by Jane Johnson
The city of Tangier lies in a state of uneasy truce: you can tell as soon as you see its high white walls pitted by shot and blackened by fire. All around lie ruined forts, testament to the long bombardment the colony has been under these past years. There are peasant women foraging amid the churned earth for feed for the animals that they will overwinter; as our motley cavalcade passes they straighten up and ululate a greeting from behind the veils they draw across their faces. Riders come out from the city gates to see who we are, and when ben Hadou announces himself word is sent swiftly back and soon there are English troops everywhere standing to attention in their smartest uniforms, and cannons are booming out a welcome. Relations seem so cordial you would hardly think we were at war over this port, this finger of land sticking out into the sea, almost touching the coast of Spain, dividing Mediterranean from Atlantic. Sir James Leslie comes out to welcome us. Despite his difficult reception with the emperor, he is most cordial: we are treated to a great feast and volleys of musketfire, then fireworks, which explode in great bursts of colour, fizzing over the sea. I wish Momo could see them. When festivities are at their height, I slip away and go to check on him. He has been in the box for four days with nothing but bread and dates and a little flask of water to sustain him. But the cargo is under heavy guard, and I have no authority to exert here: I am turned away firmly but politely. It is impossible to sleep that night in my comfortable quarters knowing that the little boy lies cramped and filthy in his prison. The enormity of what we undertake overwhelms me again: to separate a child from his mother, perhaps forever, to risk everything …
Stop it, Nus-Nus, I tell myself fiercely. Be a man.
PART FOUR
30
The ship that will carry us to England rides at anchor in the blue embrace of the bay. The vessel’s sails are furled and it bobs gently on the tidal swell: a functional-looking craft. Ben Hadou is disappointed. ‘Two decks and no more than fifty guns. I was expecting better from the English, who think themselves such masters of the seas. At best that’s a third-rate ship of the line. We shall look like beggars, arriving in such a thing. Already, I have a far smaller retinue than I could wish.’ He frets over the poor impression we are likely to make all the way through the city and out through the gate that leads down to the water. On the dock, he says grimly, ‘We are of the nation which raised the Koutoubia Mosque and Hassan’s Tower, the descendants of Al-Mansour, the richest man in the world; courtiers of the most powerful ruler in Africa. It reflects badly on the sultan if we arrive without more of a flourish.’
What he means, I know, is that it reflects badly on him. Ben Hadou’s pride is legendary. But at least the ship looks stout and seaworthy. When I start to say this, the Tinker waves the explanation away impatiently, and rides off to shout at one of his lieutenants.
He is still in a poor temper as we load the cargo on board. At last, exasperated, he turns to me. ‘Oversee the rest, Nus-Nus: make sure nothing is spoiled or spilled. I’ll be back before sundown.’ He runs across the strand, grabs his horse’s reins from the hands of the boy to whom he had entrusted it but moments before, vaults athletically into the saddle (impressive for a man over forty) and makes off at speed back towards the city.
One by one, the crates or cargo are stowed in the hold, and I ensure that Momo’s box is stowed in such a position that air can circulate well and it can be easily accessed once we are under way.
The sun has started to redden the clouds low on the horizon by the time ben Hadou returns, at the head of a bizarre procession. A dozen men stagger beneath the weight of two huge crates, through the bars of which fraught movement can be glimpsed. Behind them come a host of men leading … I frown. Surely not? But as they come closer my suspicions are confirmed: it seems that somewhere amongst the merchants who ship their goods out of Tangier ben Hadou has managed to locate and buy a pair of Barbary lions and a great flock of ostriches. The lions stare out morosely from their prisons as the ostriches (thirty! I count them) pick their way past them down to the shore, lifting their large-jointed knees high, placing clawed feet with care, their bald heads weaving comically on their long necks, ostentatious tail feathers furling and unfurling neurotically. On the savannahs the relationship between cat and bird would be as predator and prey, but here they are reduced to mere cargo – cargo that we are ill equipped to carry.
‘Where on earth are we to put them all?’ My question comes out almost as a wail.
‘I’m sure you’ll find somewhere suitable.’ He is inordinately pleased with his purchases. ‘The English king will never have seen anything like them,’ he declares, all good humour now that he has augmented the ambassadorial gifts to his satisfaction.
The Kaid Mohammed Sharif and I exchange glances, which obviates the need for words, while ben Hadou heads off to make his cabin comfortable.
The tide turns with the rise of the full moon. I stand on deck as the crew weighs anchor and we sail out past the white walls of the kasbah, into the prowling seas beyond. I watch the moon’s serene face glow palely between the clouds, silvering their edges and the inrushing waters, and think of Alys.
Soon we are out on the open sea, and ben Hadou and the embassy staff seek their beds. I linger, feigning an unsettled stomach, then go below decks to release Momo from his captivity. My plan is to stow him in my small cabin, barely more than a cupboard in the officers’ quarters, but a blessing that has come with my fortuitously elevated status. There, I have made a space beneath the bunk wherein a small boy may conceal himself with rather greater comfort, and in it I have placed not only some bedding but also some toys with which he may distract himself. And of course there is Amadou to keep him company, whose chattering should mask any sound the child may make while I am elsewhere on the ship, and whose presence will enable me to explain the need for me to bring food to my cabin.
I am congratulating myself on my fortune and forward thinking as I make my way back below; until, in the cramped companionway above the orlop-hatch, I am forced to step aside to let another pass. In the golden light of my little candle-lantern, his eyes gleam, then narrow. For a second we stare at one another, then he is gone.
I watch him depart, bemused and alarmed, until the darkness swallows him. What business had Samir Rafik in the hold? He cannot know anything about Momo, so he must have been spying, or in search of treasure.
My pulse racing now, I go down the ladder hand over hand with the lantern in my teeth, fearing what I may find. One of the lions, disturbed by the light, raises a half-hearted growl and thrusts a paw through the bars as I pass (and I note that someone has pared its claws, and wonder which poor wretch was given that task). The ostriches, meanwhile, have been stowed in the gun deck, the only space large enough to accommodate them, despite the displeasure of the crew, whose berths are near by; they complain bitterly of the noise and smell and snapping beaks.
It is decided that if we are stopped by corsairs, ben Hadou will show his colours, and if by the English navy, then Sir James will see them off, and there will be no need for guns.
I locate my travelling box and peer at the lock. Has it been tampered with? There are bright scratches on the brass, but that could be down to rough handling. Inside, though, it looks as if the contents have been rummaged through by determined hands, for they appear untidy and disordered. Seized by terror, I pull the bags of spices out convulsively, cast the cones of salt and sugar down upon them with no care as to whether or not they break, gifts for King Charles or no. ‘Momo!’ My urgent whisper sounds as loud as a shout in the confined space.
There is no response. At the bottom of the trunk, above its false base, one of the bags of turmeric has split. Golden powder spills everywhere. Cursing, I sweep it up and set it down with the rest, then lever the base up and out of the box with as much care as my shaking hands can manage. ‘Momo?’ I raise the candle-lantern, terrified of what I may find.
For a moment I am sure he is dead and that the valerian on top of the datura has been fatal
, for his eyes stare unblinking at me out of his gaunt and shadowed little face. Then he sneezes violently and turmeric flies everywhere.
‘Nus-Nus!’ He raises his arms to me.
Bending double over the box’s sides, I lift him gently from his cramped and stinking hiding place. ‘What a brave boy you are. How your mother would be proud if she could see you now!’ I hug him to me, for he is all I have of her; and he hugs me back, for I am all he has in the world now.
Only then does he start to cry, this stoic child. I feel his sobs as a shuddering of his tiny frame and tears start in my own eyes. What are we doing? But it is too late to turn back: there is nothing for it but to grit our teeth and carry on.
At last I set him down and pile everything back into the trunk. Turning the key in the violated lock, I feel how it moves raggedly, rather than with the precision it once had, and my mind slides back to the shifty, narrow gaze of Samir Rafik. What was he searching for? What does he know? I had thought the task of getting Momo safely on to the ship was our greatest challenge, but now I see our trials have just begun.
The next day I seek out ben Hadou and discover him confined to his cabin suffering from seasickness. Usually the Tinker is a dapper man who pays a great deal of attention to his appearance; but today his hair, released from its swathes of turban silk, lies lank on his shoulders and his skin is grey and sweaty. A sour-smelling bucket sits beside his bed; a plate of uneaten food congeals on the low table. His eyes flick over me with complete uninterest. ‘Go away, Nus-Nus, you look far too healthy.’
‘Apologies, sidi.’ I bow my head but remain where I am.
‘Well, what do you want?’
‘I wondered why Abdelaziz’s nephew, Samir Rafik, and the renegade Hamza have come with us?’
He raises a brow at the presumption of my question. ‘The sultan has given them the task of bringing back the head of some infidel responsible for printing copies of the holy Qur’an translated into English. It seems that Rafik will stop at nothing to win back the favour lost by his uncle; as for Hamza – he’ll do anything for a bit of gold. I told Ismail the printer was almost certainly dead and buried, given that the book was printed thirty years ago, but he was having none of it, and Rafik was keen to show his mettle, begged for the chance to prove his loyalty, vicious little quean.’ He catches my eye. ‘Sorry, Nus-Nus, no offence meant.’
‘None taken.’
‘He’s no friend to either you or me, so keep an eye on him.’
I laugh bitterly, but inwardly I groan. So it is my own fault that my enemy is on the ship, watching my every move. Had I but accepted the sultan’s task … ‘Perhaps I should put him over the side, see how well he swims.’
Ben Hadou retches, spits some thin liquid into the bucket and sits back, wiping his mouth. ‘If it were that simple, it would already be done. Ismail felt guilty over the punishment meted out to the grand vizier and by showing his interest has been trying to make it up to the boy: he’ll want a full report if anything happens to him. As it is, I’m probably going to have to make sure we have a suitable head to take back: the sultan doesn’t stand for failure.’
‘Even if the printer’s long gone?’
‘Even if we have to drag him back from Hell.’ He manages a thin smile. ‘Perhaps we can tell Ismail we traded Rafik’s soul for the printer’s.’
As luck would have it, ben Hadou is not the only member of our embassy struck down by seasickness. When I have not seen him for four days of the voyage, I ask casually of the renegade Hamza the whereabouts of Samir Rafik. He stares coldly at me, then shrugs. ‘Haven’t the faintest idea.’
As I make my way back down from the forecastle, I see Rafik, staggering across the main deck below, his legs at odds with the rhythm of the ship. He makes it to the side and hangs on to the gunwale, looking wan. I give him a cheery good day and settle myself beside him, making sure I am well to windward. ‘Magnificent, isn’t it, the mighty ocean?’
He shoots me a look filled with loathing and does not reply.
‘The way it runs and lurches like a living creature. Up and down, wave after wave …’
‘Shut up!’
‘And our little ship bobbing upon it like a cork in a bath, tossed and pitched, up and down. We are so tiny, and it is so vast. It’s a wonder we survive, any of us.’
He closes his eyes, groans.
‘Seasickness is a bane, is it not? I could give you something for your nausea. I have a case of fine spices and condiments below. Cumin is said to be good, especially when mixed with mutton fat –’
‘Get away from me, you black bastard!’ He bends over the rail and vomits a pathetic quantity of bile out into the thrashing tide.
‘Just trying to be helpful,’ I say, making a good fist at sounding affronted.
The last three days of the voyage pass without incident. I spend much of my time telling quiet stories to Momo behind the locked door of our small cabin: his favourite is always Ali Baba and his thieves, and he makes me tell it again and again till I am quite sick of it. Our crossing has been blessed by fine weather and fair winds, which are rare for this time of year. I take this as a good omen and am beginning to feel almost sanguine about our venture.
When we sail towards the shadow of distant land my heart grips suddenly in my chest. England! The land of Alys’s ancestry, of which Doctor Lewis had spoken so often. He had described the southern parts outside the city as a veritable garden, lush with flowers and greenery cut through by rivers and streams and bosky woods basking beneath a gentle sun, bathed by soft rain. A dream of England has filled my head these many years. I am eager to compare that dream with the reality. But the low-lying, largely featureless coastline along which we sail is uninspiring, its colours muted and dull. We drift past a great bank of shingle over which surf runs in rills, then turn our bow in towards a wide anchorage. The English sailors tell me this is the Downs, below the port-town of Deal. We put in at the dock amid a hundred or more other vessels of all shapes and sizes – merchantmen, fishing boats, a few larger ships like our own – overlooked by a forbidding fortification bristling with gun emplacements.
The ship is unloaded by a band of raucous dockers, who run away at the sight of the ostriches and have to be whipped back to work by their foremen, a scene that reminds me of Meknes. I watch as Momo’s box, which I have cleaned, reprovisioned and secured with a new lock, is put up on to a cart and remember how solemn he was last night when I explained to him that he would have to re-enter his prison. I could see he wanted to cry at the very thought, but was manfully holding back the tears. ‘It is just for a short time. And then we will be in London, and you will be safe.’ Such an empty promise: the Lord should have struck me dead.
Sir James Leslie takes ben Hadou and his officers, including myself, to eat at an establishment close to the seafront. The meal begins with an altercation with an innkeeper who negligently offers us salted pig meat and is sent packing by a furious Sir James Leslie, who berates the man for his ignorance. ‘These good gentlemen are Mahometans, fool, and do not eat pork. Go bring them your best venison pasties and be quick about it!’
The innkeeper orders his serving girl to run to the kitchens, and then takes his displeasure out on his pot-boy, whom he treats as if he were his slave, though he wears no slave-bond and is as white as he is. The lad goes about us nervous and round-eyed, bearing a great pitcher with a foaming head, taking in the unfamiliar turbans and brown skins. When he gets to me his eyes get rounder still and he keeps his distance, pouring into my flagon at arm’s length, as if he is afraid that although I do not eat pig, I may well eat him. I take a sip and find that the drink is a dark, bitter-tasting stuff. ‘Stop!’ ben Hadou cries, having just taken a sip of the liquid himself: ‘If you are a good Muslim, you will take not a drop of this: it is alcohol, and forbidden.’
In response to this, the renegade Hamza downs his flagon with several loud gulps. ‘In this country it is considered ill mannered to turn your nose up at their beer.’
/>
The Tinker gives him a long, flat-lidded stare. ‘You are a turncoat and an apostate: we do not expect the same level of good behaviour from such a one.’ He reminds the rest of the members of the embassy that we are to uphold the best values of Islam while we are in this country: that we are the examples by whom our sultan will be judged by these unenlightened infidels, and we must at all times behave with modesty, moderation and good manners. ‘You will not eat or drink the things that are forbidden by the Qur’an; you will keep a civil tongue, honour the name of Allah and lay no hands, nor even lascivious eyes, on the women.’
Several of the men exchange disappointed glances at this pronouncement.
Two days later we arrive at our destination. Night is falling and it is glacially cold. As we approach the wide River Thames, I can feel the hairs freezing in my nose. There is a brisk north wind blowing, and the grass over which we ride is crisp with frost: it is like being in the High Atlas in winter. We come in to London from the east through the marshes and, when we strike the main highway into the city, are passed by many horse-drawn carriages, the like of which I have never seen. All the Moroccans are staring about them in frank wonder as we pass beneath the archway of the Ald Gate between its two crenellated towers into the city proper. Ben Hadou catches us gawping and declares crisply, ‘The Bab al-Raïs is far superior in its craftsmanship: this gate is very plain and poorly made by comparison.’
