Adrienne Chinn - The Lost Letter from Morocco

‘He knows I’m coming. It’s urgent to fix the problem with your water.’

Fatima tugs at Addy’s hand and pulls her into the house.

Omar follows his sister and Addy into the narrow room that serves as both the living room and Fatima’s and Jedda’s bedroom. A low wooden table is set with a chocolate cake and plates of homemade cookies. Aicha greets Addy with several ‘ Marhaba ’s as she pours a stream of fragrant mint tea into tiny gold-rimmed glasses.

Fatima pats a place on the banquette next to her grandmother, Jedda, who grumbles and points to the opposite banquette with her cane. When Addy has settled sufficiently far enough away from Jedda, Fatima sits beside her and gives her a hug.

‘Stay with me, not with Omar,’ Fatima says to Addy in French. ‘You can be my sister.’

Omar picks up a handful of cookies and turns to leave. ‘Now I’m really jealous.’

Addy licks the sugary chocolate icing off her bottom lip, leans back against the flowered cushions and pats her stomach. ‘ Shukran. Le gateau c’est très bon .’

Aicha smiles widely. She points to the chocolate cake sitting on a blue-and-white Chinese plate in the centre of the low round table. ‘ Eesh caaka .’

Addy shakes her head. ‘ Laa, shukran .’ Another piece of cake and she’d explode.

The Polaroid presses against her thigh. Aicha and Jedda would surely recognise Hanane. Zitoune was a small village. The type of village where everyone knew everyone else’s business. She reaches into her jeans pocket and pulls out the Polaroid, wrapped in her father’s blue letter. Leaning over the table, she hands the photo to Aicha.

‘ Baba Adi ,’ she says, pointing to Gus. My father.

Aicha squints at the photo, fine wrinkles fanning out from her deep-set amber eyes. Jedda taps Aicha’s arm impatiently with her stick. Aicha hands the old woman the Polaroid.

‘It’s my father in the picture,’ Addy says in French to Fatima. ‘He came to Zitoune many years ago. I’m trying to find the woman in the picture. I think she was from Zitoune. Can you ask your mother and your grandmother Jedda if they recognise her?’

Fatima translates for Addy. Aicha takes the photo from Jedda and frowns at it before handing it to Fatima, her coin earrings dangling against her cheeks as she shakes her head.

Fatima runs her fingers along the Polaroid’s frayed edges. ‘Your father is very handsome. You have the same nose and blue eyes.’

‘They don’t recognise her?’

Fatima shakes her head as she hands the photo back to Addy. ‘No. My mum and grandmother are the medicine women of the village. They know everybody in the mountains here. If she was from Zitoune, they would know her.’

Addy brushes cookie crumbs off the plastic tablecloth into her hand. She picks up her empty tea glass. Aicha nods and smiles, her coin earrings bobbing against her neck. Jedda sits on the banquette like a wizened oracle, eyeing Addy’s every move.

Addy follows Fatima out into the courtyard and through a green door into a tiny windowless kitchen. The room is a random mix of wooden cupboards and tiles painted with seashells and sailboats. An enormous ceramic sink propped up on cement blocks takes up most of one wall. Across from it a four-ring hob sits on top of a low cupboard next to a battered black oven connected to a dented green gas canister. Utensils and ropes of drying tripe hang from a wire hooked across the room.

‘ Ssshhh ,’ Fatima hisses, flapping a tea towel at the rangy black-and-white cat who’s poking its head into a bread basket. The cat slinks out, a crust of bread in its mouth. ‘ Moush ,’ she says, pointing at the cat.

Addy makes a circle around the room with her hand.

Fatima smiles. ‘ Cuisine. Comme français .’

‘ En anglais , kitchen.’

‘ Smicksmin .’ Fatima shakes her head. ‘ Très difficile .’

Omar pokes his head into the kitchen. ‘Come, Adi honey, we go.’

‘You missed some delicious chocolate cake.’

He thrusts his hand into the room. It’s full of cake. ‘I don’t miss nothing.’ He takes a bite and wipes the crumbs from his chin with the back of his hand.

‘Did the plumber show up? Is the water fixed? I haven’t been able to get a hold of Mohammed. He hasn’t been answering his phone.’

‘I know, I know. Mohammed is very busy. It might be he is in Marrakech. He goes there a lot for business. The plumber went to Azaghar. He’ll be back later.’

Addy frowns. ‘The water’s still not fixed? What took you so long?’

‘I did a tour by the waterfalls. I earned five hundred dirhams, so I’m happy for that. I want to buy a refrigerator for Fatima, but it’s very, very expensive.’

Omar beckons at Addy with a crumb-covered finger. ‘Come, let’s go for a walk by the waterfalls. Say goodbye to my grandmother. If you kiss her on her head, it shows her good respect. She’ll love you for that.’

‘I don’t think she wants me anywhere near her.’

‘She does, she does. You’ll see.’

Addy kisses Fatima on her cheeks and follows Omar into the living room. She edges around the low table past Aicha and bends over Jedda, kissing her on the top of her red polka-dot bandana. Jedda waves Addy away with her stick. Aicha grabs Addy’s hands and smiles. ‘Thank you for the tea and the cake and cookies of deliciousness,’ Addy says to her in rusty French. ‘I appreciate your hospitality of kindness. It would be my honour to invite you at my house for tea.’

Aicha smiles broadly and Addy realises with a shock that her teeth are false. Omar says something to his mother, who nods vigorously, setting her earrings swinging.

‘What did you say?’

‘I say you love chicken brochettes. We’ll come later for dinner.’

‘Oh, no, Omar. I don’t want to impose on your family. I’ve just eaten my weight in cake.’

‘It’s no imposition, Adi. She don’t like for you to eat by yourself. It makes her feel sad. It’s not normal for people to be alone in Morocco.’

Addy looks at Jedda. The old woman’s one good eye bores into her like she’s trying to excavate Addy’s soul. ‘Except for your grandmother.’

Omar shrugs. ‘My grandmother don’t like tourists. Don’t mind for it.’ He takes hold of Addy’s elbow and steers her across the courtyard to the front door. ‘Anyway, you are not a tourist to me. You are like an Amazigh lady. Even my mum says it.’

‘She did?’

‘Maybe she didn’t say it, but I know she think it.’ He opens the metal door. ‘She love your red hair and blue eyes for her grandchildren.’

‘Omar, honestly, I—’

Omar laughs. ‘Don’t mind, Adi. Don’t believe everything I say. Oh, and Adi? My mum, she don’t speak French. It’s lucky because you don’t speak it so well.’

The daylight is fading when Omar and Addy reach a terrace paved with stones overlooking the waterfalls. A young Moroccan couple sits on the stone wall holding hands. The man speaks quietly and the woman leans her head in to listen. He plays with her fingers.

Omar and Addy sit on the wall. The last of the day’s sun throws a beam of light across the waterfalls, setting off sparks like fireflies on the water.

‘It’s a romantic place here, Adi. Sometimes couples come here to be private.’

‘Are they single?’

‘No. Everybody marries young here. But maybe there are children and parents and grandparents in the house. It’s the Moroccan manner. It’s difficult to be private.’

Addy feels a pang of sadness. As a child she’d wished on a star every night, hoping for a brother or sister to play with in the big house by the sea.

‘It must be nice to have a big family.’