Page 8 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

I laugh, but he suddenly stands up and I press back against the wall.

He turns and walks away without another word.

I want to follow him, want to say something else, although I am not sure what.

A good-bye at least, it seems very rude for him to walk away without bidding me farewell.

I get up too fast and my forgotten brass plate of half-eaten food crashes to the tiled floor.

I gasp at the loudness of it and hear him chuckle as he goes up the stairs.

I stand all alone in the dark courtyard and breathe.

***

Myriam is grumpy and surprised when I wake her in the morning.

It is usually she who wakes me, dragging me from my warm bed to say my prayers.

Then I often return to my bed, asking for food to be brought to me, much to Myriam’s disgust at my lazy ways.

This morning I have already prepared our mats and as soon as prayers are over I run to my chests and pull out one of my finest robes, a rich pink silk with so much embroidery that it weighs as much as a heavy water jar.

I normally object to wearing such clothes, complaining that they are too heavy and cumbersome, too formal for anything but a wedding perhaps.

Now I insist on being washed, perfumed, and dressed not only in the robe but in all the additional items that go with it.

Fine slippers, a heavy ornamental belt, a great deal of jewellery.

I even kneel in front of my mirror and darken my eyes with kohl, put red stains on my lips and cheeks.

I stand, satisfied, as Myriam holds up the mirror.

I look much older than sixteen, and very beautiful, even I can see that.

I turn this way and that, admiring myself, my cheeks growing pinker.

Myriam is perplexed. “Where are you going dressed like that?”

“Breakfast.”

Myriam snorts. “Nobody dresses like that for breakfast. You look like you are going to a wedding.” She considers my outfit for another moment. “In fact you look like you are the bride. You only need the gold headdress.”

I smile a huge smile at her and walk slowly, gracefully, downstairs.

This will show him. My clothes, bearing and beauty will show him that I am quite old enough to be married, that of course I have suitors clamouring for my hand.

Last night he teased me as though I were a child, and then left without even having the manners to say goodbye.

I am not a child, and now he will see this for himself.

He will be obliged to behave better to me, more appropriately.

He will have to notice that I am beautiful when I am dressed like this.

The darkness was not my friend last night.

I do not even know what he looks like, only how he laughs and the sound of his low voice.

My father is sat at a table in our courtyard, together with Yusuf bin Ali. I am relieved that my mother is not with them, she would only look at me with her unblinking eyes in a way that always makes me awkward and clumsy.

I stand for a moment and observe them before I make my presence known.

I want to see this man who was so funny and interesting last night but who then walked away without even bidding me farewell.

In the darkness he was only a shadow, a low, laughing voice and a scent that I would recognise anywhere if I smelt it again. Now I can see him by daylight.

He is tall, even sitting down he is taller than my father and I can see that he has long legs under his robes.

His hair and eyes are very dark and he has strong thick brows.

Much of his face is hidden, but his robes fall back from his arms as he raises a cup of tea to his lips and I see his forearms, which are thick with muscles.

By his side lies a large sword, sheathed in a magnificent scabbard.

He is a warrior, there can be no doubt about that. He must have fought for his chiefdom.

My father hears me coming and hears the servants ask me what I would like to eat.

He has not yet seen me as I approach behind his back.

Yusuf, however, can see me, for he sits facing my father.

His eyes take in my appearance. I wait for his eyes to widen, for him to smile, as all my suitors, even the old and ugly ones, have always done.

I am disappointed. He only raises his eyebrows, rises to his feet and bows politely.

I might as well be an honoured and wrinkled old grandmother, hobbling to the table to suck toothlessly at some soft bread.

“It is an honour to meet the daughter of the house,” he says without a trace of recognition or interest.

My father catches sight of me and looks surprised, but then waves me to a seat by him.

“My daughter, Zaynab,” he introduces me.

“Very elegant, I am sure,” he adds as he knits his brows at my clothes.

He turns back to Yusuf. “Girls, you know, they do so like to dress up at their age.” He pats my shoulder, not unkindly.

I am crushed. I sit at the table for another hour, eating a few mouthfuls and listening to my father and Yusuf discussing carpets – the patterns, knots, their transportation back to Yusuf’s home.

Payment, it seems, has already been dealt with.

Yusuf pays no attention to me at all and I gradually lose my elegant posture and end up sitting slumped against cushions, stroking my lazy cat who is seeking comfort.

When the time comes for Yusuf to leave I do not bother to stand up.

He bows perfunctorily in my direction and leaves with my father for the workshops.

So he is gone. A rude man after all, certainly he seemed pleasant at first but his manners were very unrefined.

I shall not have to see him again, so that is a good thing.

I walk slowly back to my room and snap at Myriam to take off these hot heavy clothes, which she does without any expression on her face, for which I am grateful.

I spend the rest of the day seeking out something to do and end up getting in all the servants’ way as they try to complete their daily chores.

Eventually I retire to my room and sit staring out at the sky until I fall asleep with boredom.

***

Tonight we have guests, not suitors but friends of my father’s.

There will be many of them, so I will be able to leave earlier.

It would be rude to leave when there are just a few of us, but when we are many I can often sneak away.

I do not wish to draw attention to myself when I escape so I discard almost all the robes Myriam offers, choosing the very plainest of my elegant robes, a dark blue silk, refuse most of my jewellery and present myself downstairs.

He is there. Yusuf. Talking and laughing with my father and his friends as though he has known them all for years.

At ease, confident, full of charm and good humour.

I keep well away from him, for the very sight of him makes me feel quite ill – why do I have to endure his presence again?

He has behaved very rudely to me, so I will have nothing to do with him.

Luckily he does not once look in my direction and I keep very close to my mother who eyes me with some surprise, for we do not generally spend much time together.

But she tolerates me near her and when we have eaten and everyone has settled back to talk, replete with good food, I start to edge my way to the door.

I creep outside and then breathe with relief and make my way up to my room.

Inside I kick off my shoes, then decide to slip outside and sit by our fountain where it will be cooler.

“Was the company not to your liking?”

Yusuf is standing right outside my door.

I yelp and leap backwards, slamming the door in his face.

I lean against it, wondering what on earth he is doing.

I can hear him laughing, not the low chuckle from the other night but a full belly-laugh.

I open the door again in a temper. “Get away from my door! How dare you come near me again after your behaviour?”

He stops laughing and considers me carefully, as though surprised. “What behaviour?”

I am spluttering with indignation. The door opens wider as I enumerate his failings.

“You made fun of me when we first met and then walked off without saying goodbye. Then you acted as though you’d never seen me before at the breakfast table and treated me like some old woman instead of…

” Words fail me. “Well, anyway… and then you went off again really quite rudely, and then tonight, you barely looked at me.”

He puts one hand on the doorframe and leans towards me. His face is close to mine and I breathe in his scent without realising it. His voice is low. “Did you want me to look at you?”

“No!” I say automatically, then stop. “I just…”

He looks at me and then reaches out one hand and cups my face very gently.

“Lovely Zaynab,” he says. His voice is so low that afterwards I am not sure that he really says what he does, although I cannot stop repeating it in my mind.

“So very lovely. Do the birds really fly closer to the earth the better to see you?”

I do not know what to say or do except close my eyes that I might hear his words better. I feel his breath caress my cheek. Then there is silence. When I open my eyes again he is gone.

***

He comes again though, night after night, talking and laughing with my father, who enjoys his company.

His trading in the city will be over soon but while he remains in Kairouan he is my father’s guest, for my father will not hear of him going elsewhere in the evenings.

Often he stays the night as well and I have to face him at breakfast. He is unfailingly courteous and charming to me, but he never again comes to the door of my bedroom, no matter how many times I try to tempt him by sneaking away in full sight of him as I did that night.