The Lost Letter from Morocco

Addy looks at Jedda. The old woman’s one good eye bores into her like she’s trying to excavate Addy’s soul. ‘Except for your grandmother.’

Omar shrugs. ‘My grandmother don’t like tourists. Don’t mind for it.’ He takes hold of Addy’s elbow and steers her across the courtyard to the front door. ‘Anyway, you are not a tourist to me. You are like an Amazigh lady. Even my mum says it.’

‘She did?’

‘Maybe she didn’t say it, but I know she think it.’ He opens the metal door. ‘She love your red hair and blue eyes for her grandchildren.’

‘Omar, honestly, I—’

Omar laughs. ‘Don’t mind, Adi. Don’t believe everything I say. Oh, and Adi? My mum, she don’t speak French. It’s lucky because you don’t speak it so well.’

The daylight is fading when Omar and Addy reach a terrace paved with stones overlooking the waterfalls. A young Moroccan couple sits on the stone wall holding hands. The man speaks quietly and the woman leans her head in to listen. He plays with her fingers.

Omar and Addy sit on the wall. The last of the day’s sun throws a beam of light across the waterfalls, setting off sparks like fireflies on the water.

‘It’s a romantic place here, Adi. Sometimes couples come here to be private.’

‘Are they single?’

‘No. Everybody marries young here. But maybe there are children and parents and grandparents in the house. It’s the Moroccan manner. It’s difficult to be private.’

Addy feels a pang of sadness. As a child she’d wished on a star every night, hoping for a brother or sister to play with in the big house by the sea.

‘It must be nice to have a big family.’

Omar takes hold of her hand and plays with her fingers. ‘You have brothers and sisters, darling?’

‘A half-sister.’

Omar draws his black eyebrows together. ‘What’s that?’

Lights are coming on in the restaurants below, forming pools of yellow around the waterfalls.

‘Her name’s Philippa. She had a different mother. My father married twice.’ Addy presses her lips together into an apologetic smile. ‘We don’t get on very well. We’re very different.’

Omar nods. ‘It’s possible for a man in Morocco to marry four wives. It’s good to have many children. Then your heritage continues even when you go to Paradise.’

‘Oh, my father didn’t have two wives at the same time! He divorced his first wife and then married my mother. We don’t marry more than one person at a time. In fact, it’s illegal.’

Omar drops Addy’s hand and rests his arm around her shoulders. ‘I know it, honey. It might be that it’s better like that, anyway. It’s hard to have many wives. It’s very expensive.’ He rolls out the ‘r’ in very for added emphasis. ‘Each wife must have a house. Often, the ladies don’t like each other. Anyway, now it doesn’t happen so often. Only if the first wife doesn’t have babies, then you marry a second wife. But the first wife is the boss.’

‘Why don’t you just adopt or get fertility treatment?’

‘You must know your blood is the same in your children for your heritage, so nobody adopts here. It’s very hard to have fertility treatment – you must be very rich for that. Nobody in the mountains can do that. Anyway, they think you’re crazy to do it since it’s easy to marry a second wife.’

‘I see.’ Addy’s head is spinning. Why does she care if Omar gets married? Has two wives – three wives – four … And kids. Lots of kids. If they got involved, it could only ever be a holiday romance.

‘You know, Adi, some men come to ask me for Fatima to be their second wife. Fatima tells me “No.” She says no to everybody. It’s a big problem for me, but I don’t make her do nothing she doesn’t want. It’s for her to decide, even if my mum wants her to marry quick to have babies. She must go where her heart tells her to go.’ He looks at Addy out of the corner of his eye. ‘Me too. My mum wants me to marry quick to have babies.’

‘Oh.’ It’s like she’s been wading out into the sea and suddenly steps off a sandbar.

Omar squeezes her shoulder. ‘Don’t mind. I’m making a joke with you. I don’t mind for ladies. I look only for one lady.’ He kisses Addy on the top of her head. ‘So, maybe you have a boyfriend in England?’

‘I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if I had a boyfriend.’

‘Maybe you had a boyfriend before?’

Addy remembers the last time she’d seen Nigel, in the kitchen of their flat the night before she’d flown out to Morocco, when he’d made her so angry she’d thought she might hit him. So angry that she’d stormed out and walked around the park for an hour to calm down. Alone in a London park after midnight. She must have been crazy.

‘Once I did. But it’s over now.’

‘I’m jealous.’

What was the harm in a holiday flirtation? Maybe it was just what she needed. Nothing serious. Short and sweet and then back to London. She wasn’t looking for a man to rescue her. What was Philippa talking about?

‘There’s no reason to be jealous, Omar. You must have had girlfriends before.’

‘There’s no boyfriend–girlfriend situation in Morocco, Adi. It’s not a possibility. We must wait to be married to be together.’

‘What about the tourist girls?’

‘I don’t like that situation, even though it’s true it happens sometimes. My friend Yassine has a wife and two children and a Dutch lady in Holland who visits him. She bought him a car. She bought a refrigerator for his wife. It’s where I get the idea for the refrigerator for Fatima. But, you have to know, it’s not my cup of tea. I feel bad for Yassine’s wife, Khadija.’

Cash cow. Addy could hear Philippa’s voice in her head. He’s playing nice just to get you into bed. What if Omar knew that she was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy? Would he be so keen on her then? He couldn’t be that good an actor. Or could he?

Below their perch on the stone wall, the lights of Mohammed’s restaurant switch on. Amine is setting out large bottles of water on the tables. A macaque monkey the size of a large cat leaps out of the branches of an olive tree onto a table. Amine shoos it away with a tea towel.

‘What about me? I’m a tourist.’

‘You’re not a tourist, Adi. You are the honey of my life. When you came to Zitoune my world was opened.’ He waves his hand out towards the waterfalls in a sweeping gesture. ‘It’s you I’ve been waiting for.’

‘Omar …’ Addy’s head spins with confusion. ‘I … I’m not Muslim.’

‘Mashi mushkil. I can marry a Muslim lady, or a Christian lady or a Jewish lady. No problem for that because we are all people of the book. We all have Moses and Ibrahim and Adam. But Muslim ladies can only marry Muslim men.’

‘That doesn’t seem fair.’

Omar shrugs. ‘It’s like that.’ Omar reaches for Addy’s hand and slides his fingers through hers. ‘Adi, when you told me about your dream, I knew for sure you are the lady I wait for. I made a prayer to Allah today. It’s the first time in a long time I did it.’

‘What did you pray for?’

‘I prayed to Allah to thank Him for making me for you. And for sending you to me.’

Addy gazes at the haloes of light below. It’s like a door is opening, but does she dare step over the threshold?

‘Omar, you asked me about my family. My mother died when I was young. My father died last fall.’

‘I’m so, so sorry for that, Adi.’