The Storyteller of Casablanca (3)

My mind’s still buzzing in the aftermath of the cocktail party at the Club. All that conversation and so many introductions heightened my natural anxiety at being in a social setting. I always find these things such an ordeal. And then there was the added vigilance needed to make sure Tom’s drinking didn’t reach that point where he tips from charmingly expansive to hopelessly addled, slurring his words and lurching into people. The whole event was completely exhausting, but now I’m both too tired and too wired to sleep. Now it’s over I think I can say that the party was a success, though. We got away with it, managing to project the image of the committed young couple, excited at the new opportunities this posting has given them. Tom did a good job of playing the role that’s expected of him and his boss seemed pleased, beaming his approval as I stood at my husband’s side. I must have looked the very picture of a suitable corporate wife, even if really I was trying to resist the urge to flee to the bathroom and wash my hands over and over again.

Tom stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. The distance between us is a wide ocean that neither of us dares cross. I envy him the oblivion of his quiet breaths. I know he’s working long hours in his new job and comes back from the office exhausted at the end of each day, but sometimes he’s more animated than usual when he comes through the door and I can smell the musky haze of whisky on him.

The floorboards of the room above us – Grace’s room – tick rhythmically every now and then as the wood contracts in the relative coolness of the night, reminding me that I need to find a hammer tomorrow and see if I can do something about the loose board beneath the Berber rug in the middle of the nursery. It creaks loudly when I walk over it and I wouldn’t want to risk it disturbing Grace, startling her from her sleep.

At some point, lulled by the rhythm of my husband’s breathing, I finally fall into a deep sleep of my own and, by the time the song of the muezzins wakes me, the bed beside me is empty. Tom likes to run and the best time is at dawn, before it becomes too hot and he gets drawn back into the demands of his work. Sure enough, as I tie the sash of my silk dressing gown, I notice that his running shoes are gone from beneath the chair on his side of the bed. He’ll be back to shower off the sweat, changing into his shirt and tie and grabbing a quick breakfast before it’s time to get to his office at the docks. In the meantime, I’ll go and get Grace up, scooping her out of her cot and covering her smiling face with my kisses as another day begins.

Once Tom leaves, my limbs are filled with a restlessness, fuelled by the two cups of strong coffee I’ve drunk with my breakfast of fruit and yoghurt, so I strap on the baby sling, making sure the clips are securely fastened, and set off for a walk. I have no clear idea of where I’m headed, but my feet turn automatically towards the ocean, skirting the walls of the medina. The wind has dropped today, bringing a welcome stillness after days of its incessant, nerve-fraying bluster. I’ve thrown a light shawl around my shoulders to help shield Grace from the sun. The sea breeze flirts with its edges, making the fringing flutter. At last we reach the corniche with its beach clubs and lines of palm trees that toss their heads in the wind, and I push my sunglasses on to the top of my head to drink in the sight of the golden sand and the ocean beyond. Close in, the water is awash with light, but the far-off horizon is a smudge of darker blue. I show Grace the waves. She watches the Atlantic rollers a little warily at first as they curl and crash on to the beach. Then she decides she likes the spectacle, gurgling and waving her hands in approval.

‘I know,’ I tell her. ‘It’s wonderful, isn’t it? We’ll have to find a nice quiet beach to take you to so we can do some paddling. We can buy a bucket and spade and I’ll make you a giant sandcastle fit for a princess.’

I feel a sense of buoyancy at having walked this far and made it to the corniche under my own steam. Although much of the city is shabby and dilapidated, seeing the beach and the expanse of sparkling ocean lifts my spirits. Perhaps I can get used to life in this new place after all. I remind myself how lucky I am to live in such an affluent area and to have the help of Alia in running my new home. I don’t feel completely comfortable with the luxury of having a housekeeper, but she seems to take a pride in keeping the house neat and tidy and to enjoy the cooking she does for us, so I suppose she likes her job. I’d thought I’d be ill at ease having someone I hardly know in my home each day, but with Tom working such long hours it’s actually nice having the company.

I watch the waves washing on to the shore and find I’m unconsciously swaying in time to their rhythm, rocking Grace in her sling as she gurgles happily.

I settle my sunglasses back on my face and rearrange the shawl protectively over Grace’s downy head as we turn for home. I’ve walked for miles already and I’m conscious that the sun is climbing steadily overhead, its rays becoming fiercer by the minute. My feet are sore and swollen from the hot, hard pavements and my trainers pinch my toes. The noise of the traffic makes my head ache and I begin to hurry, feeling exposed out here, longing for the sanctuary of the townhouse with its shaded rooms, and a cool glass of water from the fridge. If I had a few dirhams I could flag down one of the little red taxis that speed through the city streets and be dropped at my door, but I’ve come out with no money. The glare of the sunlight reflects from the white walls around us, seeming to redouble in intensity, and I curse my stupidity. Grace shouldn’t be out in this heat – what was I thinking? She begins to whimper, sensing my anxiety. Distress rises in my chest. In desperation I duck into a narrow alleyway, hoping it’ll provide a shadier shortcut through the medina. But it’s all corners and angles between whitewashed walls and I quickly become disorientated. The urge to get back to the safety of home is overwhelming. I’m half running now; panicking; lost. My breath comes in short gasps. The alley twists and turns and heads swivel to watch me pass, hands reaching out to tug at my shawl, begging for money, urging me to buy something. The clamour of voices overwhelms me as children run by kicking a football, shouting to one another, and merchants pushing handcarts call out their wares. A boy on a motorbike swerves past, too close for comfort, the roar of his engine making me jump. In my alarm, I almost trip over a goat as it grazes on rubbish in the gutter and it turns and looks at me with a disconcertingly blank gaze. A man with a face like tooled leather opens his mouth in a toothless grin and offers me a strange-looking wizened root from the battered ebony box he carries. I swerve away from his outstretched hand, recalling the warning in the booklet May gave me: walking through the medina without a guide is not recommended; beware of pickpockets.