The Heat of Betrayal (36 page)

‘I want to be direct with you. I don't want to hide anything. I want you to understand all the risks here.'

‘I saw your face on television before I came out to the oasis,' he said. ‘So when Idir told me it was you I was to take to Marrakesh . . .'

A pause, then the smallest of smiles crossed his face.

‘Now that I know we need to outsmart that police inspector – well, a game is a game,
n'est-ce pas
?'

The night sky above us was astonishing. In the oasis I was put to bed most evenings at sunset. Here I got my first proper glimpse of the celestial floor show on display. The clarity in the desert was dazzling. Such density of constellations. Such a sense of heavenly potential. Even deep in the country, just ten miles from Buffalo, on a perfectly clear night you could never discern even thirty per cent of what was apparent here. It was like discovering an entire added component to the universe. My dad always said that looking up at a constellation underscored our insignificance. But tonight, seeing such immense radiance – particularly in the light of recent events – was galvanising. I looked to the stars and they told me that since nothing, in the great cosmic scheme of things, is important, everything that defines us is vitally important. What else do we have but our lives, our stories?

‘It is an amazing sky,' I said to Aatif.

‘Nice, yes,' he said, sounding less than overwhelmed.

‘I wish I could believe in heaven, in some sort of eternal paradise. I thought about that when I saw you praying earlier.'

‘It is important to believe in paradise. Especially when life is hard.'

‘Faith is a complex thing.'

He thought about that for a moment.

‘No, faith is simple. And good.'

‘Do you have children?'

I saw him tense and apologised for asking what was clearly the wrong question.

He lit another cigarette. After several long drags he asked me if I would like tea – and told me that Maika had given him several days' supply of the tisane that had repeatedly knocked me out. This was welcome news, as I had been wondering how well I'd sleep out here under the desert sky.

‘A mug of that would be wonderful.'

He went off to fetch water from a big plastic container in the back, then boiled it in a pot on top of the stove. Knowing how swiftly the tea induced sleep I told Aatif I was going to change into my nightshirt before drinking it. He stood up and walked a good distance away. I retrieved my bag and quickly changed, then hiked in the opposite direction from Aatif, lifted up my nightshirt and baptised the sand. How strange to think that everything I had once taken for granted – like a toilet or the Internet or even a phone – had been out of reach for so long. And how I had adapted – because I'd had no choice but to do so.

As soon as I'd finished the mug of tea I wished Aatif goodnight. Crawling in between the two sheets, I placed the netting over my head and stared up at the luminescent heavens above. Just before sleep overtook me I glanced over at my companion. He had walked out into the middle of the nearby unpaved road to smoke another cigarette and he too was looking up into the great lustrous unknown. I saw him wipe his eyes. Was he crying?

But then the tea did its magic and the world vanished for a spell.

Aatif was right. The sand flies, arriving with first light, were a pernicious outdoor alarm clock. At least ten of the wretched creatures were dancing on the net covering my face. Light was cleaving the sky.

Aatif was already awake, making tea. He wanly waved hello.

‘Sleep well?' I asked.

‘OK.'

‘Where are we headed today?'

‘We go back to the main road. I have stops in several villages. You will need to cover yourself. There may be roadblocks.'

So I changed yet again. By the time we hit the road I was already bathed in sweat.

‘First stop is Tissint – about an hour from here,' Aatif said.

We headed back to the main road. The sun seemed even more ferocious this morning. When I pulled down the visor to try to mitigate its blinding effects Aatif reached over and opened the glove compartment, pulling out a pair of sunglasses with red plastic frames.

‘You can use these.'

I thanked him, but when I unveiled myself in order to put them on, he hissed:

‘Get the burqa on now!'

I looked up. We'd hit a bend in the road. Right in front of us was a roadblock with a police car parked so as to only allow one car through at a time. Fortunately there was a big truck ahead, but I saw one of the officers glancing in our direction just as I got the burqa back in place. Had he seen me? If so, was this the beginning of the end?

The police were being very rigorous with the truck, demanding to see the driver's papers, opening up the rear of his vehicle, searching thoroughly inside.

‘If he asks you a question say nothing,' Aatif whispered.

‘And if he makes me take off the burqa?'

‘Say nothing.'

The inspection of the truck completed, we pulled up to the squad car. Taped to one of the rear passenger windows was a poster in Arabic and French with my mugshot adorning it. The French words needed no translation:

Personne disparue – Recherchée par la police.

Aatif also saw the poster and gripped the steering wheel tightly as the young policeman – he couldn't have been more than twenty-two – stuck his head in through the window and demanded identity papers. Aatif had them to hand. Meanwhile his older colleague was at the rear of the vehicle, opening it up and pulling out all the neatly stacked rugs and lace goods. The young officer seemed super-vigilant, asking a considerable number of questions, demanding the vehicle registration papers – which Aatif supplied – then repeating questions thrown from the other officer about the goods in the back. Aatif answered these politely. But when the young cop got tetchy, Aatif's voice also became just a little defensive. Then the older officer sidled up to my window and began to question me in Arabic. Fear coursed through me and it was a good thing he couldn't see how much I was sweating. But I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead and, as instructed by Aatif, said nothing. The officer, irritated, reached in and tapped me on the arm. I turned to face him, but remained silent. Aatif was now saying something angrily to him, and whatever it was the cop backed away from me. Aatif continued, gesturing to the back of the four-by-four, tapping himself on the chest, pointing to me. The young officer exchanged a glance with his older colleague, then they both walked to the squad car with our papers. I glanced at Aatif. He refused to look at me, instead gripping the steering wheel, trying to remain calm. He looked over at the police car and saw again the poster with my photo on it. He closed his eyes, clearly regretting that I was here with him. I wanted to say something, but knew I had to stay silent. After what seemed like an eternity while the older officer read out the ID details over a police radio (would the centralised system register that the woman whose identity I was travelling under was actually dead?) he came marching towards us.

But instead of ordering me out of the car and uncovering my face, the officer handed back the two cards to Aatif. With a dismissive flick of the wrist he informed him that we were free to go.

Aatif muttered a thank-you, put the car into gear and drove.

Five minutes later, with the checkpoint far behind us and the road empty of cars, I turned to him and said:

‘I'm smothering in here. I have to take this off.'

Aatif said nothing but I could see he was not pleased. Pulling off the burqa I caught sight of myself in the rear-view mirror. My hair was drenched, my face beet red, terror in my eyes. Aatif handed me the bottle of water.

‘Finish it,' he said. ‘You need it. We'll get more in the next village.'

‘I am so sorry.'

‘For what? You did exactly what I told you to do. The police – they were just being difficult. When the officer asked about you I explained that you were mentally disabled, and could not understand him. He asked for proof. I told him to pull off your burqa and interrogate you – but that he would face serious consequences afterwards. That was when he backed off. But you saw the posters. Roadblocks are normal, but there are not usually so many. The police are looking for you and that makes using the main roads difficult. There will be no more checkpoints between here and Tazenakht, and all the villages where I pick up goods are on that route. We will have to find a back way for tomorrow.'

‘We were lucky with your sister's ID.'

‘We only buried her two weeks ago. They probably haven't registered her death as yet on their computers in Rabat.'

‘But that's terrible. You should be having some time off.'

‘I have to work. My sister left two children. Their father is in the army stationed in the Western Sahara, near Mauritania. He sends back little money. My mother is looking after them, but she is a widow and elderly. So I have to work.'

‘Listen, that was a close call back there. I don't want you to get into trouble, lose your livelihood—'

‘I said I would get you to Marrakesh. I will get you to Marrakesh.'

Ten minutes later we pulled into the village of Tissint. A row of low-lying buildings, dusty, fly-festooned; a butcher's with bleeding carcasses, a few cafés, a mechanic's shop, idle young men everywhere, the stench of rotting sewage amidst the blast-furnace heat. Aatif's client was a large cheery woman who lived in a tiny lean-to house on the outskirts of the village. She insisted on offering us tea. I could hear Aatif explaining about me, using, I presumed, the excuse about my mental state. She smiled sheepishly at me as she helped him load up the intricately decorated velvet bedspreads and cushion covers that she made. Before we left she clutched his right hand with two of her own, apparently making some sort of plea.

When we were back in the car and heading to our next stop I asked him what her entreaty was all about.

‘She was telling me that her husband has been unwell. They have two young children. Because he is in hospital – and not expected to live – they are entirely dependent on the sale of what she makes, which I will sell to my merchant in Marrakesh.'

‘Do you have to negotiate with him for your clients?'

‘Of course. He is a businessman and he wants to buy at as low a price as possible.'

‘So you fight on their behalf?'

‘It is on my behalf too. I get thirty-five per cent of all their sales. The more I get for my clients the more I get for myself.'

‘How much did that woman back there ask you to get for her?'

‘She told me she needs fifteen hundred dirhams. That will get her and her two children through this month. Which means I need to sell her items for a bit over two thousand dirhams. This is not easy, as the merchant tells me the market is very bad right now. Not as many tourists as before – even though there is little trouble in Morocco. But I still argue hard for them.'

‘Can you make a living out of this?'

He seemed a little taken aback by the directness of my question. But then he said:

‘I can support myself. Trying to support a family . . .'

‘Do you have a family?'

‘Just my other sister who lives in Zagora. A schoolteacher. The only one of us who got a proper education. She is married to another teacher and they have two children. So I am an uncle.'

‘But no wife or children of your own?'

‘Not yet. But I have met a woman I like very much. Hafeza. She is a bit younger than me. Twenty-eight. A seamstress. Very kind with a good heart. And she would like many children like me. She's also from my village – which means I know her family. I also know that several men before have asked for her hand, but she is very choosy. So, alas, is her father. He has told me that, though Hafeza wishes to be my wife, I cannot have her unless I can buy a house.'

‘He wants you to buy a whole house outright?'

‘Not outright – but he wants me to make – how do you say it? – a payment up front?'

‘A downpayment?'

‘That's right.'

‘And how much would that cost?'

‘I've found a little place. Four rooms. Simple, but enough space. The price . . . one hundred thousand dirhams. I have saved over the last year maybe ten thousand. But the bank wants me to put down forty thousand before they give me a loan.'

‘And Hafeza's father is adamant?'

‘Until I can move us into that house she will not be my wife.'

‘That's a little rigid of him.'

‘I wish I could make more money faster. When I am back in my village I repair bicycles – a second trade. But it maybe brings in three, four hundred dirhams a month.'

Forty thousand dirhams. That was just under five thousand dollars. Which meant the house itself cost around twelve thousand four hundred dollars. Less than a very basic car back home. The sum standing between Aatif and his dream of a wife, a family.

‘You've never been married?' I asked.

He shook his head.

‘That's surprising.'

‘Why?'

‘You are an extremely nice and honourable man – and there are few of that species out there.'

His reaction to this was a touching mixture of embarrassment and embarrassed pride.

‘You shouldn't say such things.'

‘Why not?'

‘It will give me a big head,' he said, all smiles.

He lit up a cigarette. The smile quickly faded.

‘Ten years ago,' he said, ‘I proposed marriage to another woman from my village. Amina. She said yes. Then a man came through one day from Ouarzazate. A baker named Abdul. He owned three bakeries there. He met Amina. One week later he returned to see her father and propose marriage. Of course the father said yes. Because he had money and I have none.'

‘I can see why trying to find that forty thousand dirhams is so important.'