The Lost Letter from Morocco. Adrienne Chinn

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      ‘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.’

      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?’

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