The Storyteller of Casablanca (2)
May’s right, the little cakes are absolutely delicious, although the heat takes away my appetite. She chats on, describing the social programme at the Overseas Club where all the expats spend their spare time, playing tennis, swimming and socialising. There’s to be a cocktail party there tomorrow evening, laid on by Tom’s company to welcome us. Everyone’s being so kind. Although the thought of being in a room with my husband and a plentiful supply of booze, in the presence of his new colleagues and their partners, fills me with dread. Hopefully Tom will be able to keep the brakes on his drinking while in public and being appraised by the people on whom his career depends. I’ll just have to be vigilant, as usual.
Oblivious to my preoccupation, May continues to chat away. ‘I’ll organise a lunch at the Club one day next week with a few of the girls. And I’ll give you a ring to arrange a morning that suits to show you round, too. Don’t worry,’ – she shoots me an appraising glance, perhaps realising my polite enthusiasm is a little forced – ‘moving’s always stressful. Sure, it takes a few weeks to find your feet. We’ve all been there. But you’ll soon get the hang of it all. Casa’s not a bad place for a posting in the big scheme of things.’
I’m truly grateful to her for being so welcoming, but she’s no fool and can probably sense I’m a bit distracted. The overwhelming compulsion to wash my hands is building within me as I contemplate the prospect of so many social situations. I know it’s irrational. I know it’s a reaction to feeling anxious and out of control. But it’s a compelling reflex and it’s easier to give in to it than to fight it. I’m longing to get back upstairs to the nursery to finish unpacking Grace’s toys and clothes, too. I feel calmer in that peaceful space at the top of the house, and I’d like to be there when my baby daughter wakes up from her morning nap so she won’t be alone in this strange new home. As I sit half listening to May talking about the book club and the other interest groups on offer, I’m picturing the way Grace smiles when she sees me and how I’ll scoop her into my arms, my heart filling as she gives that little chuckle of joy. I tune back in, though, when May mentions a crafting club.
‘Do they do any quilting?’ I ask. ‘I have a project I’d like to try but I’ve never done any before.’
‘All manner of things like that, I believe,’ says May. ‘Personally, I’m hopeless with my hands and I don’t have the patience for needlework in any form. But I’ll make sure Kate is at our lunch. She’s the crafting queen bee so she’ll be able to tell you more.’
‘That’d be great. And do you know where I might be able to buy fabric and thread?’
‘Oh goodness, you’re really asking the wrong woman! I suppose you’d perhaps find a stall in the Quartier Habous for those sorts of things. I’ll ask around.’
From beyond the shutters the sound of the call to prayer begins, resonating on the torrid mid-morning air. May wipes the last traces of honey from her fingers and glances at her watch. ‘Well, that’s time for me to be off. I’ve a few things to pick up before the shops shut. And you’ll be wanting to get on too, I should think. Mustn’t hold you back from your nesting.’
She gives me a kind smile and an embrace as I see her out into the blaze of light and heat. In the French nouvelle ville the streets are wide boulevards, the ubiquitous date palms interspersed here and there with plane trees that at this time of day cast concentrated pools of deep shadow on to the pavement directly beneath their branches. But as you move towards the ocean the streets become narrower and the buildings lower, drawing you into the tangled heart of the medina, the old Arab Quarter. Beyond that is the sprawl of the docks, where Tom’s office overlooks one of the biggest seaports on the African continent. From there, he directs the movement of the company’s ships and keeps track of the sky-scraping stacks of containers as they’re loaded and unloaded from the quayside.
There’ll be time to explore all of that later, once that relentless, restless wind has died down again. For now, I wave goodbye to May and then climb the stairs to the top of the house. I wash the sticky residue from the cakes off my hands, giving them a thorough scrubbing twice over before I go into Grace’s room. I stand at the window watching a trio of turtle doves, who seem to regard these roof tiles as their domain, as they ruffle their feathers and coo companionably to one another.
Beyond the slates, a sprawling muddle of flat rooftops stretches to the very edge of the sea. Above them, the minarets of the mosques soar into the infinite blue of the North African sky.
We came here looking for a new start. But instead of hope, I just feel emptiness. This is a city perched on the edge of an ocean of broken dreams, shabby and windswept, its once fine streets now down-at-heel. The Hollywood glamour of the days of Bogart and Bergman is long gone, nothing but a distant memory now.
It looks to me like the end of the world.
Zoe – 2010
Every house has its own vocabulary. Our new home on the Boulevard des Oiseaux mutters and sighs to itself at night when the city outside finally falls silent for a few brief hours and the darkness drapes itself over the rooftops, as heavy as velvet. I lie awake listening, trying to decipher this new language of creaks and clicks. Perhaps in a month or two familiarity will make the sounds fade into the background, but for now I’m alert to each one. In the bed beside me, Tom lies motionless, sunk in the depths of sleep.