Читать книгу The Lost Letter from Morocco - Adrienne Chinn - Страница 16

Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009

Omar shouts through a window grille into his mother’s house. ‘Yamma! Fatima! Jedda!’

The blue metal door creaks open and Fatima steps out into the alley. Addy waves at her shyly from across the lane. Fatima pushes past Omar and runs up to Addy and kisses her on both cheeks.

‘Bonjour. Marhaba à la maison de Fatima,’ she says, welcoming Addy to her home. She grabs Addy’s hand and pulls her towards the door. ‘Viens avec moi pour le thé.’

Omar shakes his head. ‘Now my sister takes you away from me, Adi honey. It will be so hard for me to get you from her.’

Omar’s cell phone rings out the first notes of ‘Hotel California’. He wrinkles his nose at the screen and rejects the call. He slips the phone back into his pocket.

‘Was that the plumber, Omar? Shouldn’t you tell him you’re on your way to my house?’

‘He knows I’m coming. It’s urgent to fix the problem with your water.’

Fatima tugs at Addy’s hand and pulls her into the house.

Omar follows his sister and Addy into the narrow room that serves as both the living room and Fatima’s and Jedda’s bedroom. A low wooden table is set with a chocolate cake and plates of homemade cookies. Aicha greets Addy with several ‘Marhaba’s as she pours a stream of fragrant mint tea into tiny gold-rimmed glasses.

Fatima pats a place on the banquette next to her grandmother, Jedda, who grumbles and points to the opposite banquette with her cane. When Addy has settled sufficiently far enough away from Jedda, Fatima sits beside her and gives her a hug.

‘Stay with me, not with Omar,’ Fatima says to Addy in French. ‘You can be my sister.’

Omar picks up a handful of cookies and turns to leave. ‘Now I’m really jealous.’

Addy licks the sugary chocolate icing off her bottom lip, leans back against the flowered cushions and pats her stomach. ‘Shukran. Le gateau c’est très bon.’

Aicha smiles widely. She points to the chocolate cake sitting on a blue-and-white Chinese plate in the centre of the low round table. ‘Eesh caaka.’

Addy shakes her head. ‘Laa, shukran.’ Another piece of cake and she’d explode.

The Polaroid presses against her thigh. Aicha and Jedda would surely recognise Hanane. Zitoune was a small village. The type of village where everyone knew everyone else’s business. She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out the Polaroid, wrapped in her father’s blue letter. Leaning over the table, she hands the photo to Aicha.

‘Baba Adi,’ she says, pointing to Gus. My father.

Aicha squints at the photo, fine wrinkles fanning out from her deep-set amber eyes. Jedda taps Aicha’s arm impatiently with her stick. Aicha hands the old woman the Polaroid.

‘It’s my father in the picture,’ Addy says in French to Fatima. ‘He came to Zitoune many years ago. I’m trying to find the woman in the picture. I think she was from Zitoune. Can you ask your mother and your grandmother Jedda if they recognise her?’

Fatima translates for Addy. Aicha takes the photo from Jedda and frowns at it before handing it to Fatima, her coin earrings dangling against her cheeks as she shakes her head.

Fatima runs her fingers along the Polaroid’s frayed edges. ‘Your father is very handsome. You have the same nose and blue eyes.’

‘They don’t recognise her?’

Fatima shakes her head as she hands the photo back to Addy. ‘No. My mum and grandmother are the medicine women of the village. They know everybody in the mountains here. If she was from Zitoune, they would know her.’

Addy brushes cookie crumbs off the plastic tablecloth into her hand. She picks up her empty tea glass. Aicha nods and smiles, her coin earrings bobbing against her neck. Jedda sits on the banquette like a wizened oracle, eyeing Addy’s every move.

Addy follows Fatima out into the courtyard and through a green door into a tiny windowless kitchen. The room is a random mix of wooden cupboards and tiles painted with seashells and sailboats. An enormous ceramic sink propped up on cement blocks takes up most of one wall. Across from it a four-ring hob sits on top of a low cupboard next to a battered black oven connected to a dented green gas canister. Utensils and ropes of drying tripe hang from a wire hooked across the room.

‘Ssshhh,’ Fatima hisses, flapping a tea towel at the rangy black-and-white cat who’s poking its head into a bread basket. The cat slinks out, a crust of bread in its mouth. ‘Moush,’ she says, pointing at the cat.

Addy makes a circle around the room with her hand.

Fatima smiles. ‘Cuisine. Comme français.’

‘En anglais, kitchen.’

‘Smicksmin.’ Fatima shakes her head. ‘Très difficile.’

Omar pokes his head into the kitchen. ‘Come, Adi honey, we go.’

‘You missed some delicious chocolate cake.’

He thrusts his hand into the room. It’s full of cake. ‘I don’t miss nothing.’ He takes a bite and wipes the crumbs from his chin with the back of his hand.

‘Did the plumber show up? Is the water fixed? I haven’t been able to get a hold of Mohammed. He hasn’t been answering his phone.’

‘I know, I know. Mohammed is very busy. It might be he is in Marrakech. He goes there a lot for business. The plumber went to Azaghar. He’ll be back later.’

Addy frowns. ‘The water’s still not fixed? What took you so long?’

‘I did a tour by the waterfalls. I earned five hundred dirhams, so I’m happy for that. I want to buy a refrigerator for Fatima, but it’s very, very expensive.’

Omar beckons at Addy with a crumb-covered finger. ‘Come, let’s go for a walk by the waterfalls. Say goodbye to my grandmother. If you kiss her on her head, it shows her good respect. She’ll love you for that.’

‘I don’t think she wants me anywhere near her.’

‘She does, she does. You’ll see.’

Addy kisses Fatima on her cheeks and follows Omar into the living room. She edges around the low table past Aicha and bends over Jedda, kissing her on the top of her red polka-dot bandana. Jedda waves Addy away with her stick. Aicha grabs Addy’s hands and smiles. ‘Thank you for the tea and the cake and cookies of deliciousness,’ Addy says to her in rusty French. ‘I appreciate your hospitality of kindness. It would be my honour to invite you at my house for tea.’

Aicha smiles broadly and Addy realises with a shock that her teeth are false. Omar says something to his mother, who nods vigorously, setting her earrings swinging.

‘What did you say?’

‘I say you love chicken brochettes. We’ll come later for dinner.’

‘Oh, no, Omar. I don’t want to impose on your family. I’ve just eaten my weight in cake.’

‘It’s no imposition, Adi. She don’t like for you to eat by yourself. It makes her feel sad. It’s not normal for people to be alone in Morocco.’

Addy looks at Jedda. The old woman’s one good eye bores into her like she’s trying to excavate Addy’s soul. ‘Except for your grandmother.’

Omar shrugs. ‘My grandmother don’t like tourists. Don’t mind for it.’ He takes hold of Addy’s elbow and steers her across the courtyard to the front door. ‘Anyway, you are not a tourist to me. You are like an Amazigh lady. Even my mum says it.’

‘She did?’

‘Maybe she didn’t say it, but I know she think it.’ He opens the metal door. ‘She love your red hair and blue eyes for her grandchildren.’

‘Omar, honestly, I—’

Omar laughs. ‘Don’t mind, Adi. Don’t believe everything I say. Oh, and Adi? My mum, she don’t speak French. It’s lucky because you don’t speak it so well.’

The daylight is fading when Omar and Addy reach a terrace paved with stones overlooking the waterfalls. A young Moroccan couple sits on the stone wall holding hands. The man speaks quietly and the woman leans her head in to listen. He plays with her fingers.

Omar and Addy sit on the wall. The last of the day’s sun throws a beam of light across the waterfalls, setting off sparks like fireflies on the water.

‘It’s a romantic place here, Adi. Sometimes couples come here to be private.’

‘Are they single?’

‘No. Everybody marries young here. But maybe there are children and parents and grandparents in the house. It’s the Moroccan manner. It’s difficult to be private.’

Addy feels a pang of sadness. As a child she’d wished on a star every night, hoping for a brother or sister to play with in the big house by the sea.

‘It must be nice to have a big family.’

Omar takes hold of her hand and plays with her fingers. ‘You have brothers and sisters, darling?’

‘A half-sister.’

Omar draws his black eyebrows together. ‘What’s that?’

Lights are coming on in the restaurants below, forming pools of yellow around the waterfalls.

‘Her name’s Philippa. She had a different mother. My father married twice.’ Addy presses her lips together into an apologetic smile. ‘We don’t get on very well. We’re very different.’

Omar nods. ‘It’s possible for a man in Morocco to marry four wives. It’s good to have many children. Then your heritage continues even when you go to Paradise.’

‘Oh, my father didn’t have two wives at the same time! He divorced his first wife and then married my mother. We don’t marry more than one person at a time. In fact, it’s illegal.’

Omar drops Addy’s hand and rests his arm around her shoulders. ‘I know it, honey. It might be that it’s better like that, anyway. It’s hard to have many wives. It’s very expensive.’ He rolls out the ‘r’ in very for added emphasis. ‘Each wife must have a house. Often, the ladies don’t like each other. Anyway, now it doesn’t happen so often. Only if the first wife doesn’t have babies, then you marry a second wife. But the first wife is the boss.’

‘Why don’t you just adopt or get fertility treatment?’

‘You must know your blood is the same in your children for your heritage, so nobody adopts here. It’s very hard to have fertility treatment – you must be very rich for that. Nobody in the mountains can do that. Anyway, they think you’re crazy to do it since it’s easy to marry a second wife.’

‘I see.’ Addy’s head is spinning. Why does she care if Omar gets married? Has two wives – three wives – four … And kids. Lots of kids. If they got involved, it could only ever be a holiday romance.

‘You know, Adi, some men come to ask me for Fatima to be their second wife. Fatima tells me “No.” She says no to everybody. It’s a big problem for me, but I don’t make her do nothing she doesn’t want. It’s for her to decide, even if my mum wants her to marry quick to have babies. She must go where her heart tells her to go.’ He looks at Addy out of the corner of his eye. ‘Me too. My mum wants me to marry quick to have babies.’

‘Oh.’ It’s like she’s been wading out into the sea and suddenly steps off a sandbar.

Omar squeezes her shoulder. ‘Don’t mind. I’m making a joke with you. I don’t mind for ladies. I look only for one lady.’ He kisses Addy on the top of her head. ‘So, maybe you have a boyfriend in England?’

‘I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I had a boyfriend.’

‘Maybe you had a boyfriend before?’

Addy remembers the last time she’d seen Nigel, in the kitchen of their flat the night before she’d flown out to Morocco, when he’d made her so angry she’d thought she might hit him. So angry that she’d stormed out and walked around the park for an hour to calm down. Alone in a London park after midnight. She must have been crazy.

‘Once I did. But it’s over now.’

‘I’m jealous.’

What was the harm in a holiday flirtation? Maybe it was just what she needed. Nothing serious. Short and sweet and then back to London. She wasn’t looking for a man to rescue her. What was Philippa talking about?

‘There’s no reason to be jealous, Omar. You must have had girlfriends before.’

‘There’s no boyfriend–girlfriend situation in Morocco, Adi. It’s not a possibility. We must wait to be married to be together.’

‘What about the tourist girls?’

‘I don’t like that situation, even though it’s true it happens sometimes. My friend Yassine has a wife and two children and a Dutch lady in Holland who visits him. She bought him a car. She bought a refrigerator for his wife. It’s where I get the idea for the refrigerator for Fatima. But, you have to know, it’s not my cup of tea. I feel bad for Yassine’s wife, Khadija.’

Cash cow. Addy could hear Philippa’s voice in her head. He’s playing nice just to get you into bed. What if Omar knew that she was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy? Would he be so keen on her then? He couldn’t be that good an actor. Or could he?

Below their perch on the stone wall, the lights of Mohammed’s restaurant switch on. Amine is setting out large bottles of water on the tables. A macaque monkey the size of a large cat leaps out of the branches of an olive tree onto a table. Amine shoos it away with a tea towel.

‘What about me? I’m a tourist.’

‘You’re not a tourist, Adi. You are the honey of my life. When you came to Zitoune my world was opened.’ He waves his hand out towards the waterfalls in a sweeping gesture. ‘It’s you I’ve been waiting for.’

‘Omar …’ Addy’s head spins with confusion. ‘I … I’m not Muslim.’

‘Mashi mushkil. I can marry a Muslim lady, or a Christian lady or a Jewish lady. No problem for that because we are all people of the book. We all have Moses and Ibrahim and Adam. But Muslim ladies can only marry Muslim men.’

‘That doesn’t seem fair.’

Omar shrugs. ‘It’s like that.’ Omar reaches for Addy’s hand and slides his fingers through hers. ‘Adi, when you told me about your dream, I knew for sure you are the lady I wait for. I made a prayer to Allah today. It’s the first time in a long time I did it.’

‘What did you pray for?’

‘I prayed to Allah to thank Him for making me for you. And for sending you to me.’

Addy gazes at the haloes of light below. It’s like a door is opening, but does she dare step over the threshold?

‘Omar, you asked me about my family. My mother died when I was young. My father died last fall.’

‘I’m so, so sorry for that, Adi.’

She concentrates on the waterfalls, avoiding his gaze. ‘I grew up in Canada. When I graduated from university I moved to London. My father travelled a lot for work, so there wasn’t any reason to stay in Canada. I thought I’d have more opportunities in London as a photographer. Lots of magazine work, you know? That’s when I finally met my half-sister, Philippa. I was looking forward to meeting her, but …’ Addy remembers Philippa’s frosty welcome, her absolute disinterest in her Canadian half-sister.

‘She was married to a rich Italian banker then, but she’s divorced now. I live on my own. Philippa and I aren’t … close.’ Better that Omar doesn’t know she still shares a flat with Nigel. Another problem to deal with when she gets back to London.

‘But she’s your sister. You must be close.’

Addy grunts. ‘Let’s just say that I don’t aspire to her way of life and this has caused us some conflict.’ She smiles at Omar ruefully. ‘I’m a constant disappointment to her.’

Omar shuts his eyes tight. When he looks at her again, his eyes are glazed with tears.

‘Me too. My father died. I’m so, so sorry for that, habibati. It’s a hard fate to be alone. It never happens like that in Morocco. We have many relatives here. We can visit all of Morocco and you will see I have family everywhere. The doors of my family are open to you.’

Addy rests her hand on her thigh. She feels the glossy card of the Polaroid through the soft denim.

‘Omar, how old are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How old are you? When were you born?’

‘I have thirty-three years. Anyway, don’t mind for age, Adi. It doesn’t matter for a man and lady to be the same age.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ Addy reaches into her pocket and slides out the photo wrapped in her father’s letter. ‘Do you remember an Irishman who came here around 1984? He had a Moroccan wife. I think she was his wife. I think she might have been from Zitoune. I don’t know for sure.’ She hands Omar the photo. ‘I have a picture of them.’

A deep crease forms between Omar’s black eyebrows as he examines the Polaroid. ‘It’s a long time ago. I was a small boy.’ He looks out at the waterfalls and shakes his head. ‘I don’t remember them. Why you ask about it?’

‘You don’t recognise the woman in the picture?’

Omar rubs his thumb across the fading image of Addy’s father and Hanane. He flips it over.

‘“Zitoune waterfalls, Morocco, August 1984 – with Hanane”.’ He hands the Polaroid back to Addy. ‘No, I don’t know her.’

She stares down at the faces of her father and Hanane smiling at the unseen photographer in front of the Zitoune waterfalls, then she carefully wraps the blue letter around it and slips the picture back into her pocket.

Back at Aicha’s house, the aroma of grilled chicken, garlic and ginger wafts through the courtyard. Women’s voices float over the spiced air from the kitchen. The afternoon’s tea is pressing on Addy’s bladder.

‘Toilet?’

Omar points to a door flaking with red paint. ‘You might need some tissue.’

Addy pulls a pack of tissues out her jeans pocket and waves it at Omar.

The reek of bleach assaults her nose when she opens the door. It does little to mask the underlying odour of sweat, urine and faeces. A string brushes her cheek. When she tugs at it a light bulb flickers on. The room is no bigger than a phone booth. The tiler has made an attempt at a pattern on the white-tiled walls with tiles printed with pink stars, but halfway up the pink stars have been replaced by tiger stripes. A tap sticks out of the wall at knee height with a blue plastic bucket underneath. A large white ceramic square with a hole in the centre is set into the concrete floor. Ridges shaped like feet flank the hole.

Peeling down her jeans and underwear, Addy steps tentatively onto the ridged feet. As she squats, her cheek slaps up against the pink stars. She wobbles around to face the door, propping herself up with one hand on the door and one on a tiled wall. She teeters over the hole and sprays her loafers with wee.

A knock on the door. ‘Honey, are you okay?’

‘One minute. Where do I wash my hands?’

‘Put water in the bucket and pour it down the toilet.’

When she opens the door, Omar’s leaning against the courtyard wall waiting for her. He examines her loafers.

‘You made your shoes wet.’

Addy peers down at the dark splotches on the tan leather.

‘I know. It’s hard for me to squat. I kept falling over. I tried to clean them with some water.’

Omar shouts for his sister. ‘Fatima!’

Fatima emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron printed with apples and oranges. She’s followed by a pretty girl in purple velour pyjamas and a pink hijab with matching pink babouches. Omar says something to Fatima. The girls look at Addy’s shoes and break into giggles. Fatima disappears behind a blue wooden door beside the kitchen. The other girl says something to Omar and he laughs. Fatima returns with her purple plastic Crocs.

‘Give her your shoes, honey. She’ll clean them for you.’

‘She doesn’t have to do that.’

He takes the Crocs from Fatima and pushes them into Addy’s hands. ‘She’s happy to do it.’

‘If you’re sure …’

‘It’s fine. Mashi mushkil.’

Gripping Omar’s arm to steady herself, Addy changes her shoes. Omar picks up her discarded loafers and shoves them into the hands of Fatima’s friend. Fatima bursts into another fit of giggles. The girl drops the loafers like they’re infectious and storms out of the courtyard, slamming the metal door behind her.

Addy stoops down to pick up the offensive shoes. ‘Who was that?’

‘Zaina,’ Omar says as he takes the shoes from Addy and hands them to Fatima. ‘She’s a friend of Fatima.’

Addy watches Fatima disappear into the kitchen with her loafers. ‘I don’t think Zaina likes me.’

‘She don’t like foreign ladies. It’s normal.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Amazigh ladies don’t like foreign ladies because they go with Amazigh men. They’re jealous.’

Fatima rests her chin on Addy’s shoulder and wraps her arms around her waist. ‘Come, sister,’ she says in French. ‘It’s the time of supper. I make delicious brochettes of chicken for my sister, Adi.’

‘You go eat, honey.’ Omar turns and heads towards the front door.

‘Where are you going? Aren’t you eating?’

‘Later. I’ll go to find the plumber. Enjoy.’

Fatima reaches for Addy’s hand and leads her into the living room. Aicha smiles her white smile and pats a place for Addy beside her on the flowery banquette. The low table is laid out with stacks of glistening chicken brochettes, a salad of chopped tomatoes, onions and olives dressed with olive oil, and fragrant discs of warm bread dusted with semolina.

Aicha grabs a disc of bread out of the blue plastic basket and tears off a large chunk. She offers it to Addy. ‘Eesh, Adi. Marhaba.’

‘Shukran.’

Addy tears off another piece and bites into its warm yeastiness. As she chews, she looks around the narrow whitewashed room. A poster of a girl praying at Mecca is tacked over the banquette on the opposite wall. Beside it a framed photograph, garlanded with pink and yellow plastic flowers, shows a sharp-suited King Mohammed VI. At the far end of the room, a large flat-screen television hangs on the wall, the dark screen filmy with pink dust.

Fatima picks up the remote. The television screen springs to life. She flips through the channels until she comes to a Turkish soap opera. Addy wonders where Jedda is. The black-and-white cat slinks into the room and settles on the mat by Addy’s feet.

They’re silent as they climb the steps to Addy’s veranda. She’s conscious of his warmth behind her, the gentle pressure of his hand on her waist when she stumbles on the final step. She walks over to the railing and gazes out at the night-cloaked mountains. The air is cool and stars cluster like glass chips in the black sky. A low buzz of cicadas underpins the silence.

Omar joins her and looks out at the inky outline of the High Atlas Mountains in the far distance.

‘It’s dark tonight, honey. No moon.’

‘Yes. But you can see the stars really well.’

‘The plumber called me when I was at Mohammed’s restaurant watching the football. He said he fixed your water. It might be I should check it for you.’

‘No, it’s okay. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Adi …’

It happens before she knows she’s done it. Her lips on his neck. Softness. A pulse. His moan. A kiss. His body warm against hers. Her arms around his neck.

‘Adi …’

No. She can’t. She mustn’t. It’s too complicated. Her life’s already a mess. She drops her arms and steps back from his embrace. She presses her fingers against her burning lips.

‘I’m so sorry, Omar. I shouldn’t have done that. Please forget I’ve done that.’

He reaches out to her. ‘Adi, what happened? Don’t worry.’

She hurries to the blue door and into the house. Her heart’s in her throat, pounding, pounding. Oh, my God. What was I thinking?