The Lost Letter from Morocco

by Adrienne Chinn

  Omar presses a kiss into Addy’s palms. When he looks at her, his eyes are wet.

  ‘If I could have cancer for you, I would do it. You’re the angel of my life, Adi. It’s our fate to be together in this life. Inshallah, we will find a way.’

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Merzouga, Sahara Desert, Morocco – June 2009

  It’s late afternoon when the tour bus reaches the Sahara Desert. The sand slides over the roads and into the yards of the few squat dull yellow houses and hotels of Merzouga. The waning sun streaks the sky red, casting a pink glow on the towering dunes behind the town.

  The driver parks beside a half-dozen tour buses, in front of a sprawling single-storey adobe building that wouldn’t look out of place in an old John Wayne Western. Almost on cue, a tall brown-skinned man in a blue gown and turban pushes through the swing doors. Yelling in Arabic, he waves at the bottleneck of tourists on the covered porch, who are pulling clothes out of suitcases and jamming necessities into knapsacks.

  Omar claps his hands for attention. ‘Okay, everybody. You see the big sand dunes of the Sahara? It’s called the Erg Chebbi. It’s very, very famous in the world. It’s one hundred fifty metres tall in some places and fifty kilometres long. On the other side in fifty kilometres is Algérie. We must be careful in the desert, because there are some mines near Algérie. Anyway, it’s nicer in Morocco, so we won’t go close to Algérie. So no problem.’

  ‘Mines?’ Philippa looks up from the compact mirror. ‘You don’t mean land mines?’

  ‘For sure, land mines. They make a big boom when they explode. It happens sometimes.’ He shrugs. ‘Don’t worry. Be happy. You’ll be fine, Phileepa. The Tuareg guides know the desert well. They’re the blue men of the desert. The sand is in their blood.’

  ‘Good God, Addy, where have you brought me?’

  Addy squints at the blazing sun through her sunglasses. ‘The Sahara Desert. You said you wanted to come to the desert.’

  Philippa pushes her oversized sunglasses up her nose. ‘Yes, well, when you said Sahara, I didn’t think you meant the actual Sahara desert. Isn’t that in Arabia or something?’

  ‘Africa. It’s in Africa. We’re standing on it.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Philippa scans the dunes pushing up against the reddening sky behind the hotel. She turns to Addy, the bug-like sunglasses reflecting back Addy’s hot, sweaty face.

  Philippa lowers her voice. ‘So, what happened with Nigel?’

  ‘Shhh. Don’t talk about him here.’

  ‘Omar’s not here. I saw him go off with Mohammed and the driver. Did you actually sleep with him?’

  ‘Pippa!’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘I had my clothes on when I woke up. Well, most of them. I don’t remember.’

  ‘You don’t remember? What did Nigel say when you woke up?’

  ‘Nothing. Not much. He came out of the bathroom in a towel. He seemed pretty amused by it all, actually. I ran back to my room, but Omar wasn’t there so I woke you up. If Omar asks, tell him I slept in your room. That’s what I told him.’

  Philippa nods, the brim of her hat flapping around her face. ‘Where’s Nigel now?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’

  ‘You’re going to need to deal with him, Addy. He’s living in your flat.’

  ‘I know. When I get back to London it’s top of the list. Don’t you dare say anything about him to Omar.’

  Philippa makes a twisting motion in front of her pink lips with her fingers. ‘My lips are sealed.’

  A metal door clatters against the far side of the bus. The ground resonates with soft thunks as luggage hits the sand. As Philippa repairs her make-up in the wing mirror, Addy walks around the bus. Omar and Mohammed are pulling out the tourists’ luggage and stacking it into piles in the sand. Omar points to Addy’s and Philippa’s bags and suitcases.

  ‘Too many for the camels, darling. I told you before.’ He thrusts the handle of Addy’s suitcase towards her. ‘Hurry, put your clothes and your sister’s in my knapsack. Take one camera only. We’ll leave everything else in the hotel.’

  Addy looks over at the crowd sifting through their suitcases in front of the hotel. ‘So that’s what everyone’s doing.’ She wipes the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘I need all of my lenses and the tripod. I’m not going to leave them here. Anybody could take them.’

  Omar frowns at her. ‘We’re not thieves here.’

  The tension between them snaps in the dry heat of the desert air.

  ‘Okay. Fine. I’ll pick out just what I need from the suitcase and tell Philippa to do the same. But I’m taking all of my camera equipment.’

  ‘You must be quick, darling. The camels go soon. The guides don’t wait.’ Omar hoists her camera bags over his shoulders with his knapsack and heads off towards the hotel porch. ‘Come quick with your sister.’

  Addy drags the luggage over the sandy ground to Philippa. Her sister’s huddled in the shade of the bus, holding a tiny battery-operated fan up against her face.

  ‘We’ve got to unload, Pippa. There’s no room on the camels for the suitcases.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘You’ve got to hurry. Omar said the camels are leaving any minute. I don’t want to be left behind on account of you.’

  ‘Oh, stop being such an ass.’

  ‘Don’t you dare start, too.’ Addy presses a hand to her throbbing forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just hungover. And this heat …’ Addy takes off her straw hat and fans her face. ‘Everything’s getting on my nerves.’

  ‘Everything’s getting on your nerves?’ Philippa huffs. The fan emits a buzz like a cloud of mosquitoes. ‘Join the club.’

  The hotel lobby is a circus. People tossing clothes in and out of suitcases, haggling over the overpriced tagelmusts on sale at the front desk, elbowing each other for the few remaining packets of tissues and bottles of water for sale on a table next to the door to the only toilet. A half-dozen Tuareg guides spin through the crowd. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ they shout, their blue gowns flapping as they herd the tourists towards the exit at the rear of the hotel.

  Addy unzips her suitcase as Philippa joins the queue of women in front of the toilet. She sorts out piles of necessities and non-necessities on the terrazzo floor.

  Omar leans over and grabs a handful of her underwear, stuffing it into his knapsack. ‘It’s fine, Adi. You don’t need anything else.’

  Addy grabs at his knapsack and yanks out the jumbled mix of underwear. ‘Don’t tell me what I need.’

  Omar rolls his eyes. ‘Yalla, Adi. You have to hurry. The camels are going.’

  Addy scans the crowded lobby and frowns. ‘Where are they going to put our suitcases?’

  Omar waves his hands at her in frustration. ‘It’s a room here. Lots of people have to put their suitcase here. Don’t worry.’

  The back of Addy’s neck prickles and heat flushes her face. ‘Just give me a minute. I won’t be long if you leave me alone.’

  Omar slaps his hands together impatiently. ‘Darling. Hurry. Yalla.’

  The words tumble out before Addy can stop them. ‘Fuck off with the yalla.’

  Omar drops the knapsack on the floor. Addy watches in silent fury as he storms off, her camera bags over his shoulders, until he’s lost among the blue gowns of the Tuareg guides.

  Philippa and Addy join the other tourists behind the hotel. Addy scans the group for Omar, and recognises an American tourist with a heavily botoxed face and floppy hat from their bus. She’s being pushed by two Tuareg guides onto the top of a kneeling dromedary that groans every time she stabs it with the heels of her designer shoes. The woman’s elderly mother, dressed in vibrant floral prints topped by a large yellow hat, is already sitting on top of a dromedary like a wizened parrot. She pets the face of the bemused young guide sitting behind like he’s a favoured chick
.

  ‘Madame!’ A guide holding the rope lead of a kneeling dromedary beckons to Philippa.

  ‘Bloody hell. These things reek.’ Philippa reaches into her purse and pulls out a white handkerchief, pressing it against her nose.

  ‘Better get used to it, Pippa. They’re going to be part of our lives for the next twenty-four hours.’

  Philippa staggers over the sand towards the kneeling beast. ‘I’m going to need to fumigate myself when I get back to England. And burn my clothes.’

  A young Tuareg guide taps Addy on the shoulder and points towards a dromedary at the front of the caravan. ‘Yalla.’

  Addy follows him, her feet sinking into the fine sand with each step. She hands him Omar’s knapsack and, grabbing a hunk of the dromedary’s hair, she throws her leg over the rough brown blanket. The guide slaps the animal on its rear and Addy lurches forwards as the groaning dromedary jerks up onto its rear legs. As it straightens its front legs, Addy shoots backwards, almost tumbling over its rump.

  ‘Labass?’ The guide smiles as he hands her Omar’s knapsack. He has a friendly face. There’s something about him that reminds her of Amine. Her brother, Amine.

  ‘Bikher.’

  ‘Hamdullah.’ He takes hold of the long rope lead and clicks his tongue. The dromedary moves forwards in a slow, bobbing motion.

  Addy turns around in her seat and sees the caravan unfurl behind her, the dromedaries attached to each other with ropes. Philippa’s perched on the rough brown wool saddle, stiff-backed and unamused, blowing air onto her flushed cheeks with her fan. Following behind her are the two American women, the two young acrobats from the hotel and a Japanese man wearing a surgical mask, who’s attempting to record the caravan while he clasps a large suitcase against his chest. A couple more riders catch up to the rear of the caravan.

  In his coarse brown djellaba with the hood pulled over his bald head, Mohammed looks like Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’s drinking a can of beer and smoking something that Addy suspects is a spliff. Omar follows close behind, the blue of his clothes a dot of vivid colour in the sandy landscape, her camera bags strapped across him bandolier-style.

  Seeing Addy watching him, Omar pulls the ring off his beer can and throws back his head, pouring the beer down his throat. He swings his arms out wide and drops the can into the sand. He pulls two more beers out of a plastic bag slung across the dromedary’s saddle and starts to sing, loud and slightly off-key. He urges his animal up next to Mohammed’s and offers Mohammed a beer. Mohammed tosses his empty can into the sand and takes the beer from Omar. He takes a swig and joins Omar in the drunken singing.

  A gust of wind catches the brim of Addy’s straw hat and sends it flying. It skims over the dunes like a stone skipping across a pond.

  ‘My hat!’

  Omar holds out his can of beer towards the flying hat. ‘It’s gone on the wind to Algérie.’

  Addy spins around and stares out over the blue tagelmust of her guide at the darkening desert. Soon, Omar has the two young acrobats and the Japanese man singing along to his song. Even the American woman’s mother joins in with an enthusiastic ‘Mama Africa’ whenever the chorus comes around.

  Addy’s never felt more alone, although she takes some solace in the knowledge that Philippa’s probably as miserable as she is. The desert spreads out before her, a sea of sand burned red with the last light of dusk.

  They trek across the desert for over an hour, the heat of the day quickly dissipating as the sky turns to night. Eventually, they reach a cluster of brown tents nestled at the foot of the dunes. Another group has already arrived, their dromedaries standing like sentries around the fringes of the camp. Several dune buggies sit like giant black beetles at the foot of a large dune. A pair of Tuareg guides in blue gowns and tagelmusts hover over a campfire and pyramids of tagine pots, feeding the fire with sticks to keep the dinner cooking.

  Addy’s guide leads the caravan to the edge of the encampment. The two guides from the campfire come over and join him, clucking at the dromedaries and slapping their hindquarters. Groaning and spitting, the animals lumber down onto their knees, shrinking like deflating bellows. Addy slides off the animal onto the soft beige sand. She clutches onto the blanket-covered hump as her balance recalibrates from the dromedary’s slow undulations. She looks around for Omar, but he and Mohammed have disappeared.

  She joins Philippa and they follow the others past the campfire into the largest tent. Inside, long wooden tables and benches have been set up on pink-and-yellow plastic mats. A group of German tourists has claimed several of the tables and are pulling cans of Heineken out of their knapsacks.

  The two acrobats wave at them from a table. Philippa and Addy edge past the others and join them on the bench. The girl has blonde dreadlocks down to her waist, and wears green army pants and a sleeveless T-shirt with Je Me Souviens printed across it in bright blue letters. The boy has a shadow of regrowth where he’s recently shaved his head and a skull earring piercing his left ear.

  He holds out a hand to Addy. ‘Bonsoir. I’m Dominique. But everybody call me Dom.’

  Addy shakes his hand. ‘Hi, I’m Addy.’

  The girl waves her hand. ‘I’m Dominique, too.’ She makes a pinching gesture with her fingers. ‘I speak English only a leetle.’

  ‘Dom and Dominique, that’s easy to remember.’ Addy nods at the girl’s T-shirt. ‘Are you from Québec?’

  ‘From Montréal,’ the girl says. ‘We meet you last night in the hotel.’

  Philippa laughs. ‘I’m afraid my sister was pissed out of her gills last night so she doesn’t remember a thing.’

  Addy smiles wanly and nods towards her sister. ‘Philippa. My sister.’

  Philippa reaches for the plastic basket full of bread and offers it around. ‘That was a marvellous show you put on in the hotel last night.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Dom says. ‘We are with the Cirque Magique de Montréal.’

  ‘How marvellous.’ Philippa tears a hunk from the bread. ‘I saw the show in London last year. Tell me, how do you keep from vomiting when you do those bungee head spins?’

  Addy chews on the bread as she listens to the laughter and chatter. Why is it that, now, when she should be enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime experience with the man she loves, she’s sabotaged it with her bad mood? She sinks deeper into a funk of unhappiness as the answer slowly materialises.

  Because she’s a coward and she’s afraid.

  Chapter Sixty

  Zitoune, Morocco – October 1984

  The waterfalls crash over the orange clay cliffs, bouncing from one sandstone ledge to another into the green pond at its base. A couple of tourist rafts, their pink and yellow plastic flowers a jolt of colour in the landscape, paddle into the spray. The shrieks of the drenched tourists waft up to the lookout.

  ‘I’ve always loved this view,’ Hanane says as she surveys the scene. ‘The waterfalls have a magic, don’t you think?’

  ‘I know what you mean, my darling. Pictures don’t do it justice. You can’t capture the way it feels in a photo.’ Gus looks through the viewfinder of his Polaroid camera but then shakes his head and lets it fall against his chest.

  ‘Give me the camera, Mister Gus,’ Omar says. He slurps the dregs of his orange juice and reaches for the camera. ‘I can make a good picture of the waterfalls. You will feel all the magic.’

  ‘Oh, really, Mister Boss? And how much is that going to cost me? You’ve already had two glasses of orange juice.’

  ‘I make it complimentary for you and Hanane, for the memories.’

  ‘Really?’ Hanane laughs. ‘Are you going soft, Omar?’

  ‘Never. You must be strong to be a businessman.’ He takes the camera from Gus and loops the strap around his neck. ‘I’m so happy to see you again, Hanane. I want to make a memory for you and Mister Gus. Each time you look at the picture, you will remember me as well.’

  Omar peers through the viewfinder and waves at them to move together until they’re framed by t
he streaming white water in the distance behind them. Gus puts an arm around Hanane’s shoulders and she leans into him, smiling. She turns to look at Omar, who clicks the photo. The camera spews out the glossy grey-and-white card.

  Omar waves the Polaroid in the air. ‘I got it!’

  ‘Omar, I wasn’t ready!’ Hanane objects.

  ‘It’s better like that. More natural. Can I go show Yassine?’

  ‘Sure, Mister Boss.’ Gus reaches into his pocket and pulls out some loose change. ‘Here, get us a couple of orange juices, okay? Get one for Yassine and another one for you, if you want.’

  Hanane watches Omar scamper over to the bar Yassine’s father’s constructed of old watermelon crates. Yassine runs around the bar to watch as Omar unveils the photo.

  Gus rests his hand on Hanane’s growing bump. ‘Would you like a girl or a boy?’

  ‘I don’t mind, habibi. I just wish for it to be healthy.’ Her eyes cloud over. ‘And for our baby to know their grandfather and uncle before we go to Canada.’

  ‘I know. Let’s have our orange juice and we’ll go there now.’

  Hanane pounds on the door to her father’s house. ‘Please, Baba! Please talk to me!’

  Gus reaches for Hanane’s hand. ‘Hanane, please. Let me.’

  Hanane wipes the tears from her cheeks and nods. Gus pounds on the door.

  ‘Mohammed! Mr Demsiri! Please, open up. We need to talk to you.’

  A bolt scratches against the metal and the door creaks open. Mohammed’s wife, Bouchra, steps onto the concrete porch. She eyes Hanane’s pregnant stomach.

  ‘How can you come here to shame us again, you filthy woman?’

  ‘Please, Bouchra, let me see my father. It’s not what you think at all. We’re married. We have the paper. Is Mohammed here? We can show him the paper.’

  ‘Show me the paper.’

  ‘But, Bouchra …’

  She clicks her fingers in Hanane’s face. ‘Show me the paper.’

  Hanane looks at Gus. ‘Show her the paper, habibi. She’s insisting.’