The House in Fez Page 6

  A shadow fell across her and she started, squinted against the glare of sunlight.

  ‘Good morning, Portia,’ Samir said.

  ‘Oh… hello.’ She held up a hand to shield her eyes.

  ‘You did not wish to visit the hammam with your sister?’

  ‘No, it’s not really my thing.’ She sat up straight and gestured towards the Yellow Room. ‘Miranda says you have a workman here?’

  ‘Yes. He will assess the cost and give me a price. I shall speak with him later when he has had chance to source the particular plaster we need.’ He took a squashed cigarette packet from his pocket and offered it to her.

  ‘No. Thank you.’ She watched him shake one free, saw his long fingers, strong hands, smelt the sulphur from the match. In the bright sunlight the flame was too pale to see. He pulled out a chair and sat down, tested the weight of the coffee pot and poured himself a cup.

  ‘Now, Portia, tell me. Are you enjoying your visit to Fez?’

  ‘I love it. I shan’t want to go home again.’

  ‘You would be most welcome to stay. The riad is large enough for everyone—or it will be when all is completed.’

  A fleck of tobacco had stuck to his bottom lip and her eyes were drawn to it. His lips were full, beautifully shaped.

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ He had spoken again and she had missed it. She flushed.

  ‘I was saying, Portia…’ He said her name slowly, deliberately, sounding each of the syllables. ‘My family will move here in stages, as each room becomes complete. My mother, of course, will be among the first.’

  She dragged her gaze away from his mouth. ‘Are you close to your mother?’

  He arched an eyebrow. ‘But of course. You, I think, are not, though?’

  ‘Juliet and I don’t see Miranda often. Sometimes years go by. That must seem strange to you.’

  ‘I do not find it strange. I find it incomprehensible. In my culture the mother is the most important person, more important than anyone.’

  The cat slunk into view and Portia eyed it warily. ‘Even more than a wife?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘More important than two wives?’

  He tapped ash into his saucer. ‘You do not approve, Portia.’ Again, he extended her name, each syllable falling softly from his mouth.

  ‘I find that incomprehensible.’

  ‘I think, in your country, you say “horses for courses”, do you not? Am I correct?’ He leaned forward, extinguished his cigarette with a hiss in the dregs of his coffee, and placed his hand on her thigh.

  She stopped breathing. The noises from the medina faded and the air felt thick, charged. The heat of his skin burned through the thin cotton of her trousers, then began to move upwards. Her eyes closed. How good it felt to—

  Shouting from the medina snapped her back like elastic and she jumped to her feet, face scarlet.

  He stood up too. ‘I am going out now to check on one of my business enterprises in the medina. Perhaps you would like to accompany me?’

  She stared at him. The look in his eyes was lazy, amused. Was he mocking her? Had she imagined what had just happened? She was confused, but could still feel the heat of his hand on her leg. God only knew what his agenda might be… better to keep well away from now on.

  ‘No, I don’t think… yes, I’ll come.’ Shit. Where did that come from? She felt him watching her as she buckled her sandals.

  Following him up the lane she smelt the cigarettes and coffee on him, overlaid with a faint trace of sweat. She walked so close behind him she could see the way his hair curled over his collar. What am I doing? Why did I come? They shared the path with shoppers and small black donkeys laden with bulging panniers. Above them hung a fog of cooking smoke, trapped by the close wooden slats of the roof which covered the whole of this outer section of the medina.

  ‘This is Fez-al-Bali.’ Samir stopped and she bumped into him, then leapt back hurriedly. ‘It is the only intact mediaeval city in the world.’

  ‘It’s fascinating. I’ve never seen anything like it.’ She looked into his eyes, but they were impassive, neutral. A call to prayer floated through the air, then another, and another. Were there really so many, or were they echoes and re-echoes?

  ‘Over there.’ He pointed to a stone building, its façade crumbled like stale cake. ‘We have arrived.’

  They entered a high room, with one wall covered with eruptions of dark green lichen, and a smell like mildewed towels. Sitting cross-legged on the bare floor were small figures, heads bowed as they stitched. Light slanted through the open door and glinted on blue glass, and red, as the children sewed tiny jewelled buttons on to slippers. A shaven-headed boy looked up at her, but soon carried on working after Samir spoke sharply to him. She looked around her. How many children were here? Twenty? Thirty? And how old were they? What was this, a sweatshop?

  ‘Samir.’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Samir, these are children.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So? Why aren’t they in school? Do you not have schools in Fez?’

  He pulled away from her. ‘Of course we have schools. Morocco is a—’

  ‘Then why are these… infants here?’

  His lips narrowed into a thin line. ‘They are here, Portia, because their families are poor, have no other income.’

  ‘So why don’t their parents work here?’

  ‘It is not work for adults,’ he snapped. ‘It is children’s work.’

  She glared at him, hands on hips. ‘This is monstrous. How old is this girl? Four? Five? And that one over there? This is child labour.’

  As her voice rose the children stopped working, looked up at her. Samir shouted and they started stitching again.

  ‘Samir, this is exploitation.’ Her voice shook with anger.

  He gripped the tops of her arms. ‘This is not England. Do you understand?’ He shook her, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. ‘If these children do not work, their families will have no income whatsoever.’

  ‘And what do you pay them? How much? A pittance, I suppose.’ She pulled away from him, resisted the urge to rub her sore skin.

  ‘They are paid the correct rate for the work.’

  ‘And do you have other… sweatshops?’

  ‘Yes, I do and—’

  ‘Are you proud of yourself? Do you see yourself as some sort of philanthropist? Do you know what a philanthropist is?’

  ‘Of course I know. How dare you assume..?’ He pushed his face into hers. ‘I do not wish to hear any more. You are a guest in my home, but I would ask you to remember you are in a country very different to your own. Now you will return to the riad with me and we will not speak of this again. Do you understand?’

  ‘I’ll find my own way back, thank you very much.’

  Juliet

  Juliet stood outside the hammam and looked blankly from left to right. Water dripped from her wet hair and trickled down her back. Her entire body still tingled after the scrubbing. Which way should she go? Then she remembered the address card, fished it out of her bag and approached a woman hurrying along, head down with two French sticks clamped under her arm. Her brows knitted together as she scrutinised the card, then she smiled, pointed, and Juliet set off for the riad, trying to concentrate on the route and not the insistent soundtrack in her mind.

  Surely she couldn’t be pregnant? They hardly ever made love anymore. Darren was always too exhausted and she felt apathetic about the whole thing. Their sex life resembled a fading newsreel. And yet… there had been the evening when Darren brought home a bottle of Prosecco and she’d drunk most of it.

  She had to stop several more people to ask the way—a boy in school uniform with comb lines visible in his wet hair, a woman staggering under a basket of carrots—but took care not to meet men’s eyes, never mind speak to them. Things were very different here. It took longer than she’d expected and she had to backtrack several times, but she felt quite proud of her achievement when she slipped the key
in the door and swung it open to be greeted by the savoury smells of lunch cooking. Her stomach rumbled and her spirits soared. This morning’s nausea had just been a blip. She felt ravenous and couldn’t possibly be pregnant.

  When she went into the bedroom, she found Portia kneeling on the floor, smacking a shoe down onto the tiles. ‘Whatever are you doing?’

  ‘Ants,’ she said briefly, sitting back on her heels and regarding her handiwork with evident satisfaction. ‘Chocolate, I suppose. They must have got a whiff of Toblerone from my trousers. I don’t suppose you know if there’s a washing machine here?’

  ‘No idea, I’ve not been in the kitchen yet.’

  ‘I’ll ask Miranda.’ She heaved herself to her feet. ‘How was the hammam?’

  ‘Painful.’ She dropped her bag on the bed. ‘You made the right choice. What have you been doing this morning?’

  Portia’s eyes narrowed. ‘I went with Samir to see one of his… businesses. Did you know he runs sweatshops?’

  ‘Sweatshops? What do you mean?’

  ‘He has children working, stitching beads on slippers. And they’re tiny children. Do you think Miranda knows?’

  ‘I suppose… surely she must. God, that’s awful. Why did he take you? Seems a strange thing to do.’

  ‘Oh, he is in no way ashamed. In fact, he’s almost congratulating himself on providing job opportunities.’

  Portia’s face seemed to be moving in and out of focus. Juliet groped behind her for the bed and sat down.

  Portia stared at her. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said shakily, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘Just a funny turn. I’ll be fine in a minute.’

  ‘You’re white as a sheet.’ She sat down beside her, took her hand. ‘Shall I fetch you some water?’

  ‘No, no, I’m—’

  ‘Was it too much for you? The hammam? All that heat and steam?’ She peered into Juliet’s face.

  ‘No. Yes. I think… I’m afraid I might be pregnant.’

  ‘What? Surely…’ She frowned as she stroked her sister’s fingers. ‘Do you think that’s why you kept feeling sick?’

  Juliet looked down and a single, hot tear dropped on to her sister’s hand, on to the long fingers, the oval nails where the polish had begun to chip.

  Portia gripped her hand. ‘Would it be so awful if you were?’ she asked gently.

  Juliet stiffened. ‘I can’t do it. I couldn’t go through any of that again.’

  ‘Go through what? I don’t understand… do you mean childbirth, because—’

  ‘No. It’s not that. It’s being a mother, it’s the agony of…’ Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, dripped onto her cotton trousers. ‘Jacob… he got in with a bad crowd at school… started doing drugs and—’

  ‘Oh God, Jules, I’d no idea.’

  ‘And we kept getting him clean, but…’

  ‘I am so sorry.’ She wrapped her arms round Juliet’s shaking shoulders. ‘You poor, poor thing. So… what… where is he now?’ she whispered.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’ She sniffed as Portia dabbed her cheeks with a tissue. ‘It’s been over two years…’

  ‘Oh, Jules.’ Tears welled in her eyes. She held Juliet tighter until, eventually, she pulled away and gave her a weak smile.

  ‘Sorry.’ She gestured at Portia’s shirt, stained with tears and mucus.

  ‘Don’t be daft. I wish I’d known.’

  ‘How could you? We haven’t seen each other for… Oh God, Portia, what will I do?’

  ‘It’s maybe just a false alarm.’

  ‘But if it’s not?’

  ‘What would… how would Darren feel about it, do you think?’

  ‘He’d be thrilled. He’d want me to have it, but I won’t. I won’t. He can’t force me to, and anyway…’ her voice rose to a wail, ‘I don’t love him anymore.’

  Portia stared at her for a moment. ‘What went wrong, love?’ she asked gently. ‘You were so close, you two. Everyone remarked on it and…’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’

  ‘Was it because of Jacob?’

  ‘No, it started long before that.’

  ‘You know, Jules,’ Portia said in a low voice, ‘I used to envy you so much because you had a son and a husband who adored you.’

  She looked up. ‘Things are so often not what they seem, aren’t they? I was jealous of you because Gavin’s handsome and you don’t have money worries.’

  ‘Jules?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Portia hesitated, then blurted, ‘Why didn’t you let me come and stay with you and Darren? I asked you so many times.’

  There was a silence, and then Juliet took a deep breath. ‘I didn’t want you to see our house. The way we lived. We had nothing for a long time and—’

  ‘Oh, Jules. All those years. I thought you didn’t want to know me.’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ She sat up straighter and gave a weak smile. ‘You’re welcome to come now. We still have nothing.’

  Portia

  That afternoon Miranda took them sightseeing. ‘There’s so much more to Fez than the medina,’ she said. ‘Come on. We’ve a few more hours before sunset.’

  As they walked around, Portia struggled to concentrate on the sights. Thoughts whirled in her head; her sister’s grief and all the missed years when they could have been in touch with each other. And the thought of the unwelcome pregnancy kept intruding. Juliet was despairing at the idea of a baby and she could understand that, but how she envied her. If she had a baby, someone of her own to love, she would be the happiest woman in the world. But what about your self-harming? A little niggling voice asked. It would stop. Of course it would stop once she had a focus in her life. She would never feel the need to do it again.

  Juliet grabbed her arm and pointed. It appeared she had fallen in love with the mellah, the old Jewish quarter where the house windows were edged with flaking, white-painted ironwork and, unlike the riads, balconies hung outside the buildings. ‘I suppose that’s because Jewish women didn’t have to be hidden away,’ Juliet said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Miranda said. ‘Ready to move on?’

  ‘Can’t we stay a bit longer? I just love it. What about having a drink in the cafe?’

  ‘It’s men only. Come on, I’ll take you to see the Ville Nouvelle, the New Town. We can have tea there.’

  Portia glanced at her sister. She’d turned pale again. ‘Can we get that bus instead of walking?’ she asked her mother, indicating a white bus bearing a pale blue motif of a mosque. ‘It says City Bus. Does it go where we want?’

  Miranda shook her head. ‘Give the buses a miss. They’re massively overcrowded. Keep your eyes peeled for a cab instead. They’re red and say Petit Taxi on the roof.’

  ‘I think Juliet needs to sit down.’ Portia grabbed her sister’s arm and pushed her towards an open door, narrowly missing a porter staggering by with a wooden crate balanced on his head. ‘I don’t know what this place is but I can see chairs.’

  It turned out to be an internet café. She smiled sweetly at the proprietor as she guided Juliet to the nearest chair. ‘She is sick,’ she told him.

  ‘No problem.’ He grinned, displaying rotting teeth, then pulled another chair forward for Portia.

  ‘Thank you.’ Her skin tightened in the air-conditioning. What bliss. And maybe while she was here she could catch up on her emails. One look dashed her hopes. All the keyboards were in Arabic.

  Within minutes Miranda was tapping on the window and pointing to a waiting cab.

  ‘Will you be all right now, Jules, do you think?’ Portia asked.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Miranda held the door open for them to climb into the back of the taxi, shooing away a dog with three legs and a barefoot boy selling single packets of tissues. By the time they reached their destination, Portia too felt sick. Driving on the potholed roads appeared to be a battle of wills
with swerving, blaring horns and screeching brakes.

  The Ville Nouvelle was a revelation—wide, tree-lined boulevards, street cafes, smart little shops, and beyond the green-tiled rooftops, the Rif Mountains shimmering in the distance.

  ‘Very chic. It’s like the South of France,’ Portia said appreciatively as they strolled in the slanting sunlight of late afternoon. No smell of sewage here, only rose petals and ripe fruit. The red and green Moroccan flag hung every few yards and each of the modern and well-stocked stores displayed a portrait of the king.

  ‘In here,’ Miranda said.

  The blue wrought-iron gateway opened out into a salon du thé with glass tables and potted palms.

  ‘It’s a bit touristy,’ she added, ‘but they have posh toilets—English ones—and Body Shop handwash.’

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ Juliet said.

  ‘Come on then. This way.’

  Portia grinned as she watched them go. Poor Juliet was still having balance problems with the hole in the floor toilet back at the riad. She sat at the table and, alone for the first time, she thought about the conversation with Juliet. An ache filled her chest. Her poor sister. Small wonder she tossed and turned in her bed throughout the night.

  ‘Before she comes back…’

  She looked up to see Miranda.

  ‘Is everything all right with Juliet?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder. ‘She’s dreadfully thin and I’m rather worried about her.’ She stared into Portia’s eyes. It felt as though she were trying to get into her mind.

  Should I tell her? About Jacob? And the maybe pregnancy? Perhaps she could show some support and… but when has she ever shown any interest before? She fiddled with the clasp of her shoulder bag. On the other hand, she’s making the effort now…

  ‘She’s fine, Miranda. Just needs a break away from the financial worries at home.’

  Juliet reappeared at the same time as the waiter, who poured their mint tea into small glasses from a theatrical height, before tipping it back into the pot and repeating the procedure several more times.