The House in Fez Read online

  ‘What the fuck has she done to her hair?’ Portia muttered as they raced to keep up with Miranda. ‘It looks like a Van Gogh cornfield without the crows.’

  ‘She’s got new teeth as well.’

  ‘And a face as line free as a silent movie. I think our mother has had a makeover.’

  ‘I could have walked past her on the street and never… How creepy is that?’

  Miranda came to a halt beside a large Mercedes, silver and sleek. ‘I’ll put the bags in the boot. You two climb in. We don’t have far to go.’

  Daylight washed over the flat rooftops of sand-coloured houses, and within minutes the sky became blue and seamless. Juliet rested her head back on the leather seat, watched through the window as they sped past a donkey cart and a woman in a blue djellaba filling a bucket at a standpipe.

  ‘You girls all right back there?’ Miranda glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Portia said politely. ‘What’s all this about? Why are we here?’

  ‘You’ll see soon. Have patience.’

  Juliet glanced at Portia and shrugged, looked at the back of Miranda’s blonde head, at her slim brown arm with silver bangles which clinked as she changed gear. She’s my mother and she’s a stranger. Shouldn’t I feel something more than this?

  There was a click as Miranda flicked a lighter, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. When did she start smoking?

  Portia nudged Juliet, who struggled not to laugh at her sister’s exaggerated wide eyes.

  ‘Sorry we’re a day late,’ Juliet said.

  ‘You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. How are things at home? How is Darren?’

  ‘He’s fine. Had a few problems, but business is improving.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Biggest customer went bust. Just walked away from all the debts.’

  ‘What a bastard. And how is my grandson?’

  Juliet licked dry lips, then finally said, ‘He’s good.’

  ‘And Portia, how’s the handsome Gavin?’

  ‘He’s still handsome.’

  There was a silence. Miranda blew out a plume of smoke.

  A fly landed on Portia, perhaps smelling the chocolate she’d eaten earlier. She swatted it, reducing it to an asterisk of blood.

  They travelled through narrow streets. On one side men sat on wooden chairs outside a café, sipping black coffee from glasses and smoking. On the other a green-tiled minaret soared into the sky. Ahead of them a pile of rubble erupted from what appeared to be a collapsed house.

  Miranda dropped the car into a lower gear and edged it around a heap of bricks before pulling up. ‘Now we have to walk.’

  Juliet breathed in the sweet smell of sawdust as she squeezed out of the car. Beside her, in a carpenter’s workshop, an old man met her eyes briefly before going back to carving an intricate design onto a cedar door.

  ‘What about the car?’ Portia asked. ‘Are you going to leave it?’

  ‘Of course not. The man in the paint shop will take it to the garage. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  A clatter of cart wheels, shouting, a blast of music. Crumbling stone buildings, tiny one-room shops, a river of people. The air filled with the smell of frying pastries, damp, donkey dung. It was unlike anything Juliet had ever experienced before—exotic, exciting. ‘I love it.’ She turned to Portia and grabbed her arm. ‘I just love it.’

  Miranda returned, then led them through dimly-lit alleys and narrow lanes where their wheeled suitcases rattled and bumped along the cobbles. A burst of sunlight illuminated a builders’ shop in an open square where donkeys were being loaded with bags of sand and cement, their heads bowed.

  ‘Come on, Juliet,’ Portia called.

  She ran to follow, slipped, then righted herself, smelt decay as they walked through a shoulder-width passage with wooden doors set in the stone on either side of her. Over her head, further houses were supported by timber joists. She shivered. It felt like a tomb.

  They emerged into bright sunlight. Juliet smelt fresh bread. Women were clustered round the door of a bakery, chatting and laughing as they waited to be served.

  Next, a narrow and malodorous tunnelled passage. Heart thudding and mouth dry she rushed through, stumbling on the uneven ground, hearing the echoey plink of water somewhere above her. On and on they walked. How ever did her mother remember the way?

  ‘Here we are.’ With a flourish, Miranda gestured towards a door set in a stone wall, its wood silvered over the years by rain and heat.

  She never forgets she was once a drama student. Always playing to the gallery.

  The opening bolts sounded like pistol shots. A man appeared. He wore jeans and a crisp, white shirt. Dark hair curled around his ears, and his eyes were warm and brown. His smile revealed teeth that were ever so slightly crowded together.

  ‘This,’ Miranda said, as though announcing the Messiah, ‘is Samir. Your stepfather.’

  Portia

  Portia stared at Miranda, then shifted her gaze to an open-mouthed Juliet and finally to Samir, who gave her a lazy grin. He’s way younger than me. Just a boy.

  ‘What… I… you got married?’

  Miranda maintained a determined smile and slipped her arm through that of her new husband. ‘Yes, we did. Yesterday. On my birthday. That’s why I wanted you to come earlier so—’

  ‘So we could be bridesmaids?’ Portia asked, stony faced.

  ‘Well…’

  ‘But… we had no idea you’d even…’ Juliet said.

  ‘Met anyone?’ Miranda linked her fingers through Samir’s. ‘It was when I went to Granada. Love at first sight.’

  Oh, pass the bucket…

  A bike rattled along the lane behind them.

  ‘So,’ Portia said slowly, ‘does that mean you had to convert… to Islam?’

  ‘Yes.’ Miranda’s smile faltered as she looked from Portia to Juliet. ‘I thought you might be pleased for me… after all the years on my own. I thought, we thought…’

  ‘Your mother is now a Muslim and my wife.’ Samir spoke impeccable English in a deep voice. ‘We wish to welcome you to our home, our riad.’ He bowed, turned and went inside. Miranda followed him.

  God Almighty, isn’t this our mother all over? Everything for effect. Even her bloody name’s an act. Her real name’s Beryl.

  Juliet grabbed Portia’s arm. ‘What has she done?’ she whispered.

  ‘Lost her bloody mind, that’s what she’s done.’

  At the end of the narrow passage they stopped dead.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Portia said. ‘Will you just look at that?’

  Before them lay a vast, square courtyard, open to the sky and bright with sunlight. In the middle, sparrows hopped and chirped around an ancient fig tree which thrust twisted arms into the air. A water fountain sat in a sea of blue tiles. Portia looked up, slowly turning in a circle as she took in the two storeys, the tall shuttered windows, the carved wooden doors. How many rooms? A dozen? Two? She gazed at the towering walls, the green and white tiling on the supporting pillars, the wrought-iron balustrade running all the way around the upper floor. Barely a sound could be heard from the medina, the mediaeval warren of lanes and alleys where people lived and traded.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘You cannot tell from the outside what lies within,’ Samir said with a grin. ‘Some homes are modest, others are like this. Rich and poor live side by side here in the medina.’

  ‘It is against the Muslim culture to flaunt wealth,’ Miranda said.

  Samir nodded. ‘Of course there is much to do.’ He pointed to the flaking plaster and then at a bulging wall buttressed by timbers. And as Portia looked from one side to the other, signs of extensive damage became evident; crumbling stone, rotted wood, cracks in the courtyard.

  It’s not a riad, it’s a bloody ruin.

  ‘But we shall restore it to its former glory.’ Miranda’s eyes shone. ‘To how it looked when it was owned by a rich merchant. Samir knows craftsme
n who can replicate the mosaics and mouldings...’

  ‘And cedar doors are still available. Expensive, yes, but all must be authentic. Come now, let us offer you refreshment. Please, could you..?’ He gestured to a line of flat, leather slippers with long toes, took Miranda’s elbow and steered her away.

  ‘What..?’ Juliet looked baffled.

  ‘We can’t bring outside dirt into the house. It’s a Muslim thing.’ Portia eyed the shoes with distaste. ‘They are babouches—you’ll see them everywhere, inside and outside. Let’s hope nobody has verrucas,’ she muttered as she kicked off her heels and pushed her feet into a pair of the backless leather mules.

  ‘We are in here,’ Samir called from an open door.

  Portia shuffled forwards in the over-large babouches. ‘I’ll need to get some smaller slippers—before I break my neck.’

  ‘I will find some for you.’ Samir raised his gaze from her breasts to her face.

  The room was dark and cool with stained glass windows in greens and yellows which faced out onto the courtyard. Old furniture jostled for space—a pitted, ancient table, rickety wooden chairs, and a stained couch with broken springs.

  Portia wrinkled her nose at the smell of damp plaster and feet.

  ‘Please sit.’ Samir dragged chairs forward. He waved a hand around the room. ‘When all is complete, this room will be magnificent. Now, I am very pleased to meet you both.’ He shook their hands. ‘My wife has told me much about you. She is very proud of her daughters.’

  Portia raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You do not believe me?’ He laughed. ‘It is true, I assure you. She… ah, she is here with tea.’

  Miranda’s knuckles were white with the weight of the heavily-laden brass tray, but Samir didn’t offer to help. Juliet jumped up and dragged the table forward, struggling as it bumped and stuck on the uneven floor. A plume of steam rose from the spout of the tall, silver pot and a sweet aroma filled the air.

  ‘Do I smell mint tea?’ Portia asked, and when Miranda nodded, she smiled. ‘I love mint tea.’

  ‘Where have you drunk mint tea? In Morocco?’ Samir looked deep into her eyes, held her gaze.

  ‘Amongst other places,’ she said shortly, turning away.

  ‘Will someone pass round the dates and almonds while I pour?’ Miranda busied herself with filling the glasses set in silver holders, then handed them, first to her husband and then her daughters. ‘I haven’t added sugar. Here, they make the tea so sweet it puts your teeth on edge.’ She offered a dish of white sugar cubes. When they had all been served she held up her glass. ‘Please join me in a toast.’ She smiled. ‘No alcohol, I’m afraid. Islam does not allow it.’

  Juliet raised her glass. ‘I hope you will both be very happy.’

  Portia also raised her glass, but said nothing.

  ‘I’m looking forward to showing you around. There is so much to see here,’ Miranda said. ‘I hope you can stay a long time.’

  Nobody replied, and in the awkward silence Samir leaned forward, legs apart, hands linked between his knees. ‘Where would you particularly like to visit?’ He looked from Portia to Juliet and back again. ‘It is of the utmost importance to us that you enjoy your stay.’

  Portia glanced at Miranda.

  She’s watching him the way a dog watches someone with a tin opener. She’s besotted. And why wouldn’t she be? He’s half her age and devastatingly handsome.

  ‘Maybe,’ Samir continued, ‘you like to see historical buildings, or markets—or even the hammam?’

  ‘What is the hammam?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘It is a bath house.’

  ‘Like a Turkish bath?’

  ‘Similar.’

  ‘I’d like to go there then, please.’

  Miranda looked startled. ‘Juliet, are you sure? They’re quite… physical, you know. Full on massage, steam, buckets of cold water…’

  ‘That’s what I want to do,’ she said firmly.

  Portia regarded her with surprise. Perhaps her sister wasn’t as shy and retiring as she’d thought.

  ‘Then you shall.’ Samir turned to Portia. ‘And you also?’ His eyes seemed mocking.

  ‘No. Not for me.’

  ‘Well, it shall be arranged for Juliet alone then.’ He uncoiled from his seat. ‘Now, if you will pardon me until lunch time, I have a little business to see to.’ He turned to Miranda. ‘Your mother will show you to your room. I regret that you must share at the moment, we have only just started work on the riad. Soon more rooms will be habitable.’ He smiled. ‘In my culture we would never choose to be alone in a room, but I understand that European people do not share our love of company.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Juliet said hastily, with a sideways glance at Portia.

  ‘Good. You are sisters… no, twins. You will have much to talk about I am sure. Women always do.’

  Miranda led the way up a narrow, twisting stairway, their cases thumping on the walls at each turn. The air smelt damp. At the top they emerged from the darkness into bright light and a view down to the courtyard.

  ‘Don’t lean on the rail, it’s not safe,’ Miranda said. ‘The stone’s crumbling away.’

  ‘Oh, look,’ Juliet said. ‘Now I can see the layout of the house, I mean riad, and… oh, I just love those.’ She pointed to the Moorish lamps on the walls, with their latticed metal casings and panes of coloured glass.

  ‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they? They don’t work, I’m afraid, there is no electricity on this floor yet.’ Miranda threw open a door. ‘Here’s your room. I’m sorry it’s a bit basic.’

  Basic described it perfectly. It smelt like the inside of an old sports bag. Portia set her face to neutral as she studied the two low beds with blue cotton covers, the line suspended across one corner holding wire coat hangers like bat skeletons, and the blackened wooden chest pushed up against a wall. Beneath her feet the red and yellow tiles were chipped, and a long crack ran the length of the ceiling. Her gaze travelled from the electrical wires dangling loose from a hole in the wall to the candles and matches on an orange box positioned between the beds.

  ‘I’ll leave you to unpack,’ Miranda said. ‘Come down for breakfast when you’re ready.’

  As the door closed behind her, Portia hurled her bag onto the nearest bed. ‘This is the most ridiculous thing she’s ever done. No way am I staying here.’

  Juliet

  ‘I thought she’d have got it all out of her system by now, but… let’s stay a few days,’ Juliet pleaded. ‘It is rather a shock—but she does have history.’ She pulled the cover back on the bed and bent to smell the sheets which were pleasingly fresh. ‘Remember the yurt she lived in when she was into her communing with nature phase?’

  Portia scowled. ‘I do. And the time she went backpacking in Bolivia. Seemed like once she got us off her hands, she… went a bit mad, actually.’ She snapped open the locks of her suitcase and unzipped it. ‘All right, I’ll give it a day or two.’

  ‘Be fair, she ran herself ragged bringing us up.’

  ‘True.’ Portia’s tone sounded grudging. ‘But she’s been an absent parent ever since.’

  ‘I’m sure she does her best to—’

  ‘Still always seeing the good in people, Pollyanna?’

  Juliet flushed and turned away.

  Portia reached across and put a hand on her arm. ‘Sorry, Jules. I didn’t mean to scoff. You’re a far nicer person than I am.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ She blinked away the tears. ‘Which bed do you prefer?’

  She laughed. ‘Bugger all to choose between them.’

  Back down in the courtyard a breeze rustled the dusty leaves of the fig tree. A ginger cat stalked towards them, wreathing itself round Portia’s ankles. She stiffened.

  Juliet frowned. ‘I thought you liked cats?’

  ‘Not any more. They give me the creeps now.’ Portia stood rigid, arms wrapped round herself.

  ‘Here, kitty.’ Juliet knelt and stroked it, feeling the raised beads o
f its spine, the rumble of its purr.

  ‘There you are.’ Miranda appeared from a doorway. Her mascara had run in the heat and damp tendrils of hair stuck to her face. ‘Shall we have breakfast out here?’

  ‘That would be great.’ Juliet straightened and helped her drag a plastic patio table nearer to the fountain. The cat watched, fixing them with an unblinking stare.

  ‘Thank you. If you want to wash, the bathroom’s that door there.’ Miranda gave a turned-down-at-the-corners grin. ‘I’m afraid it’s a little primitive.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’ Juliet smiled and the tension in her mother’s shoulders seemed to ease a little.

  Portia followed her across to the bathroom, opened the door and stood a moment. ‘How do you feel about squat toilets?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t really know…’ Juliet peered past her into the dark room ‘I’ve never used one.’

  They both gazed at the porcelain-covered hole in the floor.

  ‘It looks like that’s all going to change.’ Portia grinned at her. ‘Do you see those patterned marks, one each side?’

  Juliet nodded.

  ‘You put one foot on each of them and squat. Do what you have to do, then wash—with your left hand.’ She pointed to the rusted tap jutting out of the wall and the plastic jug.

  Juliet gulped. ‘No Andrex?’

  ‘No Andrex.’

  ‘And no flush. What happens… where does it go?’

  Portia shrugged. ‘Don’t really know. I assume there are sewer pipes under the medina but they’d be mediaeval…’

  Juliet swallowed. ‘Can anything crawl out of that hole? Like insects?’

  ‘Or rats?’

  Juliet moaned.

  ‘If that happens, they plug the hole with a stopper.’

  ‘Bit late then, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ Portia said kindly.

  ‘Do you think this shower’s all there is? Not a bath somewhere else? In another room, maybe?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. It’s lucky you fancy trying the hammam, isn’t it? Right, do you want a pee?’