of trouble walking.'
'Quite peculiar, and rather repressed, wouldn't you say? Not unattractive, in spite of the scar and her outdated clothes and heavens, those shoes, but such a plaintive expression,' Elizabeth said. 'One doesn't like to be nosy, but I would like to find out. Such a peculiar young woman,' she repeated. 'I really can't think what she imagines she's doing, traipsing off to Marrakesh.'
'Oh, it's a man she's after. There's no other reason, is there? And it appears she views herself as quite the tragic heroine of her own story, whatever it may be,' another woman said, and there was a snideness to her voice that made a wave of heat wash over me.
Was that how they viewed me? A peculiar, pitiful figure?
I knew that in my neighbourhood in Albany I was thought of as unconventional. Certainly everyone knew me to be a woman who kept to herself, who sometimes tramped in the barrens and dunes, and chose to live her life caring for her father rather than marry. Although not traditional, I was not, at least in my mind, odd enough to be seen as something to be discussed so negatively by others.
I wanted to go back to my room. I rose in a half-crouch, seeing, over the banquette, Elizabeth now standing and taking her bag. I sat down again, waiting for her to leave. If she left, the others would soon follow, and I could escape.
But at that instant Elizabeth walked around the banquette, and stopped when she saw me.
'Well, hello, Sidonie,' she said, and my cheeks flushed. 'What are you doing sitting here by yourself? I'm off to the Ladies'. Actually we were just discussing you.'
'Really?' I said, unable to look up at her.
'Go over and join the others. I'll be back in a moment,' she said.
'No. Thank you, but I'm . . . I must go to my room.' I stood.
She shrugged. 'As you wish,' she said, and then added, 'Oh, have you managed to find a car and driver yet?'
I shook my head.
'I was speaking to a British fellow at the Red Palm Cafe today. He told me he had just been driven up from Casablanca, and the fellow is on his way back down south tomorrow.' She opened her bag and dug around in it, finally pulling out a crumpled paper and handing it to me. 'Here's his name. Ask one of the boys to locate him; he's staying somewhere in the medina. But if you do find him, hire him for all the way to Marrakesh. From what I've heard, you could end up waiting days for a train in Rabat. There's little sense of punctuality among the Africans.'
Now I didn't know how to react. In spite of her brashness and lack of sensitivity, Elizabeth Pandy had just provided what I had been waiting for. I took the paper and unfolded it. Mustapha. Tall. Red vest, yellow Citroën, was scrawled on it.
'Thank you, Elizabeth,' I said, tentatively.
'We all must stick together, mustn't we?' she said, lifting her hand in a kind of salute.
I nodded and smiled, and then left the lounge, stopping to talk to Omar on my way through the lobby. Finally something was happening.
Mustapha presented himself to me on the veranda the following morning. I was relieved that he could speak a smattering of French. He was, as the note had described, tall, and wearing a decidedly filthy red vest over an equally dirty, once white robe that was frayed at the hem and hung over the pointed toes of his woven sandals. A very short man, his djellaba hood down and a small round white hat on the crown on his head, stood beside him. He stared at me with one brown eye, the other a disturbing empty socket, slightly puckered.
Mustapha gestured at two other men at the bottom of the steps. They both had their djellaba hoods pulled forward, and I couldn't get a good look at their faces. He spoke to Omar, and Omar thought for a moment, frowning, then brightened.
'Ah. Yes. He brings friends to speak for his purity,' Omar said.
'His purity?'
'Yes. He is pure man.'
I realised then that Omar was trying to tell me that Mustapha had brought references. I glanced at the men, but they turned their backs to me.
'Not
'Quite peculiar, and rather repressed, wouldn't you say? Not unattractive, in spite of the scar and her outdated clothes and heavens, those shoes, but such a plaintive expression,' Elizabeth said. 'One doesn't like to be nosy, but I would like to find out. Such a peculiar young woman,' she repeated. 'I really can't think what she imagines she's doing, traipsing off to Marrakesh.'
'Oh, it's a man she's after. There's no other reason, is there? And it appears she views herself as quite the tragic heroine of her own story, whatever it may be,' another woman said, and there was a snideness to her voice that made a wave of heat wash over me.
Was that how they viewed me? A peculiar, pitiful figure?
I knew that in my neighbourhood in Albany I was thought of as unconventional. Certainly everyone knew me to be a woman who kept to herself, who sometimes tramped in the barrens and dunes, and chose to live her life caring for her father rather than marry. Although not traditional, I was not, at least in my mind, odd enough to be seen as something to be discussed so negatively by others.
I wanted to go back to my room. I rose in a half-crouch, seeing, over the banquette, Elizabeth now standing and taking her bag. I sat down again, waiting for her to leave. If she left, the others would soon follow, and I could escape.
But at that instant Elizabeth walked around the banquette, and stopped when she saw me.
'Well, hello, Sidonie,' she said, and my cheeks flushed. 'What are you doing sitting here by yourself? I'm off to the Ladies'. Actually we were just discussing you.'
'Really?' I said, unable to look up at her.
'Go over and join the others. I'll be back in a moment,' she said.
'No. Thank you, but I'm . . . I must go to my room.' I stood.
She shrugged. 'As you wish,' she said, and then added, 'Oh, have you managed to find a car and driver yet?'
I shook my head.
'I was speaking to a British fellow at the Red Palm Cafe today. He told me he had just been driven up from Casablanca, and the fellow is on his way back down south tomorrow.' She opened her bag and dug around in it, finally pulling out a crumpled paper and handing it to me. 'Here's his name. Ask one of the boys to locate him; he's staying somewhere in the medina. But if you do find him, hire him for all the way to Marrakesh. From what I've heard, you could end up waiting days for a train in Rabat. There's little sense of punctuality among the Africans.'
Now I didn't know how to react. In spite of her brashness and lack of sensitivity, Elizabeth Pandy had just provided what I had been waiting for. I took the paper and unfolded it. Mustapha. Tall. Red vest, yellow Citroën, was scrawled on it.
'Thank you, Elizabeth,' I said, tentatively.
'We all must stick together, mustn't we?' she said, lifting her hand in a kind of salute.
I nodded and smiled, and then left the lounge, stopping to talk to Omar on my way through the lobby. Finally something was happening.
Mustapha presented himself to me on the veranda the following morning. I was relieved that he could speak a smattering of French. He was, as the note had described, tall, and wearing a decidedly filthy red vest over an equally dirty, once white robe that was frayed at the hem and hung over the pointed toes of his woven sandals. A very short man, his djellaba hood down and a small round white hat on the crown on his head, stood beside him. He stared at me with one brown eye, the other a disturbing empty socket, slightly puckered.
Mustapha gestured at two other men at the bottom of the steps. They both had their djellaba hoods pulled forward, and I couldn't get a good look at their faces. He spoke to Omar, and Omar thought for a moment, frowning, then brightened.
'Ah. Yes. He brings friends to speak for his purity,' Omar said.
'His purity?'
'Yes. He is pure man.'
I realised then that Omar was trying to tell me that Mustapha had brought references. I glanced at the men, but they turned their backs to me.
'Not
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