“What do you think of this year’s crop?” he asked now in anticipation.
She opened her eyes. “Aromatic, somewhat bitter, with a trace of honey. Very good! But I would not have expected anything less from you. As agreed, here is one hundred pounds sterling.”
“What’s the rush?” André pushed the cloth with the saffron aside and leaned toward her gently. “Why don’t you tell me how you are? After all, we’ve not seen each other for almost a year.”
Sibylla was silent. The single deep wrinkle that had appeared on her forehead back when he’d hurt her so unspeakably deepened.
“Have you made preparations for Christmas?” he ventured.
She nodded and her face brightened a bit. “This year I am celebrating in a grand way. Thomas and John are coming home. I expect them any day now. John is bringing his family: his wife Victoria and the twins. I’ve been a grandmother for a year, André, and haven’t seen my grandchildren yet, can you imagine?” Now she was radiant.
“No, quite honestly, I cannot fathom that you are a grandmother, Sibylla. Not if I compare you with my old mémé, sitting by the fire in the wintertime, knitting socks with her arthritic hands. I believe your daughter-in-law is going to be quite surprised, and quite taken with her remarkable mother-in-law.”
“You’re flattering me, André Rouston. Victoria is a Londoner. She will surely find me backward and out of touch.”
“Never!”
He was delighted to see her blush and added, “Incidentally, I just saw Emily at the harbor. She was sketching the fishermen. I must say, your daughter is growing ever more beautiful. Can she really be eighteen already?”
Sibylla’s smile vanished. “What about this saffron? Do you accept my offer?”
André tried not to sigh. He had so many questions he wanted to ask about Emily. But every time he tried, Sibylla shut down.
Chapter Twenty-One
Emily Hopkins sat on the quay wall, chewing on a dried date and looking at the warehouse from which André Rouston had just come. She really liked Monsieur Rouston. He always inquired how she was and always brought her a little gift. Today, it was dates from his estate.
When she was younger, Emily had sometimes pretended that Monsieur Rouston was her father. She knew next to nothing about her real father, Benjamin Hopkins, other than that he had been killed before she was born. Her mother did not like to talk about him. But Firyal had told her that he had been a gentleman and had died a hero.
“El Sayyid Hopkins was very handsome,” she had said reverently. “It was my duty to take care of his suits. He had very elegant suits from England, not like the tunics that Arab men wear. He was also taller than Arab men and did not have such coarse hair. The master’s hair was like gold.”
Unfortunately, Emily’s mother had caught Firyal waxing lyrical about her master and sent her to the kitchen at once. After that, Firyal had never mentioned Benjamin again.
The other servant, Nadira, never mentioned him either. “The mistress does not wish for us to talk about the deceased master,” she had explained to Emily. “It causes her pain.”
Once, Emily observed to her mother that she and Monsieur Rouston had the same dark, curly hair. But her mother had reacted so angrily that Emily had never mentioned Rouston to her again.
She picked up another date and looked over at the fisherman, squatting in his small boat and repairing his net, undisturbed by the rocking of his boat. He had spread the coiled net out on his lap and was carefully checking for tears in the meshwork.
Emily took her charcoal and began to draw. She started with the broad strokes before getting down to details. She sketched the fisherman’s weathered features, which told of his hard life at sea as well as the concentration with which he worked. She drew his bent back, his crooked fingers that stitched up holes with a wooden needle.
Ever since Emily could remember, she had been passionate about drawing. She had scribbled in her fairy-tale books, on the whitewashed walls of her room, and later on at school, she had drawn figures and landscapes on her slate instead of numerals and letters. Her teacher had been extremely angry upon discovering his portrait with an unflattering bulbous nose in Emily’s arithmetic book, but later, she and her mother had laughed about it. After that, Sibylla had ordered colored pencils and drawing paper from England, as well as a book that taught Emily to develop drawings of people and animals from geometric figures, how to show perspective and adjust proportions.
Yet this was a learned technique. The expressiveness with which she drew had never been taught to her. Monsieur Rouston had once remarked that she expressed the soul of her subjects. And for her fifteenth birthday, he had given her an easel, canvases, brushes, and paint.
Emily especially liked to draw at the harbor or in the souk, wherever there was a lot of activity. Many of Mogador’s inhabitants knew her and were happy to have her draw their portraits, while others did not like it, as representative drawing was considered a sin against God, the sole creator of everything.
But the fisherman by the quay wall did not mind. Every now and then he smiled at Emily. She sketched the folds of his kaftan with very few lines and smudged them with her thumb to show shadows. When the drawing was finished, she scribbled her name and the date at the bottom and placed it in a leather portfolio. Then she propped herself up with her hands on the rough stone wall, leaned back, and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her skin and the wind in her curly hair.
In three months, she would turn nineteen, and she knew it was about time for her to figure out what to do with her life. Most of her peers from school had traveled to Europe to be introduced into society and meet suitable husbands. Some had written her to tell her that they were engaged. John’s wife, Victoria, was only one year older than Emily and already a mother! But Emily felt no longing for marriage or motherhood and was grateful that her own mother did not press her. Her greatest desire was to attend an art academy in Europe to study painting and perhaps even learn about the new art of photography.
She had shared this wish with her mother not long ago. “Why not?” Sibylla had answered, much to her Emily’s delight. “But it’s impossible just now. You cannot travel to Europe by yourself and I cannot abandon the business here. Once your brothers return from Europe and John can take over some of the business, we’ll talk about it again.”
Now that Thomas and John were about to return from England, Emily passionately hoped her mother would keep her promise.
A shadow fell on her face. She opened her eyes and recognized Mr. Philipps, the harbormaster, standing next to her.
“Good morning, Miss Hopkins. I have received word that the Urania is coming through the port entrance. If I am not mistaken, that’s good news.” He winked at her congenially.
Emily jumped up. “Tom and John are back! I must tell Mother right away! Thank you, Mr. Philipps!”
“It’s unimaginable that Emperor Nero had saffron strewn on the streets of Rome for his triumphal procession,” André remarked and ran his fingers through the tiny dried pistils. Just a few weeks before, they had still been embedded in the heart of the small crocus plants that had created a thick carpet of lilac blossoms. Soon they would tickle fastidious taste buds in dining rooms and restaurants all over the world.
“With the quantities that would entail, I suspect that he resorted to marigolds and the like,” Sibylla replied dryly. She unlocked the wooden cabinets, took out two round earthenware vessels and a scale, and placed everything on her desk. After weighing the saffron, she filled the two pots with it, returned them to the cabinet, and checked that the padlock was locked.
“May I offer you a cup of tea?”
“Avec plaisir.” André was delighted.
“How has business been this year?” he inquired, after Aladdin’s brother had placed the steaming glasses on Sibylla’s small table.
“Please, take a seat.” She pointed to the low table with some chairs in the corner of the room. “To be honest, this year has been patchy. On balance, Spencer & Son has not suffered any losses, but the years of drought have definitely impacted the local leather, our main export.”
He grinned. “Businessmen always complain. I am sure that your brother in London will still be pleased. He knows that no one is better equipped to handle the Morocco trade than you.”
“You know, I believe you are right,” she said, flattered.
“Of course I’m right. If he weren’t pleased, he would have sent someone else to Mogador.”
Sibylla took a sip of tea. “Luxury items are what sells best these days. Qaid Samir’s wives do the most exquisite embroideries for me.” He could hear the enthusiasm in her voice. “The fashion-conscious ladies in Europe can’t get enough of handkerchiefs, shawls, and cushions embroidered by dainty hands in an exotic Oriental harem. I’m negotiating at the moment with embroiderers in Fez and Marrakesh because the demand is so great. Unfortunately, I am in competition with the merchants of Casablanca and, since the harbor there is larger and more modern, I don’t fare very well. Sultan Sidi Mohammed ignores all my contributions to the expansion of the harbor here.”