The Lost Letter

‘Looks like I’ve got a spy. Omar, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Everybody knows me here.’

Omar lopes over to Gus, his Real Madrid football shirt loose on his slender body. His toes poke out from the torn canvas of his running shoes under the rolled-up cuffs of his jeans.

‘That’s not how you cut vegetables for tagine. They will never cook like that.’

‘A spy and a professional chef. You’re a very talented boy.’

Omar sticks out his hand. ‘Give me the knife.’

The corners of the man’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. He hands Omar the pocket knife.

‘So, Mister Boss. Show me how it’s done.’

Omar picks a potato out of the sack and squats next to the pot of water. After scraping off the skin, he cuts the potato into four long white slices.

‘Like this,’ he says. ‘Like fat fingers. Then the heat will cook them well.’

He pulls out a long carrot and rasps the blade against the skin, the dirty orange shreds spiralling onto the ground. He chops off the leafy top and the tip, then slices the carrot into two vertically. Then he scoops out the green core and cuts the carrot into thin strips.

‘Like that.’ He drops the slivers into the pot. ‘Very good.’

Gus holds out his palm. ‘Let me try.’

Omar hands back the knife. ‘Mashi mushkil.’

‘No problem. That bit of Darija I’ve learned.’

Omar rests his elbows on his thighs as he watches Gus scrape the skin off a carrot.

‘You sound different than the French tourists from Marrakech.’

‘I’m Irish, but I live in a very faraway place called Canada. A very beautiful place by the sea. But really I’m a nomad. I travel the world to search for oil in rocks. That’s why I’m here. There were a lot of dinosaurs in Morocco. Wherever there were dinosaurs, there’s usually oil.’

‘I know where there are some footprints of dinosaurs. Not so far from here.’

‘Really? Will you show me?’

Omar shrugs. ‘For fifty dirhams.’

‘Twenty dirhams.’

Omar’s eyebrows shoot up: twenty dirhams? He would’ve shown the man for free. He screws up his small angular face.

‘Thirty dirhams.’

Gus raises an eyebrow and holds out his right hand. ‘Highway robbery – thirty dirhams. Deal.’

Omar puts his small brown hand into the man’s large, square-fingered hand and they shake.

‘It might be that you will need a guide here, Mister Gus. I know all the good places to visit around Zitoune. I know a place of dinosaur feet and a cave with many old drawings. We can make a good negotiation.’

‘You’ll make me a poor man, for sure, Omar. What about if I teach you English so you can talk to any English tourists who visit the waterfalls, not just the French? You can corner the tourist market. No one here speaks English.’

Omar squints at the glowing coals as he mulls over the offer. Dirhams now would be good. But then once the man leaves, the money stops. But, if he learns English, even when Gus leaves, he can still earn money. Lots of money. Omar holds out his hand.

‘Deal.’

Chapter Seven

Zitoune, Morocco – March 2009

A flat-roofed house of orange sandstone rocks sits on a hill thick with cacti. Blue shutters frame the square windows and a basement level hugs the hillside, jutting out to provide the base for a veranda shaded with a twisted grapevine. An olive tree with a gnarled trunk as thick as Addy’s waist leans over the house. A donkey is tethered in its shade. Scrawny black chickens scratch around the donkey’s hooves.

Omar sets down Addy’s luggage on the gravel path. ‘You like it?’

‘It’s perfect.’

‘It’s okay. It’s a bit small. I’m making a big house.’

Addy shades her eyes from the stabbing rays of the late afternoon sun with her hand. ‘For your family?’

‘One day, inshallah. Or maybe it will be a guest house for tourists. I must to be rich one day.’

Addy shifts her camera bag to her left shoulder. ‘Let’s wait on the veranda for Mohammed.’

On the veranda, she sets down her camera bag on a long wooden table and leans on the stone railing. Below the house the river winds its way towards the waterfalls through budding oleander bushes and shivering ash trees. Across the river the sandstone cliffs of the Middle Atlas Mountains ripple around the valley, while in the distance the snowy peaks of the High Atlas Mountains stand resolute against the fading blue of the sky. Addy sighs.

Omar leans against the railing. ‘You don’t like it?’

‘No, I love it. This is just what the doctor ordered.’

‘Your doctor told you to come here?’

Addy laughs. ‘It’s just an expression. It means it’s perfect.’

‘Just what the doctor ordered. I like it.’ Omar nods his head towards the blue door. ‘Why do we wait to go inside?’

‘I texted Mr Demsiri to tell him I’ve arrived. He needs to bring me the key.’

Omar strolls over to a flowerpot spilling with red geraniums. He tilts the pot over and holds up a key.

‘You knew where the key was?’

‘Everybody knows. Mashi mushkil. Don’t worry. It’s very safe in Zitoune. You don’t need to lock the door. Nobody will bother you.’ The dimple in his cheek. ‘Except me.’

‘Omar …’

A crunch of footsteps on gravel.

‘Allô, madame! You find the house okay?’

A tall, bald middle-aged man climbs up the path, his brown djellaba straining at his sturdy belly. An impressive hooked nose lends him the regal appearance of a Roman emperor.

Omar gestures to the older man. ‘Adi, honey, this is Mohammed Demsiri. He owns many places in Zitoune. He’s a rich man.’

Addy raises an eyebrow at Omar. Honey? She extends her hand to the older man. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. The house looks lovely. It’s such a beautiful setting.’

Mohammed smiles, two bright gold teeth where his canines should be. Ignoring Addy’s extended hand, he pats his broad chest and nods. A thick silver watch encircles his wrist and several chunky silver rings decorate his fingers.

‘It’s a pleasure for me to welcome you to Morocco, madame. I remember you well.’

‘You remember me?’

Mohammed slaps Omar on the back. ‘I was at the restaurant today when you ate the lunch with Omar. He came into the restaurant to tell me he met a beautiful lady with hair like fire. I looked outside and I saw you. I told Omar he choosed well, Adi, honey.’

Omar chokes. ‘Laa. Her name is Adi. It’s only me who calls her honey. It’s like habibati.’

Mohammed’s face freezes into a look of horror. ‘I’m so, so sorry, madame. Please excuse me.’

‘Don’t worry. Mashy mushkey. Just call me Addy.’

Mohammed gestures towards the bright blue wooden door studded with large black nail heads. ‘Please to come into the house. You will like it very much. It’s the most beautiful guest house in Zitoune.’

‘Until I build my guest house.’

Mohammed chuckles. ‘You can see already Omar will be a rich man one day, inshallah. He’s a hard worker. I must be careful. He will make me to look like a poor man.’

‘You’ll never be a poor man, Mohammed. Amine is a lucky boy.’

Omar picks up Addy’s suitcase and slings the black nylon tripod bag and the brown leather overnight bag over his shoulder. The wine bottles clink and Addy winces.

‘Who’s Amine?’

‘It’s my nephew.’ Mohammed opens the blue door, waving them to enter. ‘He work in my restaurant. He serve you the lunch today.’

‘Oh, yes. He seemed very nice, although Omar ran him off his feet.’

Mohammed furrows his forehead and asks Omar something in Tamazight. Omar shrugs.

‘Excuse me, madame. Amine still have his feet.’

Addy laughs as she swings the camera bag over her shoulder. ‘I mean Omar kept him busy. Ran him off his feet is just an expression.’

Mohammed nods. ‘I run Amine off his feet every day. It’s good to learn English well.’

Addy stands on the veranda and waves at the two men as they trek down the gravel path towards the village. Golden light from the waning sun falls across the sides of the mountains. Somewhere in the village a dog barks. A clatter of metal against metal. Sharp feedback from a microphone slices through the stillness. ‘Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.’ The amplified voice of the village’s muezzin echoes around the valley as he recites the call to prayer: God is great. Addy listens until the last words dissipate on the cooling air.

The night is drawing in fast. The sun has turned fat and orange, and streaks of red splay across the darkening sky. She wanders back into the house. The large whitewashed living room is furnished with low, round wooden tables. Banquettes strewn with colourful striped cushions line two of the walls and pierced tin lanterns hang from the beamed ceiling. A thick white wool rug marked with crossed black diamonds covers the polished grey concrete floor.

She enters the larger of the two cool white bedrooms. The solid wooden bed is draped in a blue-and-green striped bedcover and a filmy white mosquito net bunches on the floor around the bed. Addy opens her overnight bag and pulls out a plastic duty-free bag. She unwraps the two bottles of white wine. Good French Chablis. Luckily screw top.

In a kitchen cupboard Addy finds a water glass and pours out a generous serving. She kicks off her sandals and crosses the cool concrete leading out to the veranda. She feels like a butterfly shrugging off its chrysalis. Free of London. Free of Philippa. Free of Nigel. Free of cancer. The scar on her left breast throbs and she touches the coin-sized divot in her flesh.

She leans against a stone pillar and gazes out over the branches of the olive trees towards the mountains. What’s she going to do about Omar? She’d be an idiot to get involved with him. She was probably just one of a slew of women he’s charmed over the years. Yes, it would be diverting. Fun. But she had too much to do and only three months to do it in. A fling isn’t what she’s come here for. No, she has to nip that in the bud. She takes a sip of wine and watches the sun set.

Chapter Eight

Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009

‘Philippa?’

‘Addy. Wait. I’m reading my online Tarot cards.’

Addy tucks her phone under her chin. She props her bare feet on the wooden table, careful not to knock off the stack of research notes.

‘How’s the job going for that banker couple in Fulham, Pips?’

‘Don’t get me bloody started. They’ve gone and bought sofas from the Ugly Sofa Company. They’re covered with that leatherette rubbish that takes your skin off when you sit on it. Burgundy. When was burgundy ever fashionable? I’ll tell you when. Never. Bloody humungous things. What in the name of Nicky Haslam am I supposed to do with those?’

‘Maybe call it tongue–in-cheek chic.’

‘Oh, ha ha. That’d be my career down the loo. I swear this interior design rubbish isn’t getting any easier. Damn. The Tower card. That’s not good. Probably something to do with the Russians. How is everything, anyway? You’re still alive at least.’

Addy lets the cell phone slip from under her chin into her hand. ‘Still alive. The Internet’s finally working. Well, mostly working. I’ve had to get a dongle thingy. The water supply’s a bit iffy, so I’ve been washing with bottled water for the past two days. There’s nothing on TV except reruns of Desperate Housewives in Arabic and Turkish soap operas, so that’s not a distraction. I’ve managed to stock up on some food from the local market and I’ve still got a bottle of wine from duty-free. So, aside from desperately needing a shower, I’m fine.’

‘Good. Good.’

Addy sifts through the stack of research notes and slides out the Polaroid of Gus and Hanane that she’s tucked into his unfinished letter. She examines Gus’s face.

‘Pippa, do you remember when Dad spent those two years working for the oil company down in Nigeria?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Are you listening?’

‘What? Nigeria? Yes, yes. Sorry, I’m just trying to remember what the Three of Swords means. I’d just married Alessandro, more fool me. Dad stopped by London on his way back to Canada to wish us well. Too little too late if you ask me.’

‘What was he like when you saw him in London? Did he seem happy?’

‘How am I supposed to remember that? I can barely remember my phone number.’ Philippa sighs heavily into the phone. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘Nothing. He was away so much when I was growing up. Just trying to fill in the dots.’

‘Well, he wasn’t all that keen on Alessandro, I can tell you. Maybe I should’ve taken the hint. They argued a lot. Dad was very touchy. I remember that. Our father fancied himself as some kind of bloody adventurer. He loved to say he had gypsy blood. I honestly don’t know why he ever married your mother. She was such a little homebody.’

Addy grimaces. ‘You know what they say. Opposites attract.’

Her pretty red-haired mother, Hazel, packing a suitcase for Addy’s peripatetic father. One of Addy’s strongest memories of her mother. The big, old Victorian house on the Vancouver Island shore that was never enough for him. Hazel and Addy were never enough for him, even though Addy had tried hard to be Daddy’s girl when he was home. Digging in the spring bulbs with him in the autumn, sitting with him watching for the black triangles of the orcas’ dorsal fins skimming along the surface of the Strait through the telescope he’d set up on the veranda. He’d promise that he’d stay. But then the suitcase would come out and he’d be gone again. Another postcard to add to her collection.

Addy swings her legs off the table and slides her feet into her new turquoise leather babouches.

‘I found some old photos Dad took in Morocco in the stuff you gave me. He must have spent some time here after Nigeria. Lots of pictures of donkeys, monkeys, mosques, palm trees, camels, that kind of thing. I’m using them as inspiration for the travel book. Following in Dad’s footsteps. It’s a nice hook, don’t you think?’

‘You live in the clouds. You’re going to end up broke again. You’re just like your father.’

‘Your father, too.’

‘Ha! The closest I had to a father was Grandfather’s valet.’

Addy stares at her father’s smiling face in the Polaroid. At least she’d had a doting mother until she was thirteen, and a loving, if often absent, father. Philippa had had a huge stately home to rattle around in, but only Essie’s elderly father and a handful of servants for company when she wasn’t away at boarding school. A runaway father and a drug-addled mother. It explained a few things.

‘Didn’t he write you? Call you?’

‘It’s not the same thing, Addy.’

Addy folds the blue letter around the Polaroid and slides it under the pile of papers.

‘Anyway, I’ve finished the book outline and plotted out the places I need to photograph based on Dad’s photos. Marrakech, a fishing village called Essaouira, Casablanca, the desert.’

‘Desert? Which desert?’

‘The Sahara.’

‘Is that where the Sahara desert is?’

Addy rolls her eyes. The line goes silent.

‘What card did you just turn over?’

‘The Ten of Swords. It’s a dead body full of swords. I’ll have to look it up. I bought a Tarot book.’

‘I don’t think Tarot cards are meant to be literal.’

The sound of shuffling cards.

‘Can’t you get the book done any faster than three months, Addy? I need you to photograph a penthouse I’ve just finished in Mayfair for some Chinese clients. Never met them. Did it all through their PA. A million pounds on the interiors and they’re only going to use it for a week at Christmas. Apparently, it’s an investment.’

Addy swats at a fly. ‘The visa lasts for three months and I need the time to do this book. And …’

‘And what?’

Addy sighs. ‘Oh, Pippa. I met someone. I don’t know what to think. He’s a Berber mountain guide. Well, Amazigh, actually. He’s very nice. A bit younger than me.’

‘Oh, good grief. Define younger.’

‘Thirty-ish. Nothing’s happened. It’s just … I don’t know.’

‘My sister, the cougar.’

Addy watches a black-and-white cat slink across the gravel path as it eyes a rooster strutting under the olive tree with a harem of chickens.

‘Don’t worry. I’ve been avoiding him. I’ve still got Nigel to deal with. But then sometimes I think maybe a fling would do me a world of good. I mean, what’s the harm, Pips? It’s not like it’d ever be a long-term relationship.’

‘You don’t want to know what’s inside my mind. It’s a dustbin in there.’ The cat pounces. The rooster and chickens scrabble, flapping away in a cloud of dust and ear-splitting cackles. ‘What’s that racket?’

‘A cat chasing some chickens. His name’s Omar.’

‘The cat?’

‘No. The Berber guide.’

‘Have you slept with him?’

‘Pippa! I just got here.’

‘Why not just be on your own for a while? You’re always looking for a man to rescue you.’

‘I’m not!’

‘Really? When was the last time you were single?’

‘I was single in Canada.’

‘Twenty years ago. Don’t you think it’s time for you to stand on your own two feet instead of going after inaccessible men?’

‘I am standing on my own two feet! I’m in Morocco, aren’t I?’

‘Running away, more like.’ Philippa huffs into the phone. ‘What’s a Berber, anyway?’

Addy sighs and shifts the phone to her right ear. ‘I’ve been doing some research online for my travel book.’ She shuffles through her papers and pulls out a piece of paper covered in scribbled notes. ‘Berbers, or Imazighen as they call themselves – Amazigh singular – are the indigenous population of North Africa. The Arabs converted them to Islam in the eighth century. Before that they practised everything from paganism to Christianity and Judaism.’

‘The Fool. Bloody hell. I want the Lovers, not the Fool. That one’s probably meant for you.’

‘You’re not listening.’ Addy sips her coffee. It’s gone stone-cold. She sets down the mug and peers out over the railings.

‘It’s all very interesting, Addy. Good research for your book.’

A donkey emerges from the olive grove ridden by a bare-footed boy. Amine. The boy with vitiligo from the restaurant. He smiles and waves at her as he passes by. She waves back.

‘What do you think I should do, Pippa? About the man, I mean.’

‘You can’t seriously be considering a relationship with a Moroccan goatherd. It’s not so bad being on your own. Look at me. Divorced twenty years and I couldn’t be happier. Free as a bird. I can tango every night till dawn if I want to. If only the knees would hold up.’

‘C’mon. You’re always talking about wanting to find a man.’ Addy picks up the mug and pads over the cool stones into the house. ‘You’re glued to that house in Chelsea. The world’s a bigger place than Redcliffe Road. You should travel more.’ She dumps the cold coffee in the kitchen sink and turns on the tap to rinse the cup. The pipes groan. ‘Bugger.’

‘Bugger? There’s nothing wrong with Redcliffe Road. It’s a very good address.’

‘No water.’

‘Exactly. How can you live like that? You want my advice? Get on the first plane back to London and sort out your life. As for men, well, I’ve given up on the whole bloody lot of them. Everybody my age wants a twenty-year-old bimbette or someone to nurse them through their dotage. Once you hit forty you’re done for, Addy. I may as well have “Danger, Radioactive” tattooed on my forehead. Thank God I’ve got a career.’

‘What about the tango guys?’ Addy heads across the living room’s cool concrete floor back to the veranda.

‘A bunch of mummy’s boys and sexual deviants. But at least I get to touch a man, otherwise it’s just me and the neighbour’s cat. The Wheel of Fortune. That’s more like it.’

Addy flops into the chair. ‘That can go up or down.’

‘Let’s say it’s on the way up, shall we? Seriously, this Omar person probably makes eyes at all the girls. Though you’re way past the girl phase.’

‘I don’t think he’s like that.’

‘He’s a mountain guide. In Morocco. Of course he’s like that.’

‘He’s a university graduate.’

‘Really?’

‘In English literature.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘And you believed him.’

‘Well …’

‘You’re naive. That’s part of your problem. You trust people. Everyone’s out for themselves. It’s a Me! Me! Me! world.’

Addy massages her forehead with her fingertips. ‘What do you mean “part of my problem”?’

‘You have terrible taste in men.’

An image of her ex-fiancé, Nigel, plants itself in Addy’s head. Floppy brown hair, ‘trust me’ hazel eyes, the teasing grin. Despite how much he’d hurt her, she couldn’t help but feel some lingering affection towards him. They’d had some fun together, when Nigel wasn’t off somewhere climbing the ladder to a legal career. They’d play hooky to catch a mid-week movie matinee at the Clapham Picture House, or check out a band at the Brixton Dome. All that petered out as Nigel got busier with work. But then she’d been busy with her photography studio too. It had just all gone wrong at the end. Badly wrong.

‘Nigel wasn’t so bad. He was under a lot of pressure at work. He was trying to get taken on as a partner at the law firm. My cancer was hard on him. It couldn’t have been easy holding my bald head over the toilet while I puked my guts out.’

‘My heart bleeds. Did I ever tell you he used to come crying on my shoulder when you were sick? I was completely taken in. I was the one who pulled strings to get him into that law firm in the first place. More fool me. He’s a bastard for fooling around when your hair fell out.’

Finding the bill from The Ivy was a shock. Dinner for two. But it wasn’t as bad as finding the hotel invoice. Both dated the night she was in hospital having the blood transfusion. Nigel should’ve been more careful. Shoving the receipts in an envelope on their shared desk was stupid. Cancer did strange things to people. There was a lot of collateral damage.

‘I guess.’

‘I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just that when I think of Nigel, I want to poke his eyes out with a burning poker. I hate being taken for a fool.’

‘Never mind about Nigel. That’s over. Mashy mushkey.’

‘Mashy what?’

‘It means no problem.’

‘So, now you’re speaking Moroccan.’

‘Darija, actually.’

The rooster rends the air with an ear-splitting crow. Addy watches him strut across the path. He stops and stares at her with a cold black eye. Thrusting out his red feathered chest, he bellows out another piercing crow.

‘Good God, what a racket. The Devil card. Addy, that one’s definitely for you.’

Chapter Nine

Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009

‘It’s working?’

Omar’s mother, Aicha, flicks through the TV remote but the images on the large flat-screen TV wobble and fizz like the European soft drinks Omar brings them from Azaghar for the Eid al-Adha celebration dinner.

Aicha walks through the archway from the living room and yells up the steps to the roof. ‘Laa! Not yet!’

Fatima pops her head around the kitchen door. ‘Maybe it’s not a good television. It’s not new like the one Yassine bought for his wife.’

‘Yassine never bought it for Khadija, one hundred per cent.’ Omar’s head appears in the patch of blue sky over the open courtyard. ‘He only buys stuff for himself, you have to know about it. Anyway, this is a good television. It’s a bit new. You’ll be able to watch your Turkish shows better.’ Omar’s head disappears from view. ‘Yamma, try now!’ he yells. ‘I fixed the satellite with the clothesline.’

Aicha hands the remote to Fatima. ‘You do it, Fatima. It’s too complicated for me.’ She heads up the rough grey concrete steps to the roof of the extension Omar’s building. Stepping over a stack of wood, Aicha grabs a rusty iron strut to steady herself. Omar is by the satellite dish, tightening her clothesline around the white disc to correct its tilt.