скачать книгу бесплатно
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.’
‘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.’
