The House in Fez Read online

  Miranda served spoonfuls of buttery couscous onto plates, topped them with lamb tagine and passed them around the table. ‘We are eating in the traditional way today, in honour of the occasion.’ She smiled at her daughters. ‘Watch the others and you will soon get the hang of it.’

  How neatly even little Hasan used his thumb and first two fingers to mould the couscous and meat into a small parcel before lifting it to his lips.

  ‘Right hand only,’ Portia muttered to Juliet.

  ‘But I’m left-handed,’ she whispered.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Left’s for washing your bum.’

  Juliet flushed scarlet and Portia squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. Use a bit of flatbread—like this—and use it to scoop the food up. Trick is to keep your elbow higher than your wrist so the gravy doesn’t run down your arm.’

  Juliet concentrated hard, tongue between her teeth. Portia chewed a large chunk of merguez, spicy mutton sausage—heaven—and watched Lalla stolidly plough through lamb kebabs and steamed snails. Nothing wrong with her appetite. Zina picked daintily at stuffed peppers while Hasan fidgeted and yawned. In the silence Lalla belched loudly and Hasan slurped his milk.

  Portia smiled at him. ‘He’s ready for bed, I think.’

  ‘Oh no. Our children stay up late always. They take part in everything.’ Samir dropped a kiss onto the small, dark head.

  Lalla spoke, with her mouth full, wiping grease from her mouth with the back of her hand. Samir answered her in Arabic. She spoke again—at some length—and he seemed like a small boy in her presence, allowing her to interrupt him frequently. Zina didn’t speak at all, Juliet appeared to be giving all her concentration to balancing food on her flatbread, and Miranda kept her head down.

  What’s going through her mind? What’s going through all their minds?

  Juliet helped her mother take away the empty dishes and bring in almond cakes and cumin biscuits.

  Miranda set her plates down. ‘I’ll go back for the coffee.’

  ‘And the tea,’ Samir said. ‘For my mother. You have remembered to prepare gunpowder tea for her?’

  She looked flustered. ‘Oh—yes. Yes, of course.’

  Portia glowered at Samir. Her mother obviously didn’t have tea prepared. Why couldn’t the evil old woman have coffee like everyone else? ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘This gunpowder tea?’

  ‘It is tea leaves brewed with fresh mint.’

  ‘Lalla does not drink coffee then?’

  ‘No, she does not.’

  He gave her a hard stare and even after she turned away, she felt his eyes on her as she smiled at Hasan with his milk moustache.

  When the drinks had been served Samir raised his cup. ‘Alhamdulillah.’

  ‘What?’ Portia asked rudely, and felt Juliet stiffen beside her.

  Samir’s lips tightened. His chest rose as he took a deep breath. ‘Thanks be to God we are all together.’

  Portia’s gaze moved around the table, Hasan knuckling his eyes, Zina chasing a piece of pastry with a silver fork, Miranda staring at her plate.

  Thanks be to God indeed.

  The washing up took forever, even with the three of them. Having to wait for water to heat on a gas burner filled Portia with exasperation. ‘You must make fixing this kitchen a priority. How can you be expected to produce meals in… this?’ She waved an arm around the narrow room.

  ‘It will get done eventually.’ Miranda handed a plate to Juliet to dry.

  ‘You don’t even have a draining board.’

  ‘I said it will get done.’ A dish slipped through her fingers, falling back into the sink. A fountain of greasy water soaked the front of her kaftan.

  It’s no good, I can’t keep my mouth shut one minute longer.

  ‘Miranda, what are you doing? How can you live like this?’ She winced as her mother spun around and grabbed her with a hand wet and warm from the water, digging her nails into the wound on her arm.

  ‘Keep out of this, Portia. Do you hear me? You know nothing about me and my life.’

  And whose fault is that? She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again as she saw her mother’s weariness and felt a surge of sympathy for her. She must be exhausted. All this work and Zina’s just gone to bed. Presumably to wait for Samir. She wanted to hug her, but didn’t know how.

  ‘I’ll go and get the last of the dishes,’ Juliet said, drying her hands.

  When she’d gone, Portia awkwardly apologised. ‘Don’t mean to go on.’ She looked down at the floor, the broken tiles awash with overflowed water. ‘It must… it must all be difficult for you.’

  Miranda looked away. ‘A little,’ she said briefly. ‘Now—would you do me a favour, please?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Could you take Samir a cup of coffee? He’s in the TV room.’

  Portia bridled. What? Then she saw the defeated slope of Miranda’s shoulders as she poured out a cup, the black, tarry liquid smelling like burnt caramel, and nodded.

  The black and white television cast a cold, blue light over the room, revealing Samir sprawled on a sofa, legs apart. Just look at the bastard taking up his alpha male position. Lalla was slumped in an armchair opposite him. Other than two straight-backed chairs, there was no other furniture.

  ‘Thank you, Portia.’ He took the cup and moved over. ‘Would you like to watch some television with us?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘I do not blame you. Black and white is not very interesting. Soon, however, we will have colour. It is high on the list.’

  Back upstairs, in the bedroom, she exploded. ‘High on the list! I bet it bloody is. And who’s paying for all this? Him? Miranda?’

  ‘She only has the rent money from her house as far as I know.’

  ‘God. That odious mother of his and our mother accepting it all. I’m sorry, Jules, but I can’t bear to watch any more of this… this… circus. I can’t stay here any longer.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MAY 31st

  Juliet

  By the next morning Portia had calmed down. ‘It’s her life,’ she said. ‘Presumably our mother knows what she’s doing.’

  Juliet was profoundly relieved. She could do without conflict in her life—or any sort of confrontation at all, if she were honest. Predictability suited her. A bag of Revels held enough excitement. ‘It’ll all sort itself out, I suppose. Shall we go down for breakfast?’

  ‘Oh, look,’ said Portia as they emerged from the gloom of the staircase into the dazzling light of the courtyard. ‘It seems that Zina’s on kitchen duty this morning. Do you suppose they use the same rota as the sleeping one?’

  ‘Keep your voice down. She’ll hear you.’

  ‘Attila the Hun’s at the table already,’ Portia continued. ‘She’s crouched there like a huge, malevolent spider.’

  Juliet grinned. ‘Good name for her. Wonder where the others are?’ She sat down at the table, giving Lalla a tentative smile, but she didn’t respond. Portia sat at the end in the shadiest part, but a sheen of perspiration covered her face as she fanned herself with a paper napkin. Why doesn’t she wear fewer clothes? There’s no need to have long sleeves in here, away from the medina. She daren’t ask her though, not after the way she’d snapped the last time.

  A great bellow filled the air and she thought her heart had stopped. Whatever had happened? And then she saw Lalla, shouting at Zina, who scrabbled around the courtyard on her hands and knees, retrieving the apples she’d dropped.

  ‘It was an accident. Why is she shouting at her?’

  ‘Because she’s an old witch,’ Portia said.

  When Zina had gathered up all the fruit, which had rolled all over the courtyard, she scuttled back to the kitchen, presumably to wash the apples. No pink sequins this morning—drab colours, and a hem unravelling on her tunic.

  Samir appeared with Hasan. ‘Good morning.’ He sat the boy in a chair and wandered off again. The ch
ild stared at Portia with huge, dark eyes, finger in his mouth.

  Juliet stood up and took the apples, glistening with drops of water, from Zina and also a dish of croissants. ‘Good morning, Zina.’

  The girl nodded her head, turned away, but before she’d got halfway to the kitchen Lalla started yelling again, flakes of croissant spraying out of her mouth across the table.

  ‘What is her problem?’ Portia asked. ‘She is disgusting.’

  ‘Maybe it’s traditional,’ Juliet said thoughtfully. ‘You know—it happened to her when she was a daughter-in-law and now it’s her turn. Payback time.’

  Portia grinned. ‘Do you think she’ll try it with Miranda?’

  ‘Not if she has any sense.’

  ‘But if it’s the way of things here…’ Portia pursed her lips. ‘Maybe Miranda would just have to accept it.’

  ‘I can’t see it. She seems to be accepting more than enough already. I’ve been thinking. Do you want to go home at the end of the week like we planned?’

  Portia leaned back in her chair. ‘Well, it seems to be suiting you here—you’re looking great. And apart from the… situation here, I’m in no rush to return to my love nest.’

  ‘So shall we ask Miranda if we can stay longer?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Miranda looked pale and tired when she arrived with Samir, but brightened visibly at the question. ‘Of course. We’ll be delighted for you both to stay as long as you like.’ She put her hand on Samir’s arm. ‘Won’t we?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He gestured to his coffee cup and Zina filled it. ‘To a Moroccan, a guest is a gift from Allah. Two guests are even better.’

  Zina slid into an empty chair and reached out for a piece of bread. Her sleeve caught a small glass of juice and it tipped over, forming an orange lake on the plastic tabletop. Hasan giggled, but then Lalla shouted and Zina fled to the kitchen, the old woman’s shrieks following her. She was still yelling when Zina rushed back with a cloth to mop up the spill.

  Portia jumped up. ‘Leave her alone,’ she burst out. ‘There’s no bloody harm done. Nobody died, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘It’s better that you don’t interfere,’ Miranda said sharply.

  ‘Better for who? I can’t stand here and watch this poor girl being bullied by her.’

  ‘Please, Portia, don’t.’

  She stared at her mother. ‘How can you just let it go?’

  ‘Stop. Right now. Not another word.’

  Juliet watched them both, her mouth dry, fearful it would end in blows. Her sister and mother glared at each other while Lalla waved her arms around and carried on jabbering. All the dishes and plates bounced as Samir crashed his fist down onto the table and shouted something in Arabic. Hasan started to cry, large tears rolling down his cheeks. Portia sat down. Into the silent air came a sudden blare of music from the medina.

  ‘Could you pass the cheese, please?’ Miranda said, her voice quavering.

  Juliet moved the dish towards her mother, trying to stop her hand trembling and saw Portia wink at Zina who ducked her head.

  If every meal’s going to be like this one, I’ll need indigestion tablets.

  She couldn’t wait for it to be over. The atmosphere was excruciating, nobody speaking, no sound other than Lalla’s noisy chewing. Juliet pushed crumbs round her plate. When everyone had finished, she felt like crying with relief. Hasan scampered away and Lalla shuffled to the salon.

  Samir’s eyes were on Zina as she gathered up the cups. Juliet looked at her mother. Miranda was watching Samir as he gazed on his first wife and the look of naked pain on her face brought tears to Juliet’s eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JUNE 1st

  Portia

  The washing hung stiff and sun-baked on the line. As Portia unpegged it, she gazed across the rooftops at the satellite dishes, the minarets, and in the distance, small houses clinging to the foothills of the Rif Mountains. What a glorious view. She dropped the clothes into the basket, then shaded her eyes against the sun as she looked all around her, seeing a plume of black smoke which maybe came from the potteries, and a flock of birds wheeling and swooping. A bee droned past her, lazy in the heat. Did the family sleep up here when the temperature got too oppressive?

  Squatting on a ledge, she took her phone out of her pocket. Should she text Gavin? At her feet a lizard fanned out his throat. Bet he loves it up here. All that sun beating down on his back. Angling the screen against the glare, she checked her messages. Nothing. So why should she contact him? All the things she hated about him flooded her mind: his impatience, his lack of interest in anything she said, the way he sat on the side of the bed to cut his toenails and then left sharp shards on the carpet.

  So why did I marry him? Probably because I had an idealised notion of what a husband should be—after all, there were no role models in my life, no father, no uncles, no grandfather.

  Sparrows rose in a flutter of annoyance from a nearby rooftop and she glanced up. Someone else pegging out their clothes? No, they were sweeping. She could hear the hiss of the brush they used here, a bundle of dried twigs tied together. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of her neck and she scraped her hair away, re-fastened the elastic band. It had been surprisingly easy to abandon her daily ritual of curling her hair. Next thing you know, my girl, you’ll be wearing elasticated waistbands. She picked up the basket of washing and took one last glance at her phone, shook her head, then put it away. I got married because I didn’t want to be alone any more. Turns out I’m more alone now than I’ve ever been.

  Downstairs in the courtyard a long trestle had been set up on one side, and beside it Miranda was deep in conversation with a man wearing a grey cotton djellaba and dusty sandals.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she called to Portia, as the man waved his arms in the air, revealing bony shins and ankles.

  ‘Why doesn’t he have a decent length robe?’ she asked her mother when the man had gone. ‘It’s not a pretty sight.’

  ‘Stop laughing,’ Miranda said, lips twitching. ‘He would be risking his place in paradise if he did.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s in the Koran. He should use enough material to be modest and comfortable—but no extra for show. Ostentation is frowned upon.’

  ‘Wow, Miranda, you know a lot about Muslim life.’

  She looked pleased. ‘And I’m learning more every day.’

  ‘What’s the trestle for?’

  ‘Cutting timber.’

  ‘And are you Project Manager?’

  ‘Yes. It has been decided…’

  By whom, I wonder?

  ‘…that Zina will cook, while I oversee the renovations. Samir has so little time with his business interests.’

  Business interests, my arse. Child labour and exploitation more like.

  Unsaid words clogged her chest as she saw her mother’s face, flushed, excited, and she tried to be happy for her.

  This time when Samir left, she was prepared. She snatched up her bag and darted out the door after him. Unexpectedly, he turned right instead of left. Bugger. Maybe he isn’t going to the children after all. She’d keep going, though. Maybe he’d just varied his itinerary today, visiting some of his other places first. With a bit of luck he’d end up back with the children. The path here seemed to pass through a more residential area. Blank doors, houses showing their blind faces to the world while inside there might be great opulence. She scrabbled in her bag with one hand while keeping her eyes on Samir, brought out her notepad but then put it back. Not much point if he planned on going walkabout.

  He bent and spoke to a man bowed over a treadle sewing machine and together they went into the back of the shop. Waiting in the shadows, she shared space with a skeletal dog prowling for garbage. She shrank away, fearing ticks or worse, but the animal showed no interest in her. Samir lit a cigarette when he came out, then turned into an alley swollen with hurrying figures. She rushed to keep up with him, then stopped as
he opened an anonymous wooden door and disappeared inside. Another sweatshop?

  ‘Balak, balak.’

  Pressed into a doorway, she worried she wouldn’t see him come back out and stood on tiptoes to see over the top of the loaded cart. Five minutes passed, then ten. Had she missed him? No. He was out again now and moving fast. She had been congratulating herself on her vastly-improved tracking skills, but now she struggled to keep the back of his head in sight. He stopped again at another faceless door and went inside. She stood at the side of a stall festooned with multi-coloured plastic bowls and buckets, tried to look inconspicuous. A warm trickle in her sandal told her the blisters were bleeding again. Beside her, a young boy took a stick to an old donkey which moved off with resignation, if not speed.

  I’ve had enough. I’ll offer up my address card with a few dirhams and get someone to take me back.

  He emerged at the same moment she moved forward. Don’t turn around. Please don’t turn around. He didn’t and she followed him to the end of the lane.

  She didn’t recognise it at first. A leaking pipe had rust-stained the wall and she hadn’t remembered that. The door, however, she recognised with its peeling petals of paint. In he went and she moved to a corner to wait. An old man shuffled past her. His babouches were bright yellow, their long, pointed toes crumpled and creased. Wiping her face on her sleeve, she tried to keep her breathing shallow, didn’t remember the stench from the tanneries being so strong the last time. Nearby two small boys squatted at a homemade board, playing draughts with bottle tops.

  Samir looked from right to left as he came out and she flattened herself against the wall. He strode away, and after a few minutes she edged forward. There was no sign of him. She entered the building.