The Lost Letter from Morocco. Adrienne Chinn
even seen a lady on a motorcycle not three weeks ago! But since her twenty-third birthday in June, all her father and her brother, Mohammed, could talk about was her marriage.
‘I’ll never marry Mehdi. Mohammed only says it because his stupid wife, Bouchra, wants her brother here.’
‘Oh, c’mon, Hanane,’ seven-year-old Yassine Lahcen protests. ‘We want to go to dance at a wedding.’ Yassine pokes his brother on the arm. ‘Look, Driss.’ He waggles his shoulders and wiggles his hips like he’d seen the women do at Mohammed’s wedding in the summer.
Driss shoves his brother’s shoulder. ‘What are you, a girl? Stop it. Don’t be stupid.’
‘What’s wrong with being a girl, Driss?’ Hanane calls down from the tree. ‘You wouldn’t be here without your mother. You must be respectful.’
An oily black olive smacks Driss on his forehead. He peers up into the branches just as Omar launches another one at him, hitting him square on the nose.
Omar bursts into giggles. ‘It’s raining. It’s pouring. Driss Lahcen is snoring.’
A deep chuckle wafts over from the river path. A tall, black-haired European man in beige trousers and a navy jumper rolled under his chin stands on the compacted earth, holding an odd black object.
‘May I take a picture?’ he asks in accented French.
‘Hey, mister,’ Omar shouts from his perch. ‘What’s that thing?’
‘It’s a camera. But it’s a special camera. It can make the pictures here, right in front of your eyes.’
‘Serious?’
‘Definitely serious.’
‘Let him take our picture, Hanane,’ Omar shouts down through the branches. ‘I want to see it come out of the magic box.’
Hanane sweeps her eyes over the tall man. He’s much older than her brother, Mohammed, but there’s still a youthfulness about him, despite the lines that sweep out from his eyes when he smiles. His skin is very white and even from this distance, his eyes reflect the sharp blue of the November sky. His short, straight black hair shines blue where it’s caught by sunlight. He carries himself with assurance, she thinks, like a man who’s comfortable with his place in the world. What can he think of her, up here in the tree with a boy? What would her father think if he saw her talking to a foreigner?
‘I don’t think so, Omar. It’s not proper.’
Omar breaks into a wide smile. ‘She says it’s fine, mister.’
‘Omar!’ Hanane hisses. ‘You’re a bad boy.’
‘For sure, I’m a bad boy. Even Jedda says it and she loves me a lot.’
‘I don’t believe that at all. Your grandmother thinks you’re the prince of Zitoune.’
‘Wait there,’ the man shouts up to them. ‘I’ll take a picture of you two first, just as you are.’
Hanane bites her lip. Omar kicks her shoulder with his foot.
‘Your brother stinks of cumin.’
She giggles despite herself.
‘Perfect.’
The man presses a button. A whirring sound and a square of shiny grey-and-white card slides out of the camera’s mouth. The boys cluster around as the man waves it in the air.
Momo wrinkles his nose. ‘It’s smelly.’
Yassine pinches his nose with his fingers. ‘Like donkey piss.’
Driss squints at the grey paper. ‘Nothing’s happening.’
The man laughs. ‘You won’t see it until I peel back this piece of paper. We have to count one minute. Then you’ll see a picture appear’ – he waves his hands like a magician – ‘like magic.’
Omar scampers down the tree. ‘C’mon, Hanane. Come see the magic picture.’
Hanane peers through the leaves at the cluster of black heads huddled over the shiny square of card. She’d have to swear the boys to secrecy. Her honey cookies should do the trick.
‘Who wants to peel back the plastic to see the picture?’
Omar shoots his arm into the air. ‘Me! Me, mister!’
The man laughs and hands over the card. ‘There,’ he says, indicating a loose corner of the grey plastic film. ‘Pull there.’
The boys huddle closer as Omar peels back the film.
‘It’s there!’ Momo shouts. ‘It’s you and Omar in the tree. Hanane, come see.’
Hanane grabs a branch and shimmies down through the leaves. The man takes the photograph from Omar and holds it in front of Hanane. She’s there, laughing in the tree with Omar, in black-and-white. Like magic.
‘Take it. Please. So you’ll always remember your day up in that olive tree.’
Hanane shakes her head. ‘You are kind, but I couldn’t.’
Bouchra would be sure to find it, no matter how well she hid it. Only yesterday, Hanane had found her rifling through her scarves. Luckily, she’d hidden her poems in Jedda’s potion shed. If her lazy sister-in-law found the poems or a photo like this, Bouchra would frighten the devil Shaytan Iblis with her curses. Because, of course, Bouchra would betray her secrets, now that she considered herself the mistress of the Demsiri household. Bouchra would do anything to topple Hanane from her place as favourite.
‘Well, then, I’ll keep it. As a memento of a happy day.’ The man tucks the glossy photograph in his back pocket and turns to the boys. ‘Now, how about a picture of all of you boys there by the river?’
Hanane watches the boys jostle for the best place, which is taken, naturally, by Omar.
‘I’m Gus Percival,’ he says to her as he squints into the viewfinder. ‘I’m a geologist. I’m staying in Zitoune for a few months doing some research in the area.’ He waves at the boys to squeeze more closely together. ‘Say cheese.’
Hanane watches the shiny square of paper spew out of the camera’s mouth. The man waves it in the air to dry, out of reach of the excited boys.
‘Can I ask your name?’
Hanane hesitates. Why would he want to know her name? He had no place in her world, nor she in his. But why, then, did she suddenly feel like the earth had tilted and everything she’d known, everything she’d dreamed, had shifted to an unknowable place?
Omar jumps up and grabs the photograph from Gus’s hand. He peels back the grey film as the others fight to see. ‘Hanane! Come see!’
‘Hanane,’ Gus repeats. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
Marrakech, Morocco – March 2009
The reedy whine of the snake charmers’ flutes flutters through the baseline of African drums and the water sellers’ bells as Addy weaves through the crowds in Jemaa el Fna Square. Women with veiled faces sit on stools, bowls of green mud and syringes balanced on their laps. They grab at Addy as she walks past and point to photo albums showing hands and feet covered in intricate henna patterns. A band of boy acrobats in ragged red trousers jumps and tumbles in the square. Addy snaps a string of photos as they leap from one tableau to another. A small boy grins a gap-toothed smile and thrusts a dirty wool cap at her. She digs into her pocket and grabs a handful of change, tossing it into the cap.
‘Shukran,’ the boy shouts, then he turns and runs along the line of tourists jangling the coins in his cap.
Addy