The Saffron Gate (21 page)

^{He nodded, his hand still over mine. 'You're a good listener, Sidonie. You fix your eyes on me, and your face is so still. I think . . . I believe you're used to listening deeply to the silence around you.'}

^{I nodded. 'That's why I love going out to the marsh — I told you about it — Pine Bush. Why I love working in the garden, or painting. Or sitting on the porch, late at night, when the street has gone to bed. The silence lets me think.'}

^{He smiled. 'There's no silence in Marrakesh.'}

^{'What do you mean?'}

^{'It's a city so frill of colour and sound and movement that it all bleeds together. I found the constant hum, underneath it all, soothing in a way that silence isn't for me. It's almost like a thrumming, a vibration, under the feet. And the sun . . .' He looked towards the window; we were sitting in the living room. He was drinking bourbon — he had brought a bottle — and I lemonade. 'The sun has an intensity unlike here. Even the air is different. My first winter in America . . .' He shuddered dramatically. 'Of course I'd spent many winters in Paris, but here the air becomes so thin, so hard to breathe. The smell of snow was like metal. Like the taste of blood in your throat. But the Moroccan sky, the sun . . .' His face had grown animated, his cheeks slightly flushing.}

^{'When were you there last?'}

^{His face changed, and he didn't answer my question, reverting to our former conversation. 'Once the Protectorate was in place, my father was assigned a permanent position in Marrakesh, and of course we moved there at that time, as a family. I was a young boy. My father only treated the French; the Moroccans stuck to their own cures. Especially the women in the harems.'}

^{'Are they really full of hundreds of beautiful women? The harems?' I'd asked, trying not to show how impressed I was that this man had lived such an uncommon life. And that he would talk of it with me.}

^{Etienne raised his eyebrows, smiling again. Most of the time, when he talked about his life in Morocco, his face and voice were passionate, and I knew that he had a deep love for the country that had been his home for much of his young life. 'Most Western visions of a harem are based on highly romanticised novels and paintings. But harems in Morocco are simply the women's quarters within a house. The word harem derives from the Arabic word
haram,'
he said, 'which means shameful or even sinful. But in everyday language all it means is forbidden. No man is allowed in the women's quarters in the home, apart from husbands and sons, brothers and fathers.'}

^{'So . . . they see no men but those they're related to, by blood or marriage?'}

^{He nodded. 'The wives of the upper class aren't even allowed to leave their homes, apart from certain traditions. It's a difficult life for them; depending on a man's success, he can have up to four wives. It's a Muslim convention.'}

^{My face must have showed my surprise.}

^{'Complex for us to fathom, I know. My father said the women were sometimes driven to what we might call witchcraft by their own need for some attempt at dominance. Some way to regulate the behaviour of their men, and their own status with the other wives.'}

^{'What do you mean by witchcraft? What do they do?'}

^{He looked into his glass. 'I see it as backward nonsense,' he said, looking at me again then, and his face had lost its enthusiasm. 'They believe in the occult, and try to attract power either for their own benefit, or to deflect evil powers sent by others.' Now his voice was almost clinical. 'They make potions they believe will create a certain circumstance, either positive or negative — a birth, an illness, love, even death — or to protect themselves from the harmful spirits they believe lurk everywhere around them. There's a great deal of ignorance and superstition that rules their lives,' His voice had grown hard. 'They're only dangerous to themselves,' he said, 'although they also . . .' He stopped.}

^{After a moment of silence, during which Etienne drained his glass, I said, 'Of course,' as if I knew what he spoke about, even though all I knew about Morocco by then was that I'd located it in my atlas, at the tip of North Africa, and had found, in a history book, a bit of information about the French conquest of the country in 1912. Although so often his descriptions of his life were joyful and candid, there were also times when I heard a definite hesitancy, as though he was sifting through his memories and choosing only those he wanted to share. As if there was something he was deliberately avoiding.}

^{'So the men keep their women secluded,' he went on, pouring himself another glass of bourbon, 'and yet it's perfectly acceptable for them to also have concubines —
chikhas —
if they can afford them.' He spoke now with an impatient air. 'The country is a paradox. There's extreme spirituality, and yet there's a sensuality that defies it.'}

^{'Do you plan to return again soon? Is your family still there?'}

^{'No. No,' he repeated, and I didn't know whether he was answering one or both questions.}

^{'There's nothing left for me there now. It's a place of sadness; my parents and my brother Guillaume are buried there. They all died within three years. One, two, three,' he said, and then sat quietly for a moment.}

^{'Guillaume . . . was he your only sibling?'}

^{'He was younger than me by three years. We weren't alike; he was . . .' He stopped, then continued. 'He drowned at Essouria, on the coast of Morocco. It was a terrible time. After that my mother was suddenly old.'}

^{I remembered my own mother's face, bending over me, when I'd been stricken with polio. My father's face at the window; his air of complete powerlessness.}

^{'And my father had been quite ill for some time. But parents are always changed by a child's death, no matter how old the child, aren't they? The unnatural order of it.'}

^{There was silence; I knew he wasn't yet finished, and sat quietly, waiting.}

^{'I lived with regret for a number of years,' he went on. 'I hadn't spent enough time with him — with Guillaume. He looked up to me, and I . . .' He stopped again, and then spoke rapidly and tonelessly, as if he wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible.}

^{'The year after Guillaume died it was my mother, and then the year after that my father. No,' he said, with finality. 'There is nothing — and no one — for me in Marrakesh any longer. Nothing but sad memories. Nothing could make me return.'}

^{I felt it would be better to ask no more questions; Etienne's voice was low and dark, and all the light had gone from his face. But I was nevertheless fascinated by hearing about a world completely unknown to me, and every time Etienne came to call, I had more questions.}

^{When Etienne asked me about the botanical and bird paintings on the walls of my home — it was the next time he came to see me after he'd first kissed me — I had admitted, a little nervously, that yes, they were mine.}

^{'After seeing your sketches in the notepad, of course I wondered if you'd painted these. They're very well done.'}

^{'It's just a hobby,' I said.}

^{'Can you show me more of your work?'}

^{I rose from my chair and he followed me into my studio — my parents' former bedroom. I was very conscious of their double bed, against the far wall.}

^{Half-finished paintings lay on the table; I had finally started the Karner Blue butterfly the day before, and it was clipped on to the easel near the window. He went to it and leaned closer, studying it.}

^{'You don't paint anything else, apart from nature?'}

^{'I paint what I see around me. In the woods, and the ponds and marshes,' I said.}

^{'Of course they are very pretty,' he said, and then lightly stroked my forehead with his index and middle finger. I wanted to lean my head against his fingers, wanted him to keep touching me. 'I think there is so much more in here,' he said, putting a bit more pressure against my forehead. 'You understand what I mean, don't you? You see other things. In here.'}

^{I closed my eyes, hoping he would leave his fingers on my forehead. 'Yes. But . . . this — botany, and the birds — is what I've always painted.' I reached up and took his hand in mine, and then brought it, slowly, down my scarred cheek. I couldn't open my eyes; I was surprised at my own boldness.}

^{'Why don't you paint the things in your mind?' he said, quietly, but I had no answer.}

^{We stayed like that for a few moments, my hand over his on my cheek, and then he put his other arm around me and pressed me against him.}

^{'It's enough?' he whispered into my ear. ‘For a woman like you, a woman with a wild heart, to live in seclusion, and paint only what is in front of her?'}

^{Was this how he saw me? A woman with a wild heart?}

^{That may have been the moment I fell in love with him.}

^{I wanted him to kiss me again, but he didn't. Still with one arm around me, he picked up a rendition of a Downy Woodpecker on a black oak.}

^{'My field is science,' he went on, 'and I have a limited knowledge of art. But I have always appreciated beauty,' he added, now letting me go, and stepping closer to the window, holding out the painting. 'Because at the centre of beauty is mystery,' he added.}

^{'Mystery?' I said, my heart still thudding from the feel of his body against mine. 'But as a doctor, do you really believe in mystery? Don't you believe in facts?'}

^{He put down the painting and turned to me again. 'Without mystery there would be no search, and no discovery of facts.' We stared at each other for a moment. 'You are a mystery, Sidonie,' he said then, setting down the painting.}

^{I heard my own breathing; it was too loud, too quick. He put his arms around me, and I lifted my face so that he understood how much I wanted him to kiss me. He did. This time I didn't tremble, but my body was suddenly so heavy and yet light, liquid, that my legs were weak.}

^{Still kissing me, he gently guided me backwards until the back of my knees touched the edge of my parents' bed, and I lowered myself, without taking my lips from his. He sat beside me, but as he started to gently push me down, I pulled away, sitting up and straightening my hair. I was too conscious of everything: the sweet whisper of bourbon on his breath, the hardness of his chest against mine, my body's reaction. But also that we were on my parents' bed, the bed they'd shared for as long as I could remember, the bed where I'd seen my mother die.}

^{I stood.}

^{'I apologise,' Etienne said, also standing and pulling down his waistcoat. 'I've acted inappropriately, Sidonie, I'm. sorry. It's difficult to be with you and not . . .' He stopped, looking down at me, and the heat in my body increased.}

^{'I'll make some coffee,' I said, turning from him, because I didn't know what else to say or do.}

^{But my hands were shaking so badly that the cups and saucers rattled as I took them from the cabinet.}

^{'I've upset you,' Etienne said, taking the china from me and setting it on the table. 'Perhaps I should go.'}

^{I shook my head, fingering the edge of one of the cups. 'No. No, don't go. You haven't upset me. That's not it.' I couldn't look at him, but he placed his hands on my cheeks and looked into my face.}