Page 9 of None Such as She (The Moroccan Empire #2)

I burn for him. I had not known this was possible.

I have liked boys, thought them brave or funny, clever or handsome, but I did not know one person could feel so much and not die.

How to contain such feeling? I breathe and think of him.

I sleep and dream of him. I spend some days in tears because he did not glance my way the night before, other days in ecstasy because he looked my way and smiled, because he passed me soft bread at breakfast and our fingers brushed together.

I am being consumed by this man and he has barely touched me.

I cannot even think of his doing so, for I become dizzy and have to lie on my bed, covering my face with my robes for shame.

The dark heat of the hammams is intolerable to me now, for I have heat running through me.

I crave coolness. I dip my hands in our fountain, wipe my face with damp cloths ten times a day.

I try to write a poem for him and burn my attempts, for they are laughable.

I write him letters which I could never send for I have not the courage.

Myriam tuts and shakes her head. I cannot fool her for she knows me too well.

I try to eat and leave all untouched. I grow thinner and Myriam mutters about no girl having ever been chosen as a bride who was so skinny.

I try harder to eat, chewing and swallowing with disgust, feeling the food slip down me with nowhere to settle in my churning stomach.

When he enters the room I become very still, but every part of me knows where he is, even when my eyes remain fixed on another face.

While I speak calmly of inconsequential things my mouth grows dry and I feel the heat flow through me as he moves into my field of vision.

When he looks my way and does not even see me I move slightly to try and draw his eyes, a foolish gazelle drawing the gaze of the lion, longing for a crushing bite to drain my too-hot blood, to leave me cool and free of such emotion.

When he leaves I make my excuses and leave also, that I might run up every step in our house to the roof and, panting, seek out his shape in the courtyard below as he goes to the rooms set aside for him.

When he is out of my sight I often go to my room and fall asleep in exhaustion, a mere few hours of his presence too much to bear.

***

He is going home.

I will die, I know it. Although he spoke my name so low, although he called me lovely he has said nothing like that since then.

He smiles occasionally, he attends all my father’s gatherings but he does not spend his time with me.

He does not speak with me even though I creep closer to the men as they talk and hope to be included in their conversations.

When my father notices me he pats me gently and says a few words to me, but the men do not wish to talk with me.

They admire my beauty but have no inclination to discuss their business with a girl.

He is heading back to his home, his tribe near to Aghmat, far to the South West, many many days’ journey away.

I do not know how to bear it. I may never see him again and if I do I will be married, fat and old.

I will have many children and he will glance my way but once and then turn away to speak with my even older husband who will smack his lips while he eats.

It is night-time and the guests are leaving.

I am exhausted from crying half the day and sitting for hours through dull conversation.

I see Yusuf leave the room and the tiredness takes away all my inhibitions.

I follow him without muffling my steps, without disguising my presence from him.

He does not turn his head, nor acknowledge my presence until we are outside his door.

Then he turns to me and leans back against the heavy painted door.

He smiles at me wearily. He looks older than he is, his eyes are soft with a pained tenderness. “Zaynab.”

“Yusuf.” We gaze at one another for many moments. He is about to speak but I hold up a hand to stop him. My heart does not race. My breath is even. I have to speak now or it will be too late. “Take me with you.”

He raises his eyebrows but says nothing. I press on. “I love you. I want to be your wife.”

His gaze is steady.

“Take me with you.” I cannot help a pleading note entering my voice.

“You have your pick of any husband in the Maghreb. And you have a home here which you should not be so anxious to leave.”

I frown at him. “This is not a happy home. The men I am offered as husbands disgust me.”

“What makes you think I care for you?”

My face burns but I will not be dissuaded. “I love you. That is enough.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I never love you?”

“I will love you. And that will be enough.”

He looks at me and reaches out with great gentleness. His hand cups my cheek. “Oh, Zaynab,” he says and if I were older, wiser, I would hear a great sorrow in his voice.

I close my eyes and listen for the words of love that are sure to follow. They come in a soft whisper.

“How wrong you are.”

I open my eyes but he has slipped inside his room and I am left staring at the painted panels of flowers.

***

Myriam orders me to visit the hammam. I have not been for weeks, washing only in cold water at home.

I do not wish to go. The dark fills my mind with sensual images, the heat is stifling, any touch on my skin, no matter from whom, is too intimate to bear.

Myriam sets her lips firm and insists. I cannot argue, it is too much emotion on top of what I already feel. I go with her.

In the dim light she scrubs my body until I am sure I have no skin left, combs the knots from my dripping hair.

She rubs me with perfumed oils as I complain about the heat and beg for us to return home.

Only when she is all finished does she allow me to go to the coolest part of the room I can find and begins her own ablutions.

“I want to go home,” I moan at her. “It’s so hot.”

“You don’t want to go home,” says Myriam indistinctly from under a steady stream of hot water.

“I do,” I insist.

“You need to stay here,” says Myriam firmly as she rubs her skin with a rough cloth.

“Why?” I complain.

“Your father and Yusuf bin Ali need to speak and they do not need you wandering into the room.”

I catch my breath. My heart flutters rather than beating as it should and I put one hand over it, for it feels very weak. “What are they talking about?”

Myriam finishes pouring water over herself and flicks back her wet hair. Her voice is flat. “He wants you for his wife.”

I scream with joy. Every part of me is full of life, of happiness.

“Hush!” Myriam hurries over to silence me, nearly slipping on the wet floor. “What will people think?”

I escape her pinning arms and dance around the room, wet and happy. “He is asking for my hand? This very minute? Now?”

Myriam nods and starts to comb her hair. She does not seem very pleased.

“Aren’t you happy for me?” I demand, sitting next to her again.

She looks doubtful. “I know you like him, Zaynab, but your father is not so sure about the marriage. You will live so far away. And you know so little about him.”

Nothing can make me downcast. “I will be with him. I will learn all there is to know. I will be so happy, Myriam!”

Myriam rolls her eyes but this does not dampen me. I am carried away with my fantasies. I will be with Yusuf, and despite his protestations he will love me… my body grows flushed at the thought.

***

My father is overly formal when he tells me. I can barely stand still before him when I am summoned. Myriam stands behind me, having reminded me all the way to his rooms to behave with dignity.

“You are to be married, Zaynab. You will marry Yusuf bin Ali, chief of the Wurika and Aylana tribes close to the great city of Aghmat. Your mother and I have agreed that you may be married immediately, for your husband-to-be needs to return to his people and it has been decided that you will accompany him when he leaves here.”

I am so happy that I do not even ask the obvious question and it is Myriam who asks it on my behalf.

“When is the marriage to take place?”

“In three days’ time.”

Myriam and I gasp together. This is unheard of. What about the rituals, the wooing, the prayers, the feasts? No-one gets married so fast. Myriam opens her mouth but my father is already speaking again and Myriam reluctantly closes it again.

“It is very fast of course but your husband-to-be leaves in four days and he insists that you should go with him. Fortunately all can be arranged for the ceremony and as for feasts and so on – ” he waves his hand dismissively “– that can all happen at his home. You have many fine clothes and jewels and I will arrange that many more be made for you in the few days that we have left to us. Other things can be sent on. You will not go to him as a beggar.”

Myriam and I open our mouths again but my father is still speaking, a frown on his face.

“I need to know that you desire this union, Zaynab. I will not force you into a marriage.”

“Oh yes,” I stammer, over-eager to agree. “Yes, I desire – I mean – I wish to be married to Yusuf.”

He nods and then opens his mouth as though he were about to say something else, but then he shakes his head. “Very well,” he says. “So be it.”

With this he leaves the room, and Myriam and I are left dumbfounded, our two mouths still soundlessly shaping questions to the empty doorway.

***