Lulu in Marrakech
Page 27
“Thank you, Colonel,” I said, at that moment adoring him. “We will always be friends.”
“Not that it explains much—the notebook. It will keep your friends busy translating it and checking out the little donors Khaled so virtuously solicited zatak from. Probably your friend Ian’s name will be there—who is so indifferent to human suffering as not to contribute something for the poor Saharawis, for the Iraqi refugees, for the dislocated of Darfur? You have heard the saying ‘The bombs of Belfast were born in Boston’? It is a bit the same. The bombs of Baghdad are born in Marrakech, to be sure, though also in New Jersey, Cairo, Paris, London, Riyadh. It involves so many.”
“She didn’t say good-bye,” I said of Suma.
“No? Maybe she believes her sojourn in our beautiful country was a mixed blessing. You’ll hear from her again, doubtless, or of her.”
He said again he would try to find out what had happened to Desi, but that such bureaucratic issues as the whereabouts of prisoners were often obscure.
Later, I looked at Khaled Al‐Sayad’s notebook in detail, pages and pages of names, in Arabic, so of course I couldn’t read them. But the colonel had told me Ian was in it, giving money to Rashid for his brother. Habiba and her husband. Rashid was in it, of course Khaled was in it, Dr. Kadimi was in it. Lord Drumm? There were so many, I realized everyone was in it, the world was in it, paying conscience money, revenge money, compassion money—money that would end up as a bomb.
At the airport I was apprehensive, sure that the DST, or the Moroccan police, or some French undercover agent would prevent me, but such is the power of the organization behind me, or else the insignificance of my departure, that nothing happened at all. I presented my passport, my tickets, my carry-on, now innocent of any liquids or gels—and I’d given my gun back to Taft. I embraced Ian, showed my passport, boarded the plane. My tears were only inward. It was an outwardly cheerful, hard‐ hearted person Ian was seeing off.
On the plane, I opened a letter from Gazi, or so I assumed from the childlike, round hand; it was mailed from Spain without the name of the sender—it could have been from Taft or Snyder. But it was from Gazi.
Dear Loulou,
I thought I’d write—I have not much else to do, frankly—my life is so quiet, I might as well be in Riyadh. Just joking! What do I do all day? I swim and walk around. There is shopping, time-honored pastime! But I do have to watch my pennies. It’s worth it, to be here, though. One of these days I’m going to rent a car. I have a nice apartment (one bedroom) in a hotel in Puerto Banus, looking out on lots of yachts, you can imagine exciting for this desert girl! Well not exciting because the calm of life.
Do you hear news of my children? I have written Suma but no reply. I never thought she liked me. I think she liked Khaled a lot! News of Khaled? I don’t care, I wish him in hell, but I don’t dare ask Ian for news of him.
Sometimes I cry. Oh yes, we have feelings too, beneath our creepy black masks. (No, I do not wear the abaya at all here. I am supposed to be a Lebanese. Don’t ask me how Ian managed that!) But the abaya did make me happy, cocooning inside!
I wanted to tell you, I do not resent you. You were always very nice to me, and I appreciate it. Also, I know how much Ian regards you.…
For the moment, I could read no further, exasperated at this childlike, self-centered missive. I stuffed it in my purse. I would keep it of course; it helped me understand what had gone wrong between her and Ian, if anything had: She was too dumb.
“I am glad you are going with me—well, I with you,” said Madame Frank in the seat next to me. “I am not at home in Angleterre really, though now I must take into account their habits. The English are my natural market for the Palmeraie, don’t you think? Just as Ian perceived when he bought the land in the first place. They love the sun, they can’t afford Saint-Tropez—well, that’s their own fault, it’s the English that have driven up the prices in France, they’ve bought it all up already.
“I’ve thought of the name for my development, ‘Les Arches d’Or,’ or maybe ‘du Soleil,’ and for the logo, tu sais, the Islamic arch. Just the simple shape in gold on the letterhead. Palm trees too banal, I thought, idem camels.”
“Are you just plunging into the English market, just like that?” “Non, non, I am associating myself with Knight Randall, very reputable big firm who will represent Les Arches d’Or in London and Glasgow. I am going to meet with them. And you? You must be sad to leave the charmant Ian and his lovely place. Where will you be living?”
I was surprised to see that Madame Frank thought of the lives of others enough to fish like this. But real estate salespeople have to be good psychologists and good gossips, I suppose.
“We didn’t really say good-bye,” I said. “He comes to London. His father lives there, you know. Lord Drumm. Lord Drumm’s been helpful in finding me a place. How about you?”
“I’m renting the flat of Sir Neil and Lady Cotter,” she said. “It will be a little office and pied‐à-terre. Un peu cher, I thought. The anglais are the most awful robbers. But I’m sure it will be lovely.
“You Americans are so impetuous,” she added. “We hope you aren’t breaking poor Ian’s heart.”
I said I doubted it, and anyway, we had sworn to keep up. So we flew off, not into the sunset, for we were flying east, but in the direction of dawn, agreeing it would be lovely in London, almost spring, probably rhododendrons already, and azaleas, or daffodils, but so hard to get used to driving on the left.
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
LULU IN MARRAKECH
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