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  ‘You may have saved my life, Jim,’ Summerfield called back. ‘You certainly saved me from waiting.’

  ‘By the way, Harry—were you really going to go ahead with it? Somehow I don’t see you as a slave to any cause,’ Wilding yelled back.

  The Englishman grinned, seemed to hesitate between keeping it secret and telling. He gave a shrug. ‘Got to find something to believe in, Jim—what else can we do?’

  It was the last Wilding saw of Summerfield for the next eight months.

  2

  Summerfield stood on the platform of the station and watched the train pull out of sight. The air was still cool, the sky a striking blue. Summerfield recognised it as the colour certain locals used, not only for their clothes but also in the decorative work of objects and buildings. The blue seized one’s vision in an otherwise dominantly pink city—from the earth of the date groves beyond the city gates that sheltered the caravans from the south, to the great pale-pink ramparts surrounding the city and the colour of the palaces and the sprawling, rickety hovels of the medina within. There were pinks, reds, rusts, browns, the black shapes that were covered women and finally that almost phosphorescent blue. It was a festival, a magic that enchanted Summerfield’s English eyes.

  Realising he was not alone, realising that perhaps others were observing him watching the sky, feeling himself smiling from an inner joy—suddenly, after the tedious past weeks, how alive he felt—he turned, his hands in the pockets of his khaki slacks, and sauntered back to the hotel.

  In the hotel lobby he signed in for another two days, the necessary time it would take to find lodgings, he thought. Leaving his two suitcases, he stepped out into the sun intent upon exploring the old town. The heat instantly pounced on him, a physical presence, a palpable weight. He searched in his knapsack for the hat he’d purchased at the Army & Navy stores in Oxford Street barely three weeks before. It was a bush model made of pale green cotton with a wide, floppy brim destined for the hotter Dominions. He felt conspicuously English—and rather embarrassed by the fact. Glancing at his reflection in the hotel doors, he looked like some Rhodes-type figure.

  He set out across the wide, burning stretch of the Djemaa El Fna square, deserted but for the detritus of the night before and a few fruit sellers sheltered under the canvas sheets of their makeshift stalls. He strode past a blind man dressed in a ragged jellaba who muttered something in Arabic to him. Too hot, already sweating, Summerfield then hopped into the shade afforded by a cluster of date trees and magnolias that were shelter to thirty or so people. It was like slipping into a cool bathing pool. Only a hundred yards and his clothes were sticking and patched with sweat. He sat down on a bench and was immediately approached by a young boy selling tea. Summerfield refused. The boy, shaven-headed and annoyingly insistent, thrust a terracotta bowl into Summerfield’s hands, sealing his fate. He paid and the boy disappeared as quickly as he had appeared and without giving any change. He shook his head, took a cigarette from his case, lit up and exhaled.

  To his left was the tall, imposing minaret of the Koutubia—the central mosque—with its chequered tiling. It brought back to him the five o’ clock wail of Morning Prayer that had woken him and Wilding in their sleep. His first reaction had been to swear, but as the long, nasal verses had echoed in the chilly dawn air, endlessly repeating the same hypnotic chant, it became soothing, haunting. Even the notes, so twisted and painful—like some cat mewling midnight serenades, he had commented to Wilding—had become distinctively musical by the time he slipped back into sleep. He remembered that he hadn’t thought he’d learn to accept so quickly. He pulled on his cigarette, took a sip of the burning tea—spearmint—and felt better.

  Suddenly, feeling a presence, Summerfield glanced to his side and started. There were two gruesomely imploring faces staring at him. They laughed. Summerfield had never seen such large yellow teeth—it gave them a very dromedary air.

  ‘Piss off,’ muttered Summerfield, feeling uncomfortable, but they drew closer, nodding in the direction of his cigarette. ‘Go away,’ he added, catching their smell in his nostrils, a mixture of sweat and hay. He repeated himself first in French, then in Spanish but to no avail. Perhaps they were deaf, thought Summerfield and, much in the way the British Naval officers had snubbed him in Gibraltar, he continued smoking and sipping his tea as though they didn’t exist. But they persisted, two pairs of hands outstretched in a gesture of supplication. Summerfield sighed irritably, opened his cigarette case and handed two ready-rolled cigarettes across. Of all the cheek, they then gestured for a light. ‘Now piss off!’ hissed Summerfield, striking a match. They grinned, rose and walked calmly away puffing nonchalantly on their newly acquired treasure.

  ‘You should have continued to ignore them,’ suddenly came a voice in French. ‘They would have left you alone. It is just a matter of time.’ Summerfield turned to see a tall, heavily-built Moroccan dressed in well-cut, royal blue native attire. A small, rather houndish moustache—much in Clark Gable style—decorated his upper lip and his large, smooth hands clasped a folded umbrella. He smiled. What did they mean by that smile, thought Summerfield. ‘That, or stare straight at them immediately with iron in your eyes,’ continued the man. ‘Like this—’ The Arab’s face changed so radically into an expression of ferociousness that it sent a shiver through Summerfield. ‘Just a tip,’ continued the man, returning to his disarming smile. ‘Try it next time.’

  Summerfield nodded, distrustful. He felt suddenly alone and quite vulnerable.

  ‘Merci.’

  ‘With God’s grace,’ replied the man, leaning forwards in a slight bow.

  Bewildered, not knowing what to do, Summerfield pursed his lips, hesitated, then with a slight cough decided to continue walking. He rose, feeling the man’s eyes on him like the damned sun. For a second, it seemed as if he couldn’t move—stuck fast on the burning ground. Finally, with a noticeable lurch, Summerfield started in the direction of a narrow street in the farthest corner of the square.

  ‘Your tea,’ came the voice behind him, but Summerfield was already away.

  It was like stepping back into the Middle Ages. He would never have seen this in Spain, the thought came to him. Silently, he thanked Wilding for having helped steer him away from what would surely have been the misery of the Spanish front.

  Reaching the other side of the vast square, a myriad of streets and alleyways quickly swallowed him up. The streets were so narrow in places that the carts and other paraphernalia of transportation had to be lifted sideways so that one wheel clattered in the stinking gutter running through the middle of the passageway, while the other, elevated wheel ran along the wall. Summerfield noticed that in these narrow bottlenecks grooves had been worn over time in the stone at shoulder height.

  There was noise everywhere, bedlam compared to the emptiness of the square barely two hundred yards away—a cacophony of laughter, sewing machines, lathes, clattering carts, dringing bicycles ridden without heed for life or limb, animals, music and the shrill warbling of women from behind the intricate wooden partitions that blocked out the windows. And then the two speeds, the mass of people. There were those who were static, in pairs or in threes or those, the vast majority, who walked at great haste, deftly slipping past the others, dodging the bicycles, rubbish and faeces collecting in the narrow streets. Summerfield the odd one out—neither static nor fast-moving. It was almost this, his gait, more than his attire that made him so obtrusive. Eyes followed him. The children, more daring, turned their heads or else tagged him for a while, imitating his walk and chattering with laughter. Once or twice, sombre-faced men spat at his feet—whether it was a challenge or not he couldn’t know.

  At first, nervous and unsure, Summerfield began to adapt, adopting the behaviour of someone who didn’t care, someone who felt quite natural in these alien surroundings. It was almost like turning it all about-face: it was the local environment that was different, not he. Perhaps it was the advice of the large Moroccan man under the
magnolias, perhaps (and he smiled at himself for this), his Britishness. He felt his eyes fill with hardness and he remembered a saying he’d once read in a book of Persian poems: it is the look in a man’s eye that determines what he has in his soul. He met both the imploring and the aggressive with iron and calmness and they seemed to leave him alone.

  After a while, he came to a halt, thirsty. He looked around him, spotted a face which he thought he could trust and asked in French, then in Spanish, where he could rest and drink. The young man smiled and beckoned. Summerfield, calculating the risk, followed him through a network of passageways suddenly and quite deafeningly quiet, surprisingly clean and odourless. They came to a small, iron-embossed door. The young man stopped, nodded, smiled once more and opened it. Warily, Summerfield peered in, withdrew his head and smiled back.

  ‘Here,’ he said, dipping into his pocket. ‘Merci—thanks,’ and placed a coin in the young man’s palm.

  A dim, arched entrance opened out into the most heavenly, most spectacular and most beautiful house he had ever seen. It was the first time he had ever seen a riad and Summerfield stood there, overwhelmed. Around the whitewashed sides of the structure he counted twelve open rooms, each decorated in coloured tapestries and tiles, rugs and intricately sculpted wood, each a separate colour: pale green, blue, white, orange, deep red, pastel yellow, pink; each containing a cluster of low tables surrounded by large, inviting cushions. There were no chairs. In the centre, under an open sky, was a pond, a date tree, lilies and magnolias, the lemon scent of which gave the air an ethereal, heavenly feel. In the middle of the pond, accessible by a small wooden bridge, was a glass kiosk with its private table and a set of luxuriant cushions of golden silk. Water flowed, birds cheeped and warbled, the sound of their beating wings the only interruption in the silence. I have found paradise, said Summerfield silently and closed his eyes.

  Presently a young man appeared dressed in a white gown and made the customary greeting—the right hand to the heart followed by a swishing, open gesture. No words were exchanged and Summerfield let himself be ushered to a room—pale yellow—and a table. Tea in a huge brass urn was brought to him together with a tray filled with cakes dripping in sugar and honey. The young waiter filled a glass flute with mint tea. As he finished, the creak of the entrance door echoed in the courtyard. Only Summerfield turned his head. Into the riad stepped the man who had insisted on advising him in the square. Noticing Summerfield, the large Moroccan sent him that same, exaggerated smile and walked over.

  ‘So you are here—certainly fate has decided that we meet this day.’ A gesture of welcome, hand to heart.

  ‘Perhaps,’ answered Summerfield, warily. He rose and, for some reason, offered his hand in much the same way as the American, Jim Wilding, would have done.

  ‘I am obliged to offer you this tea,’ said the man, nodding at the great urn, ‘In return for the tea you lost through no small fault of mine. I’m afraid I took you by surprise. Forgive me.’

  ‘That’s twice,’ replied Summerfield, curtly. Then, more relaxed, he added. ‘Please sit down—I accept your offer. And perhaps you can help me with more advice,’ he added ruefully.

  The man raised an eyebrow. ‘Ah?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Summerfield. ‘But first—’

  ‘First let us introduce ourselves,’ interrupted the Moroccan. ‘I am Abrach.’

  ‘Harry Summerfield. But I didn’t quite catch your last name.’

  ‘My first name, Abrach—that is sufficient,’ grinned the man. ‘My family name is long and rather complicated for your tongue, I imagine.’ Summerfield hesitated, wondering whether to insist, but the Moroccan continued. ‘I am a merchant. Un commerçant as we say in French. But not one shop—several.’

  ‘And I’m not French, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Indeed. I take your accent for English, maybe American,’ replied Abrach, his voice remaining calm and too polite. ‘But I should think you are English—you do not look like an American. And you do not behave like one, either for I have met several on my travels.’

  ‘Your judgement is correct, Abrach,’ said Summerfield, copying the over-polite tones. He sipped on his tea, feeling the bubbling of mischief inside him. ‘I noticed you were someone of importance back there in the square. Your clothes,’ added Summerfield, courteously. Abrach nodded and smiled, accepting the compliment. ‘Tell me,’ inquired Summerfield, suddenly remembering. ‘Where does this incredible blue come from?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Abrach. ‘The blue that is so particular to this region.’ He made a sign to the young waiter to serve him more tea. ‘Believe it or not, a Frenchman invented it. Majorelle is his name, a painter. The city is his home and he paints many pictures in the Atlas Mountains to the east. The blue is worn by the Berber tribes and Majorelle mixed in other pigments to produce this unique colour. It is, by the way, called bleu Majorelle.’

  ‘I should like to buy a headscarf of such colour if I decide to go up into the mountains,’ commented Summerfield.

  ‘A cheiche we call it,’ said Abrach, in a voice that sounded like an invitation. And then, a smooth transition: ‘And may I ask what brought you to Marrakesh?’

  Summerfield laughed. ‘An American!’ For the first time, Abrach’s expression of careful pleasantness changed to a frown. Summerfield explained. ‘I was about to cross the Spanish frontier to take part in the war. He convinced me not to.’

  ‘A wise man,’ said Abrach, ‘perhaps even a Godsend. I saw death when the Spanish and French hunted down the dissidents some years ago. A ghastly, ugly sight.’

  They were silent for a few seconds and Summerfield’s attention returned to the riad and he felt the greatest of calm enter him. The colours, the sound of trickling water and birdsong, the sweet nip of spearmint tea in his mouth made it all so complete, all so satisfying.

  When he turned back, he saw that Abrach was observing him. But the merchant didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he smiled and Summerfield thought he saw a note of sadness in the man’s face.

  ‘You mentioned that I could perhaps help you, Mr Summerfield,’ said Abrach, his expression returning suddenly to the genial. ‘And how?’

  ‘You have a good memory,’ nodded Summerfield. ‘In fact, I thought you might provide me with an address. You see, I want somewhere to stay.’

  ‘You surely have a hotel?’

  ‘I would like somewhere where I can live among the people—the real people.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Abrach, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s a question of means,’ added Summerfield, holding his gaze. ‘When I first arrived in North Africa, I had a notion that one week would be sufficient. Now…’ he paused, summing up the surroundings with an appreciative nod of his head, ‘now I think I’d like to stay a while longer.’

  ‘A wise man plans with both head and heart,’ offered Abrach. ‘You are right to be concerned.’ Another silence before the merchant spoke again, delicately picking out his words. ‘So then…you are not a rich man, Mr Summerfield?’

  Summerfield grunted. ‘No. And I’m not for the instant interested in being one.’ Summerfield smiled ironically. ‘You think I’m a fool, Abrach.’

  ‘I think you are strange, complex.’

  ‘The world is changing. Many people are beginning to believe in the good of all and not just the few.’

  Abrach pondered this and released a sigh. ‘I suppose it is how your world works, Sidi Summerfield. Here it is different—the people who wish to become wealthy try to become wealthy because it is their personal destiny and, I’m sure, they have good reason to.’

  ‘Not so different,’ said Summerfield, with a shake of his head.

  ‘Let us not spoil our splendid surroundings with ideology and politics,’ said Abrach. ‘We will undoubtedly have another opportunity to discuss these things. You see, I am an educated man. I studied medicine for a while with our European rulers, and what with my Arabic instruction, I enjoy such intellectual sparring.’ The merchant’s smile r
emained unbroken for several seconds and it sent a distant flicker of alarm through Summerfield. ‘But now,’ continued Abrach, finally releasing his smile, ‘Let me say that in answer to your question I can propose three ways: you may leave your hotel and be a welcome guest in one of my homes—I have several rooms which are empty and in need of presence. Secondly, I have a good friend who owns one of the better hotels in the city. He owes me a debt and will surely offer you rooms at a very generous fee. And finally, I can find you accommodation in the popular district of the old town, not far from here—another acquaintance, absent for some time, may I add. There you will see poverty, Mr Summerfield. You will see how most of the city dwellers live and there may be times when you will have to take guard over your belongings and your safety. A European in such places is practically unknown. It could be seen as an intrusion. These are my three proposals to help you.’

  Summerfield looked keenly at the merchant. ‘Your generosity is …’

  ‘Worthy of a good Moroccan,’ said Abrach. ‘But I must also add that I perhaps have a job for you which will enable you to stay longer than you had expected. That is—if you wish.’ Again, Summerfield shook his head. ‘This is not work as you may think.’ Summerfield glanced up and made a gesture for the merchant to continue. ‘You see, I need your assistance, too. And above all, Harry Summerfield, discretion.’

  ‘I don’t see how …’

  ‘Mr Summerfield—in the square I heard you speak three languages.’

  ‘English, Spanish and French,’ acknowledged Summerfield, looking away. ‘I studied at university in England—it seems like a lifetime ago.’

  ‘You can speak them—but can you also write them?’

  The question took Summerfield by surprise. ‘Yes, I can. In fact, I used to write for a living. Why?’

  ‘Have you ever been in love, Mr Summerfield?’