The Lioness of Morocco(8)

They entered the city from the south and rode across the square behind the city gate.

“This gate is called the Bab El Mersa,” Mr. Willshire explained. “There are, of course, other entrances to the city. The caravans from the northeast, for instance, enter through the Bab Doukkala because of its easy access to the souk.”

They passed the qasbah, the fortress. Sibylla noticed some cannons on the fortifications and a pair of storks nesting on one of the towers. The birds, busy feeding their young, made Sibylla think of the baby in her belly. Benjamin also spotted the storks and, when his eyes met hers, they smiled at each other.

The medina was behind the qasbah. Hardly any sunlight reached into the narrow alleys. This form of construction offered protection against the heat of the midsummer sun and the unrelenting wind. Sibylla was surprised by the plainness of the buildings in the medina. The walls were unadorned and whitewashed with unwelcoming blue doors without windows. No sounds could be heard from behind the thick walls. She was disappointed, having pictured palm trees and citrus groves, fig trees and fountains. Yet all she saw here were stray cats, children playing on the well-trodden clay, and a few gaunt beggars cowering on the ground. “In God’s name, please give me something to eat!”

“Is it just me, or were the streets here drawn with a ruler?” Benjamin remarked.

“You are quite right,” Willshire answered. “A French architect designed Mogador on a drafting table seventy years ago. He was the sultan’s prisoner, but after his work found favor with his captor, he was allowed to return home.”

“And why did the sultan want to build this city?” Sibylla inquired.

“Sidi Mohammed Ben Abdallah, the sultan at the time, wanted to turn Mogador into his country’s biggest port. And he was successful!”

The deeper into the medina they went, the livelier the alleyways became. Sibylla stared in amazement at the dark-skinned women in colorful garments carrying purchases from the souk on their heads as they made their way back to their masters’ homes. Arabs were returning from prayers at the mosque, and bearded Jews, with their dark turbans and dusty black kaftans—which, according to Willshire, the sultan required them to wear—hurried past with their heads bowed. The visitors also saw several Berbers, dressed in brown woolen wraps with sables flung over their shoulders. Mr. Willshire told them the Berbers from this region belonged either to the Chiadma or the Haha tribes. The former had settled down, practicing agriculture on the plains, while the latter were nomadic cattle herders in the Atlas region. At times, the tribes waged war against each other.

Mr. Willshire explained that the residences of the European merchants were situated around the governor’s palace, not far from the western fortification and the port. Indeed, in no time they stopped in front of one of the plain whitewashed buildings. The open door was guarded by a tall, broad-shouldered black man.

“This is Hamid,” the consul said.

Hamid bowed before allowing them to enter a narrow, dimly lit hallway.

Looking to Sibylla, Willshire said, “I trust that you won’t object, but my wife had everything cleaned and polished for your arrival. Incidentally, we’re your neighbors to your right. The Silvas are to your left: a Portuguese merchant family. We also have some French, Spanish, Dutch, and a few Danish families here. Oh, and there are some Brazilian families. Altogether, we are almost two hundred foreigners, a tight-knit community in a city comprising some ten thousand Arabs and Jews each.”

“How do you all communicate?” Sibylla marveled.

Willshire smiled. “We all speak a little bit of everything, mainly English, French, and Spanish. Ah yes, and you should know that your predecessor’s servants are still here. You have already met the gatekeeper. There is also a cook, a gardener, and two female servants. The women are former slaves who have worked in various English households and are, therefore, acquainted with our customs and language. But you do owe the servants back pay. They have not been paid since Mr. Fisher’s death.”

“You mean to say that our servants are not slaves?” Benjamin wanted to know.

Willshire shook his head. “The cook and the gardener are Arabs and, as such, not slaves. The others were freed because the sultan has forbidden foreigners in his country to keep slaves. And as a good Christian, one should not indulge in such barbaric customs anyhow,” he added sternly as he led them down the hallway.

Finally, they stepped out into a surprisingly large inner courtyard ringed by a colonnade and several rooms. There was an ornately carved wooden staircase leading to yet another walkway and more rooms above.

Sibylla was enchanted. At last, the Arab garden of her dreams! A shallow basin with a babbling fountain stood in the shade of some orange and lemon trees. The flower beds were bordered by marble pathways. Lizards sunning themselves on the warm stones scurried away as the new tenants approached.

Birds were singing in the trees and delicate violet blossoms climbed up the bannisters.

“This is the riad you will call home,” said Willshire. “It is excellently suited to this climate. The kitchen wing and several housekeeping rooms are downstairs. The living quarters are upstairs and on the roof is a terrace with a magnificent view of the city and the ocean.”

Sibylla whispered, “It is like something out of a fairy tale.”

Benjamin, unimpressed, remarked that it lacked the comforts he was accustomed to.

Willshire smiled. “Of course, it lacks the modern conveniences of an English home, but, believe me, the Arabs know a thing or two about comfort. Ah, here comes my wife.”

A young woman appeared at one of the doors on the first floor and hurried over. “There you are at last! We’ve been waiting for days, but that ghastly fog just refused to lift. I’m Sara Willshire. Welcome to Mogador. You look like you could use a glass of tea. I have had it prepared in the Moroccan way, but not to worry, it’s delicious!” Sara clapped her hands and a black woman emerged from the house. She was carrying a silver tray with glasses and a teapot that smelled of mint.

Sibylla found it outstanding, but Benjamin said that he would have preferred a cup of good English tea.

“I know exactly how you feel.” Sara laughed. “Everything really is very different from dear old England.”





Chapter Five

Mogador, mid-May 1836

“Allahu akbar! Ash hadu an la ilaha illallah!”

“Damn caterwauling! They just don’t let up, do they?” Benjamin shot up in bed.

Nine days had passed since their arrival in Mogador, and he was exasperated every time he heard one of the muezzin’s five daily calls to prayer. Especially the predawn call.

Sibylla too had been awakened, but she was not upset. “At home we have the church bells that ring, and here they have the muezzin. They don’t seem so different to me.”

She stretched out contentedly under the covers and thought about the new, most likely bright and windy day dawning. She couldn’t see anything because the windows of their riad were small and faced the courtyard. But in the evenings, she enjoyed standing on the flat roof of the house just like the locals and watching the bright orange sun disappear over the western horizon. The days here did not fade gradually. Velvet blue night followed the sunset seamlessly and, once the moon had risen and was surrounded by the brightly shining stars, it seemed to Sibylla much closer than in London.

“This caterwauling—which I sincerely hope you are not comparing to the ringing of church bells—wakes up innocent people before six in the morning. Extremely rude is what I call that!” Benjamin grumbled as he lit a candle, climbed out of bed, and threw on a robe over his nightshirt.

Muttering angrily, he disappeared behind a screen where the washstand was. He and Sibylla were using the bedroom previously occupied by Mr. Fisher. Like all the other rooms in the riad, it was smaller than those in their London house. While Benjamin slept in Mr. Fisher’s small bed, the Willshires had arranged a divan for Sibylla, and she found it reasonably comfortable. Besides the beds, there were several colorfully painted chests and chests of drawers, which looked somewhat out of place next to the heavy English oak armoire from Mr. Fisher’s estate. Sibylla had hung mirrors and family portraits, but she did not really feel at home in this hodgepodge of a house.

There was a knock at the door and the housekeeper entered with a pot of steaming tea. She placed it on Sibylla’s nightstand and lit one of the oil lamps. Sibylla and Benjamin were still trying to get used to the fact that, unlike in London, there were no gaslights in Mogador. Benjamin disguised his discomfort and homesickness with a bad mood.

“Good morning,” the housekeeper said in the melodious English that Sibylla so appreciated. Like every day, she was wearing a dress made of brightly colored cotton tightly wound around her ample hips, a turban covering all of her hair, and heavy gold earrings whose sparkle contrasted beautifully with her ebony skin.

“Thank you, Nadira,” said Sibylla, accepting the steaming glass. She had quickly realized how beneficial mint tea was for her morning sickness and made a point to drink it in bed every morning. Benjamin did not like the sweet brew, but he had unearthed some of Mr. Fisher’s finest Indian Darjeeling and reserved it for himself.