“A kite needs a tail to prevent it from spinning on its axis and crashing,” André was explaining to the children. He turned the kite over so that the cross that Benjamin had built from thin wooden sticks was on top, and slightly shortened the line that was attached to it.
“Now all we have to do is knot the tail onto the kite and then you’ll see how wonderfully it flies. Bon!” He got up. “Promise not to fight and to take turns holding the line?”
The boys nodded earnestly. André handed the line to Tom, beckoned one of the Arab boys to come closer, and gave him the kite. “What’s your name, son?”
“Sabri bin Abdul bin Ibrahim bin Ridwan bin Nurredin al Mogadori,” the little boy proudly answered. “But you can call me Sabri.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sabri. This boy here is called Tom Hopkins. You two are going to make this kite fly. You are going to take it and run as fast as you can while Tom holds the line. When I give you the signal, you’ll throw the kite as high as you can, oui?”
The boy nodded seriously, then ran down the beach, kicking up sand behind him.
“Now!” shouted André, as the line grew taut in Tom’s fist and the colorful kite rose into the blue sky, accompanied by the joyful cries of the children.
“Be careful not to let it fall into the water,” he warned.
Then he turned to Sibylla, who had been shouting encouragements to the boys as well, placed his hand on his heart, and bowed with exaggerated gallantry. “Now we’ll have some time to chat.”
“Why not?” she replied.
The wind tore at Rouston’s short black hair and Sibylla found herself wanting to touch it. She blushed again and reminded herself that this was madness. It would only end up making her unhappy.
And yet she could not stop her heart from pounding in her chest. She felt powerfully drawn to this Frenchman with his suntanned skin, laugh lines around his dark eyes, and wavy hair.
They had crossed paths several times since his heroics in the desert. She had seen him at New Year’s receptions at the European consulates and now and again at the souk, where he would be selling the Chiadma’s orange crop in spring and summer, the date crop in fall, and saffron and olives in winter. They had never been alone together and, still, every single one of their encounters was burned into her memory.
She had told no one about her disturbing feelings, but at night, when she heard Firyal tiptoe into Benjamin’s room, she would find herself thinking about Rouston and wonder if he had a Chiadma wife, perhaps even children, or if he preferred a life without attachments.
The strong wind carried them snatches of the muezzin’s call to asr, the afternoon prayer. André took off his jacket and laid it on the sand. “Please.” He smiled at Sibylla. “Do have a seat.” He sat down on the ground next to her and held out a paper bag. “Do you like roasted pistachios?”
“I do!” She reached into the bag. “I love Moroccan cuisine. We just don’t have all of these delectable tidbits in England.”
Rouston looked at her and a smile crossed his face. He too had felt an invisible bond from the first moment they met, and it made him happy in a way he had never known. He longed to tell Sibylla that he found her body, which her pregnancies had made fuller and more feminine, beguiling, and that the warmth radiating from her face made her the most beautiful woman in the world. But that was impossible. André had often wondered how fussy Hopkins, whose undiplomatic and grandiose demeanor had made him so unpopular with the Moroccans, could have been blessed with such an extraordinary woman as his wife.
“Monsieur Rouston?”
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, dear madame. What was it you said?”
“I asked you what brought you to Mogador. Do you have business in the souk? I’m there myself quite a bit. It’s a wonderful place, isn’t it? All the aromas and sounds! One alleyway smells of soap and perfume, the next has Persian carpets and Indian silks, and the next camel heads and freshly skinned sheep. How marvelous!”
André tore himself away from her glistening blue eyes and answered, “You are correct, I was at the souk to sell the saffron harvested in November. The merchants were expecting it. But, of course, I had to deliver some to the sultan’s private chef before anyone else.”
“Morocco’s red gold,” Sibylla said with a smile. “That’s what my father calls it.”
“Because it is the world’s most precious spice,” André replied with excitement. “It is a secret in most of the world, but the Chiadma taught me how to grow it.”
“And how is it that you, a European, came to be privy to this secret?”
“I arbitrated between the sheikhs of the Chiadma and the sultan, and was thus able to resolve a feud. As an expression of their gratitude, the Chiadma initiated me into the cultivation of saffron. Because, you see, the feud between them and the Alaouites had persisted for centuries and had brought their people to the brink of destruction. So now they prefer to pay him the ushur, the agricultural tax, rather than try to usurp his throne.”
“Perhaps one day you will sell the Chiadma’s saffron to us.”
“I would, but your husband refuses to buy. He tells me the export taxes are too high and that he has other merchandise he can export at a lower price.”
Sibylla looked him straight in the eye. “If you had negotiated with me, we would have found a solution satisfactory to all.”
He gave her a mischievous smile. “I do not doubt it. One day, when I grow my own saffron, I shall come to you first, my lady.”
“Benjamin had a hard time of it at the start,” Sibylla said, feeling the need to apologize for her husband. “But then, after Thomas’s birth, business began to take off. Now he is so busy that we hardly see each other.”
She glanced over to the children. It was little Sabri’s turn to hold the line, but John was already impatiently tugging at his kaftan.
“Benjamin did want to fly his kite with the boys,” she mused. “But then the Queen Charlotte came in earlier than expected.” Sibylla took another handful of pistachios. “Is it true that Sultan Abd al-Rahman often seeks your counsel? The rest of us foreigners are no more than useful infidels as far as he is concerned.”
André laughed. “Well, I do allow His Majesty to beat me at chess. But to speak seriously: Abd al-Rahman is a great admirer of Napoleon and I was a major in the Chasseurs d’Afrique—though I did not join until 1823, several years after his death. And I am not certain that the sultan truly trusts me. I shall find out soon, though. The Berbers in Algeria and their leader, Abd el-Kader, have issued another jihad against us French. I have no doubt the sultan is having me watched to see if I will join my native country to wage war against the true believers.”
“And? Will you?” Sibylla’s heart skipped a beat.
“Mon Dieu, no!” André crumpled the empty pistachio bag. “I took my leave of fighting a long time ago. If I could, I would purchase a piece of land here and grow my own saffron. Unfortunately, the sultan does not permit Christians to own land.”
Sibylla studied him with curiosity. Was this a good moment to ask if he planned to live in this country with a woman? Or if he perhaps already had a wife?
They were interrupted by loud shrieks coming from the beach. John was lying flat on his stomach in the sand and bawling at the top of his lungs. Tom had one of the Arab boys by the collar and was yelling in Arabic. “Let go of the string, you swine, or the djinn’s curse be upon you!”
The boy had apparently taken the kite’s string away from John, and Tom was coming to his beloved brother’s aid.
“Dear me!” Sibylla laughed awkwardly. “I must remind the servants to watch their language in the children’s presence. Boys!” She jumped to her feet. “You are not to fight!”
She ran to the children, and André followed. John scrambled to his feet and she picked him up. The little Arab boy had fallen into a clump of sea pink and had dried petals all over his clothing and in his hair. His face was very angry as the Frenchman gave him a stern talking-to. Eventually, he returned the line to Tom, his head hung low.
“However did you manage to appease them so quickly?” Sibylla asked once they were sitting in the sand, watching the children play peacefully once more.
“I threatened to unleash the ghosts of the Christian slaves who were walled in when this fortress was built,” André answered with a grin.
“What? Immured people? That’s the kind of talk with which you frighten children? You can’t be serious!” Sibylla shuddered.
“I’m not. To be honest, I am not sure if this old wives’ tale is true. In fact, I asked the boy if he was such a weakling that he felt it necessary to take things from a much smaller boy. And I could not help but notice, madame”—André scrutinized her with feigned severity—“Thomas can curse alarmingly well in Arabic.”
Sibylla was embarrassed. “He must have picked it up from some playmates or the servants. There are some disadvantages to having your children learn the local language.”
“You must plan to stay in Morocco for some time.”