Nightmare in Morocco by Vickie Britton, Loretta Jackson Page A
Authors: Vickie Britton, Loretta Jackson
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for the group to stop . Her voice sounded far away, strangely frightened . "Inside this medina are 320 mosques, 37 synagogues, and four churches . Also we will pass by a ninth century university, the oldest in Morocco."
Marie Landos looked tall and slender in a long, dark skirt and jacket, even a little gaunt compared to the plumpness of the Moroccan women . She maintained a constant, guarded watch, hard eyes alight with suspicious alertness, which, at the same time contained a certain sympathy possessed by the well traveled and well informed . Marie Landos was un - awed by the vast medina, by the mass of foreigners . Noa wished for a second that she herself could be so self possessed, so able and fearless.
Noa's gaze left Marie, skimmed by Cathy, then returned to her . The defiance was more pronounced today; the slightly thick lips pouted . Cathy's heavy lidded eyes smoldered with some resentment, and Noa knew her niece well enough by now to be forewarned . Surely today Cathy would behave . All Noa needed in addition to returning to the one place she feared most was for Cathy to give her additional problems.
Taber and she took turns speaking . They worked together with a perfect harmony that needed no planning .
"It's very crowded today," Noa said . "Let's please stay close together."
Taber lagged behind to alleviate her worry that someone would be lost . They moved deeper into the medina, alive with noise . People passed them, throngs of people with skullcaps, veils, turbans a huge, ebony man with massive shoulders, raggedy children . Peddlers called to them, hawkers intermingled among them with wares dangling from bags and gripped in dark hands.
Moulay walked beside her, slim, wiry . His graceful step seemed always to have a resolve about it . She cast a glance at him, the slightly hooked nose, the sparse, graying beard, and below dark, bushy eyebrows, the grave, bead like eyes that made him seem aloof and unemotional.
"Do you know your way around this medina?" Noa asked him.
"I speak the four languages of our country," he said, "so I can find my way around." He paused, seeming to sense her uneasiness . "You don't like Fez very much, do you? What is it you dislike here?"
"Nothing . Nothing at all."
His sideways glance questioned her answer .
"What is your job here in Morocco?"
"I am...in exports," he said.
His pronounced hesitation made her return his questioning glance . The evasiveness of his answer hinted at something furtive, illegal . She wondered what it was he exported . A myriad of possibilities drugs, contraband weapons, stolen goods entered her mind . Noa knew that she was probably being ridiculous . Yet, a mysteriousness clothed Moulay Aziz, a certain air that didn't go along with the devoutness expressed in long recitations from the Koran . She had often listened to his chanting voice when one of the five designated prayer times for Moslems occurred when they were on the bus, and the cold, monotonous sound of his voice never failed to send a chill up and down her spine. The bold hawkers who followed them had spotted Belda Ward as the most likely buyer . She had a small entourage, each displaying silver tea pots, woven goods, and leather for her to examine . Belda was laughing and excited . She was not good at bargaining, but to be a sport, was trying .
A heavy set man wearing a red tarbush had become attracted to a broken key chain that dangled from her purse . He fingered the half of a deep red chicken's head Belda had no doubt purchased in Portugal.
"You don't want that," Belda advised . "It isn't any good . It's broken."
"I want it! I want it!"
Belda laughed loudly . She, at least, was having a good time . "Well, here you are, then . Have it!"
He snatched the keychain from her and scampered off, gazing pridefully at his new possession . By the time they reached the first wide intersection, Milton, looking burdened, but tolerant, was loaded with purchases.
The cobblestones were hard to walk
Marie Landos looked tall and slender in a long, dark skirt and jacket, even a little gaunt compared to the plumpness of the Moroccan women . She maintained a constant, guarded watch, hard eyes alight with suspicious alertness, which, at the same time contained a certain sympathy possessed by the well traveled and well informed . Marie Landos was un - awed by the vast medina, by the mass of foreigners . Noa wished for a second that she herself could be so self possessed, so able and fearless.
Noa's gaze left Marie, skimmed by Cathy, then returned to her . The defiance was more pronounced today; the slightly thick lips pouted . Cathy's heavy lidded eyes smoldered with some resentment, and Noa knew her niece well enough by now to be forewarned . Surely today Cathy would behave . All Noa needed in addition to returning to the one place she feared most was for Cathy to give her additional problems.
Taber and she took turns speaking . They worked together with a perfect harmony that needed no planning .
"It's very crowded today," Noa said . "Let's please stay close together."
Taber lagged behind to alleviate her worry that someone would be lost . They moved deeper into the medina, alive with noise . People passed them, throngs of people with skullcaps, veils, turbans a huge, ebony man with massive shoulders, raggedy children . Peddlers called to them, hawkers intermingled among them with wares dangling from bags and gripped in dark hands.
Moulay walked beside her, slim, wiry . His graceful step seemed always to have a resolve about it . She cast a glance at him, the slightly hooked nose, the sparse, graying beard, and below dark, bushy eyebrows, the grave, bead like eyes that made him seem aloof and unemotional.
"Do you know your way around this medina?" Noa asked him.
"I speak the four languages of our country," he said, "so I can find my way around." He paused, seeming to sense her uneasiness . "You don't like Fez very much, do you? What is it you dislike here?"
"Nothing . Nothing at all."
His sideways glance questioned her answer .
"What is your job here in Morocco?"
"I am...in exports," he said.
His pronounced hesitation made her return his questioning glance . The evasiveness of his answer hinted at something furtive, illegal . She wondered what it was he exported . A myriad of possibilities drugs, contraband weapons, stolen goods entered her mind . Noa knew that she was probably being ridiculous . Yet, a mysteriousness clothed Moulay Aziz, a certain air that didn't go along with the devoutness expressed in long recitations from the Koran . She had often listened to his chanting voice when one of the five designated prayer times for Moslems occurred when they were on the bus, and the cold, monotonous sound of his voice never failed to send a chill up and down her spine. The bold hawkers who followed them had spotted Belda Ward as the most likely buyer . She had a small entourage, each displaying silver tea pots, woven goods, and leather for her to examine . Belda was laughing and excited . She was not good at bargaining, but to be a sport, was trying .
A heavy set man wearing a red tarbush had become attracted to a broken key chain that dangled from her purse . He fingered the half of a deep red chicken's head Belda had no doubt purchased in Portugal.
"You don't want that," Belda advised . "It isn't any good . It's broken."
"I want it! I want it!"
Belda laughed loudly . She, at least, was having a good time . "Well, here you are, then . Have it!"
He snatched the keychain from her and scampered off, gazing pridefully at his new possession . By the time they reached the first wide intersection, Milton, looking burdened, but tolerant, was loaded with purchases.
The cobblestones were hard to walk
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