?’
Omar scans Addy’s face like he’s looking for clues to a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
‘I was young, just a boy when he came here. Maybe I don’t understand the situation well.’
Addy sits up against the pillows beside Omar. ‘Tell me. Tell me everything. Even if it’s bad, I want to know.’
Chapter Fifty
High Atlas Mountains, Morocco – June 2009
‘One day a man came to the village. He was a hiker, with a backpack and a tent, and he had a strange camera which made pictures in your hand. He was older, like forty years, and taller. He had black hair and blue eyes, like you, darling. I was a boy, maybe seven years. Even so, I made a good business with the figs and the tourists with my brother, Momo, who had ten years. I had eyes everywhere in my head to know what’s going on in the village.’
Omar picks up the Shakespeare book and flips through the pages. Closing the cover, he sets it down gently on the blanket.
‘The man made a camp near the source of the waterfalls.’
‘I’ve been there. With Amine and Fatima.’
Omar raises his eyebrows. ‘When were you there with them?’
‘Fatima and I went for a walk to the source one day. Amine followed us because he said you wanted him to keep an eye on me.’
‘There are many eyes in Zitoune. It’s good he followed you. You always have to move, to go, to do stuff. It’s hard for you to be quiet in a house like the ladies here. I’m sorry if I don’t understand you well sometimes, Adi. This is a new situation for me. It’s like you want to be free like a man.’
‘Of course I want to be free, like anybody should be – man or woman. Free like a bird. Not like Fatima’s poor caged budgie.’
‘You remind me of that man. You have the same energy. He told us his name is Gus. So we called him Mister Gus. I followed him. I showed him the waterfalls, and the cave with the carvings, and the footsteps of dinosaurs.’
‘Dinosaur footprints. I’d like to see those. My father had a photo of them. I’d like to photograph them for my book.’
‘Mashi mushkil. I will show you one time. Anyway, he paid me money for it, so I was proud for that. It made Yassine and his brother, Driss, very jealous. My brother, Momo, he don’t mind. He was always a good boy. He went to school. He was polite. Not like me.’
‘Fatima showed me a photo of your mother with you, Momo and Fatima as a baby. She said your brother died in a flood.’
Omar nods. ‘It was his fate.’
‘I’m sorry. That must’ve been hard for all of you.’
Omar presses his fingers against his eyes. ‘It happens like that sometimes. Life is short.’
Addy brushes her hand across her left breast. ‘Yes. I know.’ Addy looks at the smiling faces of her father and Hanane in the photograph. ‘Fatima had several Polaroids. I recognised my father’s writing on the back. How did she get them?’
‘Mister Gus took many photos with the magic camera. It was incredible to see them come out of the mouth, like it’s spitting. He gave some to my mum. Me too, I have one.’
He reaches into his back pocket and takes out his wallet. Flipping it open, he pulls out a Polaroid that’s been cut down to fit into the wallet. The edges are frayed and the gloss cracked, but the image is still clear, though the colours are fading and reddening. Omar as a young boy in the branches of an olive tree with a young, laughing woman. Hanane.
‘You knew her.’
‘Yes. She was a good lady.’
‘And your mother knew my father and Hanane, too.’
‘Yes.’
‘And Jedda?’
‘Yes. Everybody.’
‘Everybody lied to me. You lied to me.’
Omar shakes his head. ‘We only did it to protect your honour. We don’t want you to be ashamed for your father.’
‘I could never be ashamed of my father.’
Omar smiles sadly. ‘I hope so.’ He runs his thumb across her cheek. ‘We must go to dinner soon, habibati. Your sister will be hungry.’
‘I need to know about Hanane.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘It’s why I came to Morocco.’
‘You told me you came here to take pictures for your book.’
‘Yes, that’s true. But, honestly, I could’ve done that anywhere. I came to Morocco because of my father’s photos. Especially the photo of him with Hanane in front of the waterfalls. I came to find out what happened to her and the baby. And why my father was here. Why he’d kept it a secret. He started to write me a letter about Hanane, but he never sent it. I want to know why.’
‘You came to be a detective of Zitoune like Columbo.’
Addy picks up the Polaroid and wraps the bed blanket around herself.
‘I guess. So, how did you get my father’s book?’
Omar sits on the end of the large bed.
‘Mister
Gus taught me English very well. Sometimes Momo came, too. He was a good student. Mister Gus gave us the book of Shakespeare one time and said one day we should read the stories. I tried, darling, but it’s hard.’ Omar shakes his head. ‘I told you before I was a bad boy. I was always running away from school to make business with the tourists. I wanted to be businessman to make money. Mister Gus told me if I could speak English I could make good business with the tourists. He was a clever teacher to me. He gave me motivation.’
‘So he wasn’t a bad man at all.’
‘Not then. He was kind then. Momo liked the book a lot. He loved the stories. After he die, I took it. I tried to be good like Momo, to go to school, to be polite. I think to become a teacher to honour Momo. I studied for one year at the university in Beni Mellal. This is true, I swear it. But it’s hard for me to be in a room with the books. It wasn’t my cup of tea, you have to know about it. I tried to be Momo, but I’m Omar. So I came back to Zitoune to be a tour guide. And then, when I had money, I went to Marrakech to study one year to be a professional mountain guide.’
‘I see.’
‘Your sister will be angry to wait for us, Adi. We should go.’
‘I know, I know. Who was Hanane? I need to know.’
‘She was a beautiful lady who was the youngest sister of Mohammed Demsiri.’
Addy’s eyes widen. ‘Mohammed is Amine’s uncle. You told me Amine’s parents weren’t married. That means …’
‘Yes, darling. Amine is the son of Hanane.’
Addy’s eyes widen. ‘And Amine’s father?’
‘Mister Gus.’
Addy’s mind spins with the revelation.
‘My father? Are you sure?’
Amine is her half-brother. Why hadn’t she been able to see that? The dark eyes, the full lips are Hanane’s, but the wide smile – yes, her father is in Amine’s smile. The same smile her father would greet her with after his long absences on his travels. And Amine has Gus’s long, straight nose. Slightly too large for his face. Just like hers and Philippa’s. And Gus’s straight black hair. Black Irish hair.
‘Yes, habibati. One hundred per cent.’
Addy looks at the Polaroid in her hand and runs her finger over Hanane’s pregnant belly. ‘It’s incredible.’
The Lost Letter from Morocco Page 26