The House in Fez Read online

  Heat filled the room, inhabited it like a guest who’d outstayed his welcome. They need a fan, but I don’t suppose there’s any power. All the little faces turned up to her like pansies seeking the sun.

  ‘Salaam alaikum,’ she said.

  Someone giggled and then one or two responded. Looking around at them all, trying not to let her smile slip, she took in the emaciation, the ragged clothes, the smell.

  Whatever I might be able to do to help them, the first thing will be to give them a treat.

  A quick head count—twenty-six—and she held up a finger. ‘Back in one minute.’

  Anxious not to lose her bearings, she went a short distance up each nearby alley, always coming back to the children’s door before she tried again. Eventually, she found a shop selling sweets and snacks, picked up three bars of nut brittle from a dusty shelf and mimed she needed more. The owner scratched his grey head, let out a long torrent of Arabic.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She pointed to her chest. ‘Ingleezee.’

  He shook his head.

  She seethed with frustration. ‘More. I need more.’

  He stared at her.

  French. Maybe he understands French. Don’t they teach it in schools here?

  After a moment’s thought, she pointed to the sweets. ‘Vingt-six, s’il vous plait. Je desire vingt-six.’

  Aware her accent had always been atrocious, to the despair of her French teacher, she regarded him with little hope.

  ‘Vingt-six?’ He frowned.

  ‘Oui. Vingt-six,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Un moment—parce que mon ami…’ and he had gone, to source more nut brittle from his good friend.

  Flushed with triumph she leaned back against the counter, imagined the children’s happy faces. And then she saw something wonderful. Miraculous. Further along the lane stood an imposing building, La Musee Nejjarine.

  A landmark. She had a landmark and now she could find her way back here whenever she wanted.

  Juliet

  That’s that then. She gazed down at the blood and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She felt faint with relief and yet…

  Would it have been so dreadful to be pregnant again? Darren would have been thrilled to bits— he had always wanted lots of children. It just never happened. She imagined his incredulous face and then the blazing joy. He was such a good man, so kind, always went upstairs first on winter nights to warm her side of the bed. He deserved better than a wife who had fallen out of love with him, so what good would another baby have been? And how could she have lived through the grief again? Last winter, Christmas had brought gutters fringed with icicles, windows iced with hard frost. Lying in bed unable to sleep, she’d listened to Darren’s rhythmic snoring and agonised about Jacob. Is he cold? Is he wearing enough clothing? Does he have somewhere to sleep? She took in a long, ragged breath. Not for anything could she go through that again.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Zina was waiting a discreet distance away. ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘You speak English,’ Juliet said in surprise.

  She gave a shy smile. ‘Speak small.’

  Samir said she couldn’t. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe she doesn’t want him to know.

  As she came closer Juliet took in her smooth complexion and long eyelashes. She wore not a scrap of makeup, and her only flaw was a tiny corner broken off one of her front teeth.

  How pretty she is.

  ‘Hasan?’ Juliet asked. ‘Where is Hasan?’

  ‘School. He go… morning.’ She reached up to brush her hair back, revealing an intricate pattern of henna on her palms.

  ‘That’s lovely.’ Juliet took one of her hands and examined the tracery of burnt orange lines.

  Zina smiled. ‘Make… hard.’

  ‘Hard? What—do you mean it makes the skin strong?’

  ‘Yes. Strong. Excuse, please…’

  As Zina went into the bathroom, the door to the medina burst open and two men entered carrying a large, folded trestle, followed by a pink and perspiring Miranda.

  ‘I can’t take my eyes off them for a moment,’ she muttered. ‘Have to keep nagging at them the whole time.’

  Accompanied by a great deal of clattering and banging, the men set up the trestle, took out their saws and filled the air with the sweet smell of sawn timber.

  ‘What’s the wood for?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘Replacing rotten joists,’ Miranda replied, then ran to the outside door as someone hammered on it. She opened it to reveal a group of men and a line of waiting donkeys, heads down, guarded by a small boy with a stick.

  ‘They’ve come to take away the broken plaster from the Yellow Room,’ she said as men swarmed across the courtyard carrying empty sacks.

  ‘Those poor little donkeys,’ Juliet said, giving them an anxious look.

  ‘They’re stronger than they look.’

  ‘It’s all happening this morning. All systems go.’

  ‘There’s no time to waste.’ Miranda glanced at her watch. ‘In five days it will be Ramadan and it’ll be hard to get much work done then.’

  ‘What’s Ramadan?’

  ‘It’s a religious time—a month of fasting, from dawn to dusk.’

  ‘Will me and Portia have to fast?’

  Miranda laughed. ‘No. Don’t panic. It’s only for Muslims.’

  ‘So you’ll do it?’

  ‘Of course. Everyone will, except the old and ill, children and pregnant women.’

  ‘Won’t it be tough?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s the point.’ She broke off to yell at a man dragging a sack across the tiles. ‘Carry it! Where was I? Oh yes, when Ramadan falls in the summer, like now, it’s more difficult. Double the heat and double the thirst.’

  ‘Sounds like a real challenge.’

  ‘It would be harder to do it in England. The hours of darkness there are far fewer at this time of year.’

  There was a thud and they both spun round to see a cloud of plaster dust fill the air as a sack split.

  Miranda tutted. ‘For pity’s sake. Got to go, see you later.’

  Portia returned, her face wreathed in smiles. ‘I found them,’ she said, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘No need to whisper. They’re all inside. Come over here, sit down and tell me,’ Juliet said.

  The leaves of the tree offered some shade, but the air hung heavy and still. Juliet brushed a few ants off the table and looked at her sister expectantly.

  ‘I found them,’ Portia repeated, keeping her voice low, ‘And what’s even better I’ve got a landmark so I can find them again.’

  ‘That’s great, but what can you do?’

  ‘I can take them food, give them money…’ Tears filled her eyes. ‘It’s not much, is it?’

  Juliet jumped up and put her arms around her shoulders. ‘Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.’

  ‘It’s just, there’s not much I can do,’ she confessed. ‘I’d like to spring them from that… prison. They’re so thin and…’ She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Oh, Portia.’ She looked at her helplessly. ‘You can’t put the whole world to rights, love. You can only do—’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Juliet turned to find Miranda standing behind her, arms folded and expression stony.

  ‘She’s a bit upset. She saw some children…’

  Miranda’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes?’

  Juliet thought quickly. ‘In the medina. She saw tiny kids doing adults’ work and…’

  Miranda dropped into a chair and pulled Portia’s hands away from her face. ‘Listen to me. I don’t know where you’ve been—and I don’t want to know—but please don’t interfere. The families of those children need any income they can get. Do you understand?’

  Portia stared stonily ahead.

  ‘Portia. Do you hear what I’m saying?’

  After a long moment Portia nodded. Juliet let out her held breath and relaxed. Then the sound of a loud crack split the air.


  Miranda jumped to her feet. ‘God Almighty, what have they done now?’ She raced towards the Yellow Room.

  Juliet took her sister’s hand. ‘You all right?’ she whispered.

  Portia sniffed and dried her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Yes. Thanks.’

  ‘So you found your way back here all right with the business card?’

  ‘No problem. A little lad brought me for a few dirhams. I’m starving. Is it nearly time for food?’

  Juliet looked at her watch. ‘A couple of hours yet, it’s only ten to one. Why don’t you try the kitchen? I’m sure Zina will find you something.’

  Dinner was a subdued meal. Hasan refused to eat his chicken and Zina spoke sharply to him, reducing him to tears. Nobody said much; the only sounds were the clatter of plates and Lalla slurping her gunpowder tea and emitting occasional belches. Samir spoke to each of his wives in turn, Miranda in English and Zina in Arabic. Juliet looked at their faces.

  They both watch their husband and wait, like they’re lining up for the last seat on the bus.

  As Zina turned to wipe Hasan’s mouth, the fabric of her djellaba pulled taut and Juliet saw the gentle swell of her stomach.

  Oh my God, she’s pregnant. I wonder if Miranda knows?

  But her mother hadn’t looked up, was cutting a fig into neat quarters. Juliet’s heart twisted in her chest. How would Miranda feel about that?

  Juliet struggled, searched for something to say, anything to lighten the tense atmosphere, then heard a deep rumble like thunder. Miranda’s face drained of all colour. The rumble grew into a roar. Samir leapt to his feet and ran from the room.

  Portia

  Miranda’s chair crashed to the floor as she raced after him. Portia exchanged a panicked look with Juliet. What was happening? They both jumped up.

  Miranda stood at the doorway of the room next door, hands held to her face.

  ‘Oh my God.’ Portia could barely see into the room for great choking clouds of dust. The ceiling had collapsed. Huge chunks of plaster and lengths of wood covered the floor, a wooden chest, and a broken bed. She peered up, coughing, and saw a massive hole, framed by broken shards of plaster and what remained of jagged joists.

  ‘Get out of there,’ Miranda shrieked when another lump of ceiling crashed to the floor. And now Portia saw Samir, white with plaster dust, climbing over the wreckage. Behind her, Hasan let out a loud wail.

  Samir shouted something in Arabic. Zina swept the child up in her arms and hurried off.

  Juliet put an arm around her shaking mother. ‘Thank God there was nobody in here.’

  Portia, stunned, pointed wordlessly to a wooden chair dangling from a rafter, swaying to and fro. As she watched, it crashed to the floor. ‘The room up there. If anyone had been in it…’

  ‘That is the room where Zina and my son sleep. Praise be to Allah.’ Samir closed his eyes for a moment, his lips moving soundlessly, before picking his way across the room, clambering over the wreckage, coughing in the dust.

  Miranda started forward.

  ‘Stay there,’ he ordered.

  Portia’s heart hammered. ‘Be careful. Something else might come down.’

  ‘There is nothing else to come down.’ He climbed over the chair and examined the wall abutting the dining room where they had all just been sitting. ‘I think this is no longer stable.’

  As the dust began to settle, Portia saw more clearly the utter devastation.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Miranda whispered.

  Samir’s expression was bleak. ‘It is bad. It will mean major reconstruction.’

  What about the rest of the riad? Are we living in a bloody death trap?

  As if reading her thoughts, he continued. ‘I think… the surveyor assured me the riad is sound, but…’ He looked as if he might cry. A wave of pity washed over her as he emerged from the room with his hair and eyelashes grey with dust.

  Miranda took his hand and tilted her face to his. ‘We will fix it. There is always Plan B.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I will not allow it.’

  ‘How can you stop me?’

  Portia watched them with a sinking feeling in her stomach. She knew the answer, but had to ask. ‘What’s Plan B?’

  Her mother didn’t meet her eyes. ‘I sell my house, of course. Or re-mortgage it.’

  She’ll be trapped here if she does that. What if the marriage fails? What if he throws her out?

  An ear-splitting shriek filled the air. Lalla had arrived. She waved her arms about then clamped her hands to her head, wailed and moaned, and doubled over.

  God, what a bloody drama queen. She could give Miranda a run for her money.

  On and on she went, despite Samir’s attempts to calm her. He yelled for Zina, who scuttled back and led her mother-in-law away.

  ‘What’s up with her? Why’s she so distraught?’ Portia asked. ‘I know it’s dreadful, but—’

  ‘Djinns,’ Miranda said. ‘She’s going on about the djinns.’

  ‘What are djinns?’ Juliet asked. ‘I don’t understand—’

  ‘Evil spirits,’ Samir put in, ushering them away from the room and into the courtyard.

  Juliet’s giggle sounded almost hysterical and Miranda gave her a reproving look. ‘They’re in the Koran, therefore they exist. All accidents and all mistakes are caused by djinns.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, do you?’ Portia asked.

  Miranda didn’t answer.

  ‘So what happens now? Will there have to be an exorcism or something?’ Juliet queried.

  ‘Some sort of blood sacrifice, I believe,’ Miranda said vaguely.

  ‘Come here.’ Samir waved a peremptory hand at Miranda. ‘I need to contact the surveyor and the workmen, but Zina will need help to take the belongings out of the chest and move them into another room.’

  ‘Of course, we’ll all help,’ Juliet said.

  He turned to Miranda. ‘The room next door to yours is a good size. It would be—’

  ‘No.’ She glared at him, hands clenched. ‘Not the room next to mine.’

  Samir’s lips compressed into a narrow line. For a moment it seemed he would argue, then he shrugged. ‘Find her another one then.’

  Portia exchanged a glance with Juliet, who raised her eyebrows. Perhaps their mother wasn’t entirely under Samir’s thumb.

  ‘Right, girls, can you give me a hand with the dining room before we do anything else? Quickly,’ Miranda said. ‘We need everything out in case that wall comes down too.’

  The three of them ferried dishes and glasses to the kitchen, then carried the table and chairs to the salon.

  ‘It’s going to be full to bursting,’ Miranda said, pushing damp hair back from her forehead, ‘but it’ll have to do for now.’

  ‘It’ll be handier for the kitchen,’ Juliet said.

  Miranda managed a weak smile. ‘You found the silver lining. Thank you.’ A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand. ‘We will have our home restored, whatever it takes.’

  Portia’s gaze met Juliet’s, the message her sister was trying to send clear—don’t go there, don’t say it. She hesitated, then cleared her throat. ‘If you sell your house, then what if… things don’t work out?’

  Miranda stiffened. ‘There is no what if. My marriage to Samir will last until one of us dies. Okay?’

  As dusk fell, Portia sat in the courtyard under the fig tree, listening to the squeak of bats. She jumped when Juliet appeared. ‘Shit, I didn’t hear you. Stop creeping around.’

  ‘Sorry. You should come into the salon. You’ll be bitten to death out here.’

  ‘It’s better than listening to Attila the Hun giving out. When’s she going to stop?’

  Juliet slipped into the chair beside her sister, took a breath to speak, then let it out again.

  ‘What?’ Portia said irritably. ‘Spit it out. Tell me what else this bloody day is going to chuck at us.’

  ‘I’m not pregnant.’

&nb
sp; Portia felt her heart stop as the sounds from the medina receded. So the dream was over before it really started. Daft idea anyway. ‘You must be so relieved.’ Her voice seemed to be coming from far away, as though someone else had spoken the words.

  ‘Yes. No… I’m not as happy as I thought I would be.’

  Portia closed her eyes. Thank God she’d never said anything. Juliet wouldn’t have been able to hand over her baby anyway; Darren would never have let her. It had all been pie in the sky. Anyway, how could a tiny baby depend entirely on her, a person who cut herself when life got tough, who regularly gorged on ice-cream because it made vomiting easier?

  She jumped to her feet. She had to get away from her sister. Had to get away from all of them.

  ‘Girls…’ Miranda hurried towards them, light from the kitchen window sparkling on the sequinned hem of her kaftan. ‘I need to ask a favour.’ She looked at them in turn. ‘I’ve got a cancellation, I’m flying home in the morning to get things moving with my house. Will you stay? Keep an eye on everything here?’

  Candlelight made shadows flare up the walls as they got ready for bed.

  ‘It’ll be strange here without Miranda,’ Juliet said as she rolled her sweaty shirt and trousers into a ball and threw them in a corner.

  ‘I don’t really understand why she wanted us to stay.’ Portia dropped onto her bed and lay back, the springs creaking in protest.

  ‘Mainly because of Zina, I think.’

  ‘Zina?’

  ‘She’s worried Samir’s mother will really bully her if she’s left to her own devices.’

  ‘Did she tell you that?’ Portia sat up.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been thinking about it. It’s a sort of sisters’ solidarity, a wives’ club. Don’t you think it’s kind of her, unselfish, given the circumstances?’

  Portia rubbed her chin. ‘It is—but she always was a good person, love for your fellow man and all that stuff. However…’

  ‘What?’