Garment of Shadows (25 page)

Two trips in and out were sufficient to make my skull ache. Fortunately, they were also sufficient to tell me that the motorcar I was looking for was not in the section of the palace stables given over to the new age of transportation.

So I abandoned my unpaid hod-carrying and returned to my previous means of surveillance, perched atop a bit of wall, eating nuts and olives, longing for a cup of tea—but ingesting liquid while keeping lookout threatened to take a person from her post at a key moment.

Before dusk, my watch was successful. A pair of motorcars worked their way up the road and into the former stables. They pulled to a halt, but the people who climbed out looked nothing like Moroccan nobility. I stared, and realised that I was looking at the American family that had so irritated Lyautey the other evening. The motors might be royal possessions, but they were evidently used for many purposes, including the transport of day-tripping foreigners.

As they went past, their accents proclaimed their identities. The woman of the group, a New Yorker, was telling the others—a daughter and two young men—all about the coliseum in Rome. It seemed that my countrymen had spent the day at nearby Volubilis, the Roman ruins. I closed my ears to the stream of factual errors pouring from the grand dame, and watched two Moroccans come out from the stables to splash buckets of water over the dusty black metal before opening the doors and tossing out what seemed a remarkable quantity of débris.

The cleaners’ haphazard methods gave me some hope, although I had to wait nearly an hour for confirmation. When they had tidied the floors and run rags over the front window-screens, they started the engines and moved the two motors inside. No closer attention was to be given them, because the men came out, closed the big doors, and walked off.

With the shadows growing long, I found a place where trees grew up to the stable walls and let myself in through a smaller door, walking along the deserted space until I reached the newly arrived vehicles: There remained light enough to read the registration plates: white letters on black, French flag on the left, and on one: yes, 100627.

The car was not quite as pristine as it had appeared at a distance. There were scratches on the bonnet and front fenders, a chip out of its windscreen, and one head-lamp looked new—I had a brief vision of boys popping up from behind a low wall and pelting the passing motorcar with stones. Political turmoil in a country tended to affect the glass on shop-fronts and motorcars.

However, I was more interested in what the car had done than what had been done to it. And even without a magnifying glass, I could see that: two threads caught in the join of fender and running-board, and one hair trapped by a bolt of the folding roof.

A blonde hair.

How close I’d come to death. And one might have thought that remembering nothing about the event should have softened it, making it less immediate, but instead the internal images were worse. That one blonde hair, caught in the metal stub.

I shuddered, and fled.

Back in the city, darkness was falling. I felt cold, thirsty, tired, and desperately in need of a toilet suitable for female anatomy. My feet were tired, and the rest of me was both sore, from injuries just five days old, and shaken, by the significance of that pale strand. I was also out of money. I eyed a passing figure who had just slipped a laden note-case into his pocket, wondering how much a European-style hotel room would cost me. Or the
funduq
, where I needed to go in any event, to question the owner about the “bad men” who had been asking after us. On the other hand, there was a familiar retreat not five minutes away, warm and secure, where I could satisfy all my needs without resorting to criminal behaviour. Just for a short time, before I returned to questioning the residents of Fez el-Jdid and the
funduq
.

Holmes had told me to watch my back. And there was no doubt, the Resident General’s quarters could be as riddled with informants as any other institution in Morocco. But even if Dar Mnehbi was not completely safe, neither were the streets around me. At least under Lyautey’s roof, no one would run me down, and if I was held under gun-point, someone might notice.

Dar Mnehbi’s tall, dignified butler, coffee-man, and general factotum drew open the door at my knock, standing back with the Moroccan equivalent of a courtier’s bow.

He didn’t even cast a disapproving glance at my garments.

“Good evening, Madame,” he said in his lightly accented French.

“Good evening, Youssef,” I replied, stepping inside. “I haven’t come to stay, nor do I wish to disturb the Maréchal, but if I could sit for an hour or so in the library, it would refresh me greatly.”

But he insisted on ushering me to “my” room, where he summoned life into the brazier and assured me, despite protests, that both drink and food would arrive. He even brought me a pair of leather slippers.

When I returned from the lavatory, I sank into the chair, revelling at the heat. A wave of exhaustion took me. I sat without moving, too limp even to lean forward and unlace my boots. I would do so. In just a minute.

Voices came from out in the
dar
, men in conversation, their words indistinct. They went sharp, then silence fell, for perhaps a minute. I had just roused sufficient energy to sit upright, aiming at removing my boots for a time, when a rap came on the door. Youssef entered.

“Your tea, Madame. I apologise for the delay, I fear it has gone cold.”

“You were very quick, thank you.”

“Shall I pour?” he asked, already doing so. “Is it cold, Madame? Shall I take it away?”

I already had a cup in one hand and a fried savoury in the other, although with him standing at my side, I couldn’t carry through and shove the morsel into my mouth. He hesitated, adjusting a spoon, then noticed that my laden hand was hovering.

Whatever he had been about to ask, he did not, merely gave a small bow and left, saying, “Enjoy, Madame.”

I did.

A gratifyingly large plate occupied one side of the tray, contributing a spicy odour to the mint of the tea. Even cool, the savoury pastries were a perfect counterpoint to the sweet, fragrant liquid, and I polished them off, leaving only one or two of the sweet tit-bits.

Satisfied, I poured another cup of the refreshing brew, and sat back with it. The room was warming nicely. Really, I thought, I should slip off my boots to rest my feet, just for a few minutes. And perhaps the
djellaba
, since the room was growing so warm. Though I mustn’t get too settled. I had things to do. But the warmth of the room was lovely, so lovely, making me so relaxed, even drowsy. Oddly drowsy. Drowsy enough that the internal alarm seemed tiny and faraway. Not that it mattered. I was comfortable. Still, I mustn’t fall asl

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

I
dreamt.

It was dark, and there was a sound. I stopped to listen, hearing only the gabble of conversation near the camp-fire and the laughter of English girls.

It came again, as of a finger-nail scratching canvas. I glanced at the pillow on my camp-bed and decided against pulling out the revolver I had just secreted there: A robber was unlikely to knock—or, scratch—at my door.

I pulled aside the canvas, standing back so the bright light fell on my visitor, and looked out, then down. The late-night intruder was a winsome young urchin with brown skin and hair, light brown eyes, and gleaming white teeth, of which I could see nearly all due to his wide grin.

“No thank you,” I said in Arabic. The local inhabitants were ingenious when it came to sales techniques, and had quickly learnt to send their most attractive children to prise coins out of the Fflytte Film crew. Either children or parents decided early which of our members were easy targets, and had left me alone. This lad seemed not to have got the message.

I fastened the door on his winning smile and outstretched hand, and turned back to my beckoning sleeping roll.

The scratching came again. And again.

Bare-footed now and with my knife clearly displayed in my hand, I yanked away the canvas door. The smile disappeared; the eyes fixed on the blade; the small hand remained outstretched.

“Whatever it is you are selling, I do not wish one,” I snarled.

The boy shook his head vigorously, and pushed his grubby hand at me. I looked more closely, and saw there a piece of paper, folded in precise quarters. The moment I took it, the lad’s hand dove back into his garments, coming out with something more solid. Not a weapon. Something the size of an acorn, with a gleam to it.

First things first. Taking a step back, lest he make a sudden grab for my person, I unfolded the paper.

Come with the boy
.

I turned the page over, then back, but no more words appeared.

The clenched hand shot out again. I opened my palm. Onto it dropped a heavy gold ring.

And with that, I knew the writing. With recognition came pleasure and eagerness and apprehension, all together: The owner of this ring was a friend and colleague—a brother, even—whom I had never thought to see again, but whose sudden appearance was unlikely to be free of trouble.

“Where is he?” I asked. By answer, the lad stepped back, out of the light. “No, come in for a moment, I need to put my shoes on.”

He ducked inside: So, he understood Arabic.

I sat on the camp-bed and reached underneath for my increasingly ragged old boots that, despite Fflytte’s objections, had been my footwear for the past week. The boy stood in the centre of the canvas room, eyes wide at the fittings, which (unlike the footwear) were luxurious in appearance and occasionally even in comfort. He was particularly fascinated by the carbide lamp, bending to squint into its brilliance.

“Don’t touch that,” I warned. “It’s hot.”

When he looked at me, he blinked furiously against the spots the lamp had etched into his vision, and the grin returned. I reached behind me to slide the revolver into the back of my waist-band, and donned a coat against the cold outside.

“What is your name, child?”

He just blinked again and grinned. Odd; he hadn’t struck me as simple.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Vigorous nod, aimed to one side because of his temporary blindness. “But you don’t speak?” More nodding. Which could be seen as an ambiguous answer, but I decided it was response enough.

“Lead on,” I said, and he patted his way out the doorway and into the night beyond.

I dreamt.

It was dim, the sun obscured by clouds and the woven mats that covered the narrow streets. Mahmoud had given Idir a coin to buy sweets. The lad seemed to be taking a long time about the task.

Still, his absence gave us time to linger over our coffee and catch up on life in the past year. It was a gift, to see Mahmoud restored to robes and Arabic after watching his painful transformation into an English gentleman the year before. He was solid again, the confidence returned to his hands, the authority to his glance—the only thing lacking was his habit of sprinkling his speech with aphorisms and quotes, most often from the Qur’an. I missed the depth it provided his thoughts, but perhaps its absence was due to the change in setting, and that Moroccans didn’t appreciate the habit.

No matter what this favour of his cost me, it would be worth it, to have seen him like this once more.

He had been born an English earl, become a Bedouin spy, and for a brief time, worn a ducal coronet. Now he was … something else.

My teacher. An elder brother perhaps. A friend, no doubt.

In Mahmoud’s presence, my Arabic seemed to go more smoothly. I told him about our time in India, the previous spring, and he had been talking about the unveiled women of the Rif when Idir came sauntering up to our tiny table, sucking his fingers, sticky to his ears.

“Happy now?” Mahmoud asked.

The boy nodded vigorously.

“Honey may be a drink of many colours, healing for men,” Mahmoud solemnly pronounced, “but its presence necessitates a visit to the
hammam
this afternoon.” As he stood, gingerly pinching the boy’s sleeve to draw him towards a wall-mounted fountain, I was pleased to realise that Mahmoud had come very close to giving one of his habitual quotes.

Once the boy was not a hazard to passers-by, we set off again through the bustling gloom of the medina.