Читать книгу The Lost Letter from Morocco - Adrienne Chinn - Страница 17

Zitoune, Morocco – December 1983

Hanane skids through a slick of thick blood-red mud.

She laughs. ‘Omar, the surprise had better be worth it. I’m getting splattered with mud.’

The boy waves his hand in the air on the path in front of her. ‘Mashi mushkil. It’s not so far now.’

Hanane stops to catch her breath. Wisps of her thick black hair escape the purple scarf draped loosely over her head. The sky is a canopy of blue over the damp red earth. Nothing but rocks and mud. A few leafless bushes. The river, about ten metres below, courses roughly on its path through the canyon walls.

‘If I’d known we’d be walking to Oushane, I’d never have come.’

Omar turns around, smiling broadly as he opens his arms wide. ‘So, why would I have told you, then?’ He flicks his eyes over her shoulder.

Hanane glances back but sees nothing but the narrow goat path they’ve just descended.

‘What is it, Omar?’

‘Nothing.’ Breaking into a jog, he waves at her to follow him. ‘Not far now, Hanane. Yalla.’

‘I’m not running, Omar.’ She steps gingerly along the muddy plateau. ‘I’ll break my leg.’

‘Stop.’ Omar shoots his right palm into the air like the traffic police she’s seen in Azaghar. ‘Stop. There, just there. Where you are.’

‘What? Why?’

He points at the muddy path in front of her. ‘Look down.’

Pressed into the mud is a huge, three-toed footprint.

‘What is it?’

‘Dinosaur.’ Omar curls his hands under his armpits, staggering around the ground like a cross between a monkey and a wounded chicken. He lets out a howl.

Hanane looks around nervously. ‘Be quiet. There might be another one.’

Omar bursts out laughing, slapping the knees of his dirty jeans. ‘Don’t be stupid, Hanane. The dinosaurs are all dead now. I learned about it in school.’ He points to the ground ahead of him. ‘Yalla, there are more. Lots of them. Big and little. A whole family.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, seriously.’

Hanane spins around. The Irishman with the black hair jogs down the final metre of the goat path, the big black camera on its strap slapping against his chest.

‘Be carefu—’

Too late. His foot slips and the man’s booted feet fly out from under him, sending him sprawling on his back into the red mud.

Hanane giggles then, remembering her manners, composes her face into a frown of concern. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks in French.

Gus sits up, holding up palms coated in thick red goo. ‘Fine. I’ve only hurt my pride.’ He holds out a hand to Omar. ‘Here, boss. Give us a hand.’

Omar picks his way across the mud to the Irishman. Holding out a skinny hand, he yanks Gus to his knees.

‘Thanks, boss.’ Gus winks at Omar as he gets to his feet. ‘I can take it from here.’

‘Mister Gus, show her the other footprints, over there.’ Omar points to the ground a few metres away.

Hanane raises an arched black eyebrow at Omar. ‘So, this is your surprise.’

Omar’s right cheek dimples. ‘The dinosaur footprints were the surprise.’ He points at Gus. ‘He’s just extra. He promised me not to tell you.’

‘Boss,’ Gus says as he adjusts the camera strap around his neck, ‘did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?’

Hanane shifts on her feet, sinking deeper into the mud. ‘I really have to get back. I need to feed the chickens.’

‘You never feed the chickens, Hanane. Mohammed’s wife does that.’

Hanane glares at Omar. ‘Well, today I need to feed the chickens.’

‘I’m sure the chickens can wait half an hour,’ Gus says. ‘Since we’re here, why don’t we have a look? Think about it. A whole herd of dinosaurs walking over this very ground millions of years ago.’ He tromps through the mud in the direction Omar had pointed. He hunkers down to look at something in the ground. ‘Hanane, come and look. They really are amazing. You must come and see.’

He beckons Omar over and points out some detail to the boy. He has so much enthusiasm, Hanane thinks. So much energy. He seems so much younger than the older men of the village. All of them have somehow shrunk from their prime, like dates left to dry in the sun. But this Irishman still looks at the world with the eyes of a curious boy. Still bears himself like a man in the prime of his life. Still glows with the vitality of a man half his age. But with an assurance missing in the village boys she’s grown up with.

The two black-haired heads lean together as they inspect the marks in the ground. Man and boy. The Irishman looks over at her. His blue eyes are the colour of the sky. He smiles at her, lines carving themselves into the fine skin around his eyes.

‘Come, Hanane. Come and have a look. It’s marvellous. Obviously some large theropods. I’ve seen something similar in the Kem Kem Beds by the Algerian border.’

Marvellous. Such a beautiful word. A word of treasures beyond imagination. She takes a step forwards, knowing, as she does, that she’s walking into her future.