The Saffron Gate (31 page)

^{I knew it was the main entrance to the old city, the medina of Marrakesh.}

^{I stopped outside the gates and looked through. Everywhere were African men and boys, some leading donkeys and small horses pulling carts piled with all manner of produce. The men's faces fascinated me because of their diversity. Here the combination of races was even more prevalent than I had witnessed in Tangier or Sale or as we passed villages in the
bled.
In Marrakesh there were those so fair-skinned as to look European or Semitic, with long, narrow faces and light brown or reddish beards, their heads covered by their turbans. There were the Berbers of the desert, often high-cheekboned, their faces chiselled and dark from the sun. And there were those with skin so black it shone ebony, their heads covered with tight curls. Slaves, or the descendants of slaves.}

^{I thought about my reaction when Etienne had told me about the slaves in Morocco.}

^{'As soon as the Protectorate was in place, the French government abolished the purchasing of new slaves,' he had said, 'but the Moroccans still own them. Many are descendants of the Africans from the sub-Sahara, brought up on the caravan routes from west Africa for centuries. Marrakesh is full of them.'}

^{'Did you have slaves?' I asked, hoping he would say no.}

^{'We had servants. Arabs,' he said, shortly, and then spoke of something else. It was another case of him making it clear he didn't wish to discuss certain aspects of his past with me.}

^{Thinking of that conversation made me realise that there was no reason to search for Etienne in the medina; it was all Moroccans. As I stood under the portal before turning to leave, there was a sudden call of
Madame!}

^{I turned towards the voice, seeing a number of horse-drawn buggies lined up along the
allée
leading to the medina. I'd noticed these throughout the French Quarter, the Moroccan driver urging on the set of clopping horses as French men or women sat in the back seat.}

^{Now one of the drivers hurried towards me. 'Madame!
Madame,
un tour de calèche.
Please, come and ride in my
calèche
; I show you Marrakesh. I take you all Marrakesh.' He was extending his hand as he came towards me, grinning in an overly friendly and familiar way, and I shook my head, backing away.}

^{Without warning a Moroccan boy, perhaps fifteen, banged
into my shoulder brusquely, nearly knocking me over, and I dropped my handbag. The man from the
calèche
shouted at him, and as I stooped to retrieve my bag and then stood again, the boy was staring at me, and the venom in his eyes frightened me. He didn't speak, but slowly his mouth worked, and like the man in the market in Sale, he spat at me. It hit the toe of my shoe.}

^{I remembered the covered woman, hissing at me through the open window of the car as I crossed the river with Mustapha and Aziz!}

^{The
calèche
driver ran at the boy, slapping him across the side of the head, then bowed to me, again urging me to come to his
calèche.
In spite of the hard blow to his head, the boy stood his ground. I was caught between the two men, the younger one looking at me with surprising hatred, the other with a cagey expectation.}

^{The woman on the ferry had despised me because she thought me a promiscuous and immoral woman. But did she, as the man in Sale, the boy here, hate me also because she saw me as one of the French who had come into her country and forced her subjugation?}

^{I shook my head again, opening my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Then I walked away as quickly as possible.}

^{I searched La Ville Nouvelle for three full days, but every time I said the name Duverger I was met with blank stares. I had wandered through all of its wide boulevards, looking at the villas behind gates in gardens of palm and orange trees for hours and hours each day, my leg and hip throbbing from endless walking. I had looked into all the cafés, had asked about Etienne at the Polyclinique du Sud, the small French medical clinic, and had sat in the main square, studying each European man who passed.}

^{I saw a few men who, from the back, resembled Etienne: wide, straight shoulders, dark hair curling over the collar, confidence in the step. Each time I felt faint for a moment, and then hurried after the man, realising, when I was a few feet from him, that it was not Etienne. Only once was I so sure that I touched the man's sleeve, and when he turned to me he frowned in a concerned way.}

^{'Yes, madame?' he had said. 'How can I help you?'}

^{Such was my disappointment that I simply shook my head, backing away.}

^{My hope — and corresponding anxiety — over finding Etienne had now been replaced with a dull ache of despair. But he must be here, in Marrakesh. The letter . . . I had so frequently taken the folded paper from my handbag and reread it that it was dirty and tearing in the creases.}

^{It was the same when I enquired about Manon Duverger, but I reasoned that I had no idea what she looked like, and that she might have married and now had a different surname.}

^{Staying at the luxurious Hôtel de la Palmeraie, my money was depleting at an alarming rate, and I knew I must find less expensive lodging. And yet, at the end of each of those first three days, when I returned to the hotel hot and exhausted, I no longer had the energy to begin the process of searching out a different hotel and moving.}

^{That fourth day of my search was like the first, and the second and third. At noon, thinking about the time difference between Morocco, and Albany, I went to the postal station, and had an operator put in a call to Albany. After half an hour's wait I was summoned to the telephone, and heard Mr Barlow's voice.}

^{'Mr Barlow,' I said, loudly. The line was crackly. 'Mr Barlow, it's Sidonie.'}

^{'Sidonie,' he said. 'Where are you calling from?'}

^{'I'm in Morocco.'}

^{There was silence. 'Where's that?'}

^{'North Africa.'}

^{Another silence.}

^{'And you're all right?'}

^{'Yes. I'm fine. I wondered . . . has there been any mail for me?'}

^{'Mail? Well, I'll have to go and get Nora for you. Just a minute.'}

^{I heard Mr Barlow calling Nora's name, then the murmur of voices. I clicked my fingernails on the counter.
Hurry, hurry up, Mrs Barlow.
I was so afraid the line would go dead.}

^{'Sidonie? Is that you? Why are you in Africa? You said you were going to France. When are you coming home?'}

^{'Mrs Barlow,' I said, not answering any of her questions, aware of the growing crackle of the line. 'How are you?'}

^{'I'm fine. There's been too much rain, though, and the—'}

^{I cut her off. 'Did any mail come for me since I've been away? Did any letters come?'}

^'Letters?'

^{I fought to stay patient. 'From Dr Duverger. Or . . . anything with a foreign stamp. Did anything come?'}

^{'No. But . . . you haven't found him? Why haven't you come home, then? And . . . the other. You know. How's that going?'}

^{I didn't answer for a second, and the static on the line increased.}

^{'Sidonie? Are you there?' Mrs Barlow's voice was thin and distant.}

^{'Yes. Is Cinnabar all right?' I was almost shouting.}

^{'Well, she's—' she started, and then the line went dead.}

^{'Mrs Barlow?' I called into the receiver, but there was silence, and then nothing but a rapid, repetitive clicking.}

^{I went to the counter and paid for the call, and then, weary and despondent, returned to the hotel and sat, rather numbly, in the lobby.}

^{Mr Russell stopped in front of me.}

^{'We haven't seen you about, Miss O'Shea,' he said. 'Not even in the dining room.'}

^{I smiled wanly. 'Yes. I've been . . . busy. And taking my meals either in my room, or . . .' I realised then that I'd been eating little.}

^{'Mrs Russell and I are leaving for Essouria tomorrow, but we thought that this afternoon we'd visit the Majorelle Garden,' he told me. 'It's a bit further north-west in the city. Do you know of it?'}

^{I shook my head.}

^{'Have you looked at these paintings?' he asked, gesturing at the watercolours on the wall. 'They're for sale; a lot of people who stay here like to take home images of Morocco.
Une passion Marocaine,
as they say. They go for a pretty price. Some of them are by Jacques Majorelle,' he said.}

^{I didn't comment, not interested in having a discussion on painting with Mr Russell.}

^{But he liked to talk. 'He's a passable artist; manages some quite gentlemanly orientalist watercolours. And as I said, a lot of tourists to Morocco seem to go in for that sort of thing. But Majorelle had this idea, supposedly a few years back, to build a magnificent public garden. He bought a few acres of land in the date palm groves on what was then the outskirts of the city. He's planted an impressive array of cacti, succulents, bamboos, bananas, tree ferns and so on. I believe he's importing dozens of varieties of palms. Parts of it are still being worked on; he's trying to bring in every tree and plant imaginable that will survive this climate.'}

^{In the sudden silence I felt I couldn't be rude as Mr Russell stood over me as though waiting for something. 'Does Monsieur Majorelle no longer paint, then?'}

^{Mr Russell waved one hand airily, as if the answer to my question was not worth much concern. 'I'm led to believe he's an artist of little importance. Nobody outside of Marrakesh seems to know much about him. But please, Miss O'Shea, do feel free to come along with us. It will be quite relaxing.'}

^{'Oh, no. I shouldn't . . .' I began, and then stopped.The thought of spending time in a beautiful garden away from walking the busy streets in the oppressive heat was appealing, and I knew I didn't have the energy to search any further this day. Perhaps it would be a relief to think of something other than Etienne for a few hours. 'Well, yes. Thank you. I'd like to join you.'}

^{We rode to the gardens in the horse-drawn
calèche
Mr Russell had hired. He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket as we drove through the verdant streets of La Ville Nouvelle, rich with green spaces of trees and flowering beds. Mrs Russell said little, and almost immediately, once we were settled in the facing leather seats of the open-topped buggy, Mr Russell continued on about Jacques Majorelle as if our earlier conversation was still in progress. 'The word is that he has a studio, as well as a notable variety of birds. Majorelle decided his garden will be an oasis of quiet, fragrant beauty in the centre of a noisy, busy city.' He clipped the end of his cigar with a small metal implement, and then lit a match, puffing on the cigar with long, satisfied pulls. The smoke rose above his head, and he spoke again, but this time I was able to tune out his words.}