The House in Fez Page 7

  ‘Is that just for tourists?’ Juliet asked when he had gone. ‘Do they ever miss the glass?’

  Miranda laughed. ‘No. They get a lot of practice. It’s supposed to aerate the liquid, improve the flavour.’ She pushed the plate of macaroons towards Juliet, who licked her lips and took two.

  ‘Miranda?’ Portia said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This morning Samir showed me the place where the slippers are stitched.’

  ‘Did he? Would you like a pair? I could—’

  ‘I would not. It’s a sweatshop.’

  ‘It most certainly is not a sweatshop, Portia, and there is no room for sentiment here.’ Miranda slammed her glass down on the table. ‘If those children didn’t earn some money there…’

  ‘Is there no government help?’ Juliet looked anxiously from her sister to her mother.

  Miranda shook her head.

  ‘How many sweatshops does Samir have?’ Portia asked.

  ‘I really don’t know.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Time to call it a day, I think.’

  Portia glanced at their untouched drinks, shrugged and followed Miranda and Juliet out of the salon du thé.

  Sleep eluded Portia. The room was stifling and she punched her pillow, turned it over to the dry side, tried again to find a cool patch on the rumpled sheet. What if Juliet was pregnant? She wouldn’t want the child, but sometimes unwanted babies were brought up by other family members. Like me, maybe?

  The idea had planted itself in her mind and now it began to send out a few exploratory shoots.

  And what about Samir? Blood rushed into her cheeks. He’d been testing the water, she felt sure of it. The imprint of his hand still burned on her thigh.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MAY 29th

  Juliet

  In the dim early morning light, shadows pooled in the corners of the bedroom. Juliet stretched out her arms and legs. A burst of happiness, almost a physical feeling, spread across her chest and she pressed her hands over it to keep it there. She had slept soundly, the first time for ages, and the queasiness had gone. Darren had been right all along. It had been depression which had sucked the life out of everything it touched, destroyed each hope and pleasure. Morocco had cast its spell on her—she would stay here in Fez for as long as it took to get properly well, soak up the sunshine, enjoy being distant from Leicester and the misery there.

  She felt a momentary pang as an image of Jacob filled her mind, then she resolutely cast the picture aside and threw the bed covers back.

  ‘What are you grinning about?’ Portia surfaced from the depths of her bed, hair like a haystack.

  ‘I just feel so much better here, away from it all. How are you this morning?’

  ‘I had the most crap night’s sleep.’ She sat up and pushed the hair out of her eyes. ‘I kept thinking about the poor little buggers in that sweatshop.’

  Juliet frowned. ‘D’you think he lets them have breaks for food… d’you think they have food?’

  Portia shrugged. ‘I suppose they bring their own. I wonder if he supplies drinking water? A toilet?’

  ‘Maybe you could ask him?’

  ‘Huh, I don’t think so.’ She wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘I’ll find out for myself.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘Follow him. How else? Every time he goes out. There might be a few wasted journeys, but sooner or later…’

  ‘Oh, Portia, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ Her heart fluttered with fright. ‘Think how angry he’ll be if he spots you.’

  ‘Like I care. Anyway, I’ll make sure he doesn’t.’

  Juliet rubbed the red swelling of an insect bite. ‘But what can you do? I mean, even if you find them?’

  Portia’s eyes met hers, then she looked away. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  Miranda scuttled backwards and forwards between the kitchen and the courtyard, bringing out dishes of food for breakfast. ‘Good morning, Juliet. It won’t be long. I’m just boiling water for the coffee.’ Her face was flushed, and tendrils of damp hair stuck to her forehead.

  ‘Morning.’ She took the basket of bread from her. ‘Can I do anything to help?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Really.’

  ‘Okay. Miranda—how do you do your washing? Only…’

  ‘Sorry, should have told you. Over there, that door. It’s our utility room. Sounds a great deal grander than it is. Go and have a look—you’ll need to kick the bottom of the door to open it, always sticks.’

  It was more of a cell than a room. A sallow light revealed a stone sink stained by rusty tears from a dripping tap, a squirming network of wires and cables, and an ancient washing machine. She gave it a doubtful look, but judging by the gurgling and sloshing sounds coming from it, it functioned. Later on she’d bring down their clothes for washing, Portia’s chocolate-stained trousers a priority before the bedroom became totally overrun with ants.

  ‘Where’s Samir?’ Juliet asked as the three of them sat under the fig tree eating breakfast.

  ‘He has a meeting with the architect,’ Miranda said, bending down to fondle the cat.

  ‘Oh, good. I mean, while he’s not here…’ Juliet’s face went pink. ‘Could we… contribute towards the expenses… food and stuff?’

  ‘Heavens, no. He would be horrified. You are our guests.’

  ‘Okay, then. If you’re sure?’ Her phone buzzed. ‘Excuse me.’ She took it out of her bag. ‘Oh my God!’ She stared at the screen for a moment and her eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Is it bad news?’ Portia asked, her face anxious.

  ‘No, no it’s not.’ Bubbles of excitement rose in her chest. ‘Wonderful news. Darren’s landed the big contract he tendered for.’ Her face ablaze with joy, she re-read the text as though fearful it might vanish.

  A broad smile spread over Miranda’s face. ‘I’m so pleased for you both. You’ll soon get back on your feet now. This will be just the beginning, you’ll see.’

  Portia jumped up. ‘We must celebrate. With bubbly. I’ll—’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no chance of buying alcohol here in the medina,’ Miranda said. ‘You could get it in the Ville Nouvelle, but if the taxi driver sees it he’ll refuse to bring you back here.’

  Portia’s smile faded. ‘But we must do something.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Miranda said. ‘I’ll make a celebration cake—a special Moroccan one with pistachios and rosewater.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Juliet beamed at them both. ‘I’m so happy—and still hungry. What is it about this place?’ She poured herself another cup of coffee and buttered her third baguette, brushing the crumbs to the ground for the sparrows hopping and chirping by her feet. Sinking her teeth into the crusty bread, she let out a long sigh of pleasure. How well she felt today. No more queasiness. Maybe she wasn’t pregnant, after all. Her stomach knotted for a moment, but then she relaxed. Nothing would be allowed to spoil this wonderful morning.

  After she had finished eating, she helped stack the dishes, then turned to Portia. ‘Have I got time for a quick shower before we go to the medina?’

  ‘No problem,’ Portia said. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘Thanks. Miranda, will there be enough hot water? I don’t want to—’

  ‘There’s always enough at this time of year.’ She squinted up at the blazing sun. ‘Our energy source is completely reliable. Portia, you know those plaster mouldings you were admiring yesterday while we were out? There are some rather similar ones in the Yellow Room…’

  Juliet watched them cross the courtyard with a twinge of anxiety. She hoped Portia wouldn’t come out with anything inflammatory to disturb the morning’s peace.

  When she came back out of the bathroom, Samir was bending to remove his outdoor shoes. Despite the brick wall of heat, he looked cool as he walked over to her, smiling.

  ‘As salaam alaikum, Juliet.’

  ‘Alaikum as salaam.’ She stumbled over the words, embarrassed, but he clapped his hands,
a half-smoked cigarette clamped between his teeth.

  ‘We will soon have you speaking fluent Arabic.’ He inhaled deeply, then breathed out, the smoke unfolding from his nostrils.

  ‘Possibly.’ She laughed as she draped her wet towel over the chair back. ‘I’m not much good with languages, really. How did you get on? Miranda said you had a meeting with the architect.’

  ‘I did. He showed me his plans. There is so much to do, so many things which need replacing—plaster, tiles, cedar panelling. We will need a carpenter, an electrician, a stonemason…’ He seemed to be quivering with excitement.

  Bless him. He’s so thrilled about it all. I don’t know why Portia dislikes him so much. There’s the sweatshop, I understand that, but she didn’t like him before she discovered it.

  ‘Here are the others,’ Samir said, then turned to his wife. ‘You have been showing Portia the Yellow Room?’

  ‘Yes,’ Portia replied. ‘The plasterwork around the windows is just beautiful.’

  ‘Or will be,’ Miranda said. ‘She has also seen the cracked walls and the rotten ceiling beams. Juliet, come and look at my dreadful kitchen. I should really insist it’s done first.’

  Why does my mother always have to speak in italics?

  When Juliet came back out from the kitchen—which had been truly dreadful, the italics justified—Samir had gone. And so had Portia.

  Portia

  There was no time to think. She raced to the door, ripped off her babouches and fumbled with the buckles of her sandals. Come on, come on. Outside she turned left, then barged through the river of people, craning her neck to keep Samir in view.

  ‘Balak, balak!’

  A barrow stacked high with crates of bottles forced her against a wall and, helpless, she watched Samir’s head bobbing up and down, getting farther and farther away. Shit! Some tracker I’m turning out to be. Seething with impatience, she waited for the load to pass and then, thankfully, turn into an alley. She broke into a trot, knocking into a woman with a shopping basket, then a man talking on his phone.

  ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  If only Samir stayed on the same path, she might be able to catch up with him. On and on, past a shoe stall and a hardware shop, a greengrocer and a kiosk selling sweets and cigarettes. A stitch stabbed her side. She couldn’t carry on at this speed. If only she’d kept going to the gym… Gasping for breath, she followed a bend in the lane and cannoned into a solid block of unmoving people. A cart had stopped, totally blocking the roadway. No chance of even trying to squeeze past. Her shoulders slumped. That was that, then. She’d have to try another time. Tears of frustration stung her eyes. When her blurred vision cleared, she caught her breath. He was there. Just a few feet in front of her and trapped like everyone else. If he looked over his shoulder, he would see her. She froze as she waited for the wooden coops of squawking chickens to be unloaded. Please don’t turn around. Please.

  Then they were moving again. He turned down one lane and then another. And she followed as closely as she dared, narrowly missing a steaming heap of donkey dung before slipping over on the greasy cobbles. When she clambered to her feet, he had gone. Bugger. How could he disappear like that? A few feet further on she saw him, in a café, talking to the man at the counter and feeling in his pocket for money. She darted into an alcove, pressed her back against the wall, tried to look invisible. Opposite her, in a cubby hole of a shop, a barber was trimming a man’s moustache. At her feet a small boy in ragged shorts squatted by a few packs of Winston cigarettes. She felt the curious glances, hoped Samir wouldn’t be long.

  When he reappeared, he looked both ways along the alley as he opened a packet of chewing gum. She stiffened, but he turned and walked away. After a further twenty minutes her shirt had stuck to her back like cling film and grit in her sandals had rubbed up a blister. Flies buzzed around her head. She’d had enough. Then Samir shot down an alley, so sharply she almost missed it, and they had arrived. She watched the door from a shaded corner, mopped her forehead with the hem of her shirt, then tied her hair back from her face.

  Within minutes he came back out, strode away, and was swallowed up by the medina. She waited a full minute. An old man hobbled by, leaning on a stick, coughing a soft, fluid cough. Across the alley, on a rooftop, two women were silhouetted against the sky as they pegged washing on a line.

  The varnish on the ancient door lifted and peeled like dry skin. The iron knob grated as she turned it, first one way and then the other. Nothing happened. She tried again, this time putting her full weight against the door. It gave way and she fell into the room. As she clambered to her feet, she saw a sea of startled little faces. There seemed to be more than last time, all of them sitting cross-legged on the stone floor, staring at her with wide eyes. Most of them were girls, each holding a slipper in one hand, a needle and thread in the other. A shaft of light from the open door illuminated a tiny girl, headscarf pinned round her head, who jumped to her feet, scattering jewelled beads all around her.

  ‘Don’t be frightened. Please. I won’t hurt you.’ Portia closed the door behind her and took a step forward. The child backed away, then fell over a small boy who let out a wail.

  ‘As salaam alaikum,’ Portia said, wishing she could remember a few more Arabic words.

  The children exchanged looks, then a girl, a little bigger than the others, stood up. ‘Alaikum as salaam.’

  ‘Ismi Portia.’ Silence. She thought she had just told them her name— but perhaps not.

  Portia kneeled on the floor and picked up the spilt beads. The children watched her whilst casting frequent glances at the door.

  They’re frightened. Do they expect him to come back? Her mouth went dry at the prospect, but she hadn’t come all this way to give up without finding out what she wanted to know. She looked around, at the damp on the walls, the unshaded overhead light. No fan, but here, in the depths of the medina, where the sun couldn’t penetrate it perhaps never got really hot. She edged around the children and took the lid off a plastic drum that sat in one corner. Water. It looked fresh and a metal mug hung from the drum on a length of string. There was a door in the back wall. Did it lead out into the medina? Or to a toilet maybe? She leaned against the wall and watched the children stitching, their heads bowed. They didn’t look up, probably daren’t fall behind with their work.

  The doorknob rattled and she held her breath, waiting. Nobody came in. Maybe someone had banged against the door as they passed. She let out a shaky breath, ashamed of her fear. After all, what could Samir do? Her heart twisted with pity to see the children’s matted hair and limbs like sticks. Few of them wore shoes and their clothes were little better than rags. What could she do to help them? Give them money? Go out and buy food? Then realisation dawned. How could she have been so stupid? She had nothing with her; no money, no bag, no phone. She would have to come back, follow Samir again, but be better prepared and next time try to make a note of the route. The door knob rattled again, began to turn. There were voices. Whoever was outside paused, then answered in Arabic. Portia threw herself against the back door. Please God, let it be open.

  It was. She bolted through the door, then closed it behind her. Then she pushed her way through the small herd of black and white goats milling about, and raced down the nearest alley, kept running until the way had narrowed so much she could no longer see the sky. She smelt cat pee. Dark water dripped down walls.

  It was a dead end.

  Juliet

  She sat down in the courtyard to wait for Portia. Maybe she’d gone to the bathroom, or upstairs. Sunlight dappled the table through the tree branches, and above her head birds chittered. How peaceful everything was. Hard to believe that on the other side of the carved wooden door the lanes seethed with merchants, shoppers, traffic. There was barely a breath of a breeze and in the impossibly blue sky a plane made a slow, white scratch.

  The cat fixed her with an unblinking stare. She bent to stroke it. ‘Hello.’ Perhaps when she went h
ome, she should get a cat. The feel of silky fur beneath her fingers was calming, therapeutic.

  Sun beat down on her shoulders, and she closed her eyes, thought of ice-cream. Specifically, a dark, sweating choc-ice with splintered chocolate, cold on her teeth. No chance of that—there was no freezer in the riad.

  She had a fleeting memory of a hot summer day, hearing the chimes of the ice-cream van and pleading with Miranda, who told her the bell meant he’d run out and was on his way to the shop to get more. She felt a pang of pity for her mother, all those years ago, who had probably had no money.

  Her thoughts turned to home. Darren would be starting on the new contract in a few days. His texts were euphoric. A turning point, love. We’ll get it all back together. His face filled her mind. The lines of worry, the hair prematurely grey. He had taken it hard when the business collapsed. I feel such a failure. I’ve let you down, love. Should have known. Should have seen it coming.

  It was only a few days since she’d last seen him, but how far away he felt. They’d never been apart before. Even if the job took him miles and miles away, he always came home every night. Don’t like being away from you, love.

  So why didn’t she miss him? Surely, if she loved him, she would? Did she still blame him for what happened with Jacob?

  Darren had been angry when their son refused the offer of an apprenticeship and went to work, instead, with a mate ‘doing up cars.’ In a matter of weeks their sunny-natured lad had become morose, argumentative and he never had any money. His personality changed totally and his laptop disappeared. When they asked him if he’d sold it, he wouldn’t tell them. Cash left on the kitchen table for the window cleaner vanished, and the banknotes in Juliet’s purse mysteriously diminished. When Darren confronted him, asked him if he was doing drugs, he walked out and didn’t come back. Anguish scythed its way around Juliet’s body as she remembered the day, months later, when she saw him in the centre of Leicester. Thin, wearing filthy jeans and a ripped jacket, he’d caught sight of her and dodged up a side street.