Amour Provence (10 page)

“My father grows oranges and my mother has every sort of vegetable.”

“I don't want fruits or vegetables, but I do want flowers and lots of them.”

Without waiting for her response, Descoing abruptly offered Rachida an hourly wage that was several times what she was presently earning. Her surprise must have shown because he lifted his hand in warning and said, “I'm happy to pay you nicely, but everything will be in cash. It's up to you what you do with your money. You can hide it under your pillow if you wish, that's your business. Eventually, if you work for me full-time, perhaps we'll see about getting you the proper papers.” Then he stood up and from his back pocket pulled a packet of bills fastened with a gold clip. He peeled off two five-hundred-franc notes and held them out to her. “Consider this an advance. We can settle things once you begin here.”

The golden clip shimmered and Rachida was reminded of the crusaders' treasure. But she looked at Descoing and shook her head. “I'll have to speak to my husband first.”

“Aren't you free to make your own decisions?” he asked. Rachida didn't respond and Descoing continued, “Well, I hope you will be able to come and help Amina this Saturday. I've invited people for dinner.”

He slid the money back into his pocket and turned to Amina. “Why don't you show Rachida the kitchen and pantry. Perhaps you can help convince her husband to let her work for me.” Rachida felt the tips of her fingers grow cold as she imagined what Mohammed might say.

When the phone at Descoing's feet rang, he answered and began to speak in an unrecognizable language. He looked at his watch again and then turned away. The interview was over. Rachida followed Amina through the hallway to the other side of the château.

“He wasn't speaking French,” Rachida said.

“No, he speaks many different languages.” She chuckled. “He's a foreigner like us!” When they reached the kitchen, Rachida felt she'd never been in a more beautiful room. The floors covered in dark ocher tiles were mirrored in the vaulted ceilings that arched upward like the interior of the little town church into which Rachida had once slyly entered. On the kitchen wall an old-fashioned bread oven yawned. Two doors with handles in the shape of swans led to a newly dug kitchen garden, the earth a rich umber. Rachida gazed out at the view.

“That's the old grange.” Amina pointed to a long stone building at the end of the driveway. “Monsieur Descoing told me he's going to build apartments above it for the people who will work here.” Rachida imagined a room overlooking the trees that were silhouetted against the radiant sky.
Maybe they would all live there one day, she and Mohammed along with Amina and Tariq, and perhaps there would be a third couple or, maybe someday, children. Rachida closed her eyes and told herself that nothing that she imagined was likely to come to pass, as her desire for a new life had led her to go against the wishes of her beloved husband. A sigh escaped her and Amina said, “Shall I ask Tariq to speak to Mohammed about you working here?”

Rachida shook her head. She didn't want Amina's husband to get involved. Mohammed was Tariq's boss, and even though Tariq was older, he wouldn't have the right to give advice to someone like Mohammed. She would have to make the plea on her own.

Though the sun was still high in the sky, it was already late when Rachida returned to her house. She was surprised to see Mohammed already there, sitting outside on a wooden stool. He lifted a cigarette to his lips and took a deep puff, unaware of her presence. Rachida didn't like to see him smoke. Sometimes Mohammed did the same things that the French did, things forbidden to Muslims, like drinking wine and other sorts of alcohol on the evenings when he played cards with friends at the Ace of Hearts, a café on the river road. Though Mohammed wasn't a strict observer of the faith, they still went regularly to the small, unadorned mosque, really a converted warehouse, in the nearby town of Saint-Maxence, and she knew her husband was still attached to the old ways even though he'd lived so long in France. But none of that mattered now. She wouldn't dare complain to him about his habits when it was she who was at fault.

“Where have you been?”
Mohammed asked. He snuffed the cigarette out beneath his shoe.

Rachida folded her hands into her sleeves and remembered her habit of doing the same thing when as a girl she had confronted her formidable father. She bowed her head, chagrined that she'd automatically made that same gesture with her husband.

“I met Amina up at the château.” She was surprised that her voice sounded calm when inside she was quaking. “She introduced me to the new owner, Monsieur Descoing. Hamidou, he wants me to work part-time for him up there. I'd be with Amina, of course.”

Mohammed's yellowish-brown eyes flashed and his forehead became a mass of dark lines. “You went up there without telling me?”

Beneath her sleeves, Rachida squeezed her forearms.

“I was afraid to tell you,” she said.

“You were afraid because you knew I wouldn't like it. And I
don't
like it. Who is this man?”

“Amina knows him. She works for him already and she brought me because she needs a helper in the kitchen. He pays generously and in cash.”

Mohammed stood up and shook his head. “Have you thought about Corinne, who counts on you?”

“I can still work for Corinne. I'll only be at the château on weekends. And I might do some work in the garden.”

“He wants you to dig his earth like a common laborer? You will do that for no one, Rachida!”

“But, Hamidou, you told me that we were saving for the future. If I work more we can save more. And then I could
get my papers. That would mean many benefits!” Though Rachida's hidden fingers tensed even further, her face remained impassive.

“We don't know anything about this Monsieur Descoing!” Her husband's mouth turned down and he pointed at her naked throat. “Where is your necklace?”

“I took it off before going to the château.”

Rachida stood before Mohammed, a straight column in her long robe. It had been a while since he'd seen her dressed so elaborately and she looked to him suddenly foreign, not remotely French, as she sometimes appeared when she wore her black pants and golden necklace. He reminded himself that she was still his to protect and care for. Of course they'd all heard of the man who had bought the grand château at the top of the village. He was very rich, but that only made things worse as far as Mohammed was concerned. The rich could do as they pleased and he didn't want Rachida exposed to that kind of world. He was all too aware that in France men considered the seduction of women a sport and a young woman like Rachida would be looked upon as fair game. Even this so-called
châtelain
might see Rachida as a potential plaything. There were limits that a husband needed to place on his wife; otherwise he'd lose control of her.

After a moment Mohammed said, ”Don't make supper for me. I'll be back later.” As he strode into town, he noticed that Rachida was still standing in the narrow alley watching him go. But he didn't turn around, afraid that if he saw her eyes he would weaken and return to her.

The afternoon waned and the sky became fiery red.
When the sun set, the air transformed into a pale lavender haze that descended over the clay rooftops. Rachida waited. She turned in rounds in her tiny house, drinking cup after cup of mint tea that served to assuage her hunger. Every once in a while she peered longingly out the door. When it began to get late, she removed her abaya and folded it to preserve the crisp lines of her careful ironing. As she undressed, she found spots of blood on her underthings. She lay down on the bed, pulled a pillow on top of her aching belly, and pressed down with both hands, deciding that she would confide in Amina as soon as the opportunity presented itself. And then her thoughts turned to what she might say to Mohammed to convince him to let her work for Monsieur Descoing.

When she'd lived with her parents, several times Rachida had dared to stand up to her strict and demanding father, a fact that had stunned the entire family. Her elder sister, Fatima, had always been perfectly obedient no matter what the issue. But Rachida wasn't Fatima. As a girl of ten, she'd told her father that she wanted to finish grade school and not quit the way most of the other country girls did.

“Why do you want to be different?” he had asked her. “You should be home learning things from your mother now.” Her parents had little education and didn't value it, but she'd managed to persist.

“You're going to need someone who knows how to write and do figures so you can be fairly paid when you sell your oranges at harvest.” She'd tucked her hands inside her sleeves to hide her nervous fingers. The prized orchard that her father had planted several years before was just coming to fruition.
That time he had reluctantly granted her request to remain at school, as he'd later done when she would beg small freedoms, shaking his head at what he considered her willfulness. But when she turned sixteen and her father told her she would be marrying a man more than twice her age, a man who had lived in France for as long as she'd been alive, she'd argued that she'd prefer to stay in Morocco. She was thinking of the neighbor's boy, her childhood friend Jamel, who had a high smooth forehead and light hazel eyes like hers, unusual for Moroccans. They were both tall with long, slender legs and arms. When they were children, people in the town had said the two of them were mirror images. However, as teenagers they were no longer allowed to mingle, as was the custom, but Rachida sometimes felt Jamel's eyes upon her when he drove his herd of goats by their orchard and she knew that he had not forgotten her.

Three times she'd gone to her father to argue for her freedom as her planned wedding to Mohammed drew closer. The last time, when the festivities were imminent, she'd come alone into the darkened room where her father rested after his midday meal. He was sitting on a pillow drinking tea by the open window that looked over his tethered camels and the pens of goats and chickens that the family kept. She was well aware of the laws to which he adhered, the mores of the old world that were still the dominating force in the countryside of the Maghreb, a force that encompassed his family as well as all of his neighbors, who considered women to be property even more valuable than the camels whose fancy harness ornaments
jingled in the same way that the stack of silver bracelets jingled on her own arm.

This time her father raised his voice. “We've already discussed this, daughter!” She stopped herself from shaking by holding firm to her wrists, hidden by the long sleeves of her abaya. Her father had gazed out the single window that looked northward, saying, “There is nothing more to say. It is finished!” Rachida knew herself to be a reasonable person, but her father could turn things upside down, making her look obstinate and pigheaded. Though she knew Mohammed was a good man, a responsible man with a job, unlike so many in Morocco, where gainful employment was hard to come by, Rachida couldn't help but be unquiet. Her sister had also been married to someone chosen by their father, but Fatima lived nearby, so she could see her family, and in particular Rachida, whenever she cared to. It wouldn't be that way for Rachida if she married Mohammed. She'd be far away in a strange land.

“The world is changing. I will be able to provide for myself,” she said at last.

Her father unfolded his long limbs and rose, a dramatic sign of his anger, as generally nothing could disturb him when he rested tranquilly after the noon meal. “A woman does what she is told.” He advanced toward her. “Do you think you can go off on your own? Well, you cannot! You are under my protection until you have a husband. If you leave you will no longer be a part of this family and it will be certain to be a miserable decision. Look me in the eyes and believe me.” Rachida looked. She'd heard of girls who had run away, girls who had chosen badly and become
pariahs on the loose, but never free. Rachida had given her father a last imploring glance then bowed her head in acceptance.

That night when the church bell tolled ten o'clock, Mohammed was still not home. Rachida emptied the darkened mint leaves from the teapot and got into to bed. Before the quarter hour chimed, the door lock clicked and Mohammed entered. As he drew near, she could smell cigarettes and a pungent odor that she recognized as pastis, the evil spirit many locals made in their bathtubs, using family recipes and grain alcohol obtained illegally. It was said that homemade pastis could cause insanity and even death.

In the darkness, she heard the stool scrape and fall to the floor. She remained silent as Mohammed righted it and slowly undressed. When he put out his hand and touched her hip, she sat up.

“Mohammed, you want me to be an obedient wife, but you don't live the good life. I smell alcohol! That is
haraam
! I know that in your heart you are a fine man, but you aren't living like one!”