Page 14 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

I want to cry. What chance do I have? I will never prise Yusuf away from Badra.

I have only my beauty, and that will fade away.

I will always be the second wife, the pretty, useless adornment until that gift too leaves me and I will be truly useless.

I may not even bear children even if I should drink other teas, which promise many sons.

My mother bore only me, a girl. Other women pitied her behind her back.

My father was saddened by his lack of sons.

My head drops down to my knees, my eyes close and burn with tears.

I can still hear the woman dancing, her footsteps and skirts are still keeping to her rhythm.

It does not falter but suddenly she is by my side.

She has danced her way round my bed, and now her hands reach out and touch me.

Startled, I look up and move slightly away from her, but she is smiling.

She holds out her hands to me and invites me to dance with her.

I shake my head. She will not accept my refusal, though, and turning her back on me she begins to shake her body whilst gradually arching her back until her whole body is curved backwards.

Her eyes, upside down, meet mine and she invites me again.

She grows comical in her entreaties, until I cannot help but laugh, although my nose is blocked and my eyes still sting with tears.

I stumble off my bed and take her proffered hands.

Reluctantly and ungracefully I begin to copy her movements.

She does not speak, only helps me to improve, lifting her skirts to show me how my heels must lift when I sway so that my hips can move further and deeper in their endless curves back and forth.

When she shakes her body forwards and back it ripples.

When I shake mine it judders but she places her hands on me and makes the movement softer, slower.

She indicates I should now remove my robes gradually, but I shake my head and refuse outright.

She only smiles as one who has all the time in the world and we keep dancing, my feet learning new steps as my arms accentuate each movement of my hips and waist.

***

She stays with me for five days. I dance until I think my back will break, until my arms burn, my feet ache.

My neck feels as though it will surely snap as I whirl it round to allow my hair to fly through the air like a great flock of birds.

By the last day I dance naked, I dance like this silent woman dances.

I hurt all over. I forget where I am, I forget everything except my dancing.

We never speak. Perhaps she cannot speak.

Perhaps she does not speak my language. Perhaps she has no wish to speak.

So we do not speak. We dance, we eat and drink, we sleep.

Nothing more. I do not even know her name.

We stay in my rooms, my servant girl brings food and then leaves again.

I do not join the rest of the household, but they are used to my absences and do not remark on it.

On the last day we are practicing an intricate step, allowing me to move backwards and forwards, then side to side.

My feet move gracefully in time to the beat only she and I can hear.

My servant girl knocks and enters without waiting for my invitation.

Another woman enters with her. The dancing woman and she nod at each other like old friends, then the dancing woman dons her heavy outer robes and leaves with my servant.

She does not bid me farewell. She does not even look back at me.

The servant girl closes the door and I stand bereft, my new friend and teacher gone.

It is all done in a few moments. I turn from the door to the women who has just entered and see that she is already entirely at home.

She has cast off her outer wraps and is now sitting on a cushion eating dried fruits from the platter on my low table.

She has helped herself to the cooling tea from the pot.

I fumble for a robe to cover myself and after days of silence I find my voice. It croaks. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

She takes no notice of me. She sips the tea and grimaces. “Call a servant,” she says. “This tea is cold.”

I stare at her.

Her voice is harsh, she speaks with a strange accent.

She sounds like a common street woman. Her skin is wrinkled and coarse, dry with the years.

Her back is crooked. Her fingers are twisted with age.

She speaks as though I were her servant.

I am too confused to respond. She raises her voice to a shout.

“GIRL!”

I flinch, but sure enough there are quick footsteps and my servant girl opens the door without knocking.

The woman nods approval at her speed. “This tea is cold. Hot tea, quickly. And food, plenty of food. I’m hungry.”

The servant girl has the audacity to bow to her and, ignoring me, run back through the door, closing it behind her.

I sit on the bed. I need to be seated higher up than this woman.

I have to find some way of regaining my status, which she seems to have stripped away from me in moments and with no effort.

I settle myself and try to formulate a question that will identify who she is and what she is doing here since she ignored my initial question.

My mouth moves slightly as I try to compose a sentence.

I am about to speak when she interrupts me.

“How many positions do you know?”

“What?” I ask stupidly.

“Positions. For congress.”

“Congress?”

She uses a very vulgar term for sexual intercourse, one used only by the crudest of the street boys.

I flinch.

“Oh, so you do know something, then?” She cackles and helps herself to more dried fruit, stuffing it into her mouth, cheeks bulging. She speaks with her mouth full. “Where’d you learn filth like that then, a lady like yourself?”

I gather myself. “Are you a whore?” I ask, haughtily. I mean to insult her, but she is not insulted so easily.

“Of course,” she says. “Best there is.”

I snort with laughter. I cannot help myself. She is an ugly old crone with appalling table manners and vulgar speech.

She raises her eyebrows and grins back at me. “Don’t believe me?”

I shake my head.

She nods, still cheerful. “I’m the best there is. They may shut their eyes and dream of a sweet young beauty when they’re with me, but they always come back. No-one knows as much as me.”

I still look doubtful. We are interrupted by the servant girl, who has managed to prepare a ridiculous amount of food in a very short time.

There are chunks of spiced meats, a thick soup, roasted vegetables, cakes dripping with honey, fresh and dried fruits and hot tea with yet more honey to add to it.

She places it all on the table and the old crone flips a golden coin into her hand.

I am shocked. How can she have so much money and dress so poorly?

If she has money to throw about like that she could be living in a palace with her own servants. Perhaps she does.

The servant girl leaves and the old woman attacks the food as though she had not just eaten handfuls of dried fruits and drunk half a pot of tea.

As she chews on a hunk of meat she looks up at me where I sit, still incredulous, staring at her.

She rummages through her robes and throws something at me, which I try to catch but fumble and drop onto the bedcovers.

“Make yourself useful,” she says. “I’m not planning on staying longer than I have to.”

She belches loudly and selects another piece of meat. While she puts it in her mouth with one hand she pours tea with the other. I am impressed she can pour it accurately from such a height with barely a glance at it.

“Stop staring,” she says. “Begin. I’m not here to teach you how to pour tea.”

I scramble through the bedclothes and find the item she threw me. When I see it I nearly drop it again.

She sighs wearily. “You are married,” she says. “Don’t be such an innocent.”

I gape first at her and then back at the item I am gingerly holding. I have never seen such a thing. It is a perfect replica of a man’s organ, carved in ivory.

“Well?” she says. “Begin.”

“Begin what?” I ask, hardly wanting to hear her answer.

She rolls her eyes at me. “Now don’t waste my time.

I’ve got a lot to teach you and you need to learn fast. My time is worth a great deal of gold to some men.

” She laughs unpleasantly and loudly slurps her tea.

She eyes me over the cup and then sets it down in a business-like manner. “In your mouth.”

My eyes widen.

“Oh?” she says. “Indeed?” She sighs and settles herself comfortably on the cushions, adjusting them with small grunts until she is comfortable. “From the very beginning, then.”

***

The days with the old crone are less than those with the dancing woman, but they are harder.

I am made to practice until my jaw aches, and once she is happy with how I can manipulate the ivory toy then it is taken away from me without a word of praise and I am forced into many positions, both off and on my bed, an imaginary Yusuf above me, below me, behind me, to my side.

She watches me critically and when she thinks I am not trying hard enough she will grab a limb and force it into a deeper pose, thinking nothing of my yelps of protest. She keeps up a disparaging running commentary on both my skills and those of other women that she knows, not least the dancing woman.

“What is the use of dancing if you cannot do what comes after? Dance all you wish, but once a man has come to your rooms he will hardly wish you to keep on dancing all night.”

I nod meekly while attempting what feels like an impossible pose to hold for more than a breath. She makes me stay in the position for more than thirty breaths and shakes her head in annoyance when I collapse, sweating.