Читать книгу The Lost Letter from Morocco - Adrienne Chinn - Страница 11

Zitoune, Morocco – March 2009

The tour group trails behind Omar as he leads them on a path through an olive grove beside the river. Stopping, Omar points out donkeys saddled with bright-coloured blankets, eating the fresh spring grass in the dappled shade.

‘These are Berber four-by-fours. They fill up on the gasoline when the drivers go to the market. The donkeys eat the marijuana there. You can see?’

Addy squints at the donkeys. ‘That’s not marijuana.’

Omar slaps his leg and laughs. ‘You know marijuana, Adi?’

The tourists laugh and the colour rises in Addy’s face. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. Everyone knows what marijuana looks like.’ She searches the faces of the other tourists for affirmation. Surely she wasn’t the only one who’d gone to university in the Eighties.

‘Mashi mushkil. It’s so nice to know if a lady like marijuana.’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Don’t be mad. I’m joking with you.’

‘Fine.’ Addy looks over at Omar and frowns. Was he chatting her up? He was handsome, there was no denying that. But, so what? She was here to work and to find Hanane and the baby. The last thing she needed was to get involved with a cocky Moroccan ten years younger than herself.

Omar presses a hand against his heart. ‘Now the lady of England is angry at me, I can tell it well. My heart is crushed like an egg for the Berber omelette. I must apologise.’

He wades out into the green meadow grass and picks a red poppy. He makes his way back to the path and holds out the flower to Addy.

Addy’s irritation dissipates. A sweet gesture. She reaches for the flower and Omar closes his hand around hers. She meets his gaze. A waft of memory. She looks away in confusion. His hand slides from hers. When she looks back, he’s on the path, the tourists clustered around him.

Around a bend in the river they come across several local women washing clothes in the clear water. Jeans and T-shirts in the colours of European football teams hang to dry over pink flowering oleander bushes. The women laugh and chatter, their skirts and aprons tucked into the waistbands of their flannelette pyjama bottoms, which are rolled up over their knees. Their hair is hidden by colourful bandanas. Many of them have blue arrow-like tattoos on their chins like Omar’s grandmother.

‘This is the manner the ladies wash the clothes in the village,’ Omar explains as the group stops to take photos.

Addy rests her camera on top of a large boulder and peers into the viewfinder. What do the women think of us, stealing their souls with our cameras? She presses the shutter then loops the strap around her neck, letting the camera flop against her chest as she replaces the lens cap.

She looks over at Omar, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. ‘So, where do the men wash their clothes?’

Omar laughs. ‘I’m very clean, even if I don’t wash my own clothes.’ He raises his arms and approaches her. ‘You can smell me.’

Addy stumbles away, holding her nose. ‘Men should share the housework. It’s only fair.’

‘That’s a big pity for your husband,’ Omar teases. ‘It’s a job for ladies to wash the clothes. At least I hope you cook well.’

‘Afraid not. I hate cooking. But I’m great at desserts. I have a sweet tooth.’

‘That’s good at least. Moroccans love sugar. Our blood is made of honey.’

The dimple appears on Omar’s right cheek. Addy’s heart thumps. She looks down at her sandals. The dry earth coats her toes in a fine red dust.

The sun dances on the river, shining silver on the swirling ripples. Addy falls back behind some newlyweds from France. A couple of Geordie girls from Newcastle flutter around Omar as he teases them with stories of djinn and the evil eye.

She looks away at the river, at the water glittering like diamonds. Ridiculous to be feeling like a teenager at her age. She needs to focus on her purpose. She sucks in a deep breath of the mountain air and exhales slowly, letting the warm air brush over her lips. Better. The yoga classes Philippa had forced her into were paying off at last.

Her thoughts wander to her father and Hanane. Whether they’d walked along this path on their way to the waterfalls. Why had her father never said anything to her about visiting Morocco? He’d obviously intended to, or he’d never have written her that letter. And where were the missing pages? What really happened to Hanane?

He was always travelling for his work. There had been times when she and her mother didn’t see him for months. She still had the postcards he’d sent her from all over the world. Mexico. Peru. Nigeria. Russia. Kuwait. After her mother had died, Addy had plastered her bulletin board in her room at St Margaret’s in Victoria with them. But none from Morocco.

She eyes Omar, who’s busy pointing out turtles sunning on a rock in the river. He was definitely too old to be her half-brother. Around thirty, she’d guess. He would’ve been a child when her father was in Zitoune. Probably too young to remember him. But what about Hanane? Would he remember her? She’d ask him, when she had a chance. Show him the old Polaroid. It was as good a place to start as any.

Addy’s mind settles as she listens to Omar’s voice resonating in the warm morning air. Further along the path, he points out beehive-shaped clay structures in which, he explains, the village women take steam baths. He pokes a stick with his foot and it metamorphoses into a thin green grass snake, prompting squeals from the two Geordie girls. Every now and then, Omar catches Addy’s gaze as he spins his multilingual patter about carob trees, petrified tree roots, or the wiry, grey-furred macaque monkeys that live in the caves and crevices of the cliffs.

The French newlyweds, Sylvain and Antoinette, ask to be photographed next to a donkey. Omar suggests that Antoinette climb up onto the animal as Sylvain holds the lead. Omar unwinds his tagelmust and wraps it around Sylvain’s head. He pulls off his blue gown, revealing well-worn Levis and a white T-shirt, and offers it to Antoinette. It’s like a tent around her tiny body.

The tourists shout out instructions to the pair as Omar snaps the photos. Ouistiti! Mirar al pajarito! Käsekuchen! Say cheese! Addy hovers at the edge of the group, watching Omar. He’s lean and muscular and the white of his T-shirt glows against his brown skin. His hair is a close-cropped cap of tight black curls. He moves like a swimmer, lithe and graceful and unselfconscious.

They continue through a dense olive grove, following a narrow path in a gradual descent through the trees. The morning is filled with the noisy peace of the countryside – a dog’s bark, a donkey’s bray, the underlying buzz of cicadas. The group breaks out of the shade into a meadow where the sky opens above, blue and cloudless.

Addy takes off her new straw hat. She closes her eyes and breathes in the clear air, letting the heat penetrate her skin. The weight of all the worry and anxiety of the previous months slowly falls away until she’s light and new again.

Tessa and Nicky, the two Geordie girls, buzz around Omar like chubby bees. They wear tight halter tops, cropped shorts and flip-flops. On the bank of a wide hill stream, Omar stands by to help as the group steps over the rocks to the other side. When he offers his hand to Tessa and then to Nicky, Addy sees him eye the English girls’ angel wing tattoos, which stretch across the tanned skin of their lower backs.

Addy’s the last one to cross the stream. Her breath catches when his fingers close around hers. On the other side of the stream, Omar places his hands on her waist to steady her. His breath is warm on her neck. She rests her hands on his for an instant, then steps forwards onto the path.

An hour into the hike, the group reaches a lookout platform facing the waterfalls.

Omar sweeps his hand towards the view. ‘This is my Paradise.’

The tourists crowd towards the flimsy bamboo railing, hurrying to pull out their cameras. Foaming water crashes over a red earth cliff, forming pools and mini-waterfalls as the water thunders into a churning pool at the base. A rainbow arches across the pool, its colours hazy in the river mist. The waterfalls in the Polaroid. Her father and Hanane had stood here, on this very spot, smiling for the photo that August day in 1984.

There’s a modest café at the lookout and Addy buys herself a warm bottle of Coca-Cola from a slender, sharp-faced Moroccan about Omar’s age at a bar cobbled together from produce crates. The Moroccan makes a show of wiping the Coke bottle clean with the tail of his tie-dyed turban and his fingers linger on her palm when he hands her the Coke.

When Addy returns to the lookout, Omar’s talking to the Geordie girls.

‘I studied at university,’ Omar’s saying. ‘English literature. Chakespeare. “To be or not to be, that is the question.”’ He thumps his chest with the flat of his hand. ‘I’m a graduate of the university in Beni Mellal. Nobody else in Zitoune is graduated from university.’

Addy leans against a bamboo post and sips the tepid soft drink. ‘English literature? I studied that, too. Did you study Milton? Donne? Marlowe? The Romantics?’

‘I know Chakespeare.’

Nicky rolls her blue-lined eyes. ‘You’ve got to be flipping kidding me. I’m on bloody holiday in Morocco and you’re talking about Shakespeare? I think I’m gonna gag.’ She points a long pink fingernail at the Coke bottle. ‘Where’d you get the Coke?’

‘Over there.’

‘C’mon, Tessa. Let’s get a Coke. I’m gasping.’

Omar nods at the turbaned barman. ‘It’s my friend, Yassine. He sells the best Coca-Cola in Zitoune, even if it’s not so cold. It’s better like that. Not so many calories.’

Nicky grabs Tessa’s arm. ‘Oo-er. He’s a bit of all right. C’mon, Tess, I’m getting thirstier by the minute.’

Tessa, a sun-streaked blonde with a generous cleavage and pink gloss lipstick, squints at Yassine. He gives her a slow, appreciative smile.

‘Oh, all right. I can’t be doing with Shakespeare, either. I’m on my hols.’

The girls saunter over to the bar, their flip-flops slapping on the compacted earth. Yassine flashes them a white-toothed smile as he sets out two bottles of Coca-Cola on the worktop.

Omar nods. ‘Yassine will make them happy. He likes English girls. He likes to practise his English. More tea, Vicar? See you later, alligator.’

‘In a while, crocodile.’

‘In a while, crocodile.’ Omar grins. ‘I like it.’

Addy sets her empty Coke bottle down on the ground. She lifts up her camera and focuses the lens on the rainbow. ‘Paradise Lost.’

‘What?’

‘Paradise Lost. Anyone who studied English literature would’ve heard of Paradise Lost. It’s a classic. Le Morte d’Arthur? Maybe something more modern. George Orwell? Virginia Woolf?’

‘I studied at university. It’s the truth.’

‘If you say so.’

‘You don’t believe me.’

‘Never mind. It’s not important.’

Addy glances over at Omar. His hands are on the bamboo railing and he’s staring out at the waterfalls. Why had she been so rude? If he wants to chat up girls with lies, what business is it of hers? It wasn’t like her to be so mean. That was Philippa’s domain.

‘I’m sorry. I was rude. Of course you went to university.’

‘No problem.’

She rests her hands on the railing and looks out at the waterfalls, willing her heart to calm its bouncing inside her chest. ‘I had an unusual dream last night.’

‘Yes?’

‘I dreamt about someone wearing a blue gown and turban. I couldn’t see his face. Then I saw you today and you were wearing exactly the same thing.’

Addy looks over at Omar, who’s staring at her.

‘What? What is it?’

‘It was Allah who send you this message.’

She shakes her head. ‘It was just a dream.’

‘No. Allah sent me to you in your dream. It’s our fate to meet today.’

A couple of rafts constructed of bamboo poles and blue plastic oil drums bob on the water at the base of the waterfalls. Scavenged wooden chairs are festooned with garish fabrics and plastic flowers.

Omar points to the rafts. ‘Everybody, we must take the boats to the other side. These are the Titanics of Morocco. But don’t worry, it might be they will not sink today, inshallah.’

A fine mist hangs in the air, settling on Addy’s skin like dew. Omar directs the group onto the two rafts, grabbing hands and elbows to steady the tourists as they step onto the lurching rafts. Addy settles down on a damp chair beside Sylvain and Antoinette. A middle-aged German couple in safari outfits and laden down with binoculars and cameras shift onto the chairs at the rear.

Omar jumps onto the other raft with the Geordie girls and a retired Spanish couple. Addy feels a stab of disappointment.

‘What are you doing over there, when the lady is here?’ Sylvain calls over to Omar.

The blue gown whips around Omar in the breeze. ‘Because I can see her better from here.’

Halfway up the hill, Omar settles everyone at rusty circular tables on a restaurant patio overlooking the waterfalls. A flimsy bamboo latticework fence is the only barrier between the patio and a vertical drop to the churning pool far below.

Addy sits at a small table beside the fence. A smiling boy looking about nineteen or twenty jogs down the stone steps to the patio, four large bottles of water tucked under his arms as he carries two in his hands. A blotch of white skin covers his left cheek and his brown hands are mottled with dots of white.

‘Amine, ici,’ Omar shouts to the boy, pointing to the tables occupied by his group.

Omar moves between the tables taking orders for lamb tagine and chicken brochettes, translating into Tamazight for Amine. The boy nods, his shiny black hair flopping into his large brown eyes. Omar follows Amine into the restaurant and returns with large plastic bottles of Coca-Cola and plastic baskets of flat discs of bread. He sets a bottle of Coke and a basket of bread on Addy’s table.

‘Everything’s okay, Adi?’

‘Fine. Thank you.’

‘It’s okay for me to sit with you to eat my lunch?’

‘Sure. Fine.’

Omar’s knees brush against hers as he sits in the empty chair. He tears off a chunk of bread and rolls it into marble-sized balls with his fingertips.

‘I’m so sorry for disturbing you.’

‘It’s fine. I’m fine.’

He tears off another piece of bread and begins the rolling motion again. He squints at her in the sharp sunlight, his light brown eyes glowing almost amber.

‘You have to know I never eat my lunch with tourists.’

A cat rubs itself against Addy’s legs, purring. The thunder of the waterfalls, a fine mist on her skin. A table littered with dough marbles.