The Lost Letter from Morocco

by Adrienne Chinn

  She leans on her elbow. ‘I need to go back to England soon. My Moroccan visa’s almost up. I’m going to move in with Philippa for a while. I have to convince Nigel to sell the flat. Then I’ll be free of him for good.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll forget about me. It’s hard for me to know that he’ll be there close to you.’

  ‘I’ll never forget about you, habibi. I need the money from the flat if I’m going to move to Morocco. I spent what my father left me to pay off my debts, buy the new camera equipment and fund this trip to Morocco. Philippa thought I was mad. But I had to come. Not just to find Hanane and Amine. But for me. To find me.’

  ‘You would move to Morocco?’

  ‘Why not? Maybe not right away. But I can look into it. There’s nothing for me in London. I can be a photographer anywhere. Maybe I’ll teach photography to tourists. Write a blog. Maybe I can write more travel books. Who knows?’

  Omar nods. ‘The doors are closed in England.’

  ‘Everything for me is here in Morocco.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, your mother and your sister and your grandmother are here, of course.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘It’s a wonderful place for me to take pictures to sell to travel magazines. It’s so photogenic.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, the weather’s very nice.’

  He grabs Addy and rolls her on top of him. ‘That’s everything? You’re sure?’

  She smiles down at his face, lit silver by the moon. ‘I almost forgot. There’s a guy called Omar. He’s kind of okay.’

  He pulls her tight against him. ‘Okay only?’

  ‘Omar, I can’t breathe.’

  ‘Okay only?’

  Addy relaxes her body against his and he loosens his hold. They stay like that until their breathing synchronises.

  ‘He’s the man I love.’

  Omar rolls her off him and sits up in the sand.

  ‘Habibati, I must tell you something.’

  A prickle of unease chases over Addy’s shoulders. ‘Yes?’

  ‘There was a lady before I met you. Her family made the papers for marriage. They wait for me to sign them.’

  ‘A lady?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do I know her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  He looks over at Addy. ‘Zaina.’

  It’s like a stab to her heart. ‘That’s why Zaina hates me.’

  ‘I don’t mind for Zaina. It’s why I didn’t sign the papers yet, even before you came. I went to the judge two times to do it and I left. It makes her parents angry. My mother doesn’t understand. My mother wants grandchildren. Even me, I want children, too. It’s normal.’

  Normal. Something she’ll never be again.

  ‘Then you came to Zitoune. I knew you are the lady I been waiting for. I’m happy even when you make me angry. I want to tell you everything. I never had a relationship with a lady like it before. Even though sometimes we don’t understand each other well. I’m so sorry for that.’

  Omar reaches out to brush the fringe out of Addy’s eyes, but she leans back out of his reach. He drops his hand.

  ‘I brought you to my family and everybody loves you a lot. My mother says you’re like an Amazigh lady. She loves that you bought a washing machine. It’s a big honour for her. She says to me why can’t Adi be like the Dutch lady of Yassine and I marry Zaina. This is a good way in her mind. But I don’t want that situation at all, one hundred per cent. I want you to be my wife, full stop.’

  ‘Is that how everyone sees me? Like Yassine’s Dutch girlfriend?’

  The line between Omar’s eyebrows deepens. ‘They know I love you like my wife. I’m clear about that with everybody. They don’t have permission to think about you in a bad way.’

  Addy clutches a handful of the cold sand and watches it run through her fingers.

  ‘I couldn’t stay with you if you married Zaina.’

  ‘I know it. I think sometimes I must stop it with you. I think in the desert today to stop it with you. But I can’t. You got me. I’m finished. I want us to be all together. I want to make the dar with you. With you I see the possibility of the kasbah hotel and the tour agency. Before it was a big dream that is in outer space. But you make me believe in myself.

  ‘I’ll rent a café by the river this summer to earn more money. I’ll do guiding two times a day. I’ll work very harder because now I work for two people. For you and for me.’

  ‘What about Zaina?’

  ‘I’ll tell her family I won’t marry her. They’ll be angry, but that’s not my problem.’ He shrugs. ‘My mum will have to accept it.’

  She’s the stone thrown into the pond and the ripples are turning into waves. It feels unreal, like she’s an actor in a movie she’s created in her dreams. But even as she’s living it, it’s like she’s sitting in a cinema, watching the story unfold in front of her. Why is it that a person can spend so much of their life waiting for it to happen, and then when it does, everything happens so fast that it feels like the events spin by without touching them? That sometime later, when everything has settled down again, they look back at the big events and it’s like a dream that’s happened to someone else?

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  The Sahara Desert, Morocco – June 2009

  Addy wakes up beside Omar under a pile of blankets in a small tent. Moroccan wool rugs in red-and-black geometric patterns hang over the tent’s brown walls and cover the sand. Leaning on her elbow, she examines Omar’s sleeping face. He smiles.

  ‘So, you’re awake, habibi.’

  ‘I can feel you watching me.’

  She traces the outline of his lips with her fingertip. ‘I’m allowed.’

  Omar opens his eyes. ‘For sure you’re allowed, darling. Nobody can stop you.’

  She moves her fingertip along the curve of his cheekbone. ‘I didn’t know they had private tents.’

  ‘It’s for special clients. VIP. I made a plan for us to have it. But then we were fighting, so you went in the big tent with your sister.’

  She lies back and squints at the pattern of the rug hanging over the tent’s ceiling. ‘I’m sorry about all that.’

  ‘What happened to you yesterday, darling? You been moody. It cut me like a knife.’

  ‘I was tired and hot, and I had a hangover.’ Addy rubs her eyes. It’s only half the truth. She’s been worried that she’d slept with Nigel. ‘And I lost my hat.’

  ‘I’m sorry for that. I will buy you a new hat. Anyway, you have to know I opened the door for you in Morocco. You are welcome in Morocco and in my heart.’

  ‘I know. But I think Philippa has you pegged as a slave trader who’s after what’s left of my flimsy virtue.’

  ‘A Barbary corsair.’

  Addy laughs. ‘A Barbary corsair. Yes, that suits you.’

  Omar rolls over on top of her. ‘For sure I would sail the world to find you and take you to be with me. Nobody can stop me.’

  ‘What about me?’

  Omar buries his head against Addy’s shoulder and kisses her neck. He leans over her ear and whispers. ‘You want me to stop it?’

  The tent flap flies open. Mohammed stands in the entrance pounding on a drum. ‘Yalla! Yalla! Lafdoure! Breakfast!’

  ‘Allah I naal dine omok,’ Omar swears as he rolls off Addy.

  Mohammed laughs. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’ The tent flap falls behind him.

  Addy hears him enter the next tent to the shrieks of the German women.

  ‘If he says yalla to me one more time, I’ll make him yellow,’ she says grumpily.

  Omar rolls back on top of her. ‘You’re a strong lady. I love it.’

  Mohammed sticks his head through the entrance flap again. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’

  ‘An nhwik.’

  Mohammed ducks his head out of the tent just as Omar’s Nike trainer slams against a rug on the wall.

  ‘If he comes again, I’ll ki
ll him.’ Omar runs his hand along Addy’s bare arm.

  ‘What about breakfast?’

  ‘We eat later, habibati. First, I’ll make you hungry.’

  Somewhere in the distance, Mohammed bangs the drum. ‘Yalla! Yalla! We go. Come on. Fab. Mama Africa.’

  Addy’s just mounted her seated dromedary and is adjusting her camera strap, when Omar grabs her around her waist and launches himself onto the blanket saddle behind her. He clucks his tongue and kicks the sides of the animal with his heels. The dromedary groans and lumbers to its feet.

  Philippa clambers onto the dromedary behind them. ‘Looks like Paradise has been regained.’

  Mohammed grabs her waist and settles onto the saddle behind her.

  Addy frowns at her sister, still angry about the aspersions Philippa had cast on Hanane.

  ‘It looks like I’m not the only one who’s found Paradise in the desert.’

  Philippa slides her sunglasses down her nose and peers down the line of dromedaries.

  ‘What’s happened to Nigel?’

  ‘The English? He’s gone,’ Mohammed says. ‘He go with a German lady in a dune buggy this morning. He don’t drive well. It might be he go to Algérie.’

  ‘I hope he goes to Antarctica,’ Omar mumbles.

  The Tuareg guides walk along the rank of the dromedaries, checking the ropes. The young guide Abdul grabs the rope hanging from Addy’s dromedary’s bridle.

  He smiles at Addy. ‘Labass?’

  ‘Bikher. Shukran.’

  Omar barks at Abdul in Arabic. The guide’s smile dissolves. He grips the rope behind his back and leads the caravan out towards the dunes.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘You have to know I saw him last night teaching you the drumming. He sat behind you and he put his arms around you. I been jealous. I told him I will fight with him like a lion if he talks to you again.’

  Mohammed laughs behind them. Addy looks over at her sister, glamorous in her white capri trousers, purple kaftan top, floppy hat and huge sunglasses. Mohammed reaches around Philippa and pulls her against him.

  ‘The foreigner ladies is so nicer. I think it might be I will marry another wife.’

  ‘Wife?’ Philippa adjusts the tagelmust she’s looped around her neck like a scarf. ‘Mo, we need to talk.’

  As the caravan reaches the base of the first large dune, the German tourists are led off on their dromedaries in another direction by one of the guides. Abdul leads Addy’s caravan up the side of the dune until they’re trekking along the top of a long ridge of sand.

  ‘Where are the others going?’

  Omar points over to the ridge of a dune where the other caravan is silhouetted in a long, graceful line against the blue sky.

  ‘It’s for making pictures. It looks nice for the tourists.’

  Addy raises her camera and focuses her lens on the silhouetted caravan, the riders’ tagelmusts bright dots of colour against the blue sky.

  ‘Look!’ Philippa shouts as she points to the opposite side. ‘The acrobats.’

  Addy looks around and sees Dom standing on top of his dromedary, his arms outstretched. He reaches down onto the blanket saddle and unfolds his body into a handstand. Behind him, Dominique moulds herself into bizarre contortions on top of her dromedary. Addy flicks the ‘continuous’ switch and the shutter clicks furiously as she captures their acrobatics. From the crest of the other sand dune, the German tourists clap and whistle.

  ‘It takes pictures quick, darling.’

  ‘Yes.’ She lowers the camera and turns around to face him. ‘I’ve just had an idea. I’ve taken so many pictures since I’ve been in Morocco that aren’t right for the travel book. As soon as I get back to London, I’m going to talk to a gallery about doing a show of my Moroccan images. The quirkier ones, like the acrobats here in the desert. Amine in his dreadlock hat. The monkey stealing food from the tables in Zitoune. It’ll be amazing.’

  ‘You’ll be in London a long time.’

  Addy chews her lip. So much of her life is still in London. Moving to Morocco might not be so easy.

  ‘Just for a while. I’ll be back soon. I promise.’

  ‘You have to.’

  ‘I’ll come back. Don’t worry.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon. As soon as I can. I’m going to need to earn some money first.’

  ‘Darling, you must come back. I gave you my heart. I will die if you take it away.’

  The dromedaries plod along in the sand. Addy leans back against Omar, anchored into place by his arm across her body. She sways with the rocking movement of the animal. The desert is quiet. All around, she sees nothing but a vast sea of sand and dunes and the blue, blue sky. The other caravan has disappeared behind the dunes. It’s like they’re the only people left on earth. The dromedaries’ feet thud softly in the sand. She closes her eyes and dozes.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Zitoune, Morocco – December 1984

  A pounding on the front door. Mohammed glances away from the television on top of a corner table in the living room – the grey concrete block walls still unplastered and unpainted – to the new silver watch on his left wrist.

  ‘Bouchra, what kind of time do you call this? It’s almost midnight. Bouchra!’

  More pounding. His young wife appears in the doorway, her face dull with sleep.

  ‘You’ll wake the baby with all your noise.’ She wipes at her eyes with her fingers. ‘Why don’t you just answer the door yourself? I had to come all the way from the kitchen.’

  ‘I’m busy.’ He points to the football match on the television. ‘Argentina has just scored against Liverpool. It’s an important match.’

  Mohammed hears Bouchra shuffle over to the door, her carpet slippers catching on the rough concrete.

  ‘Mohammed.’

  ‘What?’ He waves his hand at the television. ‘What’s Liverpool’s problem? C’mon! C’mon! Watch that guy Barberon.’

  ‘Mohammed, come quick.’

  Slapping his hands on the banquette, Mohammed rises and heads for the hallway.

  ‘What? Don’t they know the Intercontinental Cup …?’ His mouth falls open.

  His sister, Hanane, clings to the doorframe, her pregnant belly announcing her shame.

  ‘Hanane, what are you doing here? Where’s your Englishman?’

  His sister looks at him, her brown eyes full of fear.

  ‘Please, Mohammed. Help me. I’m not well. The baby’s coming soon.’

  He watches as his sister’s eyes roll back and her knees give way. He rushes forwards and thrusts out his arms. The weight of her pregnant body pulls them down into the mud outside the door.

  Bouchra grimaces as Hanane writhes on the bed. A groan escapes her sister-in-law’s mouth.

  ‘What are we going to do with her? She can’t stay here.’

  ‘She’s my sister. Look at the state of her. Where else is she supposed to go? Get her some blankets.’

  ‘It’d be better if the bastard dies. It would repay your father’s death.’

  His hand makes contact with his wife’s face. She gasps and raises a hand to her reddening cheek.

  ‘Get Aicha. Once the baby comes, we’ll decide what to do.’

  Bouchra sidles out of the room. The front door slams. Mohammed sits on the foot of the bed, watching his sister pant and moan. Her feet kick off the sheet, and her djellaba, filthy from the mud, rides up over her naked legs. Leaning over, he tucks in the sheet. Women’s work. It’s not for a man to be present here.

  ‘Look what you’ve done to us, Hanane.’

  Hanane, panting softly in a momentary rest from the pains of labour, holds out her hand to him.

  ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mohammed. Please. It’s not what you think.’ She drops her hand. ‘I married Gus in Marrakech in the spring. I’m not a bad woman.’ Her forehead drips beads of sweat down her temples into the flowered pillowcase. ‘Where’s Baba? We tried so hard to speak to you bot
h in October. It’s why we came. But …’ Her breath catches on a sob.

  ‘You were already dead to him, Hanane.’

  ‘If only he would have listened to us. Gus wanted so much to speak to him. I’ve done nothing wrong, Mohammed. But I want to beg Baba’s forgiveness for causing him so much pain.’

  ‘You broke Baba’s heart, Hanane. You were always his favourite. He’s in Paradise now.’

  ‘Baba’s dead?’

  ‘He couldn’t bear the shame of your dishonour.’ Mohammed lifts a corner of the sheet and wipes the dampness off her forehead. ‘If you’re married, where’s your husband? You should be with him.’

  Hanane closes her eyes. A tear slips from under her lashes down her cheek. She wipes it away and looks up at her brother.

  ‘I know. We planned it that way, but … I had to come home. To be with my family. Do you understand?’

  She grits her teeth and clutches at the sheet as a contraction takes hold, panting until the pain subsides.

  ‘You left him?’

  ‘No. Never. My husband had to go to Rabat for my visa. We’re going to start a new life in Canada. He has a house on a beautiful island by the ocean. He has a daughter there from his wife who died. He has another daughter in England. A new famil—’ Hanane groans and clutches her swollen belly.

  She reaches out again for Mohammed. He stands at the foot of the bed, unable to take her hand.

  ‘I’ll get you some water.’

  ‘Yes, Mohammed. Please.’

  She gulps down the water he brings from the kitchen.

  ‘Thank you. The baby wasn’t supposed to come for two more weeks. Then the pains started. I was alone. I was afraid.’

  ‘So you came back to Zitoune.’

  ‘Yes. My husband will be back in Marrakech tomorrow evening. I left him a note. He’ll come for me and for our baby. Inshallah.’

  Her body is gripped with another labour pain. This time she screams. In the depths of the house, Mohammed’s baby wails.

  Mohammed presses his palms to his forehead. His sister has married a kitabi. A Christian. But the marriage doesn’t matter. It’s haram. Forbidden for a Muslimah to marry a Christian man. With or without the marriage, she’s made herself a prostitute. A zaaniyah. An adulteress.