Omar rushes into his mother’s arms weeping. ‘Yamma, she was so happy. Jedda helped her well.’
‘Omar?’ Gus asks. ‘What’s your mother saying?’
‘Oh, Mister Gus. Hanane died! She was sick after the baby came and she died!’
The man’s haggard face blanches, as if all his blood’s being sucked into the earth. ‘That’s not possible. Where is she? Where’s the baby? Omar, ask your mother.’
Aicha feels pity rise inside her, but she squashes it like an insect. This man doesn’t deserve her pity. This man has ruined Hanane and fathered a child marked by Shaytan Iblis.
She pats Omar’s wiry black hair. ‘Omar, you must tell him the baby died as well and that they have both been buried.’
Omar pushes out of her hold. ‘The baby died?’
‘No. Mohammed brought him to Bouchra’s parents in Beni Mellal. The baby will grow up here, with Mohammed’s family. It makes sense, doesn’t it? Mohammed is the baby’s uncle. The baby will be like his own son.’
‘But, Yamma, Mister Gus is the baby’s baba.’
‘He is not a proper father, Omar. The baby can’t stay with him. You understand this, don’t you? Don’t you think it’s better for Hanane’s baby to be raised by Hanane’s blood family? You can be like his big brother. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
Omar wipes his eyes and nods. ‘I miss having a brother.’
‘Then tell him, Omar. Tell him the baby died.’
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Zitoune, Morocco – December 1984
Jedda unlocks the door to her room behind the stable and slips the key back into the pocket of her full skirt. She pushes open the door and enters the small, dark room. Dull white light filters through the grimy window, throwing highlights onto the jars and bottles lined up on wooden shelves lining the clay walls, and the bundles of herbs and flowers drying on strings nailed to the ceiling beam. The cat runs between her feet and jumps onto a stool by the window.
Jedda closes the door and limps over to the wide wooden shelf under the window, the cloth bag banging against her sore hip. The rheumatism is taking hold. How is it that she can help others, but her potions are useless on her own body?
Setting the cloth bag onto the shelf, she takes out the wooden box. She fumbles with the wooden slats with her arthritic fingers until the small brass key drops into her palm. She opens the lid. One by one, she unfolds the sheets of paper, running her fingers over the unintelligible words:
Sky-riding swift
Make your feathers a pen
And write my love in the sky.
My heart is a harp
Silent until your fingers
Strum its silent song.
Settled by your side
We are like cats
In warm sun
Content in silence.
Carefully folding the papers, she places them back in the box. She reaches into the box and takes out a heavy gold ring, holding it up to the light from the window. Golden hands encircling a heart topped with a crown.
‘It’s a beautiful ring, Fadma.’
Jedda looks over at the tall black woman sitting on the stool.
‘Isn’t it, Lamia. It belongs to the foreign man. Hanane had one like it.’ She reaches into her apron pocket and holds up the delicate gold ring with the sapphire heart. ‘She told me it was her wedding ring. She didn’t want Bouchra to take it when she slept. She asked me to put it in a safe place until she returned to Marrakech.’ She turns the ring over in her arthritic fingers, then she drops it in the box. ‘I will give the box to Amine when he marries.’
‘Why did Aicha lie to this man? Why did Mohammed take the child away?’ The tall, broad-shouldered shepherd rises from the stool and leans on his freshly peeled wooden staff.
‘Mohammed felt it would be best. If the stranger believed the baby had died with his mother, he would leave. There would be no reason for him to stay, would there?’ Jedda limps past the shepherd and eases herself down on the stool.
‘I do not understand why I was called to Oushane the morning after Amine’s birth. If I had been here when the stranger called on Aicha, I would have told him the truth, that Amine was alive.’
‘Perhaps this is why you were called away, Fadma,’ Lamia says. ‘It was fate.’
‘Fate! There is no such thing. Our selfish actions create great waves until the dams burst and we are flooded with the pain and chaos we have caused. People cause all the misery in this world. Not fate.’
Jedda rises and reaches for the box. The rings sit shining on their bed of papers. She shuts the lid and locks the box.
Chapter Seventy
Zitoune, Morocco – June 2009
‘Pippa, where on earth have you been? The tour bus to Marrakech is leaving in an hour. Omar’s had to call in favours to get us seats.’ Addy fastens the zipper on her tripod bag and adds it to the pile of luggage on the concrete floor.
Philippa sets a large package covered in an orange cloth on the kitchen table. ‘I took a taxi into Azaghar. I couldn’t deal with all the drama going on here. Did you know they have the most amazing market there? Everything’s as cheap as chips. I’m having a stack of rugs and lanterns shipped back to London. I’ll make a mint back in England.’
‘Great. Fine. I’m ecstatic for you.’ Addy takes her phone out of her pocket and presses her messages. She thrusts the phone at her sister. ‘What do you make of this?’
Philippa scans the message: Del - A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. See you at our flat. Let me show you what a reformed character I am. Or pay me my share and the flat’s all yours. Your call. Nx’
She hands the phone back. ‘Looks like you’re going to have your hands full when you’re back home.’
Addy pockets her phone. ‘Tell me about it. I wish I never had to go back.’
‘Maybe you’ll feel differently once you’re back in London. Nigel has his good points.’
Addy glares at her sister. ‘Don’t even go there. We agreed I could camp out in your spare room until I can convince Nigel to sell the flat. You’re going to have to get used to me.’ She rubs her neck and looks at the stack of luggage. ‘Do you have anything else?’
‘Don’t you dare think I’m sentimental when I show you this.’
‘Show me what?’
‘It’s a gift for Omar’s family. For feeding and watering me, because Lord knows I would’ve starved if I’d relied on you.’
Philippa pulls the orange cloth off the package on the table. A flash of bright blue as the bird flutters around the bamboo cage.
‘A budgie?’
‘The other one looked so lonely.’
‘You thought Fatima’s bird looked lonely? Are you going soft?’
Philippa points a fuchsia-tipped finger at her sister. ‘Don’t you dare go there. I have a reputation to maintain.’
‘Fatima’ll love it. Maybe it’ll cheer her up.’
Philippa drapes the cloth back over the birdcage. ‘Poor girl. The first heartbreak is always so hard.’
‘I hope she doesn’t go through with marrying Farouk. Omar’s told her she doesn’t have to. She doesn’t know whether to wait for Amine or do what she thinks is right, which is marry Farouk. Aicha’s all for the marriage, which is making it really hard. And there’s still the question about Amine’s legitimacy. The marriage wouldn’t have been legal if Dad hadn’t converted to Islam. But there’s no proof he did. Maybe he just bribed someone to marry them.’
Philippa taps a polished fingernail on the tabletop. ‘Just a minute. Just one minute.’
‘What?’
Philippa hurries past the kitchen and into her room. A moment later she returns clutching a manila envelope. She thrusts the envelope at Addy.
‘Here, I totally forgot, what with everything that’s been going on. The solicitor sent me another pile of papers from Canada just before I came here. One of them was in Arabic.’
Addy flips open the seal and pulls out a sheet of yel
lowing paper.
‘I need to find Omar.’
Chapter Seventy-One
Zitoune, Morocco – June 2009
‘Mesdames, attendez!’ Mohammed runs across the car park, his beige djellaba flapping.
‘There’s a turn up for the books,’ Philippa says as she passes her luggage to Omar to load into the tour bus. ‘Mo’s obviously missing me.’
Addy laughs. ‘He hasn’t realised yet the bullet he’s dodged.’
‘You’re starting to sound like me.’
‘Please, God, no.’
‘Madame Perceeval, Phileepa, ma gazelle, please to wait one minute.’
Omar slams shut the luggage door on the tour bus. ‘What do you want, Mohammed? There’s a problem?’
‘Mashi mushkil. I must make a big apology. Since Omar show me the Shahada paper of your father, my heart is so full. It is the best gift of the world for me. My sister and my family have a good honour now. I only wish Amine could know about it yet.’
‘Me too, Mohammed. Philippa and I’ll do everything we can to find him once he gets to Europe. He’s family.’
‘If Amine’s our half-brother, what’s that make you, Mo? My step-uncle?’ Philippa holds out a manicured hand. ‘It’s been fun, but I think it’s goodbye.’
Mohammed presses his hand against his chest. ‘You will always live close to my heart, ma gazelle.’ He reaches into the pocket of his djellaba and hands Philippa a thin white envelope. ‘Since you are going to Marrakech, please can you deliver this for me? I have some business there but it’s hard to go now because it’s many tourists in the hotel and the restaurant. And since Amine is gone, I must work very hard. The post in Morocco is not so good sometimes. It will be more faster if you can give it personally.’
Philippa tucks the letter into her handbag. ‘That’s fine, Mo. Consider it done.’
Omar takes hold of Addy’s hand. ‘Come with me.’
He leads her behind a crumbling stone watermill above the waterfalls. A low stone wall is the only barrier to the water crashing over the cliff into the pool below. He leans into her and curls his fingers around hers.
‘Maybe your sister can go and you stay here with me, habibati.’
‘My visa runs out tomorrow. I have to go, habibi. I’ll be back. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. I wish you could come to Marrakech with us.’
‘I wish it as well, darling. But I must take my grandmother to the doctor in Azaghar because her hip it’s hurting a lot, and the doctor is only there certain days in the month. My mother insists for it.’
‘I understand.’
Omar reaches into his jeans pocket. He holds out a ring in the palm of his hand. Jedda’s silver ring with the zigzags and triangles carved into the band. He slides it onto Addy’s finger. He taps the heavy ring.
‘You must come back to me. It’s our fate. Allah said it to you in your dream the first day.’
Addy stares at the ring. ‘You know I can’t have children.’
‘I thought about it a lot. It’s hard for me not to have children. But if it’s our fate, it’s our fate. Inshallah Allah will find a way.’
‘Omar …’ Addy sighs. ‘I’m not ready to get married. I need to stand on my own two feet.’
‘What you mean? You have two feet.’
Addy laughs. ‘It’s just an expression. I need to be more self-reliant.’
‘Darling, you can stand on two feet or one foot, I don’t mind. I can wait. You know Omar always get what he wants.’
‘So I’ve been told. Maybe you can visit me in England. See what I’m like when I’m … not here. Maybe you won’t like me.’
‘I will like you, be sure about it. You make me feel my life, habibati. Before you, I was sleeping. Before you, it was darkness. And now you bring me the sunlight. I love you, one hundred per cent.’ He kisses her.
She buries her fingers into the folds of his tagelmust. The waterfalls thrum as he covers her face with kisses. Sweet kisses. The only kisses she’s ever wanted.
The gears of the tour bus grind and the driver reverses out of the car park.
Philippa leans out of a window and waves. ‘Hurry up! He’s leaving.’
Omar grabs Addy’s hand and they run across the car park. The bus shudders to a stop in a cloud of pink dust. The door flings open.
Omar hugs Addy tight against his chest.
‘People will see, Omar.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Yalla!’ the driver shouts. ‘Yalla! Yalla!’
Addy steps up into the bus. The door slams shut behind her. She stumbles down the aisle and slides into an empty seat behind Philippa. Through the window, she watches Omar grow smaller, in his blue gown and tagelmust, in the middle of the car park. He raises his hand in the air, fingers spread. She holds up her hand. As if they’re touching through glass.
The bus rumbles past the service station at the crossroads. The donkey’s tethered to the old petrol pump. The Coca-Cola sign swings from the hook above the window. Addy’s phone buzzes in her pocket. A text from Omar: I don’t know what happened to me. I am destroyed.
Chapter Seventy-Two
Marrakech, Morocco – June 2009
‘It’s here.’ The boy points to the green-painted wooden door studded with back nail heads.
Addy looks down the narrow alley lined with the faded terracotta walls of the old Marrakech medina and checks the address on the envelope. Aside from an ancient bicycle leaning against a wall, there’s no other sign of life.
‘You’re sure? Mohammed said it was a business.’
The boy taps on the door. ‘It’s here – one hundred per cent.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Philippa reaches into her purse and pulls out a coin. ‘Here you go. Thank you very much.’
The boy turns the coin over in his hands. ‘It must be fifty dirhams.’
‘Fifty dirhams?’
‘It’s a good price. It’s very complicated to come here.’
Addy fishes into her bag and pulls out her wallet.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Put that away.’ Philippa takes a twenty dirham note out of her purse and waves it at the boy. ‘Twenty dirhams, take it or leave it.’
The boy’s eyes follow the waving note. He snatches it from Philippa’s hand and runs back down the alley, calling out as he disappears around a corner. ‘Abdel! M’hamid! Yalla! Yalla!’
‘Do you think we overpaid him?’
Philippa rolls her eyes. ‘Do you think? Five dirhams would’ve been plenty.’ She shrugs. ‘But he can probably do more with twenty dirhams than I can with it in London.’
‘You are going soft. First the bird, now the boy.’
‘Oh, do be quiet.’ She glances at her watch. ‘Come on, let’s get this done. I want to get some shopping in before dinner.’
Philippa bangs the large iron door knocker against the door. They stare at the green door in silence. She’s about to knock again, when the door creaks open. A plump, middle-aged woman in an apron stands in the doorway clutching a dripping mop.
Addy holds out the white envelope. ‘Hello,’ she says in French. ‘I have a letter from Monsieur Mohammed Demsiri. Can I leave it with you?’
The woman takes the envelope. ‘Shukran.’
The door creaks closed.
‘Right. Duty done,’ Philippa says. ‘Let’s go shopping.’
They’re halfway down the alley, when the door creaks open behind them.
‘Mesdames, attendez.’
The woman’s beckoning from the doorway.
‘What do you suppose she wants?’
Philippa frowns. ‘Money, of course. It’s effort to take delivery of an envelope.’
‘You’re such a cynic.’
‘No, just experienced.’
They walk back along the alleyway. When they reach the doorway, the door’s open. A woman steps into view. She smiles and reaches out a slender hand.
‘Hello. I am Hanane.’
Epilogue
/> Gatwick Airport, England – December 2009
Omar walks through the frosted glass doors into the Arrivals Hall at Gatwick Airport. Scaffolding and canvas sheets cover half of the large hall, hiding the shouting labourers from view. His heart thumps, but he walks slowly, his knapsack casually over his shoulder pulling the new suitcase from the Azaghar market, determined to show Adi that this is nothing for him. That he is a man of the world, just as she is a woman of it.
It’s been two months since he’s seen Adi on her last visit to Zitoune, though he’s carried her in his mind – her low, warm voice teasing, laughing, reassuring him as he laboured on the guest house between his tours around the waterfalls. It was her face that he struggled to draw. Her blue eyes, the long, straight nose, the thrust of her lower lip when she was unhappy, the shock of thick copper hair falling into her eyes. He could conjure up each element easily enough, but when he tried to paint the final picture of her face, the edges blurred and melted away until all he was left with was a feeling. The feeling of Adi.
His eyes search the crowd waiting behind the shiny metal railing. His stomach feels empty, despite the two toasted cheese sandwiches he’s eaten on the plane. Everything is grey. The airplane was grey, the sky is grey, this room is grey. The people are all dressed in black and grey. It’d been his first time in an airplane. He’d prayed to Allah for the plane not to crash. Then to fly above the clouds like a bird. It was incredible. Everything was incredible.
A few months ago, he was a mountain guide in Zitoune with a dream of a guest house and no money to build it. With a mother pleading with him to marry Zaina and get on with having children. With a simple life in Zitoune mapped out by fate. Then Adi arrived on the Marrakech tour bus and everything changed. Here he is now, in England. Maybe he’ll move here with Adi after they marry. Earn money to build his guest house; have a travel business to the desert. Why not? He can earn well in England. Then he’ll build a big house for Adi and his family in Zitoune. We can never guess our fate, he thinks. We can only follow it.
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