The House in Fez Page 5

  Juliet felt the stored warmth of the stones as she leaned against the wall. ‘Is he a bigamist?’ she asked in a low voice.

  Miranda stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘Of course not. Muslims are allowed two wives—or more—if they can afford to treat them equally.’

  ‘But what about… did she mind?’

  ‘Wife number one, you mean?’

  She nodded, examined her mother’s face for signs of distress, but saw nothing.

  ‘She had to attend the court to state she had no objection. It’s legal, Juliet. Don’t look so worried.’

  ‘But you must find it… difficult.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Sorry, it’s none of my business, but I worry. We both do.’

  Miranda examined her fingernails. ‘I know you do, but Portia… she was always the bolshie one. It would appear she hasn’t grown out of it.’ She sighed. ‘To answer your question, yes, it’s tough. But I love him, so there it is.’ Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and Juliet surprised herself by putting her arms around her. She had never, in her whole life, hugged or been hugged by her mother.

  Miranda dried her eyes. ‘Time we were getting back. It will soon be dark and then the mosquitoes will be out in force.’

  ‘Okay. Where does she live, this woman?’

  ‘Her name is Zina. She lives right on the far side of the medina.’

  ‘So you’re not too likely to bump into her then?’

  Her mother looked down at the ground, acned with bird droppings, and pushed a stone around with the toe of her leather sandal. After a moment’s silence, she looked into Juliet’s eyes. ‘The culture in Morocco is very different to England. Allah, home, family—they are the most important things.’

  Juliet nodded. ‘I can see that. It’s rather lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. The structure is tight and generations live together.’

  ‘D’you mean..?’

  ‘I mean that all the family will soon be coming to live in our riad. Including Zina.’

  ‘Who’s all the family?’

  ‘Mother, sisters, brothers, an aunt, various children…’

  Portia

  She didn’t hear Juliet coming until she was right outside. When the bedroom door burst open she was struggling frantically to get her top back on and cover her arms. Too late. The smile froze on Juliet’s face, then turned to an expression of horror.

  Portia felt an intense bleakness, like a cloud had passed over her soul.

  Some of the cuts were old and purple, while others were a fresh pink. The most recent one had caught on her cuff as she battled to cover herself. A line of blood trickled down her arm and she turned away, snatched up her wash bag, and pulled out a cotton wool ball. It proved ineffective, since wispy strands of it stuck to the wound as she dabbed at it. She flinched as Juliet put her hand on her shoulder and pulled away, hollow with sadness and shame and humiliation.

  ‘Portia, please… talk to me,’ she begged.

  ‘What is there to say?’

  ‘But… I thought it was all over. It was years and years ago and… when did you start again? Why, Portia, why?’

  Portia, feeling doomed and defiant in alternating waves, shrugged. ‘Things at home… it all got on top of me.’

  ‘Is it Gavin?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Aren’t you happy with him?’

  ‘Having a comfortable life doesn’t guarantee happiness,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘But…’

  ‘But what right do I have to be miserable?’ she yelled. ‘With all that money and a posh house and—’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean… is it Gavin, or is it the girls?’

  ‘None of them need me anymore. I’ve outlived my usefulness.’

  ‘I’m sure that—’

  ‘You know nothing about my life.’ She glared at her. ‘You have a husband who adores you. My husband has a girlfriend.’

  And she’s called Melanie. A name not too far removed from that of a skin cancer.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing.’ Juliet tried to put her arms around Portia but she backed away.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it. And you must say nothing to Miranda. Okay?’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No.’

  Outside in the medina a dog barked, splintering the silence.

  ‘Okay.’ Juliet said shakily. ‘We won’t… let me tell you what I heard this afternoon, while I was out with Miranda.’

  Portia tried hard at first to concentrate, then listened with growing incredulity. ‘What? They’re all coming here? Wife number one as well?’

  ‘Yes. They’ll all be moving in, bit by bit, as each part of the house is renovated. I think they’ll be visiting soon though. To check us out.’

  ‘How will Miranda cope with living with the woman who—?’

  ‘She’s struggling, I think. Please, Portia, go easy on her.’

  When Juliet went out on to the balcony to text Darren, Portia stretched out on the bed and closed her eyes. It appeared both she and her mother were in the same boat. Husbands with divided attentions. What a shit world. And how she wished Juliet hadn’t seen her arms, how she wished so many things in her life had been different. The renewed pain of recollection released a storm of tears at the hopelessness of it all and yet, afterwards, it felt as though something inside her had been released, like a boil bursting. At last, after all these years, she could share this. Someone else knew.

  Dinner proved to be a quiet meal. Everyone seemed preoccupied. Portia, her face feeling tight after all the tears, watched Miranda curiously, but she appeared calm and impassive. If her mind harboured a turmoil of thoughts, she kept them well hidden. She shifted her gaze to find Samir watching her, his eyes dark and expressionless. Her heart beat a little faster and she looked away, reached across the table for the water then heard a grating sound as a chair scraped against the tiles. He had gone.

  ‘He will be wanting to catch the football match,’ Miranda said.

  ‘You have television?’

  ‘Yes, indeed we do. Half the programmes are in Arabic, the rest French.’

  ‘But… the reception? Everywhere’s so closed in.’

  ‘It’s not wonderful.’ Miranda laughed. ‘However, most Moroccan men are football mad, so they’ll put up with it.’

  Juliet put down her coffee cup. ‘That was a delicious meal.’

  ‘Thank you. It can be quite a challenge. All of these vast rooms,’ she waved an arm, ‘and a kitchen that’s little more than a cupboard.’

  ‘How many rooms are there?’

  Miranda screwed up her eyes and counted on her fingers. ‘Eight, ten, eleven… twelve or thirteen. I think.’

  Portia sat back in her chair. ‘Plenty of room for everyone then?’ The thought of her mother willingly giving house room to all these people rankled.

  Miranda narrowed her eyes. ‘Juliet told you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Won’t you find it… challenging with such a tribe, when you were only ever used to having two children in the house?’

  ‘I suppose so, but in a way I’m rather looking forward to it, you know. To be part of such an extended—’

  ‘We never had any family,’ Portia burst out. How could her mother be such a hypocrite, playing at happy families when she and Juliet had had nobody except each other? ‘Why didn’t we?’

  Miranda looked down at the glass in her hands, twisted it in her fingers.

  ‘Please tell us,’ Juliet said gently. ‘Why didn’t we have any grandparents?’

  The light over the table flickered as though the bulb were about to blow. Miranda put the glass down and met Juliet’s eyes. ‘I never told you because I didn’t want to distress you.’

  ‘We’d like to know.’

  ‘I was an only child. My parents were well into middle age when I arrived—I think it might have been rather a shock for them.’ She picked the glass up again, ran a finger round the rim. ‘We lived near Guild
ford. Father was president of the golf club and Mother was a justice of the peace, pillar of the community.’

  ‘And?’ Portia prompted.

  ‘They demanded I abort you.’

  Portia exchanged a glance with Juliet. A moth bumped against the lightshade with a gentle tapping sound.

  ‘I refused.’

  ‘So what happened?’ Juliet whispered.

  ‘My father gave me a cheque to cover six months’ rent on a flat. After that I was—we were—on our own.’ She stood up and began stacking plates with a clatter. ‘So that’s why—’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Juliet said. ‘Didn’t you… didn’t they..?’

  ‘When you were eleven and started at the grammar school my mother tried to contact me.’

  ‘How did she find you?’

  ‘No idea. Didn’t ask. Sally Army maybe.’

  ‘But it was too late then,’ Portia said.

  ‘That’s right. Much too late.’ She picked up the crockery. ‘Enough. It was all a long time ago. Now, who’s going to the hammam in the morning?’

  ‘Me, please,’ Juliet said. ‘Why don’t you come too, Portia?’

  You know bloody well why I can’t strip off in public. ‘No.’

  Miranda looked at each of them in turn, frowning, then she reached into her pocket. ‘Here. There’s one card each—Samir’s written our address on them in Arabic so you can always find your way back. There’s two spare keys here for you as well.’

  Portia climbed the stairs, deep in thought. Maybe Miranda was more sinned against than sinning. Maybe it was time to let go of some of the anger she felt towards her mother.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MAY 28th

  Juliet

  Juliet opened her eyes. Her stomach churned and a wave of nausea washed over her. She slipped her feet into the babouches and crept from the bedroom. By the time she reached the bathroom, she already felt better. Maybe dinner last night had caused it—the sauce had been rich with tomatoes, oil and copious amounts of garlic. Where had Miranda learned to cook like that? She’d been rubbish in the kitchen when they were children; her entire repertoire fish fingers, baked beans or oven chips.

  During the day, when she kept her legs covered, she had to take off her trousers every time she had a pee to avoid accidents. It was easier now, wearing her nightshirt, but the open drain frightened her. She imagined cockroaches, rats, and worse. Her legs shook as she squatted over the hole in the floor, and having to wash herself with the jug of water rather than using Andrex prolonged the experience. By the time she straightened up, cramp in her legs tormented her.

  Back in the bedroom, Portia was still sleeping. Juliet watched her for a minute, filled with pity. How peaceful she seemed, how serene, yet how despairing she must be to… mutilate herself like that. Nothing was ever the way it appeared. How she had envied her sister’s comfortable, uncomplicated life, yet all the time…

  She remembered the hot summer when they were sixteen and she’d caught her sister, eyes screwed tightly shut, pressing the blade of the Stanley knife against her skin. Juliet had screamed in fright, wanted to run to their mother for help, but Portia had begged and cried and pleaded, then promised never, never to do it again. Through all those stifling weeks when the sun beat down day after relentless day, Portia wore long-sleeved tops, and Miranda didn’t notice. Not once. By the following summer, Portia had stopped cutting.

  ‘How old do you think he is?’ Portia asked, eyes still closed.

  ‘You made me jump. Thought you were asleep. Who? How old is who?’

  She stretched and yawned. ‘Samir, of course.’

  ‘I don’t know. Thirty, maybe?’

  Portia snorted with laughter. ‘I’ve got knickers older than that.’

  Juliet didn’t answer immediately, watched her sister and tried to gauge her mood, hoping yesterday’s grumpiness had gone. ‘What will you do while I’m at the hammam?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll no doubt find something to occupy myself.’

  Miranda laid the table under the tree with bread, cheese and fruit, then fetched a steaming dish of beans spiced with harissa. Juliet smelt it and her stomach gave an uneasy lurch. She breathed deeply until it settled. Best to stick to bread and coffee for breakfast.

  ‘I’ll have to leave you to it.’ Miranda pushed sweat-wet hair back from her forehead. ‘There’s a man looking at the plasterwork this morning.’

  ‘No problem,’ Juliet said. ‘All of it? Or just one room at a time?’

  ‘Just the one. The Yellow Room. The plan is to make one room at a time habitable. Samir will be here soon to take over from me then we can go to the hammam.’

  ‘No hurry, whenever you’re ready.’

  Miranda bustled away, shadowed by the cat, and Juliet sipped her second cup of coffee.

  ‘I wonder what he actually does,’ Portia said. ‘With two wives to support, and a child, not to mention renovation bills on this place…’

  As though she had conjured him up, the street door opened and Samir came in, then bent to remove his shoes.

  ‘As salaam alaikum,’ Portia called across the courtyard.

  ‘Alaikum as salaam, ladies.’ He gave a stiff bow as he walked past them on his way to the Yellow Room, leaving behind him the smell of tobacco.

  ‘Full of himself, isn’t he?’

  ‘Shush, Portia. He’ll hear you.’

  ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse if he does. If you’re not going to have any of these beans can I finish them up?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ She pushed the bowl across the table.

  ‘The medina is a complete labyrinth,’ Juliet said.

  Miranda smiled. She had bright pink lipstick on her front teeth and Juliet tried not to stare. ‘It’s because it developed bit by bit, one lane tacked on to another. If you could see it from above it would look like the veins on a leaf.’

  Earthen walls, dank and damp, soared high above them on either side while under their feet the cobbles were slimy, slippery.

  ‘The dark bits are creepy.’ Juliet shivered. ‘Wouldn’t want to be here on my own at night.’

  ‘You’ll get used to it. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

  Nevertheless, she stayed as close to Miranda as she could without actually treading on her heels until they emerged into dazzling sunlight to hear a sound like a drum roll as a woman filled a plastic container.

  ‘All these fountains are so pretty with the blue and white tiles and… is the water free?’ Juliet said.

  ‘Yes. A lot of people can’t afford to have it piped in so there are fountains all over the place. Fountains and hammams and bakeries… speaking of which...’

  Women clustered around an entrance, chatting and laughing, each of them carrying a tin of uncooked dough.

  ‘They’re waiting to get their loaves in the oven,’ Miranda said. ‘They’ll collect them later.’

  ‘They all look the same. How do they know which is theirs?’

  ‘Each of them has their own mark. They bring tagines too, and cakes. Right, we just need to go round this next corner and we’re there.’

  On the blue door paint curled, in petals, to reveal the green underneath.

  ‘Is this it? The hammam?’

  Miranda nodded. ‘It is. You are about to have an… experience.’

  ‘Is it women only?’

  ‘It is at the moment. That cloth hanging up there tells men to keep away.’

  It wasn’t only the heat and clouds of steam that brought colour to her cheeks. Miranda hadn’t told her she’d have to get naked. Totally. She studiously examined every detail of the tiling, arches and vaulted ceilings, trying not to stare at all the flesh around her. Moroccan women were generously proportioned. Self-conscious that she still had pubic hair when all around her had been totally depilated, she was relieved to be ordered, with a gesture, to lie face down on a marble slab.

  The woman, fully clothed and muscular, carried what looked like a ball of baling twine with which sh
e proceeded to scrub Juliet’s back. It felt good. The stress began to fall away from her shoulders along with the dirt and dead skin. She turned her head to one side and watched women help each other with back scrubbing and shampooing. Maybe nobody in Fez had a bathroom. Sing-song Arabic filled the air, as well as laughter, the splash of water as buckets were emptied over bodies. She was turned over, none too gently, and two small boys appeared at her side to watch. Nearby, a young girl threaded the leg hair from a wincing woman. She twizzled two threads together, held one in each hand, then ran them up and down over the skin. Judging by the sharp intakes of breath, it seemed the hairs were being ripped out at the follicles.

  She was flipped over once more, onto her stomach, and she groaned as all the air was driven out of her lungs by the woman leaning her not inconsiderable weight onto her upper back. And then the kneading started, the pummelling, the agonising cracking of her joints. Whatever had she been thinking of, volunteering for this? No wonder Miranda’s eyes had held an amused gleam as she left. There was more pressure now as the woman ground her body down into the marble. There was nothing sensual about this, her breasts hurt. Really hurt.

  She wriggled free. ‘No more. Thank you. It was very good but…’

  The woman stared at her.

  ‘Sore. Hurt.’ Juliet tried to explain, pointed to her breasts.

  The masseuse came closer, then peered at her for a moment before a smile filled her face. ‘Ah, bebe,’ she said, miming rocking a child.

  Juliet looked down at her swollen breasts, the blue veins. A rushing sound filled her ears. Oh God, no. Please, not that.

  Portia

  Portia drained the last few drops of coffee from the cup, then turned her face up to the warmth of the sun. When had she last felt so relaxed, so at peace with the world? She wore no makeup and had twisted her uncurled hair into an untidy knot on top of her head. When had she last appeared in front of other people so… naked? Being away from Gavin—being away from that house—made all the difference. Maybe she would never go back. Maybe she would—