The Lost Letter from Morocco

by Adrienne Chinn

  Fatima nods. ‘I only tell Zaina my decision two days ago. I didn’t even tell Amine or my mother or Omar my decision yet, because then it would be final. This is how I know Zaina told Amine.’ She smiles a thin, bitter smile. ‘Sometimes I think Zaina have a djinni in her. She makes mischief for people. I’m sure she told Amine Omar was forcing me to marry Farouk.’

  ‘So why are you so upset that Amine’s left if you’ve decided not to marry him?’

  A sob wrenches from her throat. ‘Because I didn’t know I love him so much until he is gone!’

  Addy’s eyes dart over to Omar. He’s looking at her like someone who’s opened a much-anticipated gift only to be disappointed once the layers of colourful paper and ribbons have been stripped away.

  ‘You think I would force my sister to marry Farouk?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Omar. I thought …’

  ‘Fatima is free to decide for herself. I told you this before. I would never make her marry somebody she don’t want.’ He rises from the banquette and strides out into the courtyard. The front door reverberates like a thunderclap.

  Jedda hobbles into the room, a wooden box under her arm. She holds out the box to Addy and says something in Tamazight.

  Addy looks over at Fatima. ‘What’s she saying?’

  Fatima wipes her wet cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘She want you to open it. She say it’s for you.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes, she insist for it.’

  Addy takes the box and turns it over in her hands. The highly polished orange wood has a burred grain on the top and bottom with inlays of mother of pearl, and the front is faced with curved vertical slats. Just like the box Hanane’s holding on the boardwalk in Casablanca in her father’s Polaroid. She tugs at the lid but it doesn’t budge. She holds it up to her ear and shakes it. Something rattles inside.

  ‘I don’t know how to open it.’

  ‘Maybe you need a key.’

  ‘But there’s no keyhole.’

  Aicha leans over the table and takes the box from Addy. She shakes the box and fingers the vertical slats as she questions the old woman. She suddenly drops the box onto the banquette, her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Laa, Jedda.’

  ‘What is it?’ Addy picks up the box as Aicha rushes out of the room. ‘What’s going on?’

  Fatima glances over at her grandmother, who leans on her stick studying Addy with her good blue eye.

  ‘Jedda said that your father give Omar this box when he came here to find Hanane and the baby. He tell Omar to give it to Jedda. He said it has his heart. Jedda give it to you since you are the daughter of Mister Gus.’

  ‘This was my father’s?’

  ‘Yes. My mother is upset for that. She think it has bad magic.’

  Addy shakes the box. ‘His heart. What does that mean?’

  ‘You must open it.’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  Fatima hugs Addy and whispers in her ear. ‘Omar.’

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Zitoune, Morocco – June 2009

  Addy’s feet crunch on the gravel. Omar looks over his shoulder. Addy sits beside him on the concrete wall at the building site. She sets the wooden box wrapped in one of Fatima’s scarves in her lap. The air is heavy with all the things she wants to unsay.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should never have doubted you, Omar.’

  Omar exhales as if he’s carrying a large weight. ‘Yes.’

  Beyond the mounds of earth and stacks of cement blocks, the dense leaves of the olive trees meld into inky blackness in the waning light.

  ‘I’ve made a lot of mistakes since I’ve been in Zitoune.’

  ‘It is true.’

  She’s ruined everything. But she can’t let it end like this. She can’t let him hate her.

  ‘Morocco’s so different from Canada and England. I’m always putting my foot in it here.’

  Omar frowns at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s an expression. Putting your foot in your mouth. Putting your foot where it shouldn’t go and it makes things worse.’

  Omar grunts. ‘It’s true. Many times you put your foot in it. You’re not an Amazigh lady.’

  The shadows of the trees are lengthening and the chirp of the cicadas fills the cooling air.

  ‘You’d like me to be Amazigh, wouldn’t you? You say it often enough.’

  Omar stares past the building site into the dense olive grove.

  ‘It would be more easy, one hundred per cent.’

  ‘But I’m not.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I feel awful about the whole Fatima and Amine situation. I feel like I’m to blame. I’d get Fatima to come with me on my walks when you were having Amine following me. I made it easy for them to talk to each other. I shouldn’t have interfered.’

  Omar rubs his temple. ‘Adi, don’t mind. Even if you didn’t come to Zitoune, somehow it would be the same result. It’s their fate. Just as it’s Fatima’s fate to marry Farouk. Even though you have to know I don’t like this situation. But she made her decision.’

  Fate. What is their fate? She unwraps the scarf and holds the box out to Omar.

  Omar takes the box from Addy.

  ‘I know this box. I remember it. Mister Gus wanted Jedda to bury it in Hanane’s grave. She didn’t do it. She must know you would come one day.’

  ‘She didn’t know my father had other children.’

  ‘Jedda knows.’

  ‘Do you know how to open it? I can’t figure it out.’

  He holds it up to his ear and shakes it.

  ‘Something’s inside.’

  He twists it around in his hands, prodding and pulling until the bottom slides back. A slat loosens under his fingers and he pulls out a peg. A small brass key drops into his hand. He runs his fingers along the other slats until one shifts downwards, revealing a keyhole. He gives Addy the key.

  ‘You do it.’

  She takes the box and inserts the tiny key. She twists it clockwise until it stops and opens the lid. She looks into the compartment.

  ‘Oh, my goodness.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Addy reaches into the box and picks out a ring. Gold. The crowned heart held between a pair of hands. She turns it over and examines the back. The gold mark – twenty-four carat. And her father’s initials: AJP – Augustus Joyce Percival. Such a strange middle name for a man. The surname of some Irish ancestor, he’d once told her. A wanderer, he’d said. It’s in their blood.

  ‘So, that’s what he meant by his heart being in the box.’

  ‘There’s some papers in there as well, Adi.’

  Addy places the ring back in the box and takes out the sheets of paper. Another ring rolls out of the papers and onto the dirt. Omar leans over and picks it up.

  ‘It’s like the other ring, but more smaller.’

  Addy takes the ring. ‘It’s my mother’s. I saw a photo of Hanane wearing it. I never thought I’d see it again.’ She places it gently into the box beside her father’s ring. In between the yellowing pages, she spies a sheet of thin blue paper. She slides it out and scans the familiar handwriting. She looks up at Omar.

  ‘It’s the rest of my father’s letter to me.’

  She takes the Polaroid out of her pocket and unwraps the unfinished letter, marrying it to the blue sheet from the box:

  3rd March, 1984

  Zitoune, Morocco

  My darling Addy,

  I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. You know how crazy things can be when I’m over in Nigeria. I loved your letter about your initiation week at Concordia, but please tell me that was a purple wig, and that you didn’t dye your lovely titian hair. Just like your mother’s.

  Well, I’m not in Nigeria any more. Things are still unsettled here with the politics and all that, and with the glut of oil on the market right now, they terminated my contract early. No need to have a petroleum geologist searching for oil when they have more of it than they c
an sell!

  The job down in Peru doesn’t start till May, so I’ve headed up to North Africa for a bit before going there. It’s dinosaur land up here, so I thought I’d do a little independent oil prospecting. Remember what I used to tell you when you were little? Where there were dinosaurs, there’s probably oil. I might try to stop by Montréal to see you when I get back before flying back to Nanaimo. Is The Old Dublin still there? They do a cracking pint of Guinness.

  Addy, my darling, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking up here in the mountains. It’s a beautiful place – you must come here one day. I know how much you love the Rockies. There’s something about mountains, isn’t there? Solid and reassuring. A good place to come when life wears you down.

  I know it hasn’t been easy for you since your mother died. You know there was no option but the boarding school, what with me having to travel so much for work. You made a good fist of it, though. Honour student. I never told you how proud you made me. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for a lot of things … I hope you know how much I love you and your sister.

  There’s something I need to tell you. I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it. I’ve met someone here. Up here in a tiny village in the Morocco mountains. You know they talk of thunderbolts? It was like that. I can’t explain it. Maybe you’ll feel it yourself one day. I hope you do.

  She’s a lovely young woman from the village. She writes poetry. She has such spirit. She’s only twenty-three, Addy – nineteen years younger. I only hope that she feels the same way. I think she does – she comes over to a little olive oil hut I’ve discovered and she’s kind enough to eat the meals I make for her. She likes my Irish stew. Just like you do. She writes lovely poems, which she reads to me in French, though she’s just begun writing some in English. I’ve been practising her English with her.

  She’s not the only one I’ve been teaching English. There’s a funny little boy who’s become my shadow. He can’t be more than seven, but he already acts like he’s the king of Zitoune. His name’s Omar. He has an older brother called Momo, who’s a properly serious boy. Good in school, polite, studious. They couldn’t be more opposite. Funny how siblings can be so different, isn’t it? But brothers and sisters are important. Remember that, Addy. Do go and visit Philippa when you can. It would be wonderful for the two of you to meet and be friends.

  The weather’s been beautiful since I’ve come. You should see the fields here in the spring. As green as Ireland, would you believe that? And red poppies everywhere. You’d love it. I’m going to plant some field poppies in the grass back home when I’m back …

  I don’t know what to do about Hanane. That’s her name. Hanane Demsiri. How can it ever work? She’s Muslim and I’m Catholic. Muslim women aren’t allowed to marry outside their faith. I’d have to convert if we were ever to marry – did I just say that? Marry. Yes, I’d marry her if I could. I’d stay in Morocco to make a life with her. You don’t need me there in Canada now that you’re at university. You can visit me here. You’d love it. You’re a wanderer like me. Not like Philippa. She’s a real city girl. I wish I could find a way to connect with her, but I know she blames me for leaving her and Essie. I just couldn’t stay. Not in that situation. I tried to get Philippa over to Nanaimo when I married your mother, but Essie wouldn’t have it.

  Must sign off for now. It’s pouring with rain – has been for the past two days. I hope it stops soon, or the river may flood. I hear it happens in the mountains here from time to time.

  I just wanted you to know that I love you. I’m proud to be your father.

  Love

  Dad

  ‘Look, there are poems here. They’re in English. These must be some of Hanane’s.’ Addy shuffles through the papers. ‘There’s something else. It’s in Arabic.’

  Omar takes the document and squints at it in the fading light. He looks over at Addy.

  ‘They been married.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘It says here. Augustus Joyce Percival. And here. Hanane Demsiri. They been married 22 March 1984 in Marrakech.’

  ‘Do you know what that means? Amine isn’t illegitimate.’

  ‘It depend.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They need to have the paper of Shahada for the marriage to be proper.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The paper to prove your father became Muslim so he can marry her.’ Omar flips through the papers. ‘There’s no Shahada paper here.’

  ‘My father had to become Muslim for this marriage to be legal?’

  ‘Yes. Unless he paid somebody well.’

  Addy looks at Omar. Her father’s faith had been important to him. The one constant in his life. It was hard to imagine him converting.

  ‘Surely this marriage certificate should be enough for Amine to get his identity papers, shouldn’t it? Then Fatima and Amine can marry.’

  ‘But Amine is gone.’

  ‘My father and I should never have come here. It’s like we’re cursed.’

  ‘Never say that, habibati. It’s your fate to come here, just as it was your father’s.’

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Zitoune, Morocco – December 1984

  Omar follows his grandmother into the bedroom.

  ‘Will she be okay, Jedda?’

  The old woman looks at the beautiful girl panting on the bed as she clutches at the damp sheet shielding her swollen stomach.

  ‘Go home, Omar. You’re not needed here.’

  ‘I can help. I can get water.’ He unwraps the tagelmust he’s tied around his neck and rushes to Hanane’s side, wiping her sweat-drenched face. ‘I can help. I’m not afraid. She’s my friend.’

  ‘The baby’s at home. You should go.’

  ‘But Yamma’s there.’ He pours out a glass of water from the pitcher Jedda’s put on the bedside table and sits on the bed beside Hanane. ‘Here, Hanane. Drink. It will help.’

  Jedda reaches inside herself. Great Dihya, what is to become of this girl?

  A face appears in her mind’s eye, the red hair of the Kahina, the Amazigh queen, streaming in the wind around the woman’s face.

  You must do all you can to save them both, the great queen answers. He must live. The future requires it.

  And this boy, Omar. What of him?

  He has his part to play, Fadma. Let him stay. He must know the truth of the events of this night, even though it will be many years before the truth will be revealed to the one who comes in search of it.

  And what is my role in this?

  Without you, the woman and the child would surely die. It is in your power to save them, Fadma.

  The baby comes early and the girl is so ill. There are some here who would prefer to let them die. If I do what I can, will they live?

  The Kahina shakes her head, her long hair sweeping around her like a red cloud. I cannot say this. It is fate that shall decide this. You have a kind heart, Fadma, and you have a great gift. I have given you my ring and my djinni. Use them wisely. You will live a long life. I will keep you on the earth until you find the one to whom my ring must pass.

  How will I know them?

  You will know, Fadma. You will know it in your heart.

  Bouchra reaches over the sleeping girl and lifts the swaddled baby out of her arms.

  ‘What are we are going to do with them? They can’t stay here. Look at this brat. He has the mark of Shaytan Iblis on his face.’

  Jedda folds up the soiled sheets and stacks them into a plastic basket.

  ‘Go home, Omar. You’ve been a big help. It’s been a long night. Tell your mother I’ll be back soon.’

  Omar yawns and follows Bouchra and his grandmother out of the room. He reaches across Bouchra’s arm and pats the baby on its head. Black hair. Straight like Mister Gus’s. But its face – brown and white. Part Hanane and part Mister Gus. He stands on his toes and kisses his grandmother on her headscarf.

  ‘Thank you for letting me stay, Jedda. I knew you could
help Hanane.’

  ‘Omar, you must never tell anyone of this night. Do you understand?’

  Omar stares at Mohammed’s wife. ‘Why?’

  ‘This is our family matter, do you understand? Why your grandmother let you stay, I’ll never understand. This is our private business. If I hear anything about this in the village, I’ll have the biggest djinni in all of Morocco come and sit on your chest when you sleep. Every time you wake you will see his ugly face and be afraid. Do you want that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  Jedda sets down the basket of laundry and straightens her back as she waves Omar out of the door. When he’s gone, she turns to Mohammed’s wife.

  ‘Why do you scare the boy, Bouchra? He’s done nothing but help tonight.’

  ‘Fadma, I know you’re a powerful shawafa. But you know, this situation is not your business. Let my husband deal with his sister and her brat. He will do whatever he must to save our honour. I will not let this zaaniyah ruin my own children’s future.’

  Aicha sweeps her eyes over the Englishman. His clothes are creased and rumpled and dark shadows rim his blue eyes. This man, this Mister Gus, has brought nothing but shame to Zitoune. To poor Hanane and her family. It is as well that Mohammed’s taken the baby to Bouchra’s parents in Beni Mellal. Now she, Aicha, must atone for leaving Hanane on the birthing bed. This man must leave Zitoune, and she must be the one to ensure it. She fingers the coins in her apron pocket. Enough for a new cow. She beckons to Omar, who she’s spied eyeing them from behind the stable yard door.

  ‘Omar, come here. You need to talk to this man for me.’

  Omar creeps around the heavy wooden door.

  ‘Tell this man that Hanane died after the baby came.’

  Omar’s eyes widen. ‘Hanane died?’

  Aicha looks at her son. At his eyes filling with tears. Her heart wrenches and she reaches out and enfolds him in her arms.

  ‘After Jedda left with you, Hanane became very sick in the night. I’m sorry, Omar. I didn’t want to tell you. Mohammed insisted she be buried right away so nobody could disturb her resting place. You know, some people would not like that she had a baby without being married. We couldn’t let them disturb her, could we? No one must know where she rests.’