The Lost Letter from Morocco

‘Shukran.’

Addy tears off another piece and bites into its warm yeastiness. As she chews, she looks around the narrow whitewashed room. A poster of a girl praying at Mecca is tacked over the banquette on the opposite wall. Beside it a framed photograph, garlanded with pink and yellow plastic flowers, shows a sharp-suited King Mohammed VI. At the far end of the room, a large flat-screen television hangs on the wall, the dark screen filmy with pink dust.

Fatima picks up the remote. The television screen springs to life. She flips through the channels until she comes to a Turkish soap opera. Addy wonders where Jedda is. The black-and-white cat slinks into the room and settles on the mat by Addy’s feet.

They’re silent as they climb the steps to Addy’s veranda. She’s conscious of his warmth behind her, the gentle pressure of his hand on her waist when she stumbles on the final step. She walks over to the railing and gazes out at the night-cloaked mountains. The air is cool and stars cluster like glass chips in the black sky. A low buzz of cicadas underpins the silence.

Omar joins her and looks out at the inky outline of the High Atlas Mountains in the far distance.

‘It’s dark tonight, honey. No moon.’

‘Yes. But you can see the stars really well.’

‘The plumber called me when I was at Mohammed’s restaurant watching the football. He said he fixed your water. It might be I should check it for you.’

‘No, it’s okay. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘Adi …’

It happens before she knows she’s done it. Her lips on his neck. Softness. A pulse. His moan. A kiss. His body warm against hers. Her arms around his neck.

‘Adi …’

No. She can’t. She mustn’t. It’s too complicated. Her life’s already a mess. She drops her arms and steps back from his embrace. She presses her fingers against her burning lips.

‘I’m so sorry, Omar. I shouldn’t have done that. Please forget I’ve done that.’

He reaches out to her. ‘Adi, what happened? Don’t worry.’

She hurries to the blue door and into the house. Her heart’s in her throat, pounding, pounding. Oh, my God. What was I thinking?

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_e28c8255-c955-5177-bf3d-2a564f36afb8)

Zitoune, Morocco – December 1983

Hanane skids through a slick of thick blood-red mud.

She laughs. ‘Omar, the surprise had better be worth it. I’m getting splattered with mud.’

The boy waves his hand in the air on the path in front of her. ‘Mashi mushkil. It’s not so far now.’

Hanane stops to catch her breath. Wisps of her thick black hair escape the purple scarf draped loosely over her head. The sky is a canopy of blue over the damp red earth. Nothing but rocks and mud. A few leafless bushes. The river, about ten metres below, courses roughly on its path through the canyon walls.

‘If I’d known we’d be walking to Oushane, I’d never have come.’

Omar turns around, smiling broadly as he opens his arms wide. ‘So, why would I have told you, then?’ He flicks his eyes over her shoulder.

Hanane glances back but sees nothing but the narrow goat path they’ve just descended.

‘What is it, Omar?’

‘Nothing.’ Breaking into a jog, he waves at her to follow him. ‘Not far now, Hanane. Yalla.’

‘I’m not running, Omar.’ She steps gingerly along the muddy plateau. ‘I’ll break my leg.’

‘Stop.’ Omar shoots his right palm into the air like the traffic police she’s seen in Azaghar. ‘Stop. There, just there. Where you are.’

‘What? Why?’

He points at the muddy path in front of her. ‘Look down.’

Pressed into the mud is a huge, three-toed footprint.

‘What is it?’

‘Dinosaur.’ Omar curls his hands under his armpits, staggering around the ground like a cross between a monkey and a wounded chicken. He lets out a howl.

Hanane looks around nervously. ‘Be quiet. There might be another one.’

Omar bursts out laughing, slapping the knees of his dirty jeans. ‘Don’t be stupid, Hanane. The dinosaurs are all dead now. I learned about it in school.’ He points to the ground ahead of him. ‘Yalla, there are more. Lots of them. Big and little. A whole family.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yes, seriously.’

Hanane spins around. The Irishman with the black hair jogs down the final metre of the goat path, the big black camera on its strap slapping against his chest.

‘Be carefu—’

Too late. His foot slips and the man’s booted feet fly out from under him, sending him sprawling on his back into the red mud.

Hanane giggles then, remembering her manners, composes her face into a frown of concern. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks in French.

Gus sits up, holding up palms coated in thick red goo. ‘Fine. I’ve only hurt my pride.’ He holds out a hand to Omar. ‘Here, boss. Give us a hand.’

Omar picks his way across the mud to the Irishman. Holding out a skinny hand, he yanks Gus to his knees.

‘Thanks, boss.’ Gus winks at Omar as he gets to his feet. ‘I can take it from here.’

‘Mister Gus, show her the other footprints, over there.’ Omar points to the ground a few metres away.

Hanane raises an arched black eyebrow at Omar. ‘So, this is your surprise.’

Omar’s right cheek dimples. ‘The dinosaur footprints were the surprise.’ He points at Gus. ‘He’s just extra. He promised me not to tell you.’

‘Boss,’ Gus says as he adjusts the camera strap around his neck, ‘did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?’

Hanane shifts on her feet, sinking deeper into the mud. ‘I really have to get back. I need to feed the chickens.’