Page 13 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)
Khalila does not forget about me. She tries to coax me out of my rooms. She takes me to see fresh fruits being grown, introduces me to the people of the tribe, who welcome me.
They see in me a hope for Yusuf’s future, a freshness and youth that has been missing in his life and which they hope will turn him away from Badra’s misery.
The servants care for her, but they know better than to expect thanks or a smile.
They make sure she drinks enough water in the heat of the day, that she eats when the family eats.
At night they make her bed and lay her gently in it.
She does not resist, she eats and sleeps when told to but she takes no joy nor rest from either.
It is dusk on the day when I go to her. I follow a steep flight of stairs that wind to the roof. Inside a flower-carved door are her rooms. They are filled with flowers and fruits. The setting sun sheds its last rays on her face as she sits on her bed, facing the view to the valley below.
She is older than I, of course, but her skin is soft and her face sweet.
Her hair is washed and combed and lies on her back in gentle ripples.
Her clothes are good quality, woven in bright colours.
She wears fine jewellery. I wince a little when I see the traditional gifts of love – the fine beads of engagement, the heavy bangles given for a wedding gift.
I stand awkward in the doorway. I feel as though I should not enter for she does not acknowledge me.
“I am Zaynab,” I begin.
She does not answer, nor even blink at my voice, too loud in this quiet room.
“Sister,” I try again, remembering that I must show respect to her, the elder and more senior wife.
There is no movement. I edge into the room and carefully sit beside her. I sit as she does, looking out towards the window, trying to see what she sees.
There is only a clear blue sky, paling now towards white as the sun’s power fades.
She does not look down towards the far valley where people tend to their crops and beasts.
She does not look closer to the walls where her children play in the last light of day.
She sits motionless and stares as blue becomes white and will soon become blackness.
I leave, and then return some days later, thinking perhaps to touch her shoulder, to sit in front of her so she may see my eyes and I hers. I come to the rooms at the very summit of the kasbah and stand in her doorway.
Yusuf is here. He lies with his back to me, facing her on their great bed, her face turned towards him so that I can see her from where I stand.
He whispers soft words to her, caresses her shoulders and face with infinite love and tenderness.
She lies immobile, does not respond, nor do her eyes flicker to meet mine as I stand shaking in the doorway.
I run back to my own rooms and weep.
I do not return to Badra’s rooms again.
***
Yusuf has been gone a month this time and I am burning up for his touch.
At least when it is dark and his skin is next to mine I can feel that he is mine and forget for a moment that he will be gone again by morning without a backward glance, with only the lengths of golden silk left on the floor of my chamber to remind me that he comes to me only to feel Badra’s body in his arms.
I sit in front of my mirror and look at myself with rising impatience.
I am sixteen years of age and nothing more than a concubine.
So be it. If that is my role then I will be the best there is.
I will not try to compete with his wife by having sons, for what more use of sons has Yusuf?
I heard the whispers in the bathhouses, I know what herbs I must drink so that no life will take hold in my womb.
I will take another road. I will learn such things as will bind Yusuf to me forever.
I will leave him gasping for my presence.
He will not go away again like this, leaving me here alone and idle, a living being only when he is nearby, a lifeless rock the rest of the time, merging perfectly with my rocky surroundings here on the hill-tops.
He will not sit at table laughing with his sons while I wait alone in my room, hoping he will deign to reward my beauty with his presence in my bed.
He will not lie by Badra’s side and whisper to her while I wait in my rooms, unwanted for my too-fertile body.
This is not the life I wish to live. I want to be desired, loved.
I want to be a woman of importance in this household, not a mere adornment to its master.
I will make Yusuf love me. I call for my servant.
She is taken aback by my request, but gold has its uses.
She will never have seen so much gold in her own hand in all her life, and she never will again.
This is her greatest chance to change her fortune, her station in life.
She assures me that everything I wish will be done and that my request will go with her to her death.
***
The woman, when she arrives, is not as I expected.
I thought I would be sent a woman so perfect in her beauty, so renowned in her skills, that men would run to her side and pay her whatever she asked.
But when the door closes on the growing darkness outside and we are alone she removes her heavy robes and in the flickering lights of the lamps I see before me a brisk, stout woman.
She is my own height, so taller than most, but her waist is thick and her features plain.
Her long hair has many strands of grey in it.
I am dissatisfied, and it shows on my face.
I was going to welcome her, to ask for her help with humbleness.
Now I step back from her rudely and sit on my bed, disappointed and embarrassed in equal measure.
My servant girl deserves a beating for sending me this woman.
What can she have to teach me? I may be unskilled but I am beautiful – and young.
I am sixteen, this woman is my mother at least once over.
I fold my arms and lift my chin to meet her eyes without comment.
She will see that she has displeased me and she will leave.
She stands before me, her eyes on mine. Her heavy outer wraps lie at her feet, where she cast them off.
Her robes are quite plain, dark and long, shapeless.
I had thought such a woman would wear finer, more colourful apparel, something to draw the eye.
But her eyes are warm and bright, as though she were truly happy to be here in this room, standing before a young girl who is sitting sulkily on her bed, not speaking.
It is then that I notice she is moving, but only very slightly.
I seek out the source of the movement, for she seemed very still only a moment before.
Her hips are barely moving. A tiny ripple from the folds of her robe is all I see, but it is so slight as to make me look harder, to catch her at it, to see how she can move and yet move so little.
As I watch the movement becomes greater and her hips sway in ever increasing twin circles, the dark fabric around her accentuating and yet somehow hiding the rhythm.
As I watch her hips her arms begin to rise past her thighs, up by her waist, catching my eyes and bringing them up towards her breasts, which are suddenly exposed as she undoes some secret fastening.
My head jerks back at the sight of them, so quickly laid open to my eyes.
They are larger than mine and not so pert, rounded and a softer brown than her arms. Her naked skin gleams with a patina of many years of soft creams and perfumes, warm water and caressing hands.
I draw my feet in towards me, sitting curled up now, shy and yet fascinated.
I am not sure where to look. Of course she is nothing but a common whore, and so I am free to look where I choose, but still I find I am curled ever tighter, my face now resting on my knees.
I am not quite ready to look at her eyes again, but I watch her dance, transfixed.
She is oblivious to me, it seems. She dances in silence but so intent is she that I can hear the rhythm she is following as though the room were filled with musicians.
Her head rolls backs to shake out her long hair and she turns first one way and then another, sometimes with her back to me entirely.
She moves now fast now slow, her arms languorous while her hips shake so fast it seems impossible.
Then her hips slow down and sway in a curve that takes forever to move from one side to the other while her hands, quick and darting, draw attention to every part of herself, my eyes following them helplessly.
In doing so she has drawn my eyes back to her face and her eyes, which I now dare to look at.
When I do I see I was wrong. She was in no way oblivious to me. Indeed, I am the centre of her world.
Her eyes have never left mine. No matter where I was looking, her dark eyes have been fixed on me, no matter how she moved, even when she had her back to me her head has always turned back to look over her shoulder at me, a warm smile on her face, a smile that invites me to look where I will without fear or embarrassment.
She has no false shame, no coyness. She loves every part of her body, she knows that she can dance like few women can even dream of dancing.
She knows that for all her grey hair and her thick waist, her sturdy arms and broad hips, at this moment she is more beautiful than I will ever be.