Page 4 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

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.

***

The rituals have been going on for days, even weeks by now.

There have been meetings, parties, gifts, discussions and the painting of henna in intricate swirls.

In just a few days Imen will leave her father’s house and come to my father as his bride, her hair crowned in a golden headdress.

She will be his new wife, my mother’s sister, my aunt.

The servants have their own views on this and Hayfa is holding forth again.

The slaves’ allotted tasks do not seem to be any closer to completion.

“The new one, Imen – she’s here to provide a fine strapping boy.

Maybe several. I had a look at her the other day when she was in the souk with her mother.

A fine girl. Young. Wide hips. Plenty of fat on her.

” Hayfa outlines this figure with her hands in the air and nods her approval.

“Imen will bear him many sons for sure.” She lowers her voice slightly. “If she lets her.”

“What do you mean?” one of the younger servants asks, her eyes wide. The others lean in. I come down two more steps, silently edging closer but still hidden.

Hayfa shakes her head slowly, as one who has seen all manner of things in this wicked world.

“Do you think she will stand by and watch?” she asks.

“You think she will open her arms and say, ‘Oh, sister, welcome to my home. Bear my husband many sons with my blessing!’? Of course not. I would not be Imen for all the carpets in Kairouan.”

“But what can she do?” This from one of the men.

Hayfa considers. “I don’t know,” she admits finally. This breaks her storytelling spell. “Back to work, now, all of you standing about here cluttering up my kitchen with your gossip and nonsense.”

They begin to disperse. I get ready to make my getaway before any of them come up the stairs.

But before I turn away I hear Hayfa as she mutters while scooping out oil from a jar close to me.

I hold my breath and press my back against the wall.

No-one else hears her but me, and later I will remember what she says and feel a cold river run through me.

“Allah knows I am a good and honest cook, but if I were Imen I would not eat what was laid before me in this house.”

I turn and run up the stairs, past my mother’s bedroom door and back to my own room.

***