The Saffron Gate (51 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 swallowed. Another few weeks, a month. I couldn't stay that long; I didn't have enough money. 'But then . . .' I said, the thought swooping in quickly. 'The postmark . . . it will tell the city, or surely . . . surely he told Manon his address, so she could get in touch with him. It makes sense, Aszulay,' I said, looking up at him. 'It makes sense. I could go to him, then, wherever he is in Morocco. I don't have to wait for him here.'
Aszulay was watching me without speaking.
'Did he say where he was?' I asked. 'Did the envelope—'
'She didn't show it to me, Sidonie,' he said. 'She only told me he wasn't coming yet, not for a few more weeks or a month.'
'But I'll go to her and ask her. Or no, you go, she'll tell you if you ask. She won't tell me, Aszulay, but she'll tell you.'
He shook his head. 'She's not here right now,' he said, and suddenly the air was too hot, the sun a white, burning disc on my face.
'She's not here?' I repeated. 'What do you mean?'
'She's gone on a holiday. For a week, maybe two, with . . .' he stopped, then continued, 'a friend.'
I knew that Manon had gone off with the Frenchman Olivier. Surely Aszulay knew as well.
'Did she take Badou?' I couldn't look at him, but stared at a tile on the wall behind him.
'No. She left him with Falida.'
'She's only a girl,' I said. 'They're just children.'
'She's eleven. She could marry in two or three years,' he said. 'I'll go to Sharia Zitoun every few days, to bring them food and make sure they're all right,' he added.
I nodded, pulling my
haik
around my face to block out the sun's rays. Not only had Manon gone off with another man, but she expected Aszulay to check on her child. Had she no conscience at all? And did Aszulay have no backbone?
I looked at him now. I knew he was a man of dignity, of honesty. How could he allow Manon to use him like this? How could he continue to be with her when she showed him so little respect? He didn't deserve to be treated in this way.
'So you will continue to wait?' Aszulay said, something odd in his voice. 'You'll stay in Marrakesh and wait for him — for Etienne — no matter how long it takes?'
I licked my lips. 'I . . .' I stopped, embarrassed to say I didn't know how I would manage it. 'Yes.'
'Sidonie, I think . . . maybe you shouldn't wait any longer. Maybe you should return to your life.'
'My life?' He still didn't understand. But how could he? How could he understand there was nothing for me in Albany? Suddenly I was angry at him, at Aszulay, for telling me I shouldn't wait. I was angry with Manon, for thwarting my efforts to find Etienne. And perhaps I was the most angry with Etienne.
I was so hot, and I was hungry; I hadn't eaten anything since the day before. 'As you'll wait?' I said to him, my voice louder, stronger. I stared into his eyes.
He shook his head the slightest. 'Wait for what?'
'For her. For Manon.' I couldn't keep the venom out of my voice as I spoke her name. 'You'll wait for her, doing her bidding, while she's off with another man?'
He shrugged. 'It's for the child,' he said, as if surprised, but this didn't satisfy me.
'I can tell you think I'm a fool to wait for Etienne to come back to me,' I said. 'Go ahead. Tell me you think I'm a fool. And then I'll tell you that I think you're a fool to wait for Manon. She's only using you to look after her son. How can you allow her to do that to you?' I didn't want to say these things; Aszulay had been nothing but kind to me. What was wrong with me? Why did I care how Manon treated him? Why was I annoyed that he cared so much for her?
His nostrils tightened. 'Perhaps the same way you allow Etienne to do what he does to you.'
We stared at each other. His words stung me.
What Etienne was doing to me
. And then suddenly I couldn't look at him any longer, and put my head down, as if shielding my face from the sun. Instead of shaming him, as I tried to do, he'd shamed me. Suddenly I realised how he must see me, waiting endlessly for a man who . . . I was dizzy. The sun was too bright; it was making everything too clear; too transparent.
Still looking down, I said, 'I'm sorry, Aszulay. I don't have a right to tell you what to do. I'm sorry,' I repeated. 'I'm . . . I'm upset. All this waiting. And now . . .'
'I understand,' he said, and I looked at him again. Did he? His voice was a little stiff, as was his expression.
'There's something else,' I said then, because I knew that once he walked away from me I didn't know when I'd see him again. Now I knew I would have to make another change in order to stay in Marrakesh.
'Yes?'
'I need to find a place to stay. I . . .I will no longer stay at the hotel. I wonder . . . could you help me?'
'But the hotels in La Ville Nouvelle are for foreigners. For people like you. Why don't you continue to stay there?'
'It doesn't suit me any longer,' I told him.
'Doesn't suit you?'
'I can't wear these clothes. They don't like it.' I didn't want to have to tell him I had so little money left.
'But then . . . wear your American clothes. Why do you even wear these?'
'In this way,' I gestured down my body, and at my
haik,
'I can move about the city more freely.'
He shook his head. 'I don't understand. How do you wish me to help with this?'
I found it so difficult to not be completely honest with him. 'The truth, Aszulay, is that I can no longer afford to stay in any of the hotels in the French Quarter. Perhaps there's someplace, someplace you know, that's very inexpensive. In the medina.'
He looked startled. 'But the medina isn't good for you. It's only Moroccans. You should be with your people.'
Without thinking, I said, 'I like the medina.' Yes, I realised, I did like it. Since I'd begun dressing in a way that allowed me to blend in, when I was there I felt alive in a way I'd never known before.
'There are no hotels in the medina,' he said now. 'When Moroccans from other cities come, they stay with relatives, or with friends.'
'All I need is a room. One room, Aszulay.'
'It's impossible,' he said, again shaking his head.
'Impossible? For one room? I would keep to myself. I won't—'
'You must understand the country,' he said. 'A woman, a Nasarini, alone, in a Muslim house. It's not proper.'
Nasarini.
A Nazarene, a Christian, the name foreigners were called by the Moroccans. I had heard it before, in the souks, as I understood more and more Arabic.
I hadn't thought of how my presence might cause difficulties in a house in the medina. 'But otherwise I can't stay in Morocco any longer. All of this — my coming here, everything — will be for nothing. I'm so close, Aszulay,' I said. 'I know you don't think I should wait, but . . .'
We stood there, people moving around us on the street in front of the hotel.
'Please,' I finally said. 'I can't go home. Not yet. Please understand how important this is to me. Haven't you ever . . .' I stopped. I wanted to say
haven't you ever loved someone so much you would do anything for her,
but it was too intimate a question. What did I know of this man, and his feelings?
'I'll see what I can do, Sidonie,' he said, but he looked troubled now.
'Thank you,' I said, and, relieved, and on impulse, I touched the back of his hand to show my gratitude.
He looked down, and I looked as well; my fingers were small on his hand. I pulled my fingers back, and he looked at me then.
I was sorry I'd been so forward. Obviously I'd made him very uncomfortable. It was only later that I remembered he'd called me Sidonie.

 

The man with the withered arm, his djellaba sleeve rolled up over it, didn't appear pleased when Aszulay brought me to the house on Sharia Soura two days later. Aszulay said it wasn't yet a sure thing, but this man — his friend — might allow me to stay there for a short while.
It was early evening, and as we stood in the courtyard — my face covered but for my eyes — the man stared at me. I immediately looked at the ground, knowing I couldn't appear bold. When I glanced up, the man was shaking his head.
Aszulay spoke to him. They argued back and forth, quietly, in Arabic. I realised it was simply the usual market haggling over price. Except this time it was over me.
Aszulay’s tone remained the same, calm and firm, and finally the man threw up his hand in what appeared resignation. Aszulay quoted me the price of the room as well as my meals for a week; it was a tiny fraction of what I had paid for one night at the cheaper hotel. I nodded, and Aszulay took my cases and went inside the house. I was carrying my painting supplies in my woven basket, and my easel in the other hand.
I followed him; after the bright courtyard, the narrow passage we walked through was almost dark, and for a moment I felt as though I were one of the blind men in D'jemma el Fna. I climbed the stairs after Aszulay, fixing my eyes on his heels in his yellow
babouches.
The stairs were narrow and steep, and my right leg ached with the effort of lifting it so high on each tiled step. As we reached the top, a cat noiselessly came from nowhere and bounded down the stairs beside me.
Aszulay opened a door and set my cases in the middle of the room. He turned to look at me.
'It's all right?' he asked, and I nodded, not even having time to take in my surroundings, but knowing I had no choice. There was a pleasant smell in the room, something woody and fresh.
'Yes. Yes, it's very good, Aszulay. Thank you.'
'There are two wives. They will give you tea and bread in the mornings, and a meal midday and evening. Downstairs, off the kitchen, is the lavatory.'
I nodded.
'But you must understand that you can't move about as you do in a hotel; you can't leave the house without a male escort. Although my friend understands you are not Muslim, if you wish to stay here you must act in the way of a Muslim woman, or he will be shamed. He has two sons, and one will accompany you when you want to go out. And if they will allow it, you can help the wives with the work of the house, although I believe they'll resent you.'

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