The House in Fez Read online

  She looked doubtfully at the facilities. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, I do.’

  Juliet waited outside, picking at loose skin round a fingernail. She would love to have a shower—it was so much hotter here than she’d expected. How could her sister bear to keep wearing that long-sleeved top? But she couldn’t face that bathroom. Not yet. Maybe when she’d had a rest, fortified herself. Thank goodness she’d come here with Portia, a bit of moral support. As children they’d vied with each other for the meagre amount of attention their mother had time for, but they were close when it mattered. All they had was each other. No family, no friends. But then their paths had diverged; hers as a teenage mother and Portia’s as a trainee accountant.

  In the beginning Portia often asked to visit, but she’d been too embarrassed to let her see the poverty in which she and Darren lived. By the time things were better she’d stopped asking and it seemed too late. Maybe she could pluck up the courage to explain while they were here.

  Miranda bustled backwards and forwards with dishes from the kitchen. ‘Sure you’ll be all right sitting out here? The other rooms really aren’t…’ Her hands shook a little as she put down a basket of bread.

  ‘This is just lovely,’ Juliet said. She looked with approval at the sunlight streaming through the leaves of the tree down onto the table. ‘It will be great. We don’t get to eat outside in Leicester.’ For pity’s sake, stop babbling. Of course you’re nervous. Everyone here is nervous. Except, it would appear, Samir. ‘Can I just phone Darren first? Let him know… will I be able to get a signal here?’

  ‘Run upstairs. That part of the balcony’s best—where those turquoise tiles are falling off the wall.’

  He didn’t answer the phone and she felt unexpectedly disappointed. She sent a text message: I’m okay, but you’ll never believe what’s going on here! Talk to you soon.

  Food filled the table; baguettes, butter, soft cheese, olives, fresh figs, and melon.

  ‘That looks wonderful.’ For the first time in what seemed an age, Juliet’s stomach rumbled, showing an interest.

  ‘Did you get through all right?’ Portia asked.

  ‘Left a message. You going to phone Gavin?’

  Portia shook her head and reached for the coffee pot. There was a silence.

  Miranda looked at them both then picked up a round, shiny loaf. She said brightly, ‘They sell French bread everywhere here, but I thought you might like to try something local.’ The knife crunched through the crust and splinters ricocheted across the table like shrapnel. ‘It’s called khobz and it’s flavoured with aniseed.’

  ‘It looks great.’ Juliet took a hunk of the bread and slathered it with cheese. ‘So tell us… how come you met Samir in Granada?’

  Miranda’s face filled with a smile. ‘I was teaching and he was there on business.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Exporting.’

  ‘Exporting what?’ Portia asked.

  ‘Oh… all sorts of things.’

  ‘He must be doing really well. This…’ Portia gestured with her knife, ‘will cost a fortune to restore.’

  ‘It will. It’s over three hundred years old and—’

  ‘The rent from your house won’t be much help.’

  Stop it, Portia, stop it. Leave her alone.

  Colour rose in Miranda’s cheeks as she sliced a fig. ‘He hasn’t married me for my money if that’s what you think,’ she snapped.

  Portia said nothing. Juliet held her breath.

  ‘When a Muslim man marries,’ Miranda continued, her voice quavering, ‘he is obliged to support his wife. Whatever assets she has remain her own.’

  Juliet kicked her sister under the table and glared at her, but Portia, undeterred, sailed on. ‘Even so, you’ll probably need to help out. This riad is a mammoth project and—’

  Miranda leaped to her feet and the cat yowled as the chair crashed to the ground. ‘I hoped you’d be happy for me. I’ve never had anyone in my life. Neither of you know what that’s like.’

  She fled to the kitchen and in the silence a bird sang high above them.

  ‘How could you do that?’ Juliet’s chair scraped on the tiles as she jumped up. ‘How could you be so unkind?’

  ‘I’m just being realistic.’

  ‘She doesn’t want to hear realistic. She’s in love with him.’

  ‘Evidently.’

  ‘But you’ve no right—’

  ‘I have no wish to patronise you, Jules, but depending on what type of marriage ceremony they had, he can divorce her just by saying the words.’

  Juliet stared at her. ‘Do you think she knows that? Surely she must have—’

  ‘Want me to ask her?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Shush—she’s coming back.’

  Miranda returned, red-eyed but wearing a fixed smile. ‘Think what you like, Portia. I love him and he loves me.’

  ‘Tell us about the wedding,’ Juliet broke in before her sister could open her mouth again.

  ‘It was just a small nikah—that’s Arabic, I’m learning more every day—with an imam presiding and some witnesses. Nobody else. It was just beautiful.’

  ‘But is it legally binding?’ Portia asked.

  This time when Miranda ran off, she didn’t come back.

  Portia

  Portia cut up her slice of melon. ‘Stop scowling at me, Jules. Someone needs to bring her down to earth.’

  ‘It’s a good job we didn’t get here in time for the big day. You might—’

  ‘It was only a wedding, not a bloody coronation.’

  ‘Portia, you’ve… upset her.’

  ‘I know.’ She speared a cube of melon with her fork, then dropped it onto the plate with a clatter. ‘I suppose I’d better apologise.’

  After the glaring sunlight of the courtyard she could barely make out Miranda’s outline in the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t… I didn’t… I was just worried you hadn’t thought it through.’

  Miranda emerged from the gloom, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘It’s all right. Forget it. You must be exhausted. Why don’t you both have a rest? Lunch won’t be till mid-afternoon.’

  Portia nodded, opened her mouth to speak again and thought better of it. Her mother’s expression seemed guarded, not wholly friendly. Best to let the dust settle.

  ‘Did you make your peace with her?’ Juliet asked as she opened the door to the bedroom.

  ‘I apologised. She didn’t seem too receptive.’

  ‘She’ll get over it. She was never one to bear a grudge.’ She fanned her face with one of Portia’s magazines. ‘It’s warm in here. Shall I open the window?’

  ‘Not unless you want a room full of flies.’ Portia flopped onto the bed. ‘I’m exhausted. A few hours’ sleep would be just wonderful.’ She kicked off the slippers, wriggled out of her trousers and lay back on top of the covers.

  ‘Take your top off. You’ll boil.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She closed her eyes.

  ‘But surely—’

  ‘Leave it, Juliet.’

  The sound of the muezzin woke her. Must be midday. She lay for a moment listening to the rise and fall of the voice, sweat prickling in her hair, then turned to look at her sister, sprawled across the bed with one arm trailing over the side. Her bra and pants revealed her thinness, the ladder of her ribs.

  She looks quite gaunt. Needs feeding up while she’s here, put a few pounds on her.

  The sight of her own ample thighs made her scowl. If she could just stop eating, trying to fill that emptiness inside. She punched the unresponsive pillow which could have done duty as a sandbag and flopped back on it. An insect buzzed by her ear. It was no good, she would have to get up. Maybe go and have a wash. Dressed again, she took her wash bag, towel and clean clothes from her case, then held her breath as she opened the door. Juliet stirred, called something out in her sleep, but didn’t wake.

  The sun beat down on the courtyard, the
shadows short and black. Grateful to find the place deserted, she walked over to the bathroom and tried the door. Empty. Good. She closed it behind her, momentarily blind and fumbled with the bolt before patting the wall until she located the light switch. The narrow room pulsed with heat, but the dim overhead bulb glowed so at least she could see. Her spirits lifted. The light promised electricity somewhere in the house so her phone and iPad could be powered up. When she’d undressed she dumped everything at the top end of the bathroom, above water level and, wincing on the broken tiles, padded to the lower end. Hope the bloody thing works now I’ve stripped off. After all, there’s no basin. High on a wall blotched with mould, a spray head, looking like it had been liberated from a watering can, had been cemented in. As she examined it someone, somewhere turned on a tap and the drainage hole by her feet bubbled as if in sympathy. A faint smell of sewage rose.

  The plumbing did work and the water, though erratic, spurted out long enough for her to have a good wash and shampoo her hair.

  With a towel around her head, she climbed the stairs and opened the bedroom door. Juliet still slept so she tiptoed across the room and draped the damp towels over the line. There must be a proper clothesline somewhere; she’d ask Miranda. She combed her hair and squinted around the darkened room. There were definitely no power points here, though she hadn’t expected any. Why else would there be candles? It looked like her cascade of tumbling curls wouldn’t be happening in Morocco. Oh well, one job less if she went au naturel. Her phone beeped and she snatched it up, but it was only her network provider. She stared, unseeing, at it for a minute, then threw it down on the bed. Had she really thought Gavin would contact her?

  Juliet muttered in her sleep as she tossed and turned. She’s one restless sleeper, my sister. After another five minutes, she decided to wake her. The time was getting on and she’d want a shower before lunch. Gently, she shook her shoulder, then jumped back as Juliet shot bolt upright, eyes staring.

  ‘Shit, Jules, you startled me. What’s up? What’s the matter?’

  She seemed to shrink back into herself. ‘Sorry… I… is it time to get up?’

  Portia frowned. What’s the matter with her? ‘Nearly. Take your time, no need to rush.’

  ‘I’m okay. It’s just…’ She swung her legs over the side of the bed and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘I have good news. A functioning shower. When you’re ready, I’ll show you how it works.’

  Portia shielded her eyes against the glare of the sun beating down on the tiles. ‘Lord, I hope we’re not expected to eat out here. We’ll fry.’

  Miranda emerged from the kitchen. ‘You two hungry?’ She smiled, all earlier signs of distress gone. Portia smiled back at her, relieved at an opportunity to start afresh.

  ‘Starving,’ Juliet said. ‘Morocco seems to have given me an appetite.’

  ‘You could do with a bit more flesh on those bones.’ Miranda’s gaze flicked from Juliet’s slender frame to her sister’s more ample one. Portia bristled, but kept quiet.

  ‘Are we eating out here?’ Juliet bent to fondle the cat.

  ‘Heavens, no. There’s a dining room. Of sorts. The courtyard’s much too hot this time of day. But it does an efficient job of storing the heat, then radiating it towards the rooms during the night. It can get cold here after dark.’

  ‘How clever.’ Juliet relaxed. It seemed friendly relations had been resumed. ‘So where..?’

  ‘Through here. It’s seen better days, but…’

  The walls were discoloured with algae, but a frieze of mosaic, almost intact, ran round the room, and some stucco moulding had survived to hint at former grandeur. An octagonal window had been glazed with fragments of glass.

  ‘That’s stunning,’ Juliet said. ‘Like a kaleidoscope, but... why are there only windows facing inwards?’

  ‘Because there are other houses on all sides of us and no space between. Here in the medina everything’s piled up—one person’s kitchen on top of another’s bathroom.’

  Portia pulled out a chair. ‘Do you need a hand bringing things through?’

  Miranda hesitated. ‘If you don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I have made you a traditional lunch—chicken tagine cooked with green olives and preserved lemons.’

  After the dishes had been piled on the table, they waited. The minutes passed, the food cooled, and Miranda looked anxious again. ‘He should be here soon. I’m sorry, but we cannot start without my husband.’

  ‘That’s no problem.’ Portia smiled—on her best behaviour even though she was ravenous and the savoury smells were agonising.

  ‘He might have been held up. Sometimes… ah, here he is.’ Miranda jumped up as Samir came in carrying a small boy.

  ‘Salaam alaikum,’ he said, bowing his head. ‘May I introduce my son, Hasan, to you?’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a son,’ Portia said with a frown.

  ‘Yes, by my other wife.’

  Juliet

  Samir raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought your mother would have told you.’

  ‘Haven’t found the right moment,’ Miranda muttered, head down as she filled glasses with water.

  Stunned, Juliet glanced at Portia who, thankfully, seemed to be lost for words.

  Samir looked at each of them in turn, then shrugged. ‘We will go and wash,’ he announced, leading Hasan away.

  Nobody spoke. The metal spoon clinked on the china as Miranda dished up chicken and vegetables. Thoughts whirled in Juliet’s head like a flock of starlings. Why had her mother agreed to this? Had she completely lost her mind? She didn’t dare look at Portia, and kept her head bowed as she pleated and re-pleated the tablecloth.

  After a few minutes, Hasan followed his father back into the room and clambered onto a chair.

  Desperate to inject some normality into the atmosphere, Juliet reached over and stroked his cheek. ‘Just gorgeous,’ she said, smiling at his perfect little face. ‘How old is he?’

  ‘He is four years old.’ Samir ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘He will be handsome, I think, when he grows up.’

  ‘He certainly will.’ Something about the boy’s shy smile reminded her of Jacob on his first day at pre-school. She’d been so apprehensive yet he’d marched through the entrance without a backward glance. Her throat ached. If she’d only known… if she had known of the anguish to follow, would she still have chosen to give birth to him? All appetite gone, she pushed the food round her plate.

  ‘Are you eating that, or operating on it?’ Portia asked sharply.

  Juliet looked up in surprise. ‘I’m… yes, I’m eating it and… thank you, Miranda. It’s delicious.’

  Nobody ate much except Samir, who had a second helping of chicken before starting on dates and oranges. Hasan fidgeted, then dropped his spoon on the floor with a clatter before knocking over his drink. His father spoke crossly to him and he opened his mouth to emit a loud wail while Miranda mopped up the juice. Juliet sagged with relief when the meal had ended.

  ‘I was wondering, would you girls like to have a look round the medina? Before it gets dark?’ Miranda asked.

  ‘Yes. Yes, please.’ Thankful to get away from the table, Juliet pushed her chair back. ‘Am I all right like this?’ She held out her bare arms.

  ‘Not really, you’ll need to cover your shoulders as well as your legs. Fez is rather conservative.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll just run up and change. You coming too, Portia?’

  Her sister stared at her blankly for a long moment, then shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you have to cover your head?’ Juliet asked Miranda as they left their babouches by the street door and put on their sandals.

  ‘No, Samir doesn’t expect me to.’

  Outside, a haze of sweet-smelling wood smoke hung in the air.

  ‘Keep close behind me,’ Miranda said. ‘It’s only too easy to get lost here.’

  She followed her mother along tangled, narrow lanes, through alley
s lined with small, open-fronted shops, then flattened herself against a wall as a caravan of laden donkeys trotted past. ‘What’s the man shouting?’ she asked.

  ‘Balak. It means shift yourself. Or something similar.’

  Sweat crawled down Juliet’s back as she waited for a cart of gas cylinders to squeeze past her, followed by a motorbike. It could have been carnage, but everyone appeared to know where they were going. ‘The medina’s just huge.’

  ‘It is. There are literally thousands of houses inside the walls.’ Miranda grinned. ‘And it’s a holy place. No booze here.’

  ‘Won’t bother me. Not much of a drinker.’

  ‘It troubled me considerably at first. I found it tough going without my gin and tonic.’

  They moved on, Juliet stumbling often on the uneven stones, caught up in the bustle of people, a large woman in layers of veils and cloaks, a wizened old beggar in a shiny new wheelchair. ‘God, what’s that dreadful smell?’ She stopped walking, clutched on to Miranda with one hand and covered her nose and mouth with the other.

  ‘It’s the tanneries.’ Miranda waved an arm. ‘They’re up there. What you can smell is a mixture of pee and pigeon poo. Would you like to visit?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’

  It took many minutes of walking until the smell faded, but eventually it was replaced by cinnamon, coffee, and then roasting meat, but always with a base note of sewage. Juliet’s gaze moved from food stalls to hardware shops to a spice stall. ‘It’s magic, Miranda,’ she said. ‘I just love it. I never want to leave.’

  Her mother’s face softened. ‘Me too. I fell in love with it years ago, long before I fell in love with Samir.’

  Juliet took a deep breath. ‘Are you all right… about..?’

  Miranda looked away. ‘You mean his other wife? Yes, I am now. It took a little while before—watch out!’ She grabbed Juliet’s arm and yanked her out of the path of a clattering cart. ‘Come round this corner.’