The Lost Letter from Morocco

She concentrates on the waterfalls, avoiding his gaze. ‘I grew up in Canada. When I graduated from university I moved to London. My father travelled a lot for work, so there wasn’t any reason to stay in Canada. I thought I’d have more opportunities in London as a photographer. Lots of magazine work, you know? That’s when I finally met my half-sister, Philippa. I was looking forward to meeting her, but …’ Addy remembers Philippa’s frosty welcome, her absolute disinterest in her Canadian half-sister.

‘She was married to a rich Italian banker then, but she’s divorced now. I live on my own. Philippa and I aren’t … close.’ Better that Omar doesn’t know she still shares a flat with Nigel. Another problem to deal with when she gets back to London.

‘But she’s your sister. You must be close.’

Addy grunts. ‘Let’s just say that I don’t aspire to her way of life and this has caused us some conflict.’ She smiles at Omar ruefully. ‘I’m a constant disappointment to her.’

Omar shuts his eyes tight. When he looks at her again, his eyes are glazed with tears.

‘Me too. My father died. I’m so, so sorry for that, habibati. It’s a hard fate to be alone. It never happens like that in Morocco. We have many relatives here. We can visit all of Morocco and you will see I have family everywhere. The doors of my family are open to you.’

Addy rests her hand on her thigh. She feels the glossy card of the Polaroid through the soft denim.

‘Omar, how old are you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How old are you? When were you born?’

‘I have thirty-three years. Anyway, don’t mind for age, Adi. It doesn’t matter for a man and lady to be the same age.’

‘That’s not what I meant.’ Addy reaches into her pocket and slides out the photo wrapped in her father’s letter. ‘Do you remember an Irishman who came here around 1984? He had a Moroccan wife. I think she was his wife. I think she might have been from Zitoune. I don’t know for sure.’ She hands Omar the photo. ‘I have a picture of them.’

A deep crease forms between Omar’s black eyebrows as he examines the Polaroid. ‘It’s a long time ago. I was a small boy.’ He looks out at the waterfalls and shakes his head. ‘I don’t remember them. Why you ask about it?’

‘You don’t recognise the woman in the picture?’

Omar rubs his thumb across the fading image of Addy’s father and Hanane. He flips it over.

‘“Zitoune waterfalls, Morocco, August 1984 – with Hanane”.’ He hands the Polaroid back to Addy. ‘No, I don’t know her.’

She stares down at the faces of her father and Hanane smiling at the unseen photographer in front of the Zitoune waterfalls, then she carefully wraps the blue letter around it and slips the picture back into her pocket.

Back at Aicha’s house, the aroma of grilled chicken, garlic and ginger wafts through the courtyard. Women’s voices float over the spiced air from the kitchen. The afternoon’s tea is pressing on Addy’s bladder.

‘Toilet?’

Omar points to a door flaking with red paint. ‘You might need some tissue.’

Addy pulls a pack of tissues out her jeans pocket and waves it at Omar.

The reek of bleach assaults her nose when she opens the door. It does little to mask the underlying odour of sweat, urine and faeces. A string brushes her cheek. When she tugs at it a light bulb flickers on. The room is no bigger than a phone booth. The tiler has made an attempt at a pattern on the white-tiled walls with tiles printed with pink stars, but halfway up the pink stars have been replaced by tiger stripes. A tap sticks out of the wall at knee height with a blue plastic bucket underneath. A large white ceramic square with a hole in the centre is set into the concrete floor. Ridges shaped like feet flank the hole.

Peeling down her jeans and underwear, Addy steps tentatively onto the ridged feet. As she squats, her cheek slaps up against the pink stars. She wobbles around to face the door, propping herself up with one hand on the door and one on a tiled wall. She teeters over the hole and sprays her loafers with wee.

A knock on the door. ‘Honey, are you okay?’

‘One minute. Where do I wash my hands?’

‘Put water in the bucket and pour it down the toilet.’

When she opens the door, Omar’s leaning against the courtyard wall waiting for her. He examines her loafers.

‘You made your shoes wet.’

Addy peers down at the dark splotches on the tan leather.

‘I know. It’s hard for me to squat. I kept falling over. I tried to clean them with some water.’

Omar shouts for his sister. ‘Fatima!’

Fatima emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron printed with apples and oranges. She’s followed by a pretty girl in purple velour pyjamas and a pink hijab with matching pink babouches. Omar says something to Fatima. The girls look at Addy’s shoes and break into giggles. Fatima disappears behind a blue wooden door beside the kitchen. The other girl says something to Omar and he laughs. Fatima returns with her purple plastic Crocs.

‘Give her your shoes, honey. She’ll clean them for you.’

‘She doesn’t have to do that.’

He takes the Crocs from Fatima and pushes them into Addy’s hands. ‘She’s happy to do it.’

‘If you’re sure …’

‘It’s fine. Mashi mushkil.’

Gripping Omar’s arm to steady herself, Addy changes her shoes. Omar picks up her discarded loafers and shoves them into the hands of Fatima’s friend. Fatima bursts into another fit of giggles. The girl drops the loafers like they’re infectious and storms out of the courtyard, slamming the metal door behind her.

Addy stoops down to pick up the offensive shoes. ‘Who was that?’

‘Zaina,’ Omar says as he takes the shoes from Addy and hands them to Fatima. ‘She’s a friend of Fatima.’

Addy watches Fatima disappear into the kitchen with her loafers. ‘I don’t think Zaina likes me.’

‘She don’t like foreign ladies. It’s normal.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Amazigh ladies don’t like foreign ladies because they go with Amazigh men. They’re jealous.’

Fatima rests her chin on Addy’s shoulder and wraps her arms around her waist. ‘Come, sister,’ she says in French. ‘It’s the time of supper. I make delicious brochettes of chicken for my sister, Adi.’

‘You go eat, honey.’ Omar turns and heads towards the front door.

‘Where are you going? Aren’t you eating?’

‘Later. I’ll go to find the plumber. Enjoy.’

Fatima reaches for Addy’s hand and leads her into the living room. Aicha smiles her white smile and pats a place for Addy beside her on the flowery banquette. The low table is laid out with stacks of glistening chicken brochettes, a salad of chopped tomatoes, onions and olives dressed with olive oil, and fragrant discs of warm bread dusted with semolina.

Aicha grabs a disc of bread out of the blue plastic basket and tears off a large chunk. She offers it to Addy. ‘Eesh, Adi. Marhaba.’