round face lost a little of its warmth. Yasmina looked down and began to fuss with the ribbon in Maya’s hair. Zahra looked suddenly anxious. Omi gave an audible sniff.
‘That’s Inès Bencharki,’ she said at last.
Inès. So that was her name , I thought. ‘Karim Bencharki’s sister,’ I said.
‘Who told you that?’ said Omi.
‘Just someone in the village.’
Zahra shot Omi a sidelong glance. ‘Omi, please—’
She made a face. ‘ Yar . Perhaps another time. I hope you’ll visit us again. Bring us some of those chocolates of yours. Bring your children.’
‘Of course I will.’ I turned to the door. Fatima accompanied me out.
‘Thank you for the peaches.’
I smiled. ‘Come and see us any time.’
The sun had set. Night would come quickly now. Soon, all over Les Marauds, people would sit down to break the day’s fast. Stepping outside, I could already see people beginning to leave the mosque. A few shot me curious glances as I crossed the boulevard – it isn’t usual to see a woman here, alone, especially one dressed as I was, in jeans and a shirt, my hair unbound. Most ignored me, with the deliberate averting of the eyes that in Tangier counts as respect, but which in Lansquenet might easily pass as an insult.
Most of the passers-by were men – at Ramadan, women will often stay behind to prepare iftar . Some were in white robes, a few in the vivid djellabas , the hooded robes that had been so common when my mother and I were in Tangier. Most wore taqiyah prayer caps, but some of the older men wore the fez , or the keffieh scarf, or even the black Basque beret. I counted a few women, too – most of them in black niqab . I wondered if I would recognize Inès Bencharki among them. And then, with a jolt, I saw her: Inès Bencharki, the Woman in Black, walking along the boulevard with the measured grace of a dancer.
Other women walk together, talking and laughing among themselves. Inès Bencharki walks apart, bracketed in silence; shoulders straight; head held high; aloof in a capsule of twilit space.
She passed by close enough to touch. I caught a glimpse of colours from under her black abaya , and was suddenly, sharply reminded of that day on the Pont des Arts, of the woman I’d seen watching me; the kohl-darkened eyes above the niqab . Inès Bencharki’s eyes are a different kind of beautiful; long as a lazy summer’s day and innocent of make-up. She keeps her eyes lowered as she walks, and almost instinctively the others hold back to give her room. No one speaks to her in this crowd. No one even looks at her.
I wonder what it is about her that makes people so uncomfortable. Surely not the niqab she wears; there must be other women in Les Marauds who wear the veil without projecting that coldness, that air of isolation. Who is Inès Bencharki? Why does no one speak of her? And why do they maintain the pretence that she is Bencharki’s sister, when Omi and the al-Djerbas clearly believe that she is not?
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, 18th August
IT TOOK ME over an hour, père, to scrub the black paint from my front door. Even then, the inscription remains, a negative of its former self, scoured into the paintwork. I’ll simply have to repaint it, that’s all. As if people didn’t gossip enough.
I didn’t sleep well last night. The air was too still, too oppressive. I awoke at dawn and opened the shutters to hear the distant call to prayer floating across from Les Marauds. Allahu Akhbar . God is great. I longed to ring the church bells, if only to drown out that echo and to wipe the grin from Mahjoubi’s face. He knows that what he is doing is totally forbidden. He also knows that no local mayor will intervene on our behalf: the call is coming from inside the mosque, without amplification. Thus the letter of the law is technically satisfied.
Allahu Akhbar, Allahu Akhbar .
My hearing must be exceptional. Most other people don’t even seem to notice the call to prayer – Narcisse, who
‘That’s Inès Bencharki,’ she said at last.
Inès. So that was her name , I thought. ‘Karim Bencharki’s sister,’ I said.
‘Who told you that?’ said Omi.
‘Just someone in the village.’
Zahra shot Omi a sidelong glance. ‘Omi, please—’
She made a face. ‘ Yar . Perhaps another time. I hope you’ll visit us again. Bring us some of those chocolates of yours. Bring your children.’
‘Of course I will.’ I turned to the door. Fatima accompanied me out.
‘Thank you for the peaches.’
I smiled. ‘Come and see us any time.’
The sun had set. Night would come quickly now. Soon, all over Les Marauds, people would sit down to break the day’s fast. Stepping outside, I could already see people beginning to leave the mosque. A few shot me curious glances as I crossed the boulevard – it isn’t usual to see a woman here, alone, especially one dressed as I was, in jeans and a shirt, my hair unbound. Most ignored me, with the deliberate averting of the eyes that in Tangier counts as respect, but which in Lansquenet might easily pass as an insult.
Most of the passers-by were men – at Ramadan, women will often stay behind to prepare iftar . Some were in white robes, a few in the vivid djellabas , the hooded robes that had been so common when my mother and I were in Tangier. Most wore taqiyah prayer caps, but some of the older men wore the fez , or the keffieh scarf, or even the black Basque beret. I counted a few women, too – most of them in black niqab . I wondered if I would recognize Inès Bencharki among them. And then, with a jolt, I saw her: Inès Bencharki, the Woman in Black, walking along the boulevard with the measured grace of a dancer.
Other women walk together, talking and laughing among themselves. Inès Bencharki walks apart, bracketed in silence; shoulders straight; head held high; aloof in a capsule of twilit space.
She passed by close enough to touch. I caught a glimpse of colours from under her black abaya , and was suddenly, sharply reminded of that day on the Pont des Arts, of the woman I’d seen watching me; the kohl-darkened eyes above the niqab . Inès Bencharki’s eyes are a different kind of beautiful; long as a lazy summer’s day and innocent of make-up. She keeps her eyes lowered as she walks, and almost instinctively the others hold back to give her room. No one speaks to her in this crowd. No one even looks at her.
I wonder what it is about her that makes people so uncomfortable. Surely not the niqab she wears; there must be other women in Les Marauds who wear the veil without projecting that coldness, that air of isolation. Who is Inès Bencharki? Why does no one speak of her? And why do they maintain the pretence that she is Bencharki’s sister, when Omi and the al-Djerbas clearly believe that she is not?
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, 18th August
IT TOOK ME over an hour, père, to scrub the black paint from my front door. Even then, the inscription remains, a negative of its former self, scoured into the paintwork. I’ll simply have to repaint it, that’s all. As if people didn’t gossip enough.
I didn’t sleep well last night. The air was too still, too oppressive. I awoke at dawn and opened the shutters to hear the distant call to prayer floating across from Les Marauds. Allahu Akhbar . God is great. I longed to ring the church bells, if only to drown out that echo and to wipe the grin from Mahjoubi’s face. He knows that what he is doing is totally forbidden. He also knows that no local mayor will intervene on our behalf: the call is coming from inside the mosque, without amplification. Thus the letter of the law is technically satisfied.
Allahu Akhbar, Allahu Akhbar .
My hearing must be exceptional. Most other people don’t even seem to notice the call to prayer – Narcisse, who
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