The police were being very rigorous with the truck, demanding to see the driver’s papers, opening up the rear of his vehicle, searching thoroughly inside.
‘If he asks you a question say nothing,’ Aatif whispered.
‘And if he makes me take off the burqa?’
‘Say nothing.’
The inspection of the truck completed, we pulled up to the squad car. Taped to one of the rear passenger windows was a poster in Arabic and French with my mugshot adorning it. The French words needed no translation:
Personne disparue – Recherchée par la police.
Aatif also saw the poster and gripped the steering wheel tightly as the young policeman – he couldn’t have been more than twenty-two – stuck his head in through the window and demanded identity papers. Aatif had them to hand. Meanwhile his older colleague was at the rear of the vehicle, opening it up and pulling out all the neatly stacked rugs and lace goods. The young officer seemed super-vigilant, asking a considerable number of questions, demanding the vehicle registration papers – which Aatif supplied – then repeating questions thrown from the other officer about the goods in the back. Aatif answered these politely. But when the young cop got tetchy, Aatif’s voice also became just a little defensive. Then the older officer sidled up to my window and began to question me in Arabic. Fear coursed through me and it was a good thing he couldn’t see how much I was sweating. But I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead and, as instructed by Aatif, said nothing. The officer, irritated, reached in and tapped me on the arm. I turned to face him, but remained silent. Aatif was now saying something angrily to him, and whatever it was the cop backed away from me. Aatif continued, gesturing to the back of the four-by-four, tapping himself on the chest, pointing to me. The young officer exchanged a glance with his older colleague, then they both walked to the squad car with our papers. I glanced at Aatif. He refused to look at me, instead gripping the steering wheel, trying to remain calm. He looked over at the police car and saw again the poster with my photo on it. He closed his eyes, clearly regretting that I was here with him. I wanted to say something, but knew I had to stay silent. After what seemed like an eternity while the older officer read out the ID details over a police radio (would the centralised system register that the woman whose identity I was travelling under was actually dead?) he came marching towards us.
But instead of ordering me out of the car and uncovering my face, the officer handed back the two cards to Aatif. With a dismissive flick of the wrist he informed him that we were free to go.
Aatif muttered a thank-you, put the car into gear and drove.
Five minutes later, with the checkpoint far behind us and the road empty of cars, I turned to him and said:
‘I’m smothering in here. I have to take this off.’
Aatif said nothing but I could see he was not pleased. Pulling off the burqa I caught sight of myself in the rear-view mirror. My hair was drenched, my face beet red, terror in my eyes. Aatif handed me the bottle of water.
‘Finish it,’ he said. ‘You need it. We’ll get more in the next village.’
‘I am so sorry.’
‘For what? You did exactly what I told you to do. The police – they were just being difficult. When the officer asked about you I explained that you were mentally disabled, and could not understand him. He asked for proof. I told him to pull off your burqa and interrogate you – but that he would face serious consequences afterwards. That was when he backed off. But you saw the posters. Roadblocks are normal, but there are not usually so many. The police are looking for you and that makes using the main roads difficult. There will be no more checkpoints between here and Tazenakht, and all the villages where I pick up goods are on that route. We will have to find a back way for tomorrow.’
‘We were lucky with your sister’s ID.’
‘We only buried her two weeks ago. They probably haven’t registered her death as yet on their computers in Rabat.’
‘But that’s terrible. You should be having some time off.’
‘I have to work. My sister left two children. Their father is in the army stationed in the Western Sahara, near Mauritania. He sends back little money. My mother is looking after them, but she is a widow and elderly. So I have to work.’
‘Listen, that was a close call back there. I don’t want you to get into trouble, lose your livelihood—’
‘I said I would get you to Marrakesh. I will get you to Marrakesh.’
Ten minutes later we pulled into the village of Tissint. A row of low-lying buildings, dusty, fly-festooned; a butcher’s with bleeding carcasses, a few cafés, a mechanic’s shop, idle young men everywhere, the stench of rotting sewage amidst the blast-furnace heat. Aatif’s client was a large cheery woman who lived in a tiny lean-to house on the outskirts of the village. She insisted on offering us tea. I could hear Aatif explaining about me, using, I presumed, the excuse about my mental state. She smiled sheepishly at me as she helped him load up the intricately decorated velvet bedspreads and cushion covers that she made. Before we left she clutched his right hand with two of her own, apparently making some sort of plea.
When we were back in the car and heading to our next stop I asked him what her entreaty was all about.
‘She was telling me that her husband has been unwell. They have two young children. Because he is in hospital – and not expected to live – they are entirely dependent on the sale of what she makes, which I will sell to my merchant in Marrakesh.’
‘Do you have to negotiate with him for your clients?’
‘Of course. He is a businessman and he wants to buy at as low a price as possible.’
‘So you fight on their behalf?’
‘It is on my behalf too. I get thirty-five per cent of all their sales. The more I get for my clients the more I get for myself.’
‘How much did that woman back there ask you to get for her?’
‘She told me she needs fifteen hundred dirhams. That will get her and her two children through this month. Which means I need to sell her items for a bit over two thousand dirhams. This is not easy, as the merchant tells me the market is very bad right now. Not as many tourists as before – even though there is little trouble in Morocco. But I still argue hard for them.’
‘Can you make a living out of this?’
He seemed a little taken aback by the directness of my question. But then he said:
‘I can support myself. Trying to support a family . . .’
‘Do you have a family?’
‘Just my other sister who lives in Zagora. A schoolteacher. The only one of us who got a proper education. She is married to another teacher and they have two children. So I am an uncle.’
‘But no wife or children of your own?’
‘Not yet. But I have met a woman I like very much. Hafeza. She is a bit younger than me. Twenty-eight. A seamstress. Very kind with a good heart. And she would like many children like me. She’s also from my village – which means I know her family. I also know that several men before have asked for her hand, but she is very choosy. So, alas, is her father. He has told me that, though Hafeza wishes to be my wife, I cannot have her unless I can buy a house.’
‘He wants you to buy a whole house outright?’
‘Not outright – but he wants me to make – how do you say it? – a payment up front?’
‘A downpayment?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And how much would that cost?’
‘I’ve found a little place. Four rooms. Simple, but enough space. The price . . . one hundred thousand dirhams. I have saved over the last year maybe ten thousand. But the bank wants me to put down forty thousand before they give me a loan.’
‘And Hafeza’s father is adamant?’
‘Until I can move us into that house she will not be my wife.’
‘That’s a little rigid of him.’
‘I wish I could make more money faster. When I am back in my village I repair bicycles – a second tr
ade. But it maybe brings in three, four hundred dirhams a month.’
Forty thousand dirhams. That was just under five thousand dollars. Which meant the house itself cost around twelve thousand four hundred dollars. Less than a very basic car back home. The sum standing between Aatif and his dream of a wife, a family.
‘You’ve never been married?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘That’s surprising.’
‘Why?’
‘You are an extremely nice and honourable man – and there are few of that species out there.’
His reaction to this was a touching mixture of embarrassment and embarrassed pride.
‘You shouldn’t say such things.’
‘Why not?’
‘It will give me a big head,’ he said, all smiles.
He lit up a cigarette. The smile quickly faded.
‘Ten years ago,’ he said, ‘I proposed marriage to another woman from my village. Amina. She said yes. Then a man came through one day from Ouarzazate. A baker named Abdul. He owned three bakeries there. He met Amina. One week later he returned to see her father and propose marriage. Of course the father said yes. Because he had money and I have none.’
‘I can see why trying to find that forty thousand dirhams is so important.’
‘I will never get it. Her father has given me a year to do it, no more.’
‘And the bank won’t loan you more?’
‘I have a cousin who works at the bank in Zagora which is why I am getting the loan. But I make so little . . .’
From the look on his face I could see that Aatif wanted to get off this subject quickly; that even speaking about all this was, on a certain level, a voyage into territory he rarely discussed . . . especially with a woman.
We stopped at a village called Melimna, where an elderly woman loaded up the van with several dozen white linen tablecloths and napkins. I got to use a proper flush toilet for the first time in weeks. There were additional stops in Foum Zguid and Alougoum – tiny, sandstruck villages, with a few local shops, a café or two, and many men, young and old, loitering in the streets. At each stop Aatif was greeted in such a warm and welcoming manner that it was clear that the women whose goods he delivered to market trusted him as an honest broker. Again I could see everyone’s interest in this woman travelling with him – someone who clearly needed a lot of water behind her burqa. At every stop I entreated him to score us an additional two litres as I was seriously dehydrating encased in all those clothes. Aatif was adept at explaining away my presence, and also telling everyone that a defect at birth had robbed me of both speech and reason.
By the time we left Alougoum on a sandy half-paved side road, it was late afternoon and I could no longer stand being imprisoned in the strict Islamic dress.
‘Surely we can risk me getting out of these clothes for a while.’
Aatif thought about this.
‘We are going to get to Tazenakht – a town, not a village – by nightfall. I know a place beyond it where we can sleep for the night. Until then – this road is not much travelled, because it is unsurfaced. The police rarely set up checkpoints here. So, if you must change . . .’
He pulled over and went for another smoke as I got out of the burqa and djellaba, slipping back into the linen pants and shirt that were still sweat-stained from yesterday, but a complete liberation after the confinement in which I had been living.
Back in the car he had a question for me:
‘You have no children. Is this your choice?’
I paused before explaining the problems I had with my first and second husbands. I was certain that Aatif would think I was damaged goods if two men didn’t want children with me. But what he said instead surprised and disarmed me:
‘So you’ve had bad luck with men.’
‘Or maybe my choice of men . . .’
‘. . . was not worthy of you.’
I was about to thank him for such a lovely comment when, out of nowhere, we both heard the sound of a motorcycle approaching us from behind. Aatif immediately tensed. As did I.
‘Pull over,’ I hissed at him, thinking I could jump out and hide behind the vehicle until the bike had passed.
‘Too late,’ he hissed back, as the motorcycle sidled right up by our vehicle in the process of overtaking us. There were a man and a woman aboard, both in their twenties, both in jeans and denim shirts, both Caucasians. The woman smiled as they drove by. But seeing me she poked the guy steering the bike and said something urgently to him.
‘Accelerate,’ I told Aatif.
But it was too late for that. The bike had stopped directly in front of us, and the man and woman had dismounted and were pulling off their helmets. They both looked super-fit, well-heeled. They waved at us to stop. Aatif looked at me, wondering what to do.
‘I’ll deal with this,’ I said.
Aatif slowed the car to a stop. I got out. The couple approached me.
‘Parlez-vous français?’ the man asked in an accent which made it clear he was French.
I nodded.
‘Are you all right?’ the woman asked.
‘Yes, fine. Why?’
‘Aren’t you the American woman everyone’s been looking for?’
‘We’ve seen your picture everywhere.’
I had a decision to make – deny it and arouse their suspicion, or . . .
‘Yes, I’m that woman. And yes, this man is driving me to the nearest police station to let everyone know I am all right.’
‘What happened?’
‘That’s a long story.’
‘We could come with you.’
‘That’s very kind but there’s no need.’
I could see them staring at Aatif, trying to size up if he was dangerous or holding me against my will.
‘I would feel better if we accompanied you to Tazenakht,’ the man said.
‘Again, my thanks for such a generous offer. But I can assure you – I am not in any danger here. On the contrary, this man has got me out of a great deal of danger.’
They exchanged a glance. I could sense that they were wondering about my mental state, especially as I was clearly trying not to be nervous.
‘I can talk to your driver if you like,’ the man said.
It was time to end this.
‘I’m grateful for your kindness. But—’
‘Will you agree to meet us at the police station in Tazenakht?’
Damn these good Samaritans. Damn myself for taking off the burqa. I had to think fast.
‘I’ll tell you what – I’m sure there’s a café on the main drag. Say I meet you there in an hour? Then you can make sure I’m all right.’
‘We should follow them,’ the woman said in an undertone not meant for my ears.
‘And I have to phone Paris in thirty minutes. So we’ll go to the police station, tell them that we’ve seen her en route to Tazenakht and put it in their hands.’
‘By all means tell them,’ I said. ‘But the thing is, I’ll be seeing them as soon as I pull into town . . .’
The couple exchanged a look, and glanced again at Aatif.
‘OK,’ the man finally said. ‘See you in Tazenakht.’
‘The café on the main drag,’ I said, hoping there was one. ‘We can have a beer.’
The man checked his watch. He clearly had a scheduled call to make. Reluctant to leave me they walked back to the bike and shot off towards the horizon.
As soon as they were out of sight I rushed back to the car and climbed in. Aatif could tell that the conversation with the French couple hadn’t gone brilliantly.
‘We have to get off this road,’ I said. ‘Now.’
Twenty-five
AATIF THOUGHT FAST. If we headed south back to the main road at Foum Zguid, we would hit something of a dead end, as the road east was unpaved. He knew this because his own village, M’hamid, was a fifty-kilometre straight line from here. But the desert track passed through treacherous sand dunes. Vehicles got
bogged down in them – and at this time of year, with temperatures ferociously high, a horrible death was not out of the question.
‘Even if there was a direct road to M’hamid, it would be very hard to bring you to my village.’
‘Understood.’
‘But if we go west for Foum Zguid the road brings us very far south. Then we would have to head north through Agadir. Big tourist town. Many police.’
His solution: he had one more pick-up of goods to make in a tiny village of Asaka, only around ten kilometres inland from here down a narrow desert track. He had a client there whom he was planning to visit in two weeks’ time. But she always had goods on hand.
‘I’ll tell her that I have a little extra room in the back. There is another track near her house. We can sleep there tonight.’
‘Mightn’t the police come looking for us there?’
‘They will have been told by the French tourists that you were in a car with a Moroccan. If we are lucky they won’t mention the make of the car. But even so there are many vehicles like this here. You will have to go back behind the burqa. It’s the only way we can make it to Marrakesh. If we leave early tomorrow the police in Tazenakht will probably think we headed south. There may still be a roadblock, but my hope is that if they see me driving a woman in a burqa it will fool them again.’
Stepping behind the car I cloaked myself again. Then, with the light receding, we drove slightly north before turning right down a desert track. Unlike some of the other unpaved roads on which I had travelled this one was treacherous – an uneven surface featuring many ruts and the sandy equivalent of potholes. We bumped along at less than fifteen kilometres an hour, our progress slow, torturous. The landscape here was a return to the absolute remoteness of the oasis, only there was not the same sense of wide-open space. Rather it felt as if we were moving towards some cul-de-sac, from which there was no way out. There was a narrow barrenness to this route; a sense of heading to the end of the line.
‘I can see why the cops wouldn’t want to follow us out here,’ I said.
The Heat of Betrayal Page 28
