The Saffron Gate (40 page)

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Authors: Linda Holeman

Tags: #Fiction - Historical, #Romance & Love Stories, #1930s, #New York, #Africa

BOOK: The Saffron Gate
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I closed my eyes for a moment, not wanting to carry out this social charade. And what if, when Manon saw me, she treated me as she had yesterday?
'I apologise for Manon's behaviour yesterday. Sometimes she has headaches.'
I thought of Etienne.
'She suffers, and this makes her . . . the way you saw her. Today you must stay. Hospitality is the Moroccan way, mademoiselle. It is an insult not to accept it.'
I nodded, sitting on one of the low cork stools, which was not comfortable for my leg. I stretched it straight out in front of me. Once I was seated, Aszulay sat cross-legged on the daybed, with the round table between us. Badou climbed on to his lap and, unlike Manon, who never touched her son, Aszulay wrapped his arms around the little boy.
L'Homme Bleu. Again I thought of the man in blue robes on the
piste,
appearing out of nowhere and trading the tile for bread. How he had intrigued me, with his height and his direct stare, his slow walk of dignity and grace, disappearing down the dusty track as mysteriously as he had appeared.
'I will ask Falida to bring tea,' Aszulay said, and I jumped slightly, realising I had been staring at him. 'We will eat here, where it's cooler.' He set Badou down and stood. 'Badou, go and tell Maman to come downstairs and eat. Please, be comfortable,' he said to me. 'I will return shortly.'
Badou scampered up the courtyard stairs, and in a moment I heard the faint sound of his voice from above. I wanted so badly to see Manon, to hear what she would tell me, yet at the same time I dreaded having to deal with her. There was something cruel and twisted about her; the enjoyment on her face was obvious as she made me beg and wait. She made no attempt to hide her lack of interest in her own son, and I knew how cruelly she treated the little servant girl.
How could this woman be so different from Etienne?
Aszulay returned with Falida; he carried a tagine — the large round earthenware plate with its high, cone-shaped cover to trap the steam. Falida balanced a circular brass tray that held a heaping platter of flat round bread, a teapot, three painted glasses in tin holders and four small porcelain bowls of water with a slice of lemon floating in each.
She set everything on the round table, then filled the three glasses with tea. She handed the first one to Aszulay, then one to me, backing away from the table to run into the house. She had left the third glass for, I assumed, Manon.
'Please. Drink,' Aszulay said.
I nodded, taking a cautious mouthful — the familiar mint and so much sugar, as always — and set it down. The weather was far too hot for such a drink. I longed for a glass of cool water.
Aszulay didn't speak, but appeared relaxed as he sipped his tea. For me, the silence was too large; I tried to think of something to say. What does one say to a Blue Man? I was acutely uncomfortable, and cleared my throat twice before speaking. 'What is it you do in Marrakesh?' I finally asked.
He swallowed his mouthful of tea and said, 'I dig.'
'Dig?' I repeated, not sure if I had understood the word.
Aszulay nodded. 'I dig, and plant trees, and flowers.' He took another sip of tea, and I watched his lips on the rim.
'Oh. A gardener. Do you have a specific family you work for?' I asked, not caring at all, and yet unable to bear the silence.
'I have worked in the gardens of many of the larger
riads
in the medina, and in some of the gardens and parks in La Ville Nouvelle. I'm working there now.'
I nodded. 'I'm staying at Hôtel de la Palmeraie. In La Ville Nouvelle,' I added, unnecessarily. Again, I had no interest in this idle conversation.
'Bien entendu
,' Aszulay said. 'Naturally. It is very . . . it is luxurious.'
I nodded.
'I'm working in the garden of Monsieur Majorelle,' he said. 'But many days I bring the midday meal for Manon and Badou.'
'I went there once, to Le Jardin Majorelle.'
Aszulay had put down his glass. 'Yes. I saw you.'
'You've seen me?' I felt a tiny nudge of curiosity.
'It was last week. I was working as you walked through. I saw you speaking with Madame Odette. She comes every day; she is a rather sad woman,' he said, and now I felt a small stab of shame. I'd paid no attention to the men working under the hot sun.
'Not so many foreigners are here now. They come in the cooler months,' he said, by way of explanation, I suppose, for having noticed me.
Had I appeared imperious, or dismissive, as I walked slowly along the paths? 'It will be lovely when it's done,' I said, too quickly. 'Certainly the peaceful oasis Monsieur Majorelle is hoping for. I've always liked gardens,' I said.
Aszulay was watching me, still relaxed, his hands loose on his thighs. His eyes were so blue; how did this come about? For some reason his direct gaze, unthreatening and also unguarded, made me more ill at ease than the earlier silence.
'I have a garden at home. In America,' I added. 'I always look for a balance — order, and yet with a certain untamed influence — in my plantings. As for flowers, well, I also . . .' I stopped. I was droning on in a silly and inconsequential way. I had been about to say that I painted botanical images. Why would I tell this man more about myself than I'd disclosed to anyone since I'd left Albany? 'I'm interested in plants,' I finished.
Aszulay nodded. 'You must visit Majorelle's garden again,' he said, with complete confidence. He suddenly turned from me. 'Oh, here you are.' He stood, looking at the steps.
'Why is she here?' Manon said, frowning. Badou peeked from behind her.
Aszulay went to Manon, climbing the steps and extending his hand. 'Come. We are hospitable, Manon. When a guest arrives we offer tea and food.' He said this patiently, as he might to Badou. 'Come,' he urged again, and took her hand.
At that she smiled, although very slightly. I saw she had once again made up her face, and this time wore a different outfit, beautiful purple and mauve silk. On her feet were burgundy satin slippers embroidered with cream-coloured vines. Her hair flowed, thick and luxurious, over her shoulders. As she came down the steps, perfume wafted towards me.
She was like a glorious flower, inviting all to come closer, to gaze and breathe deeply, to wonder at her beauty.
I sat with my hands in my lap, in my simple blue organdy dress and heavy black shoes. As usual, my hair trailed from its pins in the heat and humidity. One thick strand had fallen over my cheek, perhaps hiding my scar.
'Sit here,' Aszulay said, holding Manon's hand until she was seated where he had been, on the daybed. 'Badou, take a stool and sit beside Mademoiselle O'Shea,' he added, as if he were indeed the master of the house. I saw how completely at ease he was with Manon, putting a cushion behind her to make her comfortable, gently pushing back on her shoulder to settle her against it, tousling Badou's hair and stroking his little cheek for an instant.
Aszulay was unlike any of the other Moroccan men I had seen in Marrakesh. In fact, I had never seen any form of contact between Moroccan men and women. I realised that the men and women I saw in the souks and alleys were those of the working class. The men sold their goods; they pushed or pulled carts through the streets; they carried heavy sacks on their backs; they drove the taxis and the
calèches,
they drank tea with each other at small tables throughout the alleys. They were not the nobles and sultans of Morocco. And the covered women shopping for their daily needs were either the wives of these men, accompanied by a father or son, or servants for the ladies of the harems, those of the higher realms of Moroccan society who rarely left the seclusion of their homes and courtyards.
I didn't know how Aszulay and Manon fitted into this world. Aszulay had the vibrant and open gaze of a man in his prime, an attractiveness that was due not only to his features, but from within. And from the moment he had met me he didn't treat me with anything like the curious or disapproving attitude of the other men of Morocco, who either leered at me or ignored me. He treated me and, I saw, Manon, with a distinctly European air. And his French was formal, the grammar close to perfect.
Manon was watching Aszulay with what I could only interpret as a sultry look. Although he didn't respond, I knew this man was Manon's lover. Certainly. There was no doubt.
She didn't have a husband any longer, then. I thought of the words she had sung as she outlined her eyes the day before, of men maddened with desire for her.
I felt, for one tiny instant, disappointment. Disappointment that a man like Aszulay could be so taken with a woman like Manon. But, I also reasoned with myself, in a strange way he also reminded me of Manon, as though caught somewhere between two worlds. She appeared completely Moroccan, and yet she was French by birth. He was a Blue Man of the Sahara, working as a gardener, and yet spoke and carried himself with a sophisticated air.
I shook my head the slightest, annoyed that I was even entertaining these thoughts. I was also annoyed at having to sit here, to actually attempt to eat and drink and act as a polite guest. To wait for Manon to bestow me with information when and if she felt the time was right.
In spite of the shade in the courtyard, it was still very hot, and my stomach was upset by nerves. I knew I wouldn't be able to eat. All I needed was Manon to tell me about Etienne.
But now I would have to wait. She was paying me no attention, apart from obvious but suppressed anger.
Aszulay held Manon's glass of tea towards her. She didn't reach for it, but shook her head, sighing lightly.
'It's your head again?' he asked, and she made a small, sad sound in her throat.
At that Aszulay held the glass to her lips, and she sipped, her eyes closed.
I didn't believe her; surely she was putting on this air of helplessness for his attention.
He took the lid off the tagine and gestured at it, looking at me now. It was a pyramid of couscous with long slices of carrots and a green vegetable — zucchini? — arranged up its sides. Bubbling pieces of chicken poked from within the couscous. I knew that even if I forced myself, I would only be able to eat a few bites, simply to be polite. But I also knew that the sooner I ate, the sooner the meal would be over. Then Aszulay would leave to return to work, and I would get the truth from Manon.
This time I would not allow her to ignore my questions. Today I would find out about Etienne.
'Please,' Aszulay said to me. 'As the honoured guest. Begin.'
There was no cutlery, no plates to put the food upon.
'May I eat, Oncle Aszulay?' Badou said. 'I am very hungry.'
Aszulay looked at me; surely my face portrayed my confusion. 'No, Badou. You know we must wait for our guest.'
'Please, Badou,' I said, 'please eat.'

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