The Lost Letter from Morocco

Addy massages her forehead with her fingertips. ‘What do you mean “part of my problem”?’

‘You have terrible taste in men.’

An image of her ex-fiancé, Nigel, plants itself in Addy’s head. Floppy brown hair, ‘trust me’ hazel eyes, the teasing grin. Despite how much he’d hurt her, she couldn’t help but feel some lingering affection towards him. They’d had some fun together, when Nigel wasn’t off somewhere climbing the ladder to a legal career. They’d play hooky to catch a mid-week movie matinee at the Clapham Picture House, or check out a band at the Brixton Dome. All that petered out as Nigel got busier with work. But then she’d been busy with her photography studio too. It had just all gone wrong at the end. Badly wrong.

‘Nigel wasn’t so bad. He was under a lot of pressure at work. He was trying to get taken on as a partner at the law firm. My cancer was hard on him. It couldn’t have been easy holding my bald head over the toilet while I puked my guts out.’

‘My heart bleeds. Did I ever tell you he used to come crying on my shoulder when you were sick? I was completely taken in. I was the one who pulled strings to get him into that law firm in the first place. More fool me. He’s a bastard for fooling around when your hair fell out.’

Finding the bill from The Ivy was a shock. Dinner for two. But it wasn’t as bad as finding the hotel invoice. Both dated the night she was in hospital having the blood transfusion. Nigel should’ve been more careful. Shoving the receipts in an envelope on their shared desk was stupid. Cancer did strange things to people. There was a lot of collateral damage.

‘I guess.’

‘I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just that when I think of Nigel, I want to poke his eyes out with a burning poker. I hate being taken for a fool.’

‘Never mind about Nigel. That’s over. Mashy mushkey.’

‘Mashy what?’

‘It means no problem.’

‘So, now you’re speaking Moroccan.’

‘Darija, actually.’

The rooster rends the air with an ear-splitting crow. Addy watches him strut across the path. He stops and stares at her with a cold black eye. Thrusting out his red feathered chest, he bellows out another piercing crow.

‘Good God, what a racket. The Devil card. Addy, that one’s definitely for you.’

Chapter Nine (#ulink_383bb6c3-6892-5f8f-be4e-5e0ad68c5846)

Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009

‘It’s working?’

Omar’s mother, Aicha, flicks through the TV remote but the images on the large flat-screen TV wobble and fizz like the European soft drinks Omar brings them from Azaghar for the Eid al-Adha celebration dinner.

Aicha walks through the archway from the living room and yells up the steps to the roof. ‘Laa! Not yet!’

Fatima pops her head around the kitchen door. ‘Maybe it’s not a good television. It’s not new like the one Yassine bought for his wife.’

‘Yassine never bought it for Khadija, one hundred per cent.’ Omar’s head appears in the patch of blue sky over the open courtyard. ‘He only buys stuff for himself, you have to know about it. Anyway, this is a good television. It’s a bit new. You’ll be able to watch your Turkish shows better.’ Omar’s head disappears from view. ‘Yamma, try now!’ he yells. ‘I fixed the satellite with the clothesline.’

Aicha hands the remote to Fatima. ‘You do it, Fatima. It’s too complicated for me.’ She heads up the rough grey concrete steps to the roof of the extension Omar’s building. Stepping over a stack of wood, Aicha grabs a rusty iron strut to steady herself. Omar is by the satellite dish, tightening her clothesline around the white disc to correct its tilt.

Fatima’s voice floats up to the roof. ‘It’s working! Don’t move it! Just like that!’

Omar steps back from the satellite dish and slaps the dust off his hands. ‘Good. I’ll buy you another clothesline, Yamma. Don’t worry.’

‘Mashi mushkil.’ Aicha steps over the discarded paint cans and bends down to collect the workers’ dirty tagine pot. Finally, she has Omar on his own. It’s time to discuss the situation.

‘Zaina’s mother was here yesterday.’

Omar’s eyebrow twitches. ‘Oh, yes? She’s well? Everyone’s well?’

Aicha props the tagine pot on her hip as she picks dead leaves off her pots of pelargoniums. ‘Everyone’s well. But, you know, Zaina is getting older. Her parents are worried about her.’

Omar begins stacking concrete blocks into a neat pile. ‘No reason to worry about her. She’s a clever girl.’

‘Omar. You know what I’m talking about. You’re not so young. You must think about marriage. Zaina is waiting for you. You promised …’

‘Yamma, I didn’t promise anything. You promised her parents I’d marry her. Full stop.’

‘I don’t understand what the problem is. She cooks well. She cleans her parents’ house well. She’s young and healthy and very pretty. She’ll be a good mother.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’

‘So, why are you waiting? They’ll marry Zaina to someone else soon.’

‘If Allah wills.’

‘Omar, I’m only thinking of you and your happiness. All you do is work. Your life is passing you by. Don’t you want to have a fine son?’

‘I think you want to have a fine grandson.’

Aicha twists her mouth into a pout. ‘What’s wrong with that? Yes, I want many grandchildren. We must think about Fatima as well. She must be married soon, even though she says no to everybody.’

‘Fatima can do as she likes. She’s a free Amazigh woman like the Queen Dihya of history. I won’t put my sister in a prison to make her marry someone she doesn’t want, like what happened to Uncle Rachid’s daughter. Fatima must be happy when she gets married. That’s my responsibility to her.’

‘Fatima thinks only of romance like she sees on the television. She has to be practical. It’s not easy to find her a husband because of her black skin, even if she’s your sister. It’s easy to find a good wife for you because you’re a hard worker. If you don’t want to marry Zaina, tell me. Everybody wants their daughter to marry you.’

Omar stacks the last concrete block onto the pile and sits down on it with a sigh. He rubs at the crease between his eyes.

‘I don’t like to talk about this situation. Anyway, maybe I’ll marry a foreign lady. It’s possible.’

Aicha bolts upright, dropping dried pelargonium leaves over the concrete.

‘You shouldn’t say things like that. You’re Amazigh. You must have an Amazigh wife.’

‘Uncle Rachid doesn’t have an Amazigh wife.’

‘He has an Arab wife, and this has caused many problems for him in his life.’

‘Yamma, I’m Amazigh, so I’m a free man. I can marry who I like. Anyway, I like a foreign lady. You met her.’

The beautiful woman with the red hair like a boy. Aicha shakes her head.

‘This is not a good situation, Omar. You’ll have problems with a foreign lady. Will she live in Zitoune? I don’t think so. She’ll want to be with her own people. She’ll make you live far away.’