The Saffron Gate (30 page)

^{His cheeks stained, but he quickly regained his composure, clearing his throat and straightening his already impeccable lapels. 'I apologise.' He glanced at Madame Buisson. 'I wasn't aware you spoke French.'}

^{I pushed back my tangled hair. 'I must go on. To North Africa,' I said. 'I must get to Tangier, as quickly as possible. When do you think it will be safe for me to travel again?'}

^{'Oh, mademoiselle,' he said. 'I really cannot recommend that you take on a journey just now. Do you have friends in Marseilles? Or perhaps elsewhere in France, with whom you can stay for a while? Until your body recovers.'}

^{I shook my head. 'No. I need to go,' I said, trying to make my voice firm, but it refused to cooperate. It was weak, my lips trembling.}

^{'If you're so insistent, I can only say that you should then find someone to accompany you. To . . . perhaps protect you, once you're there. I meant this, when I spoke earlier, in no disrespectful way. It will require physical stamina as well as the ability to adjust to new surroundings. Surroundings that may be offensive to a lady such as yourself, obviously one of a well-bred and delicate nature. And one who has just suffered such a loss.'}

^{My eyes burned, but I blinked rapidly. 'There's no reason I shouldn't recover quickly, is there?' I asked.}

^{'Mademoiselle. As I've said, you must rest and let your body grow stronger. How many months were you?'}

^{'Three,' I said.}

^{He smoothed his moustache with his thumb and index finger, then picked up his bag and opened it, looking through it and pulling out a thin green bottle and setting it on the chair beside the bed. 'Has the bleeding stopped?'}

^'Almost.'

^{'And the miscarriage was complete?'}

^{I didn't understand. 'I . . . I don't know.'}

^{'Do you think your body has rid itself of everything?'}

^{I swallowed. 'I think so.'}

^{'Do you feel you should go to the hospital? There is a small one nearby that caters to foreigners. I could arrange a car—'}

^{'I don't think that's necessary.'}

^{'All right. But if there are further symptoms, you must go to the hospital. Otherwise, stay in bed for the next few days, and don't exert yourself in any way. I'm leaving you something,' he gestured at the bottle, 'that helps in these situations. Take two spoonfuls morning, midday, and evening for the next two days. You will experience some cramping. If the miscarriage wasn't complete, this will help to dispel everything from the womb.'}

^{At those last words, the enormity of what had occurred came over me again with a pain so deep that I had to put my hand over my eyes. My body trembled, my teeth chattering the slightest. I knew I had to ask the question looming so huge in my head. I didn't know how I would deal with, the answer. I took my hand from my eyes and looked into the doctor's face.}

^{'Could it have been my fault?' I asked. 'Was it the travel, on the ship from America for the last week? Or . . . I've had a great deal of worry lately.' I let my breath out in a long, shaky exhalation. 'Perhaps I haven't eaten well enough. I've had trouble sleeping. Did I cause it? Is it my fault I lost my baby?'}

^{'Mademoiselle,' the doctor said, more kindly now. He came closer to the bed. 'Sometimes this is just the way of nature. We can never be sure.' He patted my hand. 'You mustn't blame yourself. Try to rest. Madame Buisson, have another blanket brought up for her, and some soup. You will have to regain your strength. And please, as I've said, if you have more pain, or other difficulties, you must go to the hospital. Do you promise you will do this, mademoiselle?'}

^{His unexpected gentleness with me was more than I could take. I covered my face with both hands, weeping, rocking back and forth, while the doctor and the concierge silently left the room.}

^{For the next few hours I tried to sleep, but was unable. The bowl of steaming soup set on the dresser by a stout, red-haired girl, who glanced at me and then quickly away, grew cold. I pulled the extra blanket over me and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.}

^{I put my hands on my belly again, then looked at the limp white curtain lightly dancing in the early afternoon breeze.}

^{I thought of what the child might have grown to be, and imagined him — or her — with gleaming dark hair, thick and straight, like Etienne's. With his same high, intelligent forehead, and slightly worried look between the brows. With my mother's full lips. If it had been a girl I would have called her Camille or Emmanuelle. A boy, Jean-Luc. I would have curled the small fingers around a paintbrush, I would have bought a kitten to love. We would have whispered bedtime prayers in French together.}

^{I watched the curtain, mesmerised by its lift and fall. I told myself that perhaps the doctor was right. Perhaps I should return to Juniper Road — return home, where I would be safe. Would I stay there for ever? I envisioned myself standing in front of my easel, stooped, my hair white. My hands, clutching the paintbrush, were spotted with age marks, my fingers either fleshless digits or puffy with retained water. And I was alone.}

^{That was all I could see: the child who no longer existed, and the bleakness of the rest of my days without Etienne. Without a child.}

^{I wiped my nightgown sleeve over my face and got up, slowly walking to the window, holding back the curtain so that I could look over the rooftops of Marseilles. The shouts of playing children still rang out, and somewhere the same dog still barked. I had begun this journey to find Etienne, and now — even though our baby was no more — I needed him more than I ever had.}

^{I stared at the rooftops, then lower, at the lines of drying clothes strung between the tall, narrow buildings. I knew that if I decided to go on to Marrakesh, there was no guarantee I'd find Etienne, or even his sister.}

^{And yet I could not turn back now. As the room darkened, I knew I could not return to my former life until I completed what I had started, no matter the final outcome.}

^SEVENTEEN

^{A
fter my first night in Marrakesh, where I slept restlessly in spite of the wide, soft bed smelling of rose petals, I dressed in a swift, distracted manner and went immediately to the front desk.}

^{I asked Monsieur Henri if Dr Etienne Duverger was — or had been — a guest at Hôtel de la Palmeraie. I realised I was twisting my fingers painfully, and when Monsieur Henri shook his head, I dropped my shoulders and unclasped my hands. 'You're certain?' I asked, and Monsieur Henri stared at me for a second
too long.}

^{'I assure you, mademoiselle, I have been here since the opening of the hotel over five years ago, and have an excellent memory.'}

^{I looked down at the thick registry book. 'It would have been in the last while. Could you please check? Maybe someone else was working the front desk when — if he checked in, or —'}

^{Monsieur Henri closed the large book with a slow, deliberate movement, just hard enough that a puff of warm air blew into my face. 'That is not necessary. I do know our clientele, as I have told you, Mademoiselle O'Shea: Some have actually lived here for the last few years, preferring the ease and luxury of the hotel to the complex bureaucracy of purchasing a home in the French Quarter.'}

^{I didn't respond.}

^{'The requirements for buying land or a house in Morocco are quite antiquated and ridiculous,' he added, and then, looking at me more closely, said, 'I do hope you are assured, mademoiselle, that Dr Etienne Duverger was never a guest here.'}

^{'Thank you,' I said quietly, turning to leave, then looked back at Monsieur Henri. 'What of a Manon Duverger?' I asked. 'I believe she lives in Marrakesh, surely here, in La Ville Novuelle. Do you know her?'}

^{Again he shook his head. 'I know of no Duvergers. But . . . '}

^{'Yes?' I said, perhaps a bit too eagerly, approaching the desk again.}

^{'Try the Bureau of Statistics on Rue Aries. They have a list of homeowners in Marrakesh.' He pulled a small folded pamphlet from under the high desk. I wasn't sure why he was suddenly being more helpful. 'Here is a map of the French Quarter; it will help you find your way about.'}

^{'Thank you, Monsieur Henri,' I said. 'I appreciate your assistance.'}

^{He gave a tiny, imperious nod, and busied himself refilling his fountain pen.}

^{On the way out, I noticed a series of watercolours on one wall of the lobby. I was anxious to start my search, but glanced at them as I passed. They were by various French artists, none of whom I recognised. But some had managed to capture a particular essence of light in the renditions of what appeared to be the daily nuances of life in Morocco.}

^{There were a number of paintings of the Berber people, in their villages of clay and in their nomadic tents.}

^{I thought of the Blue Man on the
piste.}

^{I walked along the street so quickly that in moments my leg ached, and I had to slow down. But the sense of urgency was intense, and it was difficult for me to remain calm and walk with my usual gait.}

^{My mind was racing, yet I still noticed what was around me. All the store fronts and street signs were written in French, occasionally with smaller Arabic print underneath. Most of the non-Arabs on the streets were the French who lived and worked in La Ville Nouvelle. The men, dressed in suits and hats, carried cases under their arms, and hurried along purposefully. French women, strolling arm in arm, some with shopping bags, were in pretty summer dresses and high-heeled shoes, complete with hats and gloves. It took me only a few moments to notice that when an occasional Moroccan man passed one of the French men or women, he stopped momentarily and saluted.}

^{More than once, a Moroccan man looked into my face as if unsure, and then passed by.}

^{There were no Arab women on the streets of the French Quarter; I hadn't seen one since I'd arrived in Marrakesh.}

^{I easily found Rue Aries and waited while a clerk looked up the Duverger name. 'Yes,' he said, and I leaned closer. 'The Duvergers owned a home on Rue des Chevaux. But . . .' He hesitated, squinting as he followed a line with his finger. 'No,' he said. 'It was sold some years ago. Now it is owned by a family named Mauchamp.' He looked up at me. 'That's all I have here. Now there is no indication, of any Duvergers owning a home in the French Quarter.'}

^{I thanked him and went out into the street. Now what were my options? I couldn't have reached a dead end so quickly. Somebody must know of Etienne Duverger. He had lived here; his parents had died and were buried here, as was his younger brother Guillaume. And somebody must know of Manon Duverger.}

^{I studied the small map Monsieur Henri had given me as I wandered through winding streets, noticing, as I walked deeper through the French Quarter, the red ramparts that surrounded the medina. They were solid, unbroken walls, apart from strange round holes along the top, and although I heard shouts and calls from the other side, I didn't know how one entered the old city.}

^{Towering over all the other buildings was a huge red mosque. It was four-square and untapering, with a triple tier of openings. I went towards it as though it were a beacon; surely something of this dominance played an important role in this rather flat city. But before I reached it, I came upon a set of wide-open gates with high portals over them. The portals were decorated with Arabic script.}