Crossed Bones (25 page)

The will of Allah was that I should arrive at Casa Port Station in one piece, and just in time to catch my train to Rabat. My driver, Hassan, shoved his way to the head of the queue to buy my
billet simple
, persuading the guard to allow him through the barrier, carrying my bags right on to the train for me, finding my designated seat and stowing my luggage safely above my head. He shook my hand vigorously. ‘
Bes’salama
.
Allah ihf’dek
.
Dieu vous protège
. God go with you.’

He absolutely refused to take a tip, leaving me staring after him open-mouthed with amazement and gratitude.

My carriage was largely comprised of business people, judging by the number of briefcases and laptops on display, and a surprising percentage of these were women, some dressed entirely in Western clothing, others in full-length pastel robes complete with hijab, while others went bareheaded. Each one wore a quite extraordinary amount of make-up: full-cover foundation, powder, lipstick and pencil, blusher, thick black eyeliner, eye-shadow, highlighter, eyebrow pencil, all very expertly applied – and exquisite, high-heeled shoes. Kohled eyes watched me covertly –
poor woman
,
travelling on her own
;
no children
,
no sign of a wedding ring
,
and so inelegantly dressed too – has she no pride in herself to be wearing such old jeans and ugly trainers
,
and not a trace of cosmetics
? No matter how swiftly they looked away, I could read their thoughts in an instant. The men smiled at me kindly: perhaps in their eyes too I was worthy of pity. One young man, keen to show off his English, asked me if I was visiting his country for the first time, and what did I think of it, and did I need somewhere to stay in Rabat, because his family would happily take me into their home. I told him it was my first visit, that what little I had seen of Morocco so far seemed fascinating and I was looking forward to discovering much more; and that yes, thank you, I had arranged my accommodation in Rabat. I watched his face fall.

‘If you need a guide – ’

‘That too is arranged.’

He fixed me with an earnest look. ‘You must be very careful about guides here in Morocco, sometimes they are not what they seem, I mean they are not to be trusted and may tell you many lies. It can be dangerous for a lady who travel on her own.’

The woman opposite me caught my eye and held my gaze for several heartbeats, then looked away.

‘Thank you for your kind advice,’ I said, smiling. To signal that our conversation was at an end, I dug out my
Rough Guide
and applied myself to it, nerves jumping. I felt his regard on me like a physical touch, and my skin began to crawl. He’s only being friendly, I told myself fiercely, he’s concerned for your welfare.

I went out into the corridor and phoned Alison.

‘Hi. I’m here.’

‘Where’s “here”?’

‘On the train to Rabat. It gets in in about twenty minutes.’

‘You OK?’

It was reassuring to hear her voice. I thought about her question for a split second, felt foolish at my paranoia, smiled. ‘Yes, fine, actually. People are really pleasant and helpful. How are you?’

‘Great. I was going to phone you later. Something amazing’s happened. We’ve found something – you’ll never believe it, it ties up with Catherine’s book.’

I waited, pins and needles tingling at the base of my skull. Alison said something inaudible. ‘What? Say that again?’

‘Sorry, it’s just that Michael’s here. I’m going to hand you over.’

A pause.

‘Julia?’ Michael’s voice, a continent away.

I closed my eyes, remembering the last time we had spoken. ‘Go away,’ I said softly.

‘What? Julia, I can’t hear you. Look, you’ve got to come back – get a flight tomorrow, Anna and I will pay for it – we really need the book, you won’t believe what we’ve found –’

‘Go away,’ I said, and turned the phone off, my heart hammering.

A portly middle-aged man in a tunic and wide trousers waited for me in the concourse of Rabat’s main railway station holding a handwritten cardboard sign bearing the legend
MME LOVEIT
. I walked right past him before it clicked. A fit of the giggles threatened to consume me. Mastering it, I retraced my steps. ‘Hello. I’m Julia Lovat.’

His face broke into a huge, gap-toothed grin. ‘
Enchanté
,
madame
.
Bienvenue
, welcome, welcome in Maroc.’ He waddled up and pumped my hand effusively, and at once relieved me of my suitcases.

‘Are you Idriss el-Kharkouri?’ I asked. He was not at all what I had been expecting: somehow, from the refined tones of Madame Rachidi, I had pictured an elegant cousin with a scholarly air and the ability to march me around the city at speed, filling my head with arcane knowledge. It did not look as if Idriss was in the habit of walking anywhere at all; nor did his lazy smile intimate the razor-sharp intellect of an expert guide. But I knew nothing of what might lie behind the façades of this culture: perhaps I should not leap so swiftly to judgement.

He looked puzzled, so I repeated my question, adding: ‘
Idriss
,
le cousin de Madame Rachidi
,
mon guide
?’

Now he shook his head vigorously. ‘
Ah
,
non
,
non
,
non
,
désolé
,
madame
:
Idriss ne pouvait pas m’accompagner
.
Il est occupé ce soir
.
Moi
,
je suis Saïd el-Omari
,
aussi cousin de Madame Rachidi
.’

Another of Madame Rachidi’s cousins, I slowly translated for myself, following in his wake as he staggered along with my cases, not realizing, or perhaps disdaining, the efficacy of the handle and wheels. Popping open the boot of a small rusting blue Peugeot bearing an official taxi sign, he stowed my luggage, helped me into the back, performed an illegal U-turn and headed at speed down the main road of a city that looked as blandly European as the centre of Casablanca. Monumental government buildings, a vast post office, rows of modern shops, municipal gardens lush with colour, office blocks, car parks. As the nondescript trappings of a modern city sped past me, I allowed my mind to hover for a moment – like an insect over a Venus flytrap – over my brief conversation with Alison and Michael.

Whatever could they have found that was so important it would prompt Michael to offer to pay my fare back? And what, my guts clenched, had he said to Anna about it all? Before I had left London, aware of the many perils that can befall a traveller, I had taken the book to a copy shop in Putney and carefully photocopied every page, laying the book as flat as I could without damaging the spine, and using the most complicated graphics settings the machine offered to capture as best I could the soft pencil script. It had taken me several false starts, a great deal of finicky care, well over an hour and cost the best part of ten pounds, but it was worth both cost and effort for some peace of mind. A more prudent person would probably have left the original at home and taken the copy with them, but I could not bear to be parted from the object itself, so I had lodged the copy with my solicitor.

My hand strayed to the bag on my knee. Delving inside, I caressed the cover of
The Needle-Woman’s Glorie
. I have often wondered whether pet owners stroke their animals for their own or the pet’s benefit; now, the feeling of the soft calfskin under my fingers calmed me, reassuringly solid and present, and I suspected it might be for the former reason. I held Catherine’s book pressed to my chest as we passed from the modern city through an archway into the crumbling terracotta pisé walls of the old
medina
.

Immediately I was craning my neck, all thoughts of England forgotten. This was truly foreign territory. People thronged the streets – old men in hooded robes, veiled women, teenaged boys in a mixture of garbs from the downright medieval to the saggy jeans and bling of classic hip-hop culture. Music pervaded the air: percussive and insistent, traditional North African voices mingling with the occasional throb of drum and bass. The taxi dodged at a snail’s pace through the flow of people on bicycles, mopeds and donkey carts, giving me a privileged view of market stalls overflowing with produce, narrow alleys bordered by tall, windowless houses with ornate doors of aged iron-bound wood, elegant towers topped by shining green tiles, wrought-iron gateways offering a tantalizing glimpse of hidden courtyards verdant with orange trees and bougainvillea. We turned a corner and a great wailing voice shivered on the twilight air: the muezzin, the call to prayer. I closed my eyes, listening – ‘
Allah akbar
.
Allah akbar
.
Achehadou ana illah illallah
.
Achehadou ana mohammed rasoul allah
.
Achehadou ana mohammed rasoul allah
.
Haya rala salah
.
Haya rala salah
…’ – and suddenly felt myself inside the heart of Western Islam.

Some minutes later the spell was broken as Said hurled the taxi up on to a broken sidewalk, and the engine shuddered to a halt. I looked around. By now it was full dark, and here particularly so, the only brightness visible being the blue-white fizzing light of a man arc-welding his car across the road, an activity which threw off alarming shadows that leaped and danced like dervishes. Something moved fleet and close to the ground in my peripheral vision. I whipped around, and it froze in mid-pace: a black cat, thin as a stick. Its eyes flared at me as the welder’s light reflected in them, then it flicked its tail and vanished into the night.

‘
Allez
,
madame
, with me. Dar el-Beldi this way,
par ici
.’

I followed him down an alleyway so narrow I could touch it on both sides without stretching out my hands. The houses had walls of rough adobe and were incised with grand doorways. In one of these an old woman sat crouched on a doorstep. As we approached, she smiled up at Said, and her eyes were all white with cataracts, shining up at me like those of the cat. She stretched out a dry, brown bird’s claw of a hand. ‘
Sadaka all-allah
.’

Despite being laden with my bags, Saïd stopped, dug in a little pocket set aslant in his tunic, withdrew two coins and pressed them into her palm.

‘
Shokran
,
shokran
,
sidi
.
Barrakallofik
.’

He was already past her, stepping into the shadows opposite and knocking on a vast iron-studded door. A small door within the door swung inwards, and golden light flooded out on to the alley. There was a loud staccato burst of Arabic between Said and the person on the other side; then he waved me forward. I skirted the old beggarwoman with a nervous smile and fled into the welcoming light of the riad.

To Sir Arthur Harrys

Master of St Michael’s Mount

Kenegy Manor House, Gulval Hills, Cornwall

24
th daie of August, anno
1625

Sallee, in Barbarye

My duty be remembered to you, & may your health in the Lord be goode. Pray, from the goodnesse of your hearte pay the person who brings you this post from us poor captives in Sallee, where wee lye in the handes of crewel tyrants, at whose behest I wryte this letter, in feare of my lyf
.

Myselfe, & those I liste belowe represent all those who were taken from the attack on Pen Sants and survive to this daie, that ys alle who have not perished of the voyage or of other paines & endurances, or beene taken away I knowe not where. Sir, I must beg your supportation, for there ys no one else wee maie turne to for our deliverance, & I knowe you to bee a goode Christian man who would not willingly see your countryfolk left unredeemed & forced into apostasy. Every daie they offer us threats & blandishments for turning Turke and becomyng Mahometan, & I feare some maie bee perswaded rather than face the galleys or the bastinadoe. I liste heere those peple whose fate I knowe, but there were taken many more, & I knowe not what has become of them, or what wille become of us in the long weekes it maie take for this post to reach you
.

Viz. of youre owne householde
:

Catherine Anne Tregenna, ladys maide
– £800

Eleanor Chigwine, house keeper (your servant William Chigwine perished on the voyage)
– £120

Matilda Pengellye, house maide
– £250

Others taken from the church in Pen Sants
:

Jane Tregenna, my mother, widow
– £156

Edward Coode, Esq., draper
– £100
and wyf Mary (my uncle & aunt)
– £140.
I feare both my nephews are lost

John Kellynch, fisherman of Market-Jew
– £96,
sister Henrietta
– £125
& mother Maria Kellynch
– £140

Walter Truran, preacher
– £96

Jack Fellowes, farmhand of Alverton
– £96,
wyf Ann
– £180
& children Peter & Mary, twelve & eight
– £280
the paire

Alys Johns
– £250
& her child James, five
– £104

Ephraim Pengellye, fisherman of Pen Sants
– £96

Anne Samules, spinster of Pen Sants
– £80

Nan Tippet, widow of Pen Sants
– £85

I knowe not why the price they have putte on mee ys so hie. I knowe that I am not worthie of such costlie sum, sir
.