The Saffron Gate (43 page)

^{I thought of returning to the bed, wrapping myself in the coverlet, alone with my thoughts..}

^{'Wait,' I said, as Badou let go of the doughnuts, and they both turned. 'No, no. Of course, you must come in and eat with me.' At that moment a boy appeared behind them with a carafe of orange juice and a glass on a silver tray. He looked at Aszulay for a moment too long.}

^{'You may put the juice on the table, and fetch two more glasses, for my guests,' I told him.}

^{He nodded, putting down the tray and leaving.}

^{'Come in,' I said to Aszulay and Badou, 'come in, and sit.' I picked up the tagine and set it on the table beside the juice. Through the open window came the faint, insistent bray of a donkey. Aszulay and I sat on the two chairs, Badou on Aszulay’s lap.}

^{I took the lid from the tagine. Steam and the fragrant aroma rose into the air. 'Please, eat. I . . . I don't know if I can,' I said, and Aszulay and Badou put their fingers into the dish and ate.}

^{I simply sat there, knowing that if I put food in my mouth it would not stay down. Once again, to me the silence, as Aszulay and Badou ate, was uncomfortable, but they didn't seem aware of it.}

^{The boy returned and set down two more glasses. He again glanced at Aszulay, and Aszulay nodded at him. The boy lowered his head in a respectful manner.}

^{When at last Badou had had his fill of couscous and lamb and apricots, he ate two of the small
beignets.
As he reached for a third, Aszulay took the boy's hand in his. 'That's enough, Badou,' he said. 'Your stomach will hurt. Remember the last time.'}

^{Badou obediently nodded, but his eyes were still on the remaining
beignets.}

^{'I have only a few hours — simple work — at the gardens today. I will take Badou with me,' Aszulay said.}

^{I nodded, distractedly.}

^{'Perhaps you would like to join us.'}

^{'No,' I answered immediately. I couldn't imagine going out into the noisy street, fighting my way through the cars and horses and donkeys and crowds of people. Did Aszulay not realise what I was going through?}

^{'Monsieur Majorelle has brought in some new birds. I thought you might be interested in seeing them.' He was speaking to me as if I were Badou, cajoling me as he would a child, and this annoyed me. I remembered how he'd spoken to Manon like this, calming her.}

^{'I said no, Aszulay. I don't . . . I . . .' Tears came to my eyes, and I turned my head so that he wouldn't see them.}

^{'It's a difficult time. I understand,' he said, standing. 'I'm sorry you have come all this way only to be disappointed. Come, Badou.' He held out his hand to the child.}

^{'His death is far more than a disappointment,' I said, quietly.}

^{At this Aszulay turned his head sharply. 'His death?' he repeated.}

^{I looked up at him, and something in his expression made me catch my breath. 'Yes,' I said, still staring at him.}

^{'But . . . Mademoiselle O'Shea,' he said. 'Etienne . . . he's not dead. Why do you say this?'}

^{I couldn't breathe, couldn't look at him. I fixed my gaze on the tagine, the orange juice, the glasses. They pulsed as if beating with life. 'But . . .' I covered my mouth with my hand, then took it away and looked back at Aszulay.' Manon . . . she said . . .' I stopped. 'She said Etienne was dead. Buried, in the cemetery. She told me he was dead,' I repeated.}

^{In the silence, Aszulay and I stared at each other.}

^{'It's not true?' I finally whispered, and when Aszulay shook his head, a sound burst from me, a sound unlike anything I'd ever made. I had to cover my mouth again, this time with both hands, to stop it.}

^{'She really told you this?' Aszulay said. His lips straightened, but he said nothing more.}

^{'Tell me the truth, Aszulay. Just tell me what's happened to Etienne. If he's not dead, where is he?'}

^{Aszulay didn't speak for a long moment. 'It's not my business,' he finally said. 'It's between you and Etienne, you and Manon. Between Manon and Etienne. It's not my business,' he repeated. 'But for Manon to . . .' He didn't finish the sentence.}

^{I reached across the table and put my hand on his forearm. It was hard and warm under his blue sleeve. 'But why? Why would Manon do this to me, lie like this? Why does she hate me enough to drive me away from Marrakesh in such a terrible way? I haven't done anything to her. Why does she not want me to be with Etienne? Why would she go to this length — to announce him dead? Why is she so full of hatred towards me?' I was repeating myself, speaking too quickly. It was too confusing, too unbelievable.}

^{Aszulay looked at Badou then, and I looked as well. The little boy's face was watchful, his eyes intelligent. Full of life. But also too full of something else. He had seen and heard far too much, I knew. Not just today, but all his short life.}

^{'She has deep unhappiness within her,' Aszulay said. 'The reasons are hers alone. I don't know why she told you this.'}

^{'And what is the truth, then? Where is Etienne? You can see she won't tell me. I understand . . . we are in similar positions, aren't we?'
I am — was, am, I no longer know — Etienne's lover; you are Manon's lover.}

^{'Positions? I don't know what you mean. But Etienne was here, in Marrakesh. He stayed with Manon for perhaps two weeks. Then he left. Left Manon, and left Marrakesh.'}

^{'Did he go back to America?' Could I have passed him, missed him as he journeyed one way and I the other? Was he looking for me in Albany? This was the stuff of Shakespearean drama, of Greek tragedy.}

^{'No. He said he would remain in Morocco, now that . . .' He stopped, looking at Badou again.}

^{'Is that all? Can you tell me nothing more?'}

^{'Perhaps we can speak of this another time.'}

^'When?'

^{'Another time,’he repeated. He took Badou's hand and left.}

^{The rest of the day passed in a strange twilight. I alternately lay on the bed or sat at the table, looking out the window. I wanted to rush back to Manon's house, to confront her, to demand that she tell me the truth. And yet I was filled with an odd exhaustion, an inability to move more than a few steps. I was confused by my feelings. Only a few days ago, upon meeting Manon, I had been filled with hope at finding Etienne. Then Manon had told me he was dead, and I keened and despaired. And now . . . according to what Aszulay had told me — and of course I believed him over Manon — Etienne wasn't dead, but alive, somewhere in Morocco . . .}

^{I was no closer to finding him, no closer to understanding why he had done what he'd done — abandon me, without telling me why. But something had shifted. Something very small. I had grieved for Etienne, convinced he was dead. Something in me had gone cold. Was missing. And finding out he was still alive hadn't brought it back.}

^{I thought of all of this, trying to understand. I put shreds of cold lamb into my mouth, licking the grease from my fingers. I drank the rest of the orange juice. I bathed my knees, inspecting the abrasions and bruises.}

^{And then it was dark, and again I took off my clothes and once more lay naked on the soft bed, the night air hot on my body.}

^{In the morning, flies were crusted on the remains of the tagine. I drew a bath and pinned up my hair. I put on a clean dress and threw out the remains of the food, then went out into the street and hailed a taxi to take me to the gates of the medina.}

^{It was time to confront Manon. Although I never wanted to see her again, I would not let, it end like this.}

^{I would not let her think she had driven me away. And I would stay until I made her tell me where I could find Etienne.}

^{TWENTY FOUR}

^{W
hen I arrived at Manon's just after nine o'clock, Badou was in the courtyard, playing with a yellow pup with white paws and one ragged ear.}

^{'Bonjour
, Badou,' I said, after Falida let me in and went back to listlessly sweeping the courtyard with a short-handled broom made of dried brush. 'Where is your mother?' I asked him.}

^{'She's sleeping,' he said, cradling the little dog against his chest. It gnawed, lightly, on his knuckle, and he smiled down at it, then up at me. 'Look at my dog.'}

^{I sat down on the wide edge of the fountain. 'Is he yours, really?' I asked, and Badou shook his head.}

^{'Non'
he admitted, sadly. 'He belongs to Ali, across the lane. Sometimes Ali lets me play with him. But I would like him to be mine. I want a dog.'}

^{I thought of Cinnabar, and the comfort she had brought me, even though I had been ten years older than Badou when she came into my life.' I know,' I said. 'Maybe one day your
maman
will get you a dog.'}

^{But Badou shook his head again. He put down the dog and came to stand in front of me. 'Maman said no. She said a dog is trouble. She said I can never have one, and not to ask any more.' He spoke without the expected childlike disappointment, but again, with a mature stoicism that touched me.}

^{'But it's good that you can play with this little dog,' I said.}

^{The dog danced around him, jumping up to pull on Badou's sleeve. 'Sidonie, I do not like your
dar
,’ he said, ignoring the dog.}

^{'You don't like my house?' I said. Basic Arabic words were becoming familiar to me now.}

^{'Yes. I do not like it,' he repeated. 'It's too big, with too many people. And they do not love you,' he added, gravely.}

^{'Love me? Who, Badou?' I asked, confused by his statements, his morose expression.}

^{'Your family. All the people in your big house,' he insisted, and then I understood. 'They do not love you,' he said, again.}

^{'Oh, Badou, that's not my house. It's a hotel,' I said, realising, as I spoke, that he didn't understand the word. 'A . . . yes, a big house. But not my house. I'm only staying there for a short while. And the people aren't my family.'}

^{'Who are they?'}

^{I shrugged. 'I don't know them. Strangers.'}

^{'You live with strangers?' His eyes grew even wider. 'But Sidonie, how can you live without your family? Aren't you lonely?'}

^{I looked at him. When I didn't respond — because I wasn't sure what to say — he went on.}

^{'But . . . where are they? Where is your mother, and your father? Where are your children?' Badou already understood the Moroccan importance of family. In spite of the coldness of his mother, he spoke of love.}