The Lost Letter from Morocco. Adrienne Chinn

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.’

      Omar chews on his lip. His eye catches a movement and he looks up to see a falcon fluttering high in the blue sky, eyeing the green fields for prey. He couldn’t explain it. Why his heart jumped in his chest whenever he saw her. How her face haunted his mind. It wasn’t just Addy’s dream of seeing him the night before they met, though that was incredible. The moment he saw her in the bus, her face, red and sweaty from the ride, under the farmer’s hat, it was like they were magnets being drawn together. Like they knew each other already. Like all the days he’d lived had been steps to the moment they finally met.

      ‘I’ll have a big problem, then.’ He looks at his mother, at her still handsome face lined with worry. ‘She has captured my liver.’

       Chapter Ten

       Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009

      Omar shouts through a window grille into his mother’s house. ‘Yamma! Fatima! Jedda!’

      The blue metal door creaks open and Fatima steps out into the alley. Addy waves at her shyly from across the lane. Fatima pushes past Omar and runs up to Addy and kisses her on both cheeks.

      ‘Bonjour. Marhaba à la maison de Fatima,’ she says, welcoming Addy to her home. She grabs Addy’s hand and pulls her towards the door. ‘Viens avec moi pour le thé.’

      Omar shakes his head. ‘Now my sister takes you away from me, Adi honey. It will be so hard for me to get you from her.’

      Omar’s cell phone rings out the first notes of ‘Hotel California’. He wrinkles his nose at the screen and rejects the call. He slips the phone back into his pocket.

      ‘Was that the plumber, Omar? Shouldn’t you tell him you’re on your way to my house?’

      ‘He knows I’m coming. It’s urgent to fix the problem with your water.’

      Fatima tugs at Addy’s hand and pulls her into the house.

      Omar follows his sister and Addy into the narrow room that serves as both the living room and Fatima’s and Jedda’s bedroom. A low wooden table is set with a chocolate cake and plates of homemade cookies. Aicha greets Addy with several ‘Marhaba’s as she pours a stream of fragrant mint tea into tiny gold-rimmed glasses.

      Fatima pats a place on the banquette next to her grandmother, Jedda, who grumbles and points to the opposite banquette with her cane. When Addy has settled sufficiently far enough away from Jedda, Fatima sits beside her and gives her a hug.

      ‘Stay with me, not with Omar,’ Fatima says to Addy in French. ‘You can be my sister.’

      Omar picks up a handful of cookies and turns to leave. ‘Now I’m really jealous.’

      Addy licks the sugary chocolate icing off her bottom lip, leans back against the flowered cushions and pats her stomach. ‘Shukran. Le gateau c’est très bon.’

      Aicha smiles widely. She points to the chocolate cake sitting on a blue-and-white Chinese plate in the centre of the low round table. ‘Eesh caaka.’

      Addy shakes her head. ‘Laa, shukran.’ Another piece of cake and she’d explode.

      The Polaroid presses against her thigh. Aicha and Jedda would surely recognise Hanane. Zitoune was a small village. The type of village where everyone knew everyone else’s business. She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out the Polaroid, wrapped in her father’s blue letter. Leaning over the table, she hands the photo to Aicha.

      ‘Baba Adi,’ she says, pointing to Gus. My father.

      Aicha squints at the photo, fine wrinkles fanning out from her deep-set amber eyes. Jedda taps Aicha’s arm impatiently with her stick. Aicha hands the old woman the Polaroid.

      ‘It’s my father in the picture,’ Addy says in French to Fatima. ‘He came to Zitoune many years ago. I’m trying to find the woman in the picture. I think she was from Zitoune. Can you ask your mother and your grandmother Jedda if they recognise her?’

      Fatima translates for Addy. Aicha takes the photo from Jedda and frowns at it before handing it to Fatima, her coin earrings dangling against her cheeks as she shakes her head.

      Fatima runs her fingers along the Polaroid’s frayed edges. ‘Your father is very handsome. You have the same nose and blue eyes.’

      ‘They don’t recognise her?’

      Fatima shakes her head as she hands the photo back to Addy. ‘No. My mum and grandmother are the medicine women of the village. They know everybody in the mountains here. If she was from Zitoune, they would know her.’

      Addy brushes cookie crumbs off the plastic tablecloth into her hand. She picks up her empty tea glass. Aicha nods and smiles, her coin earrings bobbing against her neck. Jedda sits on the banquette like a wizened oracle, eyeing Addy’s every move.

      Addy follows Fatima out into the courtyard and through a green door into a tiny windowless kitchen. The room is a random mix of wooden cupboards and tiles painted with seashells and sailboats. An enormous ceramic sink propped up on cement blocks takes up most of one wall. Across from it a four-ring hob sits on top of a low cupboard next to a battered black oven connected to a dented green gas canister. Utensils and ropes of drying tripe hang from a wire hooked across the room.

      ‘Ssshhh,’ Fatima hisses, flapping a tea towel at the rangy black-and-white cat who’s poking its head into a bread basket. The cat slinks out, a crust of bread in its mouth. ‘Moush,’ she says, pointing at the cat.

      Addy makes a circle around the room with her hand.

      Fatima smiles. ‘Cuisine. Comme français.’

      ‘En anglais, kitchen.’

      ‘Smicksmin.’ Fatima shakes her head. ‘Très difficile.’

      Omar pokes his head into the kitchen. ‘Come, Adi honey, we go.’

      ‘You missed some delicious chocolate cake.’

      He СКАЧАТЬ