The Saffron Gate (33 page)

^{I let my shoulders drop. 'That won't be her. Manon Duverger is much, much younger than that. I was sure she lived here, in La Ville Nouvelle.'}

^{'I forget many things,' Madame Odette said. 'Many things.' The little dog yawned again, this time snapping its tiny teeth as it closed its jaws.
'Ma chérie,'
Madame Odette murmured, stroking the dog with more force. 'I don't remember this Manon. You believe she lives here, in Marrakesh?'}

^{'She did a few months ago, 'I said, thinking of the folded letter I carried in my bag at all times.}

^{'And it's with certainty that she lives in La Ville Nouvelle?'}

^{'I . . . I assume so. She's French, after all.'}

^{'There is more than one kind of French woman in Marrakesh, mademoiselle.'}

^{I didn't understand. Madame Odette's gaze was suddenly coy. 'Perhaps she's gone Arab. She may have moved into the medina to live with the Moors.' She leaned in to my face. 'Some do, you know. There's been more than one French woman who has lost her sense, lured in by a man.'}

^{'You think it's possible that she lives in the medina? I don't . . .' I stopped. I knew nothing about Manon.}

^{'You should try there, among the Moroccans. Outside the walls live the émigrés. The native people of Marrakesh do not live in La Ville Nouvelle. Poor, rich, they all live in the old city; even the sultans and nobles have their fine homes and their harems, their
riads
with their glorious gardens, all within the medina walls.'}

^{Within the medina walls. I thought of D'jemma el Fna. 'The medina is large, Madame Odette. How could I even begin to look there?'}

^{'Yes. It's large, the medina, and you must venture through the souks to the little
rues,
which run in every direction. Very confusing streets — more like alleys, narrow and dark. The homes are windowless on the outside walls. The people believe that conspicuous exteriors are a very poor show. Like their women, the men keep their riches hidden.' She drew a deep breath. 'Always look for the minaret of La Koutoubia. The highest mosque, just outside the medina gates. Koutoubia means bookseller. Once booksellers set up their wares at the base of the mosque.'}

^{She stopped speaking and stroking Loulou, closing her eyes as though her explanation had exhausted her. I knew she was talking about the imposing red mosque I had seen. 'But when La Koutoubia is out of sight, one can easily get lost. It is almost impossible to find the way out when you are buried deep within the medina. I was lost there, once.' She opened her eyes. 'What day is it?'}

^{I put my hand on the old woman's arm. 'It is Tuesday, Madame Odette.'}

^{'I myself have not gone into the medina for many years. My son does not like me to go out. I am old,' she said, yet again.}

^{'Thank you, Madame Odette,' I said, standing. 'Thank you for your help.'}

^{The woman looked at the sky. 'Oh, you mustn't go to the medina now; it's growing too late. It's not a good idea to walk about in the medina by yourself after daylight.'}

^{'Yes, all right. Thank you, madame,' I said again.}

^{'You know I have a son, mademoiselle,' Madame Odette said. 'He comes for me at five. Do you have a son?' she called after me, and those last five words travelled into me like five sharp jabs.}

^EIGHTEEN

^{T
he following morning I stood, for the second time, and looked through the tall gates at the sun filtering through the medina. I told myself that the old city didn't appear so menacing a place. With one last glance over my shoulder at the streets of the French Quarter, I clutched my handbag more tightly and walked under the high portals, hoping I looked purposeful, with a destination in mind, and not like a woman only pretending to be unafraid.}

^{Finally I saw Moroccan women, although as elsewhere throughout the country, nothing was visible but their eyes above their veils. Their bodies were also made completely indistinguishable by a white cloth — I knew it was called a
haik
— draped over their heads and completely covering them to the ground. Under the
haik
they would wear their daily dress, a flowing gown called a kaftan. I had seen striped silk kaftans, tightly cinched at the waist with wide belts, in a few shop windows in the French Quarter. I assumed some French women bought them on a whim, or perhaps because they were cool and comfortable to wear within their homes.}

^{Most of the Moroccan women in the medina carried large woven bags over their shoulders, and some had babies swaddled on their backs with slings of cloth, while others had small children clinging to their robes, toddling quickly to keep up. I then noticed that with every woman was a man or older boy, walking closely in front or behind. No woman was without a male accompanying her.}

^{I was immediately aware of the stares of the men, and how the women gave me a wide berth.}

^{Of course I again thought of Mr Russell's warnings, about not coming here alone, and yet he and Mrs Russell had left for Essouria early this morning. But even if they hadn't, I wouldn't have wanted him to accompany me. That would have required me to explain why I was looking for a woman named Manon Duverger in the old city.}

^{I didn't wish to discuss my situation with anyone.}

^{I looked straight ahead, pushing through the throngs in the crowded, narrow street. I didn't know where I was going, but I had told myself that once I was inside the medina I would figure out my next move.}

^{On this first street, every square inch under the tattered straw or cloth awnings, so faded as to be colourless, was crammed with tables or simple threadbare strips of carpets on the ground holding everything imaginable — as well as some things which were, to me, quite unimagined.}

^{There were women's kaftans and endless djellabas of every colour and every fabric. Other stalls held hundreds of
babouches
— the backless leather slippers dyed bright shades of yellow and orange and red — dangling overhead from hooks. There were camel-bone teapots and red felt fezzes and arrays of perfumes: jasmine and musk and sandalwood.}

^{I passed trays of sweetmeats and juicy dates and figs and live chickens and pigeons in crates. Thick swarms of flies buzzed and settled, lifted and settled over everything.}

^{And then suddenly I came into a huge open square with stalls and kiosks lining its edges. It had to be at least three city blocks square. People milled about, and as I watched displays being set up in the centre, I knew I had come to D'jemma el Fna. Men were unrolling rugs and lifting covered baskets out of the back of carts pulled by donkeys. Others were setting up pyramids of oranges on wooden trays or dumping mounds of steaming snails out of pots and into woven baskets.}

^{I didn't dare walk through the open centre; already I felt too conspicuous and uneasy. Instead, I edged along the perimeter of the square. I had to walk around a man hunched over a board on his lap, writing on a thin sheet of paper as a tearful young man crouched in front of him, speaking in a low voice. Beside the man writing was a small square of cotton, and on it a few coins. The young man dried his face with the sleeve of his djellaba and put a coin on to the cloth; the other man handed him the sheet of paper. A scribe, I thought, surely, writing out a letter for the young man.}

^{Even at the perimeter of the square, the crowd was thickening. I was pushed and jostled, usually simply caught up in the bustle, but on occasion I suspected I was knocked into intentionally. I refused to listen to the voice in my head telling me that these were portents, that I was not wanted here, and should leave.}

^{And yet I had no choice. I had run out of options in the French Quarter. I would stay in the medina, and try, somehow, to find out if Manon lived here. I had no plan other than asking about the Duvergers.}

^{I heard a running string of Arabic in a loud, authoritative voice, and looked over the heads of others to see a man on a box, waving his arms, his eyes wild and his face stubbled. He wore a magnificent robe of brown and blue velvet, so different from the other men in the square in their drab djellabas. Around him some men squatted in a circle, many watching his face with their mouths open. Others stood, but all were mesmerised and silent. The man on the box went on and on, his words hammered out as he gestured and shook his head or nodded, and I, began to realise, by his pauses and the fire of his words, that he was telling a story. In front of him lay a square of dark cotton, and on it glinted coins, as I had seen beside the scribe. A professional storyteller.}

^{Further on I came across a man sitting on the ground with a cloth filled with pulled teeth in front of him. They were of all sizes, some rotted and some whole, the roots long and pointed. He held up a pair of rusted pliers when he saw me looking at his collection. He tapped his front tooth with the pliers, opening and closing the metal instrument. His own teeth were grotesque, and I hurried away. I had seen enough of D'jemma el Fna.}

^{I walked down one of the alleys that led from the square like spokes of a wheel. I was now in the souks, and looked ahead and behind, trying to find clues to remind myself of the way back to the square. Here were endless stalls and tiny shops, with a man standing in front of each. It took me only a few moments to see that the souks were organised by trade, with the cloth-sellers in one alley, and the silversmiths in another. There were rug merchants and perfume dealers. I saw conical piles of spices of every shade of red and yellow and orange and green and brown, their smells mingling. The men visited back and forth, calling to each other, and sometimes to me, with murmurs of 'Madame,
venez,
madame.' Come, madame.}

^{My vague intention had been to stop women and ask them if they knew Manon Duverger, but it had been obvious from my first moments in the medina that this wouldn't be possible. The women hurried past me, sometimes talking to an accompanying woman beneath their veils, their dark eyes glancing at me in a somehow accusing way, making it clear I was an outsider.}

^{I stopped, looking backwards and then ahead; had I turned left or right at the last corner? I looked up, hoping to see the tower of La Koutoubia, but all that was visible was the slash of azure sky through tattered reed awnings.}

^{Would I be able to retrace my steps? I turned in all directions. Suddenly every man's eyes were on me; every woman pushed past me, banging my shoulders or hips as though in warning.}

^{I edged closer to the stalls, away from the middle of the crowded, narrow streets. Occasionally the owner would spring to life, chattering in Arabic or French, trying to sell me a scarf or a decorated hand mirror or a bag of dried rosebuds or a sack of mint for tea. Each time I asked about the Duvergers. Some of the men shrugged, either because they didn't know the Duvergers, or perhaps because they didn't speak French, or simply didn't care to answer me if I wasn't purchasing something from them. Some shook their heads. Most simply ignored my question, urging me to buy.}

^{I was too hot, hot and thirsty; it was making me light-headed. It had been a mistake to come here, blindly looking for an unknown woman. The thought of my quiet room at the hotel was a vision now; I needed to return to the safety of the French Quarter.}

^{Every man and woman appeared to be staring at me, and I stopped again, turning in a circle, trying to get my bearings.}