Page 49 of A String of Silver Beads (The Moroccan Empire #1)
By the time prayers are finished and we have made our way outside the mosque there is a huge crowd.
Word has spread of the engagement. More and more people join us as they emerge from other mosques or their houses as we stand there, waiting to go to the bride.
The sheep, held tightly by two of our servants, has given up struggling and lies quietly on the ground, sadly contemplating its fate.
Now the crowd begins to move. Slowly we walk towards one of the quarters until we come to a door set into a high wall.
The crowd is excited. My mother’s face is rigid, without expression.
My father is his usual reserved self, smiling wryly at some of the more ribald comments from the crowd and waving them away but I notice his left hand moving constantly, clenching and unclenching while his right hand reaches out to pat people’s shoulders, to gently steer my mother through the crowded space.
My aunts are at the front of the crowd, and they start to pound on the door.
A laughing voice calls out. “Who is there?”
My aunts answer as one. “We have come to ask if you will give your daughter to be married to Ibrahim an-Nafzawi!”
The crowd cheers.
Of course there is much demurral before we are allowed in.
It would not do for the bride’s father to seem too eager.
More calls, more responses, until finally the door is opened and we are welcomed inside.
A great crowd streams in, myself and Myriam getting lost in it so that we fall back from our front-row positions and end up towards the back as we enter the courtyard.
It is a pretty place, not so grand as our own home, but still pleasing to the eye.
It is cool and there is a small fountain that splashes merrily.
There are fresh-scented trees which later will bear sweet fruits, although right now they are full of small boys who have climbed them to get a better view while the first surah of the Qur’an is recited over the engaged couple.
“In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. Praise be to Allah The Cherisher and Sustainer of the Worlds; Most Gracious, Most Merciful; Master of the Day of Judgement. Thee do we worship and Thine aid we seek. Show us the straight way, The way of those on whom Thou has bestowed Thy Grace, those whose portion is not wrath, and who go not astray.”
I have been craning my neck throughout this instead of paying attention, straining to see my father’s new bride, earning myself several digs in the ribs from Myriam.
I fail to spot them and now the crowd begins to depart, so we are buffeted here and there by the many moving bodies.
I am regularly stopped by those leaving as they wish happiness and prosperity to all members of both families.
Many women pinch my cheeks and smile, asking if I am happy with my new aunt.
I can only smile and nod, the men patting my head as they pass, muttering blessings.
I am hot, tired and hungry, for we have not yet eaten our evening meal.
I am grumpy, too. Surely I should have seen this new aunt by now? Why am I at the back of the crowd?
At last the crowd begins to thin a little and I catch my first glimpse of Imen, my father’s future wife.
She is all curves and blushing smiles, with pink cheeks and bright eyes.
She has tiny feet and hands, and stands well under my father’s shoulder.
I am about the same height and I am only ten.
My mother is much taller than her. It is clear Imen is fond of good food and sweet things, and that one day she will attain the quivering mass of my aunties.
I am sure my aunties have chosen her for this very reason.
Her hair is long and shines silken in the sunset.
Although she is shy now, I can see that she does not hold back from affection.
She accepts with enthusiasm the many hugs and kisses and blessings as they fall all around her, and she looks truly happy.
She even smiles at my mother. My mother looks away.
***
Our household prepares for the new bride.
Rooms are set aside for her and the servants who will come with her.
The house is in chaos as new carpets and cushions, drapes and a large bed are carried up to the rooms, which have been cleaned and repainted, their plaster carving and painted ceilings newly touched up.
My mother keeps to her rooms, refusing to attend meals.
Hela must carry all her meals to her and often they return uneaten.
Meanwhile I try to find out more about my future aunt, and why she has come into our lives.
The servants’ whispers are, as always, most enlightening.
I crouch in stairwells near the kitchens where I can hear our cook expounding her theories.
Hayfa always has tall tales to tell, and the other servants act as her willing audience.
“She didn’t give him a son, did she? What did she expect?”
She is always my mother when Hayfa or any of the other servants speak about our family.
The other servants nod, their hands full of their appointed tasks but their minds mulling over the new turn of events which is causing all this extra work.
The slaves whisper translations to one another of Hayfa’s words.
Some speak our tongue better than others, and they pass on her speculations to those slaves who have not yet learnt the subtleties of our language.
Hayfa approves of this, as it increases her audience, and so she allows suitable pauses for her words to be fully understood.
When she sees comprehension dawning on the slaves’ faces she continues.
“A man has the right to expect a son,” she says wisely.
“And Allah knows the poor man has shown patience. One daughter she gave him, just the one child, and she is fully ten now, almost a woman. No sign of another child. That woman takes care of her bedding but I would say it is more than likely that she no longer has her courses.”
That woman refers to Hela, my mother’s handmaiden.
Hela is the same age as my mother. She came with my mother when she was married to my father.
I believe she served her family from when my mother was a girl.
Hela is devoted to my mother. She takes her duties seriously and stands over her like a guard, always watching, always ready.
If my mother is in a room there is a certainty that Hela is close by.
You may not see her at first, but she will be there, ready to serve.
Where my mother is tall and slender, beautiful and regal in her bearing, Hela is built like a man, with broad shoulders and a thick waist. Not fat, for she would never indulge so much in the pleasures of life to attain such a state, but strong as an ox.
Her thick dark hair does not fall down her back as does my mother’s, it is wrapped up in a plain dark cloth.
When Hayfa talks about Hela she has more than once reminded her listeners that an ox is an excellent worker, loyal and strong, but that should it be badly treated it may well turn on those who torment it and kill them outright.
“And after all,” she always finishes triumphantly, “who knows what an ox is thinking?”
This always leads to wise nods around the kitchen.
The servants steer clear of Hela. She is not included in their whispers and giggles, she is obeyed without question as a senior servant, but she is not liked.
Just as the servants are wary of my mother, so they are wary of Hela, for they know that she is my mother’s eyes and ears and that Hela, to all intents and purposes, manages our household.
They approach Hela only when sickness or injury fall upon them.
For she is a healer, it is well known. Her hands are sure and certain when a bone must be re-set and her face does not respond when her patients scream with pain as bone grates on bone as she finds its resting place.
She knows the properties of many herbs and traders seek her out, coming to our house and asking for her by name to offer her far-flung remedies to add to her collection of tiny boxes and bottles, kept safe in her own room.
She is educated, and this make the other servants distrust her even more. “She reads, you know,” they say, making faces at one another. “Like a scholar.” Scholars are men of learning and wisdom, not serving-women.
My mother relies on her. She never has to ask for an item, only to stretch out her hand without even looking, for Hela will always be ready to drop it into her palm.
When my mother retreats to her rooms Hela accompanies her, and only she is allowed to speak with her, to bring her food and clothing.
The slaves leave water outside the door and it is taken inside by Hela, then left outside again when she has done with bathing my mother.
She it is who goes on errands for my mother, walking swift and sure in the mazes of the souk, returning with little packages of this and that, secrets of which we know nothing.
When my mother wishes to visit the hammam it is Hela who goes with her to the hot dark rooms to wash her, rub down her fine skin, massage her with delicate oils, comb through her long hair with rose-scented cleansers.
I hear them talk to one another sometimes in my mother’s rooms, their voices low and hard to overhear, for their words are indistinct.
They do not raise their voices, only continue the slow steady murmuring that teases my sharp ears.
***