The Saffron Gate (35 page)

^{There was no air in the tiny shop; my hair was plastered against my wet forehead. The smell of the dye and the wafting garlic from the man's breath were making my stomach roil.}

^{The slippers were soft in my hands. 'Perhaps . . . the daughter?' I said.}

^{'Daughter? What daughter?'}

^'Manon.'

^{He pushed out his lips. 'Who do you speak of? Who is Manon?'}

^{'Manon Duverger. Or maybe that's not her last name any more. Perhaps she's married, with a different surname. But the elder Duverger's daughter, Manon. I believe she still lives here, in Marrakesh. Maybe within the medina.'}

^{'Manon?' he repeated, as if to make certain. 'You ask about the daughter of Marcel Duverger? That Manon?'}

^{'Yes, yes.' I nodded, my voice again rising in hope, but the shop owner suddenly looked secretive, or disgruntled. He looked over my head, and then reached up and straightened the
babouches
on the shelf.}

^{'That's what I've said, monsieur. Manon Duverger.'}

^{'You are mistaken, madame. The Manon you ask about is not Duverger. She is Manon Maliki.'}

^{'That's her married name?'}

^{Now the man made a face of disgust. 'Hah!' he said.}

^{I ignored his critical tone, fighting to keep my voice even, my face expressionless. 'But . . . you are certain she's Monsieur Duverger's daughter?'}

^{Now he shifted his tangle of a turban to one side, wiping his shaven head. 'I am certain.'}

^{'Can you tell me where she lives, then?' I licked my lips. I was so close.}

^{He was still staring at me. 'Sharia Zitoun.'}

^{'How do I find it? Is it nearby? Please, monsieur.'}

^{'It is past the dyers' alley.
C'est tout',
he said, slapping his palms together as if to rid them of dust. 'There's nothing more I can tell you. You have taken me from my duties for too long.' He had abruptly lost his earlier friendliness. From the moment I made it clear I looked for Manon Duverger, his attitude had changed.}

^{'I'm sorry to have troubled you, monsieur,' I said. 'I . . . what price do you wish for these?' I held up the orange
babouches.
'Whatever you ask, monsieur. You have been very helpful. And I . . . I'll take a second pair, as you suggested.'}

^{But he rather brusquely took them from my hands. 'You do not need to purchase anything from me. It will not be a good sale; now there is no
baraka.
Instead, I will give you something. I give it freely. It is this: do not seek out Manon Maliki. No good will come of it. Good day, madame.' He turned then, putting the
babouches
on another shelf. It was clear he would speak no more to me.}

^{'Merci,
monsieur,' I said to his back, and left the stall. I passed the boy — the man's nephew — hurrying up the alley, a tin tray with two glasses of steaming tea on it. He stopped, staring at me, but I ignored him.}

^{Now I asked anyone who looked at me for directions to the dyers' alley, or to Sharia Zitoun. Occasionally a man would point behind me or in front of me. I had no idea if they understood my question, and, if so, if they actually were giving me the correct information.}

^{The streets twisted like streams beneath my feet; at times I stumbled in the depression that had been worn into the centre. And then, with a turn, there were no more stalls, and I was out of the souks. I was in an alley lined with the windowless house fronts Madame Odette had described. Straight walls and gates, and behind the locked gates lived the people of Marrakesh. There were many small children, appearing from shadowed alleys that led off the one I was in, scampering around me as they had in D'jemma el Fna, pulling on my skirt and chattering in Arabic. And like the children in the square, the only French words they called , were
bonjour, madame, bonjour,
and
bonbon,
they begged, but I could only shake my head.
Sharia Zitoun,
I repeated to them, but they just giggled, running ahead or beside me.}

^{There seemed an inordinate number of famished cats; they sat on walls and slunk in and out of the shadows, their ribs protruding, their ears torn and their fur greasy or mangy. Every once in a while I passed two of them, spitting and hissing as they fought over a scrap of food, with the triumphant one dragging its win into a dark corner.}

^{As I wandered deeper, it grew quieter; the noises of the souks had long died away. And then there was solitude. Not a child, not a cat. Nothing. The cooler peacefulness of this alley was a relief after the continuous noise and array of colour and wares and milling humanity. I stopped, leaning against a wall, wiping my forehead and upper lip with my sleeve. The cobbled alley stretched ahead, shaded and dim, with only the gates and the continuous walls. I couldn't tell where one house began and one ended except by the different gates. The alley was so narrow that should I meet a donkey pulling a cart I would have to flatten myself against the wall.}

^{I told myself I should return the way I came — if I could find my way back — and be in the busyness of the souks, or even the frenetic, untamed atmosphere of the square, and find definite directions to Sharia Zitoun.}

^{I should be where there were people; although I didn't feel particularly safe in the crowds, here, completely alone, a sense of panic nudged. I was hopelessly confused, entwined in the labyrinth of the medina. I thought of Madame Odette's words about being lost, and how it was impossible to find one's way out. I saw that the medina was not only a serpentine maze of alleys, but also a network of arteries leading into dead ends and cul-de-sacs.}

^{A gate opened and a man emerged. He stopped when he saw me, and then walked towards me, staring at me as if I were something unpredictable and dangerous.}

^{Instinctively I lowered my gaze, and he passed.}

^{I went to the end of the alley, looking left and right. Three women approached; no man was with them. 'Mesdames?' I said, seeing that the hands clutching the folds of their white
haiks
across their faces were black. They might be slaves, then, I thought, and that was why they were out without a man to accompany them. 'Mesdames,' I repeated, but they passed me as though I were invisible.}

^{I lost track of time. Occasionally I met another figure, and would speak the words Sharia Zitoun. Some turned their faces from me, unwilling to speak to an uncovered foreigner; others stared but didn't respond. I wandered deeper and deeper through the tunnelled streets; it felt as though I had walked for hours in the hot alleyways. My leg ached, and occasionally I leaned against a wall to rest it. I realised that the last strip of sky above me was closing over because of the narrowness of the passageways. I fought to hold down the panic that stayed with me now, just under the surface. I heard the slight splashing of fountains in the courtyards behind the high walls, or the slow clopping of hoofs on stones, echoing from another alley. I stepped around the deposits left by horses and donkeys and goats, as well as over trickling gutters. On the top of a pile of rotting vegetable peelings was the body of a dead cat, sprawled as though unceremoniously tossed there. It was even cooler here, with the high stone walls and the sun unable to reach its long fingers into such narrow passages, and I understood why the streets were built in this fashion.}

^{I turned down another street, and suddenly heard, from nearby, continual mechanical humming. I went towards the sound and walked into an alley lined with tiny niches. In every one an old man hunched over an antiquated sewing machine, working the needle with the hand wheel. I thought of my mother. The tailors' alley then.}

^{In the next alley were men working wood in their own alcoves. These men weren't as old as the tailors, and used an assortment of tools, some with their bare feet. The smell was aromatic and clean.}

^{When I next turned I found myself in a small square. Over the entire square, from crossed ropes strung between the roofs, hung huge skeins of wool: a ceiling of colour. The dyers' alley. The skeins were scarlet and tangerine and sunflower yellow, greens deep as the ocean and pale, as the newest leaves, purples and blues both brilliant and muted. I stood in awe for a moment, looking up. Then I saw that the dyers were all boys, some as young as twelve or thirteen, also in tiny recesses, sitting cross-legged on raised platforms as they stirred vats of dye into which they were immersing the rough grey-white wool. Their hands, on their wooden paddles, were completely stained to the wrists in a muddy, unnameable colour. They looked at me as I passed, but didn't stop their endless stirring. Steam rose from the vats, and I could imagine the intense heat in the tiny domed spaces.}

^{Sharia Zitoun was just past the dyers' alley, the
babouche
dealer in the souk had told me. I stopped at the wall at the end of the alley; I could only go left or right. There was a tiny sign on one wall, but it was in Arabic. Choosing left, I started down the alley, and almost immediately three small children ran towards me. 'Madame,' they shouted, and at their cries a gate opened and a heavyset woman stuck her head out of the doorway, holding a calico kerchief in front of her face. She shouted at the group of children, and they dispersed. '
Pardon
, madame,' I said to her.}

^{She looked over the kerchief at me with a decidedly unfriendly stare.}

^{'Je cherche
Sharia Zitoun,' I said.}

^{Her stare altered slightly.
'Parlez-vous français,
madame?' I asked. 'Sharia Zitoun,' I repeated, slowly.}

^{The woman nodded, pointing at the ground. I looked down, not understanding until she said, 'Sharia Zitoun.'}

^{'Ah.
Ici?
Here is Sharia Zitoun?'}

^{The woman nodded again.}

^{'Please, madame,' I said, 'I am trying to find Madame Maliki.'}

^{At that the woman took a step back.}

^{'Manon Maliki,' I said, again, nodding encouragingly.}

^{Then the woman did an odd thing. She reached down inside her kaftan and pulled out a small leather pouch, clutching it. I knew it to be an amulet to ward off the
djinns;
Aziz had worn one. What I didn't know was whether she held it to protect herself from me, or because I had said Manon's name.}

^{But then she raised her other hand and flung it in the air, pointing over my left shoulder. I turned and looked at the gate she indicated.}

^{'C'est la?'
I asked. 'That's where she lives?'}