‘You slide the bottom back, slide this slat to the left, pull out this little peg and shake out the key. Then you slide the fourth vertical slat downwards and you’ll see the keyhole. Now all you have to do is unlock the box.’ The old shop seller inserts the tiny key into the keyhole, twists it twice clockwise and opens the lid, revealing a compact compartment. He grins widely, revealing his three remaining teeth, as he hands the wooden box to Hanane. ‘It’s easy once you know how.’ The man’s Darija is odd and Hanane strains her ear to process his inflections.
‘It’s very clever,’ Hanane says as she turns the wooden box, decorated with intricate mother-of-pearl inlay, over in her hands.
‘It has a place for you to hide your secrets,’ the old man says.
Hanane glances at the man. A white turban sits on top of his head, the loose tail tucked around his dark wrinkled face.
‘I have no secrets.’
The man grins even more broadly as his eyes flick from Gus back to her. ‘Everyone has secrets.’
Gus takes the box from Hanane and turns it over, examining the workmanship.
‘How much?’
‘Three hundred dirhams.’
‘Fine.’
‘No, habibi. It’s too much.’
‘It’s fine, darling. I’m happy to pay it.’
Gus hands the box back to the shop seller and pulls out his leather wallet from his back pocket. He flips open the well-worn leather flap and counts out three dirty dirham notes.
‘He’s thieving you, my love.’
Gus hands the shop seller the notes, who quickly pockets the cash. The old man closes the box’s lid then slides the slats and key back into place. Gus takes the box and tosses it from one hand to the other, testing its weight.
‘It’s perfect. Just big enough. Even Omar wouldn’t be able to figure it out.’
Hanane laughs. ‘Omar would figure it out. Even if it took him thirty years.’
Chapter Fifty-Six
High Atlas Mountains, Morocco – June 2009
She’s floating on a yellow sea. The sky above her is a hot blue. There’s nothing around her but the shimmering yellow water. Not yellow from the sun. More like melted butter. Yes, the colour of melted butter. She trails her hand through the liquid. Cold. Cold melted butter. Is that possible?
Looking down, she sees that she’s lying on a carpet of white wool with black zigzags. She wears a white wedding dress, full and lacy. Meringue. Who chose that? Must have been Philippa. The tail end of a white tagelmust floats out to the horizon, lapping against the waves. She lifts her wet hand and touches her fingers to her lips. Wine. She’s floating on wine.
She closes her eyes. The sun pins her to the carpet. She lets the waves take her wherever they wish. A bird cries somewhere far above. She opens her eyes and scans the blue sky. Blue like Omar’s tagelmust.
A couple of birds circle above, looping and darting like two aerobatic planes. They pick up speed and aim for each other, spinning out of each other’s path just as it seems they’ll collide. They fly closer to her. The larger bird is as blue as the sky; the other has red and green and yellow feathers, as colourful as … as … something she can’t remember. No, she remembers. A planet. A tie-dyed planet. The tie-dyed bird dive-bombs in to peck at the larger bird before it swoops away, laughing. Laughing? How can birds laugh?
The blue bird loops around in an arc, picking up speed as it descends. Thrusting out its feet, its black talons gleaming in the sunlight, it catches the smaller bird. The small bird screams. The blue bird’s descending too fast. They’re too close to the water. The yellow sea splashes upwards like a geyser as the birds make impact. The water closes over them. Everything’s quiet. Even the lapping waves make no sound.
The dark room is empty. Addy rubs her throbbing head. Her T-shirt has ridden up over her bra. She rolls her tongue around her mouth and swallows. Stale wine and mutton grease. The shower’s running in the bathroom. Omar must have got the hot water fixed. She needs a shower. Something to blow the cobwebs out of her mind. And orange juice. She needs a lot of orange juice.
She swings her bare feet off the bed. She stumbles over her jeans on the thick white rug on her way to the banquette, where she’d left her suitcase. It isn’t there. Nor is her straw hat or her sunglasses, which she remembers tossing onto the low brass table. She looks around the room. Something’s different.
The bathroom door opens. ‘Omar, I—’
‘Omar?’ Nigel stands in the doorway, a towel around his waist, drying his hair with a facecloth. ‘I could be offended by that.’
‘Pippa. Open up.’ Addy pounds on Philippa’s door.
‘Who is it?’ Philippa’s voice is thick with sleep and alcohol.
‘Addy. Who else? Let me in.’
The key jiggles in the lock and the door swings open. Philippa’s in her Ralph Lauren striped pyjamas, a purple satin eye mask pushed up over her matted hair.
‘God, Addy. Do you know what time it is? Six fucking fifteen. I haven’t even reached REM yet.’
Addy pushes past her. ‘Have you seen Omar?’
Shutting the door, Philippa pads across the room to the bed. ‘Why would I have seen Omar? He’s your boyfriend.’ She climbs on top of the bed, and pulls the mound of sheets and blankets up to her chin.
‘Pippa, it’s a disaster.’
Philippa opens an eye, its blueness sharpened by the red veins threading over her eyeball. ‘Don’t be a drama queen. It’s hardly the end of the world. So you slept with your ex-fiancé. That was probably a good thing.’
The blood rushes to Addy’s face. ‘What?’
‘You heard me. I saw you leave with Nigel last night. Now let me get some sleep.’ Philippa tugs the eye mask over her eyes. ‘Breakfast isn’t until eight. We can talk then.’
Addy pulls off Philippa’s eye mask. ‘How did Nigel know we were here? Did you call him?’
Philippa sits up against pillows. ‘He texted me yesterday morning. He said he’s worried about you. He doesn’t trust Omar. There’s one thing we agree on, at least. He wants another chance.’
‘You said you hadn’t told him we were going to the desert.’
‘Well, I didn’t tell him, did I? Not literally.’ Philippa shrugs. ‘It was a text.’
Addy sinks onto Philippa’s bed and covers her face with her hands. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Look. You and Omar? It’s never going to work.’
She glares at her sister through her fingers. ‘No thanks to you.’ She drops her hands and picks at a loose thread of embroidery on a blanket.
‘I only expedited the inevitable, Adela. I did you a favour.’
‘Just like what happened to Dad.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why is it that people who claim to love you hate to see you love someone different?’
‘What are you talking about?’
Addy looks at her sister. ‘Our father and his Moroccan lover, Hanane. Her family didn’t approve of their relationship, either. Even when she got pregnant. Especially after that.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘When Hanane’s family found out about her pregnancy, they refused to have anything to do with her. She and Gus left Zitoune. But she couldn’t stay away from her family. She travelled back from Marrakech on her own just before the baby was due. She had the baby that night. She died before Dad got to Zitoune.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘Omar. But everyone in Zitoune knows.’
‘What happened to the baby?’
‘We have a Moroccan half-brother, Pippa.’
‘We what?’
‘You’ve met him. His name’s Amine. He was the boy waiting on us in Mohammed’s restaurant. He’s Mohammed’s nephew. Everybody calls him a bastard. He has no status in Morocco.’
‘Amine’s our brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Dad hid this all these years?’
‘He didn’t know. They lied to him. They
told him the baby had died. They thought it was the best thing, you see. Wouldn’t it have been better if Dad and Hanane had been allowed to love each other? To live their lives together? Our lives would’ve been different. Amine’s life would’ve been different. Maybe Hanane wouldn’t have died. Love needs to breathe. Love needs to be allowed to live.’
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Casablanca, Morocco – May 1984
Hanane raises her face to the sun and closes her eyes. The warmth pricks at her skin like tiny drops of hot rain. The wind whips off the Atlantic and across the Corniche boardwalk, stirring up the waves, which crash onto the long sandy beach. She opens her eyes and reaches up to brush wayward strands of hair from her face.
She glances over to the ice-cream stall, where Gus is engaged in a lively discussion with the ice-cream vendor. No pistachio, she guesses. Why does she crave pistachio so much?
She rubs her hand across the blue cotton of her djellaba. Unless … She frowns. She’d thought the nausea was from all the travel. The crowded grands taxis, the decrepit buses, the interminable twists of the roads. She counts back the months. She hasn’t bled since March – two months. And she’s always been regular.
‘Here you go, darling.’ Gus lopes across the boardwalk licking a chocolate ice-cream cone. He holds out a cone of pink ice cream. ‘I’ve got you strawberry. No pistachio, I’m afraid. I hope it’s all right.’
Hanane smiles. ‘I’ve never eaten strawberry before.’
‘No? You’re in for a treat. They love strawberries in England. Strawberries and cream.’
Gus holds out his hand and Hanane slips her hands into his warm grasp. They stroll along the boardwalk as they lick their ice cream, past boys playing football on the sand by the seaside and old men in djellabas, who glance at her and frown as they pass by. Her stomach suddenly flutters and she feels her blood rush down to her feet.
‘Can we sit? I’m feeling a little tired. I think it’s the heat.’
‘Of course, darling. There’s a bench just over there. There’s a nice view of the ocean.’
They sit and the nausea subsides. The pink ice cream is dripping onto her wrist and she licks at the sticky drops.
‘That’s where they’re going to build the king’s mosque.’ Gus points along the beach in the direction of the city centre. ‘Nothing much there now. I expect they’ll start digging the foundations soon. Well, as soon as he raises the money. It’s going to cost a fortune.’
‘His men have already come to Zitoune for money. My father was very unhappy about it. So was Mohammed. It was money to make the restaurant bigger. My brother is impatient to be rich.’
‘Your brother’s a clever man. I’m sure he’ll be the king of Zitoune one day.’
Hanane leans her head against Gus’s shoulder as she chews the sweet biscuit of the cone.
‘Do you wish for another child, habibi?’
‘I’d be delighted if we had a child.’
She sits up and looks into his clear blue eyes, at the fine lines tracing out from the corners as he smiles at her. She takes his hand and guides it to her stomach. ‘I’m happy for that.’ She rests her hand over Gus’s. ‘Because our child is coming.’
‘Our child?’ He looks down at her stomach, still flat under her djellaba. ‘You’re pregnant?’
‘Yes, I think so. I must go to a doctor when we are back in Marrakech, but I think so.’
Gus wraps his arms around her and hugs her close to him. ‘Oh, my darling. Our baby. Our future’s just beginning and it’ll be a grand future, I promise you.’
Hanane squirms in his embrace. ‘My ice cream! It’s melting all over you.’
‘I don’t care. Let it melt. Mine’s all over my hand. Let it rain ice cream!’ He releases her and they lick the melting treats. ‘Do you want to tell your family?’
‘I don’t want to talk about my family.’
‘But they’re your family, Hanane. I know you miss them.’
‘I miss Zitoune. Not them. Not after … what happened.’
‘Maybe when you tell them about the baby—’
Hanane looks at Gus. ‘It will be worse. The baby will only be proof of my disgrace in their eyes.’
‘I can explain everything to them. They’ll see they’ve made a mistake. We’re married, for Heaven’s sake.’
‘There is no point, habibi. They’ll never approve of our relationship. Not after what the policeman said. Even if we show them the marriage paper, they’ll think the baby was conceived in Zitoune. They’ll believe it’s not legitimate.’ Hanane shakes her head. ‘No, my love. You’re my family now. It is only for us to find our home.’
Chapter Fifty-Eight
High Atlas Mountains, Morocco – June 2009
Omar stands beside one of the vans talking to the driver, his baseball cap pulled down low to shield his eyes from the sun. He glances at Addy as she approaches, then he turns his back and continues his conversation.
Addy holds out some wedges of an orange. ‘Limoun?’
The driver smiles. He takes two wedges. ‘Shukran, madame.’
Omar ignores the offering. Addy rests her hand on his arm. His muscle tenses under her fingers.
‘Could I talk to you when you’re finished with the driver?’
‘You can talk to me now.’
She clears her throat. ‘No, not here. I’ll wait for you on the terrace.’
She steps over the wooden boards and sucks on a sweet orange wedge as her world shakes like an earth tremor under her feet.
‘Yes?’
Addy looks at Omar from her perch on the ledge. She raises her hand to shield her bloodshot eyes from the bright morning sun.
‘I’m so sorry, Omar.’
‘Mashi mushkil.’
‘I should’ve come back to the room after supper.’
Omar stands like an unbending tree on the grey concrete floor of the terrace. He folds his arms across his chest.
‘Yes.’
‘I made a mistake. I was just going to have one glass of wine, then … I don’t know what happened.’
‘Your sister made you drunk.’
‘It wasn’t her fault. She’s on holiday. She wants to have some fun. I got carried away.’
‘Where did you sleep last night?’
Addy squints at the winding riverbed far below and moistens her lips. ‘In Philippa’s room. She thought you’d be mad at her if I turned up drunk in our room last night.’
‘For sure I would be angry. I’m angry yet.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘You made an embarrassment for yourself to be drunk, Adi.’ He shrugs. ‘I don’t mind about your sister, but it’s very bad for Moroccans to see my girlfriend drunk. They will think you’re a bad lady.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Addy wraps her arms around her knees and balances on the edge of the concrete ledge.
Omar takes her hands and steadies her. ‘Be careful, darling. You might fall.’
‘I was counting on the fact you wouldn’t let me.’
Omar hoists himself onto the ledge. ‘You made me angry, habibati.’
‘I know.’
‘You were so, so drunk last night. Mohammed told me this morning.’
‘He’s one to talk.’
‘It’s true what you say. Mohammed is sick this morning. He has a headache.’
In the sunlight, Omar’s eyes are bloodshot. He squints at the light. ‘Your sister made a bad honour for you.’
‘It’s not her fault.’ Addy sighs. Her head throbs and her tongue is like glue. ‘Sometimes I feel so … constrained here. I mustn’t do this and I mustn’t do that. Just because I’m a woman. It’s making me crazy.’ She drops her head into her hands and presses her fingers against her temples.
‘You have a headache?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll tell the driver to stop at a pharmacy in Erfoud.’
Addy blinks against the strong morning light. ‘The driver?’
‘I made a
n arrangement to be the tour guide on a tour bus. I promised my wife we would go to the desert.’
‘Your wife?’
He leans over and brushes Addy’s lips with a kiss. ‘You’re my wife even though you make me disturbed sometimes. I must learn to understand you well.’
‘I’m not your wife.’
Omar wraps his arms around her. He rocks back and forth, gaining momentum. ‘So will you be my wife, Adi?’
‘Omar, stop!’
‘If we die, it’s our fate. Will you be my wife, habibati?’
‘Yes. Fine. Stop it!’
Omar stops the rocking and hugs her to him. ‘You make my mind crazy, darling. I’m always thinking of you, you have to know about it. You’re in my blood. I want to make a family with you. It’s our fate to be together ever since your father came to Zitoune. We’ll make a big wedding celebration after Ramadan. I will buy you a beautiful kaftan of turquoise silk so you will be the most beautiful rosa of Zitoune.’
‘There’s no rush. We barely know each other.’
‘I know you well enough.’
Addy looks at Omar. ‘I can’t have children.’
Omar stares at her. He drops his arms. ‘One child even, habibati. A boy or a girl, it doesn’t matter.’
The scar on her breast throbs. Addy rubs it with the flat of her hand. She’s on a roller coaster, spinning out of control. Whatever happens, she has to tell Omar the truth.
‘I had cancer.’ She touches her breast. ‘It’s why I have this scar. It’s why I can’t have children. None at all. The cancer medicine stopped that.’
They’re surrounded by the hum of the tour bus engines, the chatter of the drivers and the clatter of tourists dragging their luggage across the wooden boards. But on the ledge it’s like a vacuum has descended. No sound. No air. No future.
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