Crossed Bones

by Jane Johnson

  ‘May I see?’

  ‘It isn’t finished.’

  He held out his hand. Reluctantly, she passed it to him, watched as he examined it, turned the fabric over, handed it back. ‘We believe it is wrong to show realistic representations of living things.’

  He watched as her face fell and went on more kindly, ‘There is story, a hadith. According to Ayesha, who was Prophet’s favourite wife, Mohammed came home one day from expedition and found in one corner of room a hanging she had ornamented with embroidered human figures. At once he pull it down, saying: “On Day of Resurrection worst punishment shall be reserved for those who seek to imitate beings created by God.” And so chastened, Ayesha took down hangings and cut them apart, avoiding human figures, to make pair of cushions.’

  Cat felt quite sorry for Ayesha: her husband sounded a fearsomely pious man. She frowned. ‘But I’m not really seeking to re-create these things, just to show a simple version of them, interpreted in my own way.’

  ‘Is that which is presumptuous.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘But isn’t it just another way to appreciate God’s works? To think about them for yourself?’

  The raïs closed his eyes, considering. After a while he said slowly, ‘In the south of my country, in the mountains where my father’s tribe comes from, the women weave images of camels and sheep into their carpets; but they are peasant women: they know no better.’

  Cat flushed. ‘I’m no ignorant peasant! Where I come from it is considered a great gift to be able to represent the beautiful things of our world.’

  Al-Andalusi regarded her solemnly. ‘God is beauty and he loves beauty. Camels are things of great beauty, it is true. And so is woman in a fury. I am not sure which I like better.’ And then he smiled and held her regard, until she looked away, uncomfortable.

  Her hands were shaking; she did not know why. Gathering up the linen, the skein of wool and her little book, and hugging them to her, she said, ‘When will we arrive in Slâ?’ She had learned to pronounce the Barbary port after his own fashion, though it was ugly to her ears.

  ‘We cleared the Cabo de São Vicente yesterday; if the wind is good to us we arrive later tonight.’

  That was sooner than she had expected; much sooner. Cat could hear the blood beating in her ears. ‘And what will happen to me then?’ she asked.

  Silence stretched out between them like a wire. What did she want him to say? That he would keep her to be ransomed to her family back home? But with her mother and uncle on the same vessel, she did not even know to whom she might write, let alone how such a letter might make its way back to Cornwall – which now seemed another world, in another time. There was her cousin Rob, and Rob alone, who might care enough to work for her release; but could he prevail upon the goodwill of Lady Harris to speak to her husband on Cat’s behalf? Somehow, she could not imagine that, even if he did so, Lady Harris would care much for the welfare of one she regarded as at best a servant, and at worst a wanton coquette. Neither could she conceive of Sir Arthur giving such a huge sum of money into the hands of foreign corsairs for an uncertain return, for why would he bolster the fortunes of the very enemies it was his duty to defend the coast against? The other possibilities – that the raïs would give her into the hands of the man he named the Sultan, or sell her to the highest bidder at the slave markets Dick Elwith had spoken of – were too terrifying to contemplate further. The final scenario – that he would keep her for his own household, as he had once intimated, before declaring her too clumsy – gnawed at her. She knew she shouldn’t hope for such an outcome, that to enter the domicile of a barbarian pirate whose sole aim in life was to murder and steal from her own people was to be regarded by civilized folk as a grim fate; but if her duties included such simple tasks as teaching his womenfolk her needlework skills, then surely to be a servant even in this foreign land was preferable to being sold to a stranger who might use her for who knew what dire purpose? Now she was shaking, courage failing.

  ‘I do not know,’ he said. ‘I have not yet decide.’

  She looked up, startled. He was staring at her, dark and intense.

  ‘Come with me, Cat’rin,’ he said suddenly, holding out his hand. ‘You shall see stars shine down on Africa and moon rise over city that is my home.’

  He wound a length of cotton about her head and face, leaving only her eyes naked to the sight of his crew, and she wondered at his reason, for he had never covered her before. But this time as she passed, instead of staring at her with curiosity or hostility, the crewmen bowed their heads, and none bothered her. They went down the companionway into the waist and walked the length of the ship. Above them, the sails cracked – great squares of white on the main masts, and elegant triangular sheets on the mizzen – and in the black sky above a heavy yellow moon hung, tinged with red as if with blood. A hunter’s moon, they’d call it back home, Cat thought, and wondered what it presaged for her future. Stars were scattered across the firmament, thousands of them, and so bright, particularly one. She found her eyes drawn to it, for it blazed like a silver beacon overhead.

  ‘Shining One,’ Al-Andalusi said softly. ‘Al-Shi-ra. Egyptians named it Star of Nile and predicted rising of floodwaters by its appearance; Romans called it Dog Star. In old religions, it guard way into Heaven – do you see great bridge of stars that lie beneath?’ And when she looked, she could see a glowing swathe of milky white, a bridge between Earth and Heaven. ‘And there’ – he turned her about and pointed – ‘to north shines Al-Qibla. From its position we can determine direction of Mecca, sacred city of Prophet.’

  ‘But that’s the Pole Star!’ Cat cried, astonished. Rob had shown it to her so many times that now she could find it for herself. ‘I know that one. We call it the Fisherman’s Star: they use it for navigation.’

  He smiled. ‘Sailors use it thus, also. I have sail to many places in world using that star as guide. To Valetta and Sardinia, Constantinople, Cabo de Verde, even as far as Newfoundland.’

  To Cat, these were merely names; but they sounded exotic and far-flung. And she, who had never travelled further than the Bartholomew Fair at Truro and had wished so hard for wider horizons, was now looking at the savage land of Africa.

  With the Pole Star at their backs, the wind drove them on towards a line of indistinct dark shadow rising from the foam-flecked sea. They stood there in silence, watching the land come closer.

  ‘That is Morocco, Jezirat al-Maghrib – island where sun sets; my home.’ There was something in the vibrant tone of his voice that made her turn to look into his face. His eyes shone, reflecting the moon; but they blazed from within as well, making him almost demonic in his fervour. She shivered, and looked away.

  Gradually the indistinct revealed itself, moment by moment, rendering up the outline of cliffs, a breakwater washed by surf, a slender tower whose tiled roof glinted silver-green in the moonlight, a wide-mouthed river flanked on either side by massive fortifications. Whatever it was that Cat had been expecting of her first sight of the dark continent, it was not such evidence of a powerful martial culture, or anything so shockingly contrasting as the ethereal tower.

  ‘Slâ el-Bali – Salé the Old’ – the raïs indicated the settlement on the left bank – ‘and Slâ el-Djedid – New Salé on other side. I have family in both cities – among the Hornacheros of New Salé and followers of the Sidi al-Ayyachi in old city, which give me rare perspective, unusual advantage in my dealings. They will all be glad to see what I have brought them!’ He called something to his crew, and a man unshuttered a lantern once, twice, three times. Answering lights flashed from the top of the fortress, and he laughed. ‘They already know it is one of their own: they well remember this pretty ship, and no other would dare to enter river by night. It is treacherous even in the brightest sunlight, for all it bears the tranquil name of Bou Regreg.’ In his tongue the word sounded as harsh as the call of a crow – bu-rak-rak.

  ‘What does it mean?’ she asked, eyeing with dread th
e looming fortress, the myriad robed figures moving around its battlements and gun emplacements.

  He thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. ‘Yussuf Raïs told me it was in your language “Father of Reflection”, for on calm day when river lies as still as a sheet of tin you can see all of Heaven reflected in it; but a man must reflect carefully when he steers his ship in its waters, for beneath gleaming skin lies hidden sandbar that has broken backs of a thousand ships; and a thousand more have foundered in its winding channels.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘Is good to come home, triumphant and with great success.’ He closed his eyes, ran his hands down his face, kissed the right palm and touched it to his heart. ‘Shokran lilah.’

  Triumphant. Successful. Bringing a shipload of Christian slaves, most of whom were bound, if the stories below deck were true, for the galleys and the slave markets, for ill use and beatings, for torture and enforced apostasy, and ultimately death in a strange land. Something hardened in her heart against the confusing feelings he stirred in her. Words welled up and spewed out before she could stop them.

  ‘You tell me about the terrible things the Spanish did to your family and say that you carry holy war to the Christians as just revenge and on behalf of the Mahometan people. But if your religion says it is right to treat anyone the way you have treated the innocent men, women and children in the hold of this ship, who lie in filth and die of disease and ill treatment, then I say it is a wicked, cruel religion and that your god is not my god!’

  She saw the fury in his eyes; she saw his hand make a fist which trembled with the effort it took him not to strike her. Time seemed to stand still. She stared at him till she thought her knees would fail her, not knowing whether she had said a stupid thing that she would have a short lifetime to regret, or whether she had touched home a point that might give him pause. But, just as she thought the latter might prevail, he shouted, and seconds later she found herself seized by two crewmen who came running at his summons.

  ‘I have not time to dispute with you. I have the Bou Regreg to navigate and ship to dock. Is not my habit to argue with women. You will be taken back to your people: your fate shall be their fate. No one question my religion or my god. No one insult memory of my family. I thought you worth more, and not just money. But you same as rest, ignorant and faithless. You could have lived like queen in most beautiful house in kasbah; now you take your place on blocks with rest.’ And he waved the men away and turned his back on her.

  18

  Casablanca Airport was bewildering. Seas of people engulfed me as soon as I stepped into the main concourse: travellers in expensive European designer clothes, men in sharply cut suits and sunglasses, others in flowing djellabas, West African women in bright prints and fabulously wound turbans, extended families herding children and trolleys buckling under the strain of overstuffed bin-bags, saran-wrapped suitcases and cardboard boxes. I passed a roomful of men kneeling on prayer mats, a football team in matching shell-suits, innumerable security staff in military uniforms and out-sized sidearms. All around me swirled a Babel of languages. My schoolgirl French was not up to interpreting the muffled announcements over the tannoy or the confusing signage; by the time I had queued for an hour at the correct security point, haltingly answered the immigration officer’s questions (‘Vous voyagez seule, sans votre mari?’ ‘No, no husband…’ His eyes bored into me), located the baggage-reclaim hall and retrieved my bags, and at last stumbled out into the oven-hot air of the exterior, there was only one vehicle left in the taxi lane. It was a Mercedes, and not just any Mercedes, but an ancient stretch limo. I stared at it in disbelief. Must be waiting for a local celebrity, I thought, but as soon as I laid eyes upon it the driver fairly flew out of the door and seized my bags. I held on, equally determined. ‘Combien à la gare de Casa Port?’

  ‘For you, three hundred dirham, madame,’ he answered me in perfect English.

  ‘I’ll give you two hundred.’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Two hundred.’

  He looked pained. I thought he was about to lecture me on starving his children, but he merely gestured at the Merc. ‘Such beautiful car, how I can maintain on such little fare?’

  There was no answer to that, so I just shrugged and smiled.

  He sighed. ‘Such beautiful eyes; for your eyes I take you for two hundred.’

  ‘My train for Rabat leaves at five: will we make it?’

  ‘Inch’allah. Is in the hands of God.’

  Feeling distinctly nervous now, I watched my cases being swallowed by the boot, then took a seat in the back. When a second and third man appeared at his call, I dug out my mobile phone and got ready to call Madame Rachidi at the riad, hoping that she would have some useful advice for me, or at least alert the local police on my behalf. The driver took his place behind the wheel and his friends disappeared from sight around the back. I whipped my head around, paranoid – only to find them bump-starting the car. At the third attempt, it roared to life.

  Great, I thought. I am alone in a foreign – a really foreign – country, with a man who’s already complimented my eyes, and now has two mates sitting up front with him, heading for a city I’ve never yet visited, in a car that may break down at any minute. Perhaps Alison had been right.

  My qualms were on the way to full-blown panic by the time we approached the outskirts of the city, and the driver swerved wildly across three lanes of traffic to take an abrupt detour into the suburbs. The typically bland motorway down which we sped at alarming speed into the city had offered no clue to the flavour of the country in which I had arrived; but suddenly we were in the bidonvilles.

  The driver must have seen my expression in his rear-view mirror, because he turned around, one hand still casually draped over the steering wheel at what felt like sixty-odd miles an hour, and told me cheerfully, ‘There is camera and police. Always they stop me, is very expensive!’

  I tried not to imagine all the worst things that could happen to a woman on her own in the slums of Casablanca and applied myself to taking in the unfamiliar new environment that fled past the windows of the slewing car. Crumbling adobe houses and tin shacks between which ran alleys of beaten red earth frequented by a Third-World mélange of little black goats, skinny chickens, bone thin cats and ragged children; cars rotting away under the blazing sun, weeds pushing up through the rusting carcasses of broken bicycles; lines of washing flapping in the dusty breeze; bright carpets hung over terrace walls; roofs of corrugated iron sprouting a forest of satellite dishes. Two men squatted beside an electricity pole playing a draughts-like game with coloured bottle tops and stones; others sat on doorsteps, smoking and staring into empty air. A woman robed from head to toe in white cotton washed unfeasibly large garments in a small tin bath; she raised her head to watch our passage incuriously, then returned without any trace of reaction to her task: the stretch Merc was clearly a frequent visitor through this insalubrious quarter.

  Then, just as abruptly, we were back on the main road again, and the slums had vanished in a cloud of dust. Moments later we were speeding through a thoroughly modern city – creamy-white low-rise apartment blocks, shop windows, billboards and traffic lights, not that anyone seemed to take any notice of them. The blare of car horns was deafening: it seemed that every jam, every hold-up, every awkward manoeuvre was someone else’s fault. Ten lanes of traffic converged in a lethal-looking knot at every major junction. If their horns weren’t working – or even if they were – motorists stuck their heads out of the window and helpfully offered to others gems of basic driving advice. Three-wheeled bicycles to whose front ends were appended unwieldy cartloads – of fish, of vegetables, of scrap metal – wove a dangerously unstable path between the cars and buses. Sometimes suicidal pedestrians wandered into this appalling mêlée, but we passed too quickly for me to see whether they survived. We drove past glittering hotels, chic boutiques, showrooms displaying top-of-the-range cars, designer kitchens, flat-screen televisions. The three men in the
front of the Mercedes joined in the general rush-hour conversation, shouting oaths, shaking fists and wagging fingers, and the charms and amulets hanging from the rear-view mirror pirouetted wildly.

  The will of Allah was that I should arrive at Casa Port Station in one piece, and just in time to catch my train to Rabat. My driver, Hassan, shoved his way to the head of the queue to buy my billet simple, persuading the guard to allow him through the barrier, carrying my bags right on to the train for me, finding my designated seat and stowing my luggage safely above my head. He shook my hand vigorously. ‘Bes’salama. Allah ihf’dek. Dieu vous protège. God go with you.’

  He absolutely refused to take a tip, leaving me staring after him open-mouthed with amazement and gratitude.

  My carriage was largely comprised of business people, judging by the number of briefcases and laptops on display, and a surprising percentage of these were women, some dressed entirely in Western clothing, others in full-length pastel robes complete with hijab, while others went bareheaded. Each one wore a quite extraordinary amount of make-up: full-cover foundation, powder, lipstick and pencil, blusher, thick black eyeliner, eye-shadow, highlighter, eyebrow pencil, all very expertly applied – and exquisite, high-heeled shoes. Kohled eyes watched me covertly – poor woman, travelling on her own; no children, no sign of a wedding ring, and so inelegantly dressed too – has she no pride in herself to be wearing such old jeans and ugly trainers, and not a trace of cosmetics? No matter how swiftly they looked away, I could read their thoughts in an instant. The men smiled at me kindly: perhaps in their eyes too I was worthy of pity. One young man, keen to show off his English, asked me if I was visiting his country for the first time, and what did I think of it, and did I need somewhere to stay in Rabat, because his family would happily take me into their home. I told him it was my first visit, that what little I had seen of Morocco so far seemed fascinating and I was looking forward to discovering much more; and that yes, thank you, I had arranged my accommodation in Rabat. I watched his face fall.