The Saffron Gate (9 page)

^{My leg ached; I looked for a place to sit down, but there was only the narrow edge of the roof. I understood the boy's earlier cautioning; one small misstep would be disaster. Had someone else, perhaps someone like those in Elizabeth Pandy's group, come up here after too many glasses of alcohol, and tumbled to certain death?}

^{I closed my eyes and opened them, each time letting the small thrill run through me. I thought of Pine Bush, the barrens a few miles from my home, or the nearby lake, or simply the countryside in Albany County. I had spent so much time in those places, walking and sketching the flora and the wildlife. I thought of my own botanical watercolours, the muted greens of the shade-loving ferns and mosses, the delicate lavender of the speedwell, the shy, nodding pink of the moccasin flower, the modest jack-in-the-pulpit. But here! I knew my box of paints, stored away on the bedroom shelf of my small house across the ocean, could never create such colours.}

^{When the ache in my leg abated I walked, slowly, to the far end of the roof and peered down into a shadowy labyrinth of streets, surely the medina, the oldest part of the city. There the crowds milled in a kind of frenzy; there were calls and shouts and the braying of donkeys and barking of dogs and the occasional roar of a camel.}

^{And then came a sound I hadn't before heard; a high and yet carrying voice, coming from somewhere behind me. I turned to see the spire of a minaret, and knew it was a muezzin, calling the Muslim believers to prayer. Suddenly another voice joined in, and then another, as voices from the various minarets throughout Tangier called out. I stood on that roof, surrounded by the sonorous, rhythmic phrase that to me sounded like
Allah Akbar,
watching the scarlet-stained mountains.}

^{Was Etienne hearing these same sounds? Was he looking at the sky, at mountains, at the sea? Was he thinking of me, at this lonely hour, as I was of him?}

^{I had to close my eyes.}

^{When the echo of voices ended there was a sudden quiet, and I opened my eyes and drank in the sense that the foreign prayers had somehow reached inside me. Without thinking I crossed myself in the old, reflexive habit.}

^{And then I made my way down the narrow, malodorous stairs. I was impossibly hungry. I went back to the lobby, passing the doorway of the lounge.}

^{From the laughter and boisterous voices it was obvious Elizabeth and her friends were still there. The lounge appeared dark and blurred, formless and colourless after the brilliant beauty I had just witnessed. Like the prayer, I felt that the colour I had seen had touched me, and that as I passed the doorway surely Elizabeth and Marcus and the others would stop their drinking and gossip, and instantly grow quiet, staring at me in wonder. In that short time on the roof I felt as though I had become part of the mosaic of Tangier, a fragment of sound and colour.}

^{But as I walked past the lounge nobody turned, nobody noticed.}

^{Out on the spacious terrace — empty but for me — with its gently swaying potted palms and wooden furniture and views of the harbour, I ordered a pot of mint tea and a
pastilla,
which the server explained was a kind of bird — I couldn't understand if he was saying partridge or pigeon — mixed with rice and chopped egg in layers of the thinnest pastry.}

^{While I waited, I laid my head against the tall back of the chair, listening to the far-off, muted babble of unknown languages, to the nearby cooing of a dove, to the even softer rustle of the palm fronds in the warm early evening breeze. It was lovely, Tangier, although, as I knew from both my reading and the boisterous Elizabeth Pandy, also dangerous and uncontrolled, a free port, ungoverned by any country. I was weary, and overcome with a listlessness that was not unpleasant. But I would not — could not — stop and rest in Tangier. I sat up, shaking off the languor that had set in. Tomorrow I would set out to find a driver to take me to Rabat, as the American on the ferry had instructed.}

^{When the tray was set before me, the server lifted the small brass teapot. He poured the tea in a thick amber stream, holding the pot high over the small painted glass in a silver holder. I expected the tea to splash out of the glass from that height, but he filled it with the foaming liquid without spilling a drop. He then dumped the tea back into the pot, poured it again, and repeated the process a third time. Finally he set down the teapot, picking up the glass with both hands, and extending it to me with a slight bow.}

^{'Très chaud, madame,' he said. 'Wait, please, for it to cool.'}

^{I nodded, holding the glass by the silver holder, and lifted it to my nose. The odour of mint was almost overwhelming. I took a small sip, and it was intensely sweet, and like no tea I had ever tasted, but it was delicious.}

^{I thought of home, on the outskirts of Albany. Of my garden and the silence of this time of evening. If I didn't venture through the gate on to Juniper Road, days might go by when I saw no one, spoke to no one. I thought of the long, dark winter nights.}

^{It all seemed so far away. It was far away, geographically, of course. But it wasn't just the distance. It was what had happened to me since those days, those endless, quiet days when I thought my life would always continue in that way. When my life consisted of small, certain pieces of a larger, but basically simple, puzzle.}

^{When I was certain that I always knew where each piece fitted.}

^FIVE

^{I
t was two years earlier — 1928 — when my father received a letter from a lawyer.}

^{'Read it for me, darlin',' he'd said, anxiety on his face. 'I can't think what I've done wrong.'}

^{'It doesn't mean anything's wrong, Dad,' I told "him, opening the letter and scanning it.}

^{'Go on, then. What does it say?' ' I looked at him. 'Dad. Mr Harding has passed away.'}

^{'Well,' my father said, sitting at the kitchen table. 'Poor auld soul. I knew he'd been ill some time.'}

^{Mr Harding had been my father's last employer, the one who had been so kind when he had to terminate my father after fourteen years.}

^{'And why would a lawyer be writing to me about it?' he asked.}

^{I licked my lips, trying not to rush. I was sorry, of course, that Mr Harding had died, but he'd been ninety-two.}

^{'You remember his car,' I stated.}

^{'Which one, now? For he had quite a fleet of them,' my father said.}

^{'Dad. The one you loved to drive the most. You always talked about it.'}

^{He lifted his chin, smiling now. 'Ah. Yes, that would be the lovely Silver Ghost, wouldn't it? Such a thing of beauty. Driving it was like floating on a cloud.'}

^{I well knew about the 1921 Rolls-Royce, with its British right-hand drive, its leather retractable roof, its drum headlamps and tubular bumpers.}

^{'A long, sleek white body with oxblood trim,' my father went on now, smiling unconsciously. He picked up his pipe and tapped it on the ashtray; a clump of dottle fell from the bowl. 'I did love to drive that grand thing,' he said.}

^{'Dad?' I stood, unable to keep my own smile from my face any longer. 'Mr Harding has left it to you. It's in his will, Dad. The car is yours.' My voice had risen with excitement.}

^{But my father grew very still as I spoke. I waited for something — an exclamation, a burst of laughter, something — but he didn't move.}

^{'Aren't you happy about it, Dad? You just said—'}

^{He nodded. 'I know, my girl. I know what I said.'}

^{'So why aren't you —'}

^{Again he interrupted me. 'It's too late, Sidonie. The time for me to own a car like that is gone. You know I can't trust my own eyes.'}

^{'You could still drive it in the day, when the light is bright,' I argued.}

^{He looked at me. 'No. No, Sidonie. Even with the spectacles, I know I can't see well enough.'}

^{I sat down, running my fingers over the embossed letterhead. 'But it's yours,' I said.}

^{'What would I do with it?'}

^{I sat straighter. 'I could drive it, Dad. You could teach me, and I could drive it for you. Wherever you want to go.' I was speaking quickly; thrilling myself at the idea. 'Just think, Dad. We could go wherever we wanted.'}

^{There was silence.}

^{'Dad? I could drive it,' I repeated.}

^{'No, Sidonie,' he said, filling his pipe.}

^{'What do you mean, no?' I watched as he tamped the tobacco into the round bowl with his thumb. 'Of course I can learn to drive. It can't be that difficult.'}

^{'It takes coordination, hands and feet. Feet, Sidonie. You have to be able to use the pedals — the gas and brake and clutch. You'd have to be able to bend your knees freely. I don't think . . .' He glanced at my built-up shoe.}

^{My mouth twisted. 'I can learn,' I said, loudly. 'I want to. I want that car.'}

^{My father, looked surprised. 'Well. It's a rare day I hear that tone from you.'}

^{I knew my voice was loud. But it excited me — the thought of driving. I realised nothing had challenged me for so long. In fact I couldn't remember the last time I had learned something new. Had felt proud of any accomplishment.}

^{I lowered my chin and tried to modulate my voice. 'It's just that . . . it's been given to you, Dad. If you don't want it, I'll have it.'}

^{He shook his head. 'As I said, you couldn't—'}

^{'I could. And I will. You'll see,' I said. I thought, suddenly, of my mother, and how I hadn't told her how much I appreciated all she'd done for me until she lay dying. 'And Dad?'}

^{He was busy with his pipe again, but stopped and looked at me.}

^{'Can't you let me do this for you? Drive you where you want to go? See you enjoy being out in a beautiful car? You spent most of your life driving other people. You've spent all your life doing things for me. Now I can drive you. Let me drive you, Dad,' I said. 'Please. Let me do something for
you.'}

^{He didn't answer, but his expression changed, softened, and I knew then that the Silver Ghost would be mine.}

^{Once the car was delivered to our yard, my father did teach me to drive it, and I took pride in the fact that he was obviously surprised at how quickly I mastered it. It was true, as he'd said, that I had a certain difficulty because I didn't have a lot of strength in my right leg, and the knee didn't bend freely. But even though he saw that I could manage, my father still worried, knowing my foot's reflex was poor.}

^{Immediately I discovered that I loved driving the Silver Ghost, and from the first time I took it out on my own. I felt a sense of power I had never before experienced. Behind the steering wheel I forgot my heavy limp; with the top down and my hair whipped loose, I achieved the almost forgotten pleasure of moving quickly. Perhaps it reminded me a bit of running.}