The Lioness of Morocco(79)

She took Charlotte and Selwyn by the hand and crossed the roof garden of Sibylla’s riad to Emily, who was sitting on a cushion surrounded by Sabri’s sisters and Malika.

Charlotte regarded her with curiosity. “Why are you holding your fingers like that, Aunt Emily?”

“Because the design on my hands has to dry. See?” She held her palms out to show them the swirling henna painted on them.

“It’s very pretty,” Selwyn squeaked in his little voice. “Just like the princess in my fairy-tale book.”

Emily laughed. “At my wedding celebration tomorrow, I’m going to be a princess too. Good night, you two!” She waved after the twins. “Sweet dreams!”

“Are you thirsty? Would you like some tea?” asked Malika.

Emily’s half sister and Sabri’s eldest sister were her negafas, her indispensable helpers during the three-day festivities that had begun yesterday with a visit to the hamam and would end tomorrow with a lavish feast on the beach.

Emily nodded gratefully and Malika ran to Firyal and Nadira, who stood next to a table with cake, fruit, and sweet sorbets, and retrieved a glass of green tea.

“Here you are, Sister!” She handed Emily the glass. “But not too much. You know you mustn’t go to a certain place while the henna on your hands is still wet.”

Sabri’s unmarried sisters giggled and Emily sighed. “I doubt that Sabri has to suffer so much pain and inconvenience to marry me!”

At the hamam, attendants had cleaned and scrubbed her from head to toe, removed all hair save that on her head. They’d also given her the extra bridal treatment: a bath in donkey’s milk, so that she might enchant her bridegroom with especially soft skin.

Today was the beberiska, the henna ceremony. No men were allowed. They had assembled at Consul Willshire’s to fete Sabri while the female guests—an unusual confluence of Arab women, the wives of European and Jewish merchants, and Emily’s half sister, Malika—celebrated in Sibylla’s rooftop garden. Emily was particularly happy to have her extended English family there. Oscar had left the business in the hands of his son, Edward, and taken the first trip of his life with his wife, Eugenie, and their adolescent daughter, Arabella. The three of them were enjoying their adventure to the fullest and were already making plans for an extended tour of Morocco.

The women had been sitting together since late that morning, keeping the bride company while she rested on a cushion and the hennaya painted ancient symbols of good luck and magic on her hands and feet. As they passed the time enjoying tea and delicious food, music, song, and dance, evening had come, the sky above Mogador turned dark blue, and the stars sparkled in the warm early-June air. Now, Nadira and Firyal were lighting torches, and voices, laughter, and instruments could be heard, accompanied by the hoarse singing of Sabri’s old grandmother.

The hennaya had mixed a fresh paste called earth of paradise using the ground leaves of the henna bush, black tea, and tamarind juice, and filled a piping bag with it. She was an old Arab woman, a widow who lived in a modest hut by the city wall and who also made her living as a matchmaker, arranging marriages between the affluent Arab families of Mogador. Malika held up a lamp to provide light while the hennaya bathed Emily’s feet in a bowl of orange-blossom water.

“The attendants in the hamam have done good work. Your skin is as smooth as silk, my little dove,” the hennaya said with satisfaction.

“You should see her Venus mound!” Haji Abdul’s first wife cackled. “Sweet and fragrant as a rose blossom. But how she squealed when the servant pulled off the sugar paste! Like a puppy taken off the teat.”

“There are no hamams in Lisbon.” Emily laughed. “Yet somehow we managed without it!”

“My poor son!” Almaz exclaimed with exaggerated concern. “How on earth did he find the path through all that thorny briar?”

It was part of the berberiska ceremony for married women to initiate the bride into love’s secrets by telling lewd jokes. It did not bother anyone that Emily was already familiar with these secrets.

When the laughter died down, the hennaya said, “If you will permit me, my little dove, I am going to paint the magic signs of good fortune, love, and prosperity on your feet now and interweave them with the name of your beloved.”

“Rather paint the signs for desire and fertility,” Sabri’s eldest sister piped up. “They’ve been sharing the same bed for months already, and her belly has not grown fat!”

“How could it, if I’ve had to be separated from my husband since our return?” Emily sassed back. “Good thing the astrologer recommended we wed in early summer. We surely would not have been able to forgo the pleasures of love much longer!”

The women appreciated Emily’s ready wit, which, much to her relief, distracted them from her childlessness. There was a simple reason for that: small sponges, soaked in lemon juice, which she inserted into her vagina before lovemaking. Malika had told her this secret during her stay at Qasr el Bahia.

“Tell us about your first night!” Sabri’s youngest and still-unmarried sister begged, casting a furtive glance in her mother’s direction. But Haji Abdul’s first wife was too engrossed in a conversation with Sibylla, Eugenie, and Almaz to notice.

Emily looked dreamy and smiled. “It was terribly romantic. All the other passengers congratulated us. The sailors serenaded us and the captain let us have his quarters for the first night. But that’s all I’m going to share with you.”

Sabri’s youngest sister looked at her with deep disappointment.

“When you celebrate your own wedding, you’ll understand,” Emily consoled her. “The memory of our first night belongs to my husband and me. But I will tell you this: it sealed our love more profoundly than any wedding vow ever could.”

“And you lovebirds have had to live abstinently for a month now, oh dear, oh dear! You will have to be doubly careful not to be consumed by your own fire tomorrow night,” the eldest sister jested.

Almaz added with dignity, “May the fire of your love always be stronger than the wooden log that turns to ash, and may you, Emily, be the water for my son that keeps him from dying of thirst.”

Sibylla smiled to herself. Just one month earlier, Almaz would never have uttered such a wish, but ever since Benjamin had attempted to kill Emily, Sabri’s family had forgotten what remained of their reservations about the Christian bride and the wedding. Almaz and the first wife had even called Emily their beloved daughter. For his part, Haji Abdul had been very impressed with André’s bravery. He had Sabri describe to him again and again how André had grabbed Benjamin and thrown him through the banister. He would nod his head and ceremoniously announce, “The daughter of such a man shall bear strong and healthy sons. You made a wise choice, my son.”



Early on the morning of the tenth of Dhu al-Hijjah of the year 1278 after the Prophet’s departure from Mecca—June 8, 1862, in the Western calendar—music and singing enticed the inhabitants of the medina from their homes. A bevy of women, diaphanous muslin veils wafting around them like a silvery morning mist, danced through the alleyways to Sibylla’s house to collect the bride and adorn her for her great celebration.

Musicians played flutes and vihuelas, beat tambourines and plucked the lute. Young girls sang about the bride being sweeter than honey and lovelier than the full moon, and children scattered rose petals and jasmine blossoms along the path. Four sturdy eunuchs in baggy pants and multicolored turbans carried an empty palanquin on their shoulders. Next came the solemn bridegroom and his father, dressed in white djellabas, belts with decorative daggers set with precious stones at their hips, and red tarbooshes with black tassels atop their heads. They were followed by servants carrying baskets and boxes with the morning gift for the bride, then Sabri’s uncle, his brother-in-law, and his cousins.

Victoria, who had been watching the procession from the roof garden, ran to Emily’s bedroom and flung open the door. “They’re coming! Hurry up!”

“Did you see Sabri? How does he look?” Emily called from the edge of the bed. Malika was in the process of removing the muslin bandages that had protected the henna overnight.

There were loud knocks on the front door and voices calling, “Open up, we’ve come to collect the bride!”

“Are you happy?” Malika asked, while Victoria wanted to know, “Are you nervous?”

Emily’s eyes shone and her cheeks glowed rosily. “Of course I’m happy!”

The door opened again and Sibylla entered. She was wearing her best dress and a fringed shawl that shimmered in all the colors of the rainbow, and she looked every bit as excited as her daughter.

“Good morning, my little girl!” She kissed Emily. “I’m sure you’ve heard that the bin Ibrahim women are here. Nadira is giving them tea, but they’ll come to get you any minute. You’d better get dressed quickly unless you want to be carried through Mogador in your nightie.”

André received the gentlemen in the large salon with his three sons, as well as John, Thomas, and Oscar by his side. Sabri beamed from ear to ear and embraced everyone while his father looked on, bursting with pride. The uncles and cousins supervised the bearers as they unpacked Emily’s morning gift and placed the items on display in the middle of the room.