by Jane Johnson
She looked to left and right, but what was the sense in seeking an escape? There was nowhere to run to, no one to help her. The thought of being sold into the hands of some stranger was terrible to her, but what was the alternative? To run through a strange city, only to be captured by a vengeful mob whose language she could neither speak nor understand? Or to throw herself off the city walls into the sea? She shivered. She had no wish to die yet.
They left the medina and came at last to the wide river’s bank, where a boat waited, the oarsman leaning on his pole, silhouetted against the sombre waters of the Father of Reflection. As Cat stepped into the boat, she thought of the tales Lady Harris had told her of Charon, who ferried the souls of the ancient dead across the black river into Hades, a passage marking the relinquishing of their old life and the beginning of a new, grim existence. All she lacked was the coin in her mouth, Cat thought; that, and the loss of her memories. As the ferryman poled the boat away from the bank of Slâ el-Bali, Cat gazed into the water that spooled away behind them and thought of her old life at Kenegie, with its easy duties among people whom she might not always have liked but largely understood. She thought of the easy green and gold landscape of Cornwall, the grass and trees and gorse, the soft rain and hazy sunshine. She thought about her lost family: her dead father, her dead nephews, her mother stripped grey and naked. Turning her thoughts sharply from that painful image, she thought instead of her cousin Robert Bolitho, whose heart she had spurned, and wondered if she could ever have reconciled herself to the little life he had promised her. It was, she thought bitterly, a question she need never ask herself now, for that was her old life, and ahead lay another, which was the way of things. Better be like the dead and accept one’s crossing over and not torture oneself with a future that could never be. Cat set her jaw and turned to watch the walls of Slâ el-Djedid looming before her.
On the water’s edge waited another man holding the reins of another beast; but these two were quite different from the pair she had left on the river bank of Old Salé. This man was tall and garbed in a long red robe trimmed with gold; a scarlet turban covered his head and most of his face. From a gilded bandolier across his body hung a jewelled dagger, and silver bracelets clattered on his wrist as he raised his hand to greet the ferryman. Beside him stood a tall horse, its head small-boned, its legs long and delicate: a pure-bred horse that would show a clean pair of hooves to the hunters in Kenegie’s stable. Its crimson saddle cloth was worked with gold, as were the bright tassels of its harness. If this man and horse belonged to her buyer, Cat reflected, he must be a man of great wealth, and one who wished that others knew it.
As the ferryman drew the boat up on to the shore, the horse stamped and tossed its head, but the turbaned man laid a hand on its muzzle, and it quieted. He stepped forward and pressed a coin into the boatman’s waiting hand.
Ah, thought Cat humourlessly; there it is: the payment for my soul.
Then the man turned to her, picked her up as if she were no heavier than a child and set her on the horse’s back. As wordless as his counterpart on the other side of the river, he led her through the streets of New Salé, beneath a great arched gate and into the Kasbah Andalus.
They made their way through a maze of narrow streets which wound up a steep hill, and the sound of the horse’s hooves rang on the stone and echoed off the walls on either side until it sounded as if a small army were ascending. At last they arrived at a long blank wall broken only by a tall wooden door. Here the man came to a halt and, without knocking or otherwise announcing his presence, pushed open the door and led the horse inside. The dry and dusty outside suddenly gave way to verdant life: palm trees, fruit trees, earthenware pots overflowing with bright flowers. A boy as black as ink came running over, bowed to the man in scarlet and held the horse’s reins as he helped Cat down. Two women emerged from a side door of a tall house and they too bowed to the man. Words passed among the three, guttural and harsh to Cat’s ears, and then the women took hold of Cat, not unkindly, bearing her away with them into the cool shade.
The next few hours passed as in a dream. She was bathed in a room thick with steam and rinsed in another chamber lined with cold white tile, where she was rubbed with perfumed ointments; her hair was washed, and a sweet-smelling oil was applied to it by careful hands. Someone brought her a silk shift, which felt so cool and smooth against her skin that she almost wept. Over this, they placed an embroidered robe. Her wet hair was wrapped in a headscarf, and they gave her a pair of soft, red-leather babouches for her feet. Then she was taken to a tall-ceilinged room with a canopied bed. Here, spreading their hands as if to say ‘this is for you’, they left her, closing the door quietly behind them.
What now, Cat wondered. She had been so cleansed and seasoned with perfume that she felt like meat that had been prepared for a rich man’s table. Was that what she was to become now, a rich man’s plaything, a creature of the bedchamber? She shuddered, and waited.
No one came. After a time she got up and opened the tall carved armoire against the left wall and found therein neatly folded cotton shifts, head cloths, three more robes in rich fabrics and another pair of leather shoes. She closed it again, frowning. Was she in some other woman’s room? She wandered to the window. Through the curlicues of its wrought-iron grille she could look down into a courtyard bright with marble and trees. Its geometrical design was soothing to the mind: a fountain in the centre sat within an eight-pointed reservoir from which four channels carried water to the corners and around the edges of the courtyard. Pots extravagant with blue and white flowers sat at counterpoint to the fountain, and at the outer corners, in raised square beds, stood four orange trees, their fruits glowing among the gleaming dark foliage. Its design reminded her of the courtyard at the house across the river where she had been taken to write the ransom demand, but this house was larger and finer by far.
Her mind again returned to the question of what manner of man had bought her. That he was wealthy seemed evident; but she knew the sort of enterprise that made men rich here, and probably the world over; being rich was clearly not commensurate with goodness or decency. But the house spoke of moderation and taste, of style and elegance. Everywhere she gazed there was evidence of the work of master craftsmen. Every possible surface and substance was decorated: the carved plasterwork which marked the transition between the gleaming walls and the high, coffered cedarwood ceiling; the walls were tiled to half-height with stylized starbursts, a motif which was echoed in the carving of the door, the tiles on the floor, the brass top of the table and the decorated glasses set upon it. It was, she had to admit, a pretty prison. But surely a prison all the same.
At last, exhausted, she lay down and slept. When she woke again, the sun was low in the sky, and she was very hungry. She went to the window. Three women, including the two who had bathed her, were at work down in the courtyard. One swept the paving, another watered the pots of flowers, while the third scooped rose petals out of the fountain. When they saw her looking out, one of the women beckoned her down. Cat went to the door, turned the great iron ring set therein and found to her surprise that it opened.
She made her way down a winding staircase and through the narrow corridor, following the light until she emerged in the courtyard. The women paused, then all of them started to talk at once – none, unfortunately, in a language she could understand. At last they seemed to realize this. One touched her bunched fingers to her mouth and mimed chewing. Cat nodded. Yes, she was hungry.
They brought her fresh-baked bread and honey, a bowl of sticky dates and nut-studded cakes, a silver pot of sweet green tea. She ate and drank it all, and the women exclaimed and brought more until she protested and waved her hands. They sat with her and shared out the second pot into tiny delicate glasses. The tallest of the three was called Yasmina, the youngest Habiba and the plump one Hasna, they told her. They had difficulty pronouncing her own name, so she settled for Cat.
‘Where is the man who owns this hou
se?’ she asked. She drew an invisible turban around her head, got up and mimed a man’s walk across the courtyard, until the women cried out with laughter. All she understood of their response was that he was away somewhere – one mimed a horse, or it might have been a boat; they would never make mummers, Cat thought. But he was a rich man, a merchant and a soldier, she ascertained at long last from their acted bargaining and swordplay; handsome too, according to Hasna, who blushed, though the others waved their hands in denial. Too solemn, Yasmina mimed, making her face grim and angry; too old, Habiba suggested, and too sad, pulling her mouth down in the universal expression of sorrow.
‘When will he come back?’
No one knew.
‘What am I to do here?’
They didn’t know that either. But the next day she opened her door and found outside a reed basket containing a roll of white linen, a dozen skeins of coloured silks and several fine needles of Spanish steel stuck through a book of red felt. So the raïs must have advertised her skills as an embroiderer, and her buyer had decided to test her ability. Perhaps her new master did not want her as a mere concubine after all.
Downstairs, she found Hasna and another woman waiting in the courtyard. Cat nodded to them.
‘Good day,’ said the other woman, bobbing her head.
Cat stared at her. ‘You’re English.’
‘Dutch, in actual fact, but I speak your language well enow that your master pay me to translate with you.’
Cat noticed now that she spoke with an odd lilt and clipped the words in an unfamiliar way. She held out her hand. ‘My name is Catherine Anne Tregenna. I was brought here as a captive from English shores.’
The other grinned, showing three gold teeth among the rest. ‘Oh, yes, that I know. I am called Leila Brink, brought here by my pig of a husband, God rest his soul.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry – ’
‘No need for sorry: none miss him, least of all I.’ Her eyes were merry enough amid the black kohl she had applied in the local style. ‘So, Catherine, what do you think of our city?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t understand your ways here. It is all too strange to take in. A… a man tried to kill me, on the slave blocks,’ Cat said. ‘He cast a dagger at me.’
Leila sighed. ‘Another attack. There are many fundamentalists here, to whom the presence of a living Christian is an eternal insult. Please do not judge us all by such mad creatures.’
That was a small relief at least. Then, ‘Can you tell me the name and nature of the man who has bought me?’ she asked. ‘I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting him.’
Leila gave her an odd look. ‘His name is Sidi Qasem bin Hamed bin Moussa Dib, a great benefactor and well-respected man, if somewhat grim of demeanour.’
‘They tell me he is a merchant and a soldier.’
‘That is right enow. He is a man with a good nose for a bargain and an eye to the main chance. He is also great patron of arts and such, not having wife and children to spend his fortune on. He will be a good master to you if you do what he wishes of you.’
‘Which is what?’
‘He says you are a master embroiderer.’
Cat coloured. ‘It was my aim in England to be such, but I never had the chance to train formally.’
‘I have some knowledge of the craft. My father was a guild master in Amsterdam; some of the finest work in Europe passed through his hands.’
Cat bit her lip. ‘What does he expect of me?’
‘Come, you will see.’
Cat hoisted her basket and followed the Dutchwoman and Hasna through dark corridors and up a set of stairs which wound around and about, until they emerged into a cool, bright workroom in which a dozen or more women and girls were gathered. A number of low wooden frames had been set at intervals throughout the room, and women sat at them cross-legged, fitting them with lengths of linen cloth. On a wide circular table had been arranged a bale of thick white linen, more coloured silks, a pair of shears, several rolls of paper and some thin sticks of charcoal. Everything was very ordered, and as quiet as a schoolroom.
She smiled at the women uncertainly and sat down by one of the unoccupied frames, shuffling to sit comfortably in this unaccustomed position. The frame before her was not much like the little round withy-wood frame she was used to at Kenegie, with its spring mechanism and small surface. This was larger and more primitive, but, as she bent her head to fit a length of linen to it, she saw that it was more than serviceable, even though sitting cross-legged at it felt strange. When she looked up again some moments later, it was to find the gaze of all the women upon her, assessing, expectant.
She looked to Leila, confused. ‘Are we waiting for the teacher to arrive?’
‘There is no teacher here but you,’ the Dutchwoman explained slowly. ‘These women know only to work the simplest of peasant designs. Sidi Qasem is determined that you shall widen their repertoire. You shall be a sort of ma’allema, a teacher – but only of embroidery. A true ma’allema would undertake some of their moral education too, though of course he would not expect that of you. He has other ambitions.’
‘Ambitions?’ Cat echoed, feeling all those dark, foreign eyes upon her.
‘The royal city of Fez makes a great fortune each year from the fine embroidery it exports to the world. There are three thousand houses of tiraz, official factories of embroidery, operating there. Very fine work, traditional – very beautiful. But every tiraz make same thing, over and over; is boring and loses novelty. He wants New Salé to show Old Fez that it can do better, combining European techniques with Moroccan craft. You will facilitate this new industry for us. These women are just a beginning: you will teach them, and they will become ma’allema too and pass what they have learned to others. If you succeed, you will be like guild master. Sidi Qasem will be rich, and so will you.’
Cat felt faint. In Cornwall she had railed against the limits set around her, like a great unscalable wall. With her work on the altar frontal she had felt as if she had climbed three or four rungs of a giant ladder that might eventually enable her to peer over that wall. Here, at a single bound, she found herself astride the summit, but instead of a golden vista below there loomed a great, yawning void.
‘What if I fail?’ she asked, and her mouth was dry.
Leila shrugged. ‘Is best not to fail.’
Cat touched her throat, where it felt as if her heart was trapped. What choice did she have? She must seize her fate and force down her fear. Perhaps she could achieve something extraordinary. Perhaps she could find the life she had always sought, even if it was on another continent, among strangers. She squared her shoulders. ‘We had better start with the fundamentals. If these ladies can show me the sort of stitches they use, we can begin with that. Then tomorrow each can bring an example of the work she has already done, or something she has in the family, so I may have a better idea of the styles of embroidery made here. But I also need to see the sort of thing that is made in… what was the name of the city, Fez?’
‘I am sure all that can be arranged. But a ma’allema does not sit on the floor among her students.’ Leila held out a hand and helped Cat to her feet. ‘You sit here.’ She indicated a carved chair set before the largest frame of all. ‘If you tell me what you need them to do, I will translate.’
Cat sat in the chair, which was low but wide, as if made for a much larger woman. Then she held up a hand. ‘My name is Catherine, I come from England, and I will be your teacher in embroidery. You will each tell me your name, and then we will start with some simple stitches.’
And so began her first lesson.
On that first day she took them through some of the more basic stitches and was relieved to find that not all were unknown to them, although they called them by different names. Damask stitch, flat stitch and a type of darning stitch they were familiar with. She showed them, in addition, cross stitch, chain stitch and a simple herringbone, which made them laugh: to them it looked more like a stalk of wheat
than like a fish. They showed her, in turn, Fez stitch, a sort of reversible backstitch producing work that looked the same on both sides of the fabric. She shook her head. ‘It’s very fine, but for most purposes it is wasteful: it uses a lot more thread. I think if you use a flat stitch instead, you will find you can achieve a similar effect on the only side of the fabric which is seen; and it is quicker too.’ She demonstrated, but they pulled faces. Old habits die hard.
The next day each woman brought a piece of work from home. One brought a tunic decorated at neck, cuff and hem with a simple stylized design. It was neatly done, if unambitious. ‘Very nice,’ Cat said approvingly. ‘Will you ask her what the pattern is?’
When Leila translated this, the woman – nut-brown and lacking a number of teeth – laughed and clacked her tongue, and Cat suspected she had demonstrated her foreign ignorance by asking the question.
‘It is the tree-and-stork design,’ the Dutchwoman explained. ‘They have used it here for centuries. The stork is baraka, a good omen.’
Which was all very well, but what was a stork? Cat had no idea. Leila shrieked with laughter. ‘Later I show you – there is a nest on the minaret.’
So it was a bird, then. Cheeks flaming, Cat looked back at the design. A bird with a long beak, she surmised, but was not much consoled by this.
Another woman had brought some long embroidered bands of a dense, complex design, with tarnished silver thread running through it. ‘This is not local,’ the translator said. ‘It is very old and was a part of her great-grandmother’s trousseau, and the old woman came originally from Turkey, she says. But this other piece’ – she held up a simpler, monochrome band – ‘is a ceremonial one for a man and comes from the Rif.’
