by Ashe Barker
At eighty-seven years old, the elder Madame Mansouri was more frail than she had been, though still reasonably fit. She attributed her ongoing rude good health to hard work, an obedient husband and strong sons. She left most of the work on the farm to the younger members of her extended family, but still managed to keep her hand in. The regular supply of eggs was her main contribution these days. The rest of her time was spent weaving her intricate carpets, drinking tea, and complaining about her infidel daughter-in-law, though the pastime had become less frequent over the years.
“How long have you been here? I was just out collecting my eggs. You should have phoned. I would have sent one of the boys to meet you at the road. That fancy car you insist on driving is no good for here in the mountains. You did drive up here? I did not see your car outside…”
Fleur smiled in spite of her solemn mood. Her grandmother could always lift her spirits just with her incessant barrage of chatter. “I just arrived, Grandmère. I left my car down under the olive trees. I stopped to chat to Agwmar. He looks to be getting fat.”
“Idle beast. I should have him melted down for glue but I doubt anyone would have him. He does nothing but eat all day.”
Fleur knew full well that her grandmother had delivered Agwmar as a foal the same year Yasmine was born. He had been a sickly baby and her grandmother had hand-reared him. There was no way he would ever be melted down for glue. He would end his days here, a pampered pet, and eventually be buried somewhere on the property. Sentimentality was not normally a trait among Berber farmers, but an exception had been made for this particular donkey. Fleur was glad of it. She adored him almost as much as she did her grandmother.
“They told me you were ill.”
“They?” Madame Mansouri picked up her bucket.
Fleur followed her into the kitchen.
“My mother. She said you asked for me to come and visit you. I was worried.”
“Ah.” The old lady nodded, as though understanding had suddenly dawned.
Fleur wished that she shared the sentiment.
“What does that mean—ah?” She started to help her grandmother to sort the eggs by size, picking up a damp cloth to wipe any dust or other unsavoriness from the brown shells. It was a task she had done countless times.
“It means ah. That’s all. Would you like some tea?”
Fleur knew better than to press for an answer. It would come, eventually. “Yes. I’ll make it.”
The old woman nodded and continued to sort her eggs.
Fleur poured the tea then sat at the kitchen table to drink hers. Her grandmother continued to bustle around the room, placing the eggs in large trays in a huge refrigerator, then washed her hands copiously before eventually taking a seat. Fleur knew better than to hurry her grandmother. She waited, topped up her tea and gazed around the familiar farm kitchen.
Despite the remote location, the farm was relatively modern. The Mansouris had never been fond of roughing it when they didn’t have to. They had installed electricity as soon as the technology had become reliable, and a good water supply meant that they had more than adequate plumbing. On the few occasions Said had tried to persuade his mother to come and live with them in the city, she had pointed out that he could offer her nothing that her home of almost seventy years could not. She was staying put. That was not to say that she did not enjoy coming to stay at Dar Roumana once or twice a year, if only to torment Yvette. The two of them bickered endlessly, and Fleur reflected that it was blessed relief that they did not live together permanently. No doubt her father shared that view, though he never uttered it out loud. Fleur also knew, without a shred of doubt, that if it came to it, Said would take Yvette’s side. He always had. That was why they worked so well. Tilleli Mansouri knew it too, knew her youngest son and was perfectly well aware that his wife and family were all important to him. So she never pushed too hard. Just enough to keep life interesting, and Yvette on her dainty little toes.
“So, tell me about this Englishman of yours.”
Fleur splashed her tea over the rim of her glass as she set it heavily back on the solid table. “What? How do you know about that?”
Tilleli did not even deign to answer, just regarded her granddaughter solemnly from under lowered brows. Eventually Fleur answered her own question.
“Right. Maman. That is why she told me you were unwell and that I needed to come here. She thinks I should talk to you.”
“Does she? Why would she think that?” Tilleli was giving nothing away.
“Search me. But she told you, did she not? About Ethan?”
“That is his name then, this Englishman who has broken my granddaughter’s heart?”
“Yes. No! That is, he is called Ethan, but he has not broken my heart.”
“Yvette tells me that he has.”
“And when did you ever agree with her? If my mother tells you it is Tuesday, you would consult your diary.”
“I do not have a diary.” Tilleli reached for the sugar.
“Grandmère, please…”
Fleur’s tone became beseeching, and Tilleli recognized the despair for what it was. She abandoned the sugar bowl and instead stretched her hand across the table to take Fleur’s fingers in hers.
“Your mother and I argue—we always have and will continue to do so. It makes us happy. You cannot begrudge either of us our little pleasures, surely? But we have never quarreled about anything that really mattered, certainly not about you. If Yvette tells me your heart is broken, then it is broken. And if she sends you to me, it is for a reason. So, tell me.”
“Grandmère, I…”
“Tell me, ma chêre.” The old woman’s voice had gentled. Fleur reflected that she was facing Tilleli Mansouri at her most persuasive, the family matriarch for whom the welfare of her brood surpassed all other concerns. She knew this was the Tilleli who had accepted a non-Muslim marriage for her son, because she could see how much he loved the young French doctor with the laughing eyes. Said Mansouri had made no secret over the years of his gratitude for his mother’s influence. She had hoped for the best and convinced her husband to do the same. Despite their outward hostility, Fleur was sure that Yvette had not disappointed her mother-in–law. The old lady doted on her grandchildren. No surprise then that Yvette had known where to turn for help.
Fleur gazed at the old lady she adored, her vision blurring as her tears, never far from the surface, filled her eyes. “I love him, Grandmère…”
Tilleli squeezed the hand she still held, encouraging Fleur to continue.
“I love him, but he has gone.”
“Your mother tells me you no longer have your carpet. It used to be on the wall in your room at Dar Roumana. It is no longer there.”
“I gave it to him. I wanted him to have it.”
The old lady nodded, aware as Fleur was of the significance of the traditional gift.
Fleur continued. “I gave him your cloak too. He asked for it.”
“Was he cold then, this Englishman?”
“No, of course not. I swapped the cloak for some cashmere scarves.”
“I see. You drove a hard bargain then. I am proud of you. And now he is gone, you say?”
Fleur nodded, her tears still flowing unchecked. “I knew he would leave. He never promised me anything else.”
“But?”
Fleur looked up, saw the love and concern etched in the lined brown face opposite her, the faint smile, the dark, wise eyes that knew Fleur so well, saw her so clearly.
“But we come from different worlds. He is English. He runs a company, his own company. He is an engineer. He travels all over the world. His life is nothing like mine.”
“How so?”
“Is it not obvious? I just explained.”
“You described an individual not unlike your father in many ways—or your brothers perhaps. None of them are English, of course, but as for the rest…”
“It is not the same.”
“But it is. Anas is a
businessman, Omar travels and lives abroad. How is that different? You studied in England yourself.”
“Scotland. I studied in Scotland, Grandmère.”
“You are splitting very narrow hairs, ma petite.”
Fleur sighed and tried another tack. “I belong here, and he does not. He never could.”
Fleur raised her voice now, but Tilleli was not letting up.
“How can you say that? How can you be so sure of who belongs where? Does this Ethan speak more languages than you do? Is he better educated? Richer? What do his family do that yours does not?”
“His family?” Fleur said. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You tell me. You are the one so convinced that we are what we are and we belong in one place and not another. Surely you, more than anyone, would know that is not true.”
“Me? Why would I know that? What are you saying?”
Tilleli released her hand and sat back in her chair. She watched Fleur quietly for a moment or two as she stirred the sugar into her now-cooling tea. She narrowed her eyes, as though remembering something from long ago.
“I was born not two kilometers from where we now sit. I have lived in this house, run this farm since I married your grandfather nearly seventy years ago. I could have left. I was never trapped here. Even when times were hard, and we were not always prosperous. There were bad years, but we still wanted to be here. We both wanted to stay. Your grandfather is long dead now, but I choose to stay. Ahmad was my eldest son and he chose to stay also. Said did not. Even if he had not married your mother, he would have left. His future was in the city, if not Marrakesh then somewhere else. He is an academic, so he belongs in the university. He is a teacher, so he would never have been content to work with his hands. It is good that we are not all alike. The farm could not support more in any case, and your father left to make his life elsewhere. I am glad he stayed nearby, but I never regretted his decision to leave here and I do not believe he did either. He did well and so did your mother. They brought up four beautiful children, who now must find their own places.”
“I have a place. It is here, with my family, with you. I can practice medicine here. I belong here.”
“Yes, you do. But not only here. You have a rare gift. Perhaps it is your parents’ legacy to you, to all of you. You can belong anywhere you choose. You have skills that will be in demand wherever you choose to go, and you speak several languages so you can easily fit in. You were brought up a Muslim, but you are Christian too. Somehow.” At this, the old lady paused to shake her head, seemingly incredulous that such a bizarre combination could exist but the evidence was sitting before her, sipping tea at her kitchen table. “You are a chameleon, Fleur. You change to suit your environment. You wear Western clothes and speak your perfect English, and you are not out of place in that hotel where you work—or any hotel anywhere in the world, I should think. Or you could work in a hospital as you did before, but it does not have to be here.”
“Are you saying I should follow Ethan? Go to England to find him?”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“I am not sure. Perhaps.” She hesitated, then, “No. I could not do that. He would not expect that of me. We had no such agreement.”
“Agreements can change. Expectations can change.”
“I cannot chase Ethan. Not to his home. It would not be fair.”
“Yet if he were to return to Marrakesh, you would not consider it amiss of him.”
Fleur considered that for a moment. “No, I would not.”
“Then perhaps he too would be pleased to see you again. Surprised, but pleased.”
Fleur shook her head. “I could not. I just could never do that.” She looked across the table at Tilleli, resolution etched in her grandmother’s expression. On this, she would not shift.
Tilleli shrugged. “Then, may I make another suggestion?”
Fleur looked up. Tilleli’s tone was serious now, and Fleur had the distinct impression that her grandmother had given this situation some careful thought before embarking on this conversation. Fleur nodded. “If you have another suggestion, I would like to hear it.”
“France. You could go to France. Yvette has relatives in Paris, I seem to recall. You have an aunt, cousins. Surely there will be a Totally Five Star hotel in Paris. Perhaps you could work there.”
“Paris? France? But… Why…?”
“Correct me if I am wrong, but is there not now a direct rail link between Paris and London? How long does it take to get from one to the other? Three hours? Four, perhaps? It is practically on the doorstep. Less time than it would take to get to Tangier, yet you would not consider that journey too far.”
“Paris? You think I should move to Paris?” Fleur knew she was repeating herself, but the possibilities were only now beginning to drop firmly into place. Tilleli was right. When was she ever not, in fact? But this… This was pure genius. Paris was indeed easily reached from London and the reverse was true too. There was a Totally Five Star there, just off the Champs-Elysées, she seemed to recall, or failing that, she might find work with another hotel chain. Her medical qualifications would be accepted anywhere, and she spoke fluent French. It was a perfect solution.
Also, there was another factor to consider—one she would never say aloud to her grandmother. Some things were too personal, just not for sharing, however close the relationship. Paris, like London, had a BDSM scene. She wanted Ethan, but what if he was not for her, would never be hers? In a major European city, a capital city even, she would be able to explore this aspect of herself further, at her leisure. She had first recognized these yearning years before, but in Paris she would be able to experiment with this lifestyle she had only now begun to properly understand. Marrakesh would offer her no opportunity to play. If she stayed here, she would never be free to grow.
And what of Ethan? Paris would be near enough to open up possibilities, but not so close to seem pushy or to force his hand. That would not do. She could not live with herself if she caused him embarrassment. He had been careful to spare her any discomfort, had been the soul of discretion whilst he was here. She owed him the same consideration. She was as certain as she could be that he had no one else, no regular girlfriend or, perish the thought, a wife. She was not sure how she knew that, since they had never discussed the matter, but she was quite positive. Even so, he may not want to see her again, whether in Paris, London or anywhere else. She had to accept that possibility. What was more, she had yet to track him down, though she had a notion of how she might manage that.
Already she was planning, already she knew she would do this. Thanks to Tilleli, she saw a solution now, a way forward. She had to try.
Chapter Nineteen
Fleur left the Mansouri farm a couple of hours later, having first taken Agwmar for a much deserved stroll down to the meadow at the end of their property where an underground stream bubbled clear and cool up from the parched land to form a shallow pool. He loved to roll in the water there—he always had—and if she was honest, Fleur found it no hardship either. The pair of them were more or less dry by the time they returned to the farm and she left the donkey in his stable with an extra helping of oats in return for his wise counsel.
She drove back to Marrakesh, straight to her parents’ villa where she showered and changed her clothes. She phoned the hotel and made an appointment to speak to the head of human resources later that afternoon.
* * * *
“We will be very sorry to lose you here at the Marrakesh hotel, Doctor Mansouri. Are you sure we cannot persuade you to reconsider?”
So much for her services being surplus to requirements. Fleur thanked the smart, middle-aged man on the other side of the desk for his kind remarks but explained that personal circumstances meant that she must consider moving on. She wondered if there might be other opportunities within the chain, perhaps in France? She had family there, in Paris actually, and it would suit her to relocate there, if at all poss
ible. She did not add that if Totally Five Star could not accommodate her requirements, she would resign her position with them and move to Paris anyway.
In the event, that was not required. She received a call the next day from a man who introduced himself as Pierre Rivaux, in charge of human resources at Totally Five Star’s Paris hotel. Monsieur Rivaux had received Fleur’s request for a transfer and wanted to check out some details before confirming the move.
Fleur could not believe her luck. Details? Confirm the move? Was it really to be so easy? So simple? It seemed so. Monsieur Rivaux sought clarification on Fleur’s medical credentials, needed the names of three references, since this was to be a permanent rather than a locum position, and required details of her passport. Accommodation could be made available at the hotel, or Fleur could make her own arrangements if preferred. The salary was comparable to what she had earned as a locum, with an allowance for the additional costs of living in central Paris. The position was currently unfilled, so she could start at her earliest convenience. Subject to settling any remaining contractual details, would Fleur be prepared to take the job?
Monsieur Rivaux had to ask, but as far as Fleur was concerned, the offer was ideal. She accepted the post on the spot, and two days later flew to Brussels to hammer out the contractual details. She agreed on a start date some two weeks after that. Yvette wept at the airport, but Fleur could not help noticing that she and Tilleli stood side by side at the doors to the departure lounge as they waved her off.
The Paris Totally Five Star was magnificent, one of the flagship hotels in the group. Fleur could not believe her luck that she was there, and so quickly. It had been less than three weeks since she had thought of the idea—or rather Tilleli Mansouri had and convinced her that she could do this. She spent the first couple of days settling in, getting to know the staff in Paris, and the medical facilities offered at the hotel. Her post had been unfilled for a month or two so there was a backlog of paperwork to clear, a stock take of medical supplies to be undertaken and orders to be placed with the various suppliers. The small team of nursing and ancillary staff had managed to keep the medical facility ticking over, but Fleur needed to assert herself, establish her leadership. This took time, a few weeks of concerted effort, and more or less round the clock activity on her part before she felt she had made the place her own.
