The Lioness of Morocco(67)

“Sabri, please hold the candle closer.”

Thomas leaned over Aynur and examined the wound on her arm as well as he could in the flickering light. It was a bright day outside, but he had closed the shutters.

“What’s going on here? Why is it so dark? Why is she not getting any fresh air?” André panted.

His vertigo and headache had prevented him from keeping pace with Sabri. He had also stopped outside to console Malika, who was hysterical because Thomas had said that each additional person in the room was excruciating for her mother.

“Shush, Monsieur Rouston!” Thomas whispered. “Noise causes her pain, but tranquility and darkness do her good, don’t they, madame?” He smiled at Aynur.

The cramps that had made her slender body twitch as André entered had subsided. She was lying still. However, her back was stiff as a board, as though stretched between two pegs.

André felt his way to the head of the bed. The sight of his wife, whose pretty face had been frozen into a ghastly mask, teeth bared, gave him a fright. He was only too familiar with this look. He had seen it often enough on his wounded comrades during the Algerian War.

“The doctor will help you, ma chère,” he whispered. “Don’t be afraid.”

He gently caressed her sweat-beaded brow with his fingertips. Immediately, her neck went into spasms, bending her head all the way back. André quickly jerked away, shaken to the core. Only by her eyes was his wife still recognizable. Deep black eyes, in which her agony, which she could not escape, was written. Since he had entered the room, these eyes had followed him, had stared at him without blinking. She wanted to say something to him with that look. André sensed what it was, but was too terrified to accept it.

“Sabri, hand me the bottle of silver salts from my bag. I want to cleanse the wound again. And I also need fresh dressing material,” Thomas whispered.

Sabri brought them over. “I got you some quinine powder as well, for the fever.”

“Good idea.” Thomas treated Aynur’s wound with a few careful movements with Sabri assisting him and André holding the candle in his trembling hands. He carefully shielded her face from the light to spare her unnecessary agony. Still, her frail body was racked by spasms as soon as Thomas touched her ever so lightly.

André was haunted by long-forgotten memories of helpless surgeons on the edge of battlefields, of shocked and frightened soldiers having to witness the agonizing death of their comrades. Aynur’s eyes with their dilated pupils were fixed on him as though in a silent scream. She knew what was in store, and she was begging him for help. His eyes welled up. He bowed his head and softly stroked her hair. “I know, ma chère,” he whispered. “I know what you’re asking me.”



A short while later, he stood in front of the sickroom with Thomas and Sabri. He was white as a sheet and had to support himself against the wall. He had sent Malika away to make some tea for her mother. “I want you to be honest with me, Doctors. Is there anything you can do for my wife?”

Thomas looked gravely at Sabri. “What do you think, my friend?”

The young physician moved his head side to side. “Convulsions in the affected arm, risus sardonicus, musculoskeletal tension of the back, high fever, discolored margins, and greatly increased sensitivity. The wound is badly infected.”

Thomas nodded slowly. “That’s my diagnosis as well.”

“So it’s tetanus,” André concluded. “Is it still possible for you to amputate the arm?”

The two physicians exchanged looks. “You’re familiar with this, Monsieur Rouston?”

He took a deep breath. “During the war in Algeria, I became better acquainted with the deadly symptoms of tetanus than I care to recall. So, gentlemen, what is your opinion?”

Thomas cleared his throat. “I’m afraid it’s too late for an amputation. I recommended it to your wife, but she wouldn’t hear it. By now, the toxins have spread all over her body.”

“Apart from that, the patient is weakened considerably. The danger is great that she would not survive such a procedure,” Sabri added.

André lowered his head. His chest felt like it might split in two. Yet nothing compared to the pain Aynur was having to endure. “How much time does she have?” he finally managed.

“One day, two at most,” Thomas replied, and Sabri nodded.

André thought about the look Aynur had given him. It was the last plea of a dying woman, and he vowed to comply with it, no matter how difficult it might be. He looked each of the doctors in the eye and said, “I know how this disease progresses and I have seen people die from it. But Aynur will not die that way. Her cramps will not break her bones. She will not suffocate from paralysis, drowning in fear. My wife will leave this world in a dignified and pain-free manner. That is her wish, and I will see it honored. My question for you, Dr. Hopkins, and you, Dr. bin Abdul, is the following: Can my wife count on your help?”

The three men were silent. Thomas and Sabri exchanged tense glances. Thomas’s head was spinning. What about the Hippocratic oath that he and Sabri had taken, the holy oath of physicians to do no harm? For Thomas, that oath had been the solemn culmination of his medical studies, and he took it very seriously. He had seen much misery in the slums of London. He had personally witnessed the cruel death that a tetanus infection could mean. At times, he had caught himself quarreling with God and with himself when a patient had to die slowly and painfully, especially where children were concerned. Nonetheless, until now, he had not dared interfere with the Lord’s decisions.

“I realize what I’m asking you to do.” André’s voice cut through the silence. “But my wife’s death is certain, and you are asking much more of her than I am of you if you deny her peace.”

Thomas looked intently at Sabri. “I believe that she should be allowed to die a peaceful death. What do you think, my friend?”

Sabri looked unblinkingly at Thomas. Then he said quietly, “Amin, so be it.”

Thomas felt a profound sadness over his inability to save Rouston’s wife. He cleared his throat. “I have belladonna extract and laudanum tincture. Both are anticonvulsants and analgesics but, like many other medications, they are poisons. Ultimately, their effect depends on the dosage.”

André nodded.

Thomas took a deep breath. “Come to my room in one hour. I will give you a little bottle. You will administer its contents with a spoon. It is of the utmost importance that you give her all of it so that it . . .” He hesitated. “Works.”

“I thank you both.” André’s voice sounded rough. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I will speak with the children now and prepare them to say good-bye to their mother. Then I will come to you, Dr. Hopkins.”



The sun was sinking behind the western hills when Aynur died. Narrow beams of light were falling into the sickroom through the closed shutters and lent a warm shimmer to her pallid face.

Her children had been with her a short while before. They had cried a lot, particularly André Jr. But they had felt that their mother was no longer really with them, that she was already on her way to a place where they could not accompany her.

Now only André was with her. He looked at her, lying calmly on her back. Her chest rose and fell weakly under the blanket. Her head lay in his lap. He caressed her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids. Her skin felt cold, but her features were relaxed and peaceful. Then he placed his hand on her lips and felt her breath becoming weaker. When it had become almost imperceptible, André, who had long ago stopped believing in a god, began to pray quietly as Aynur slipped gently away.





Chapter Thirty-One

Mogador, December 1861

Consul Willshire closed his Bible and rose. “My dear compatriots and friends, I wish you a blessed second Sunday of Advent. Until next Sunday.”

“Advent under palm trees,” sighed Victoria, drowned out by the noise of chairs being pushed back. She took little Charlotte by the hand. “I would so very much like to experience a winter season with snow and a service in a real church for a change!”

“I really can’t see what you’re complaining about,” John replied, picking up Selwyn. “I’d much rather attend a service under the open skies of Morocco than freeze in a cold, drafty church in England!”

Consul Willshire and his wife held services among blossoming orange trees and fragrant oleander in their garden. While the sultan allowed Christians to practice their religion in his country, he insisted that they do so discreetly and prohibited worship services celebrated by priests in churches.

Victoria and John slowly made their way toward the exit. Sibylla and Emily were directly ahead of them, bidding the consul and his wife good-bye. Emily was wearing the embroidered jacket Malika had given her and a wide skirt that barely covered her calves. She wore soft leather boots and numerous jangling silver bangles on her wrists. She stood out like a cheerful, colorful bird among the dour Englishwomen in their corseted black Sunday dresses and stiff hats. Victoria overheard one of the wives whispering to another, “Ever since she returned, she’s been dressing like a Berber woman. Very inappropriate indeed, especially on a Sunday!”