Alexandra Singer (16 page)

“I don’t know about that,” said Maia.

Here, people seemed to be convinced in the power of the evil eye. At the entrance to houses Maia spotted the hand of Fatima; that very day she had seen a doorknocker sculpted in the shape of the
hand. In this way, the home was presumed to be protected from evil.

“You know the story of Fatima?”

“No.”

He stopped her from taking her purchase. “You can’t buy it without knowing the story.”

She decided to humour him, and remained silent.

“Then I will tell you. The
khamsa
is the five-fingered hand that in Arabic we can use to arrest the evil eye. Fatima was the compassionate daughter of the Prophet Mohammed and
several miracles are attributed to her. When she prayed in the desert, it began to rain. Watch out for jealousy.”

It seemed absurdly superstitious. But she agreed with him anyway. “There are plenty of those people around,” said Maia, thinking of the jealousy that Cassandra provoked in her, and
the feelings she suffered over Armand.

When she left the shop, the streets were emptying as the call to prayer was sounding. As she reached the Grand Tazi, Maia was surprised to find the Historian.

He greeted her abruptly. “How has my work been going?”

“I have finished it.”

“I know you have finished it.” He smiled. “Did you imagine that I wouldn’t check up on you?”

“I am sure you will find it is all in order.” She thought about the crumpled letters and criticisms, and wondered for how long he intended to maintain the charade.

“I have no idea. I’m leaving again tomorrow for Europe. I don’t know how long I will be gone for, but I trust you will carry these out,” he said, handing her another list
of tasks.

“Of course.” When Maia was around him, she felt that her very presence was an irritant, and she wondered why he wanted her there, in his home. Even as she tried to stop it, her
hostility and resentment towards him grew.

As she left, Mahmoud and the Historian were murmuring together at the doorway and then together they looked at her.

She continued her visits, but a lull had settled over the Grand Tazi. She laid her head on the cool surface of the table. Maia had felt her energy levels dropping, and she became incredibly
morose.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Mahmoud.

She lifted her head up off the table. “About Paris, about my last experience of it.”

“Ah ha.”

She smiled. Something about Mahmoud made her desperate to impress him.

“Mihai told me that he forgot to say he will not be back in Marrakech for a long time.”

“What is a long time?”

Mahmoud shrugged. “Whatever Mihai deems it to be.” He beamed at her with delight.

The days passed while Maia painted, interspersed with her nightly visits to the Grand Tazi. One evening, on her way to the bar, she took a different route, and made her way to the Bab Agnou
gate.

‘Enter with blessing, serene people’, announced the gate that for centuries welcomed the black people who arrived in the city from beyond the Sahara, whilst the fair skinned
aristocrats had their own gate to pass through. Maia wandered the streets before she decided to return to the Historian’s empty riad. She resolved to eventually return to the Grand Tazi, for
in the next few hours before delirium and inebriation took over, she would at least not be alone. Maia found that all the afternoons she passed were stifled and depressed. A life alone in a massive
mausoleum, would lead anyone desperate for a drink.

For days, Maia felt defeated at her lack of direction and purpose. Now she began to miss the rain and the abundant greenery of England, the oak forests that travelled for miles
and its comforting redbrick buildings. She forgot about the coldness of the land, of the people, of having felt that it was simply just another place to which she would never belong. She continued
with the tasks the Historian had set her, and sitting on the roof, she painted and smoked incessantly, distractedly lighting another cigarette before she had even finished the last, as she watched
the dust swirl up the street.

The city seemed to be closing in upon her. She lay in her room, drowsy in the shadows, listening to the faint voices outside. Some days she felt so listless, she could hardly get out of bed. One
morning, when Maia was emerging from a vague and elusive dream, a rapping was being played upon the door to her room. Walking wearily over to the door, she opened it to find an unusually
dishevelled Armand.

“Why are you here?”

“I was in the house already,” he said.

“And how did you get in?”

He held a key up to her face. “I keep one for myself. The Historian trusts me to take care of some business for him.”

“I see,” said Maia, hesitating. “I never knew you had it.”

“Why would you?” he said, and Maia wanted to ask him if he had been in the house without her knowing.

Armand came towards her. “I know what you are wondering, and the answer is yes,” he brushed past her into the flat.

It seemed to Maia that he had not washed for several days. He was carrying a small, leather brown bag and as he kissed her, his breath smelled of alcohol, stale cigarettes and other women.

Half reluctantly Maia returned his kiss and as she did his stubble brushed harshly upon her chin. It took only a moment for her to forget her resentment towards him and Cassandra. When he pushed
her down onto her unmade bed she was too overwhelmed to stop him. She wanted to forget all her boredom and failure, and from the window outside she watched the sky darkening.

Several hours later she awoke to the clattering from her tiny kitchen. In an alcove with two hobs, the Historian had left her with a few necessary kitchen utensils, pans, knives. In the kitchen
she found Armand, barefoot and dressed only in his jeans. Maia resented that in such a short time, he had succeeded in making her the victim of an insatiable lust.

Maia tried hard not to be disappointed. She often had the distinct feeling that the only person that Armand desired was himself. As she looked at him, she was pathetically grateful for the small
attentions he paid her. She placed her hand upon his arm, as if searching for some reassurance that he really was still there.

“I want to escape, Armand.”

“Have you ever tried
majoun
, Maia?” He was searching her cupboards, opening and slamming the doors until he found whatever it was he had been searching for. Suddenly he
grabbed her by the waist and kissed her, she was delighted, but just as quickly he backed away and began muttering to himself. Blending nuts and oil in the frying pan, he poured in all the spices
he had found with an entire jar of her honey. Taking a plastic bag from the back pocket of his jeans, he added murky-looking herbs to the mixture, blending and churning until it was a huge brown
mess. As he added butter, Maia hoped he would not force her to eat this mixture. It revolted her.

He directed her to the roof where he rolled a cigarette with the mixture he had cooked, and sat there smoking rings into the city. Despite it being close to midnight, the air was dry and hot.
Maia watched him smoke with an adoration, close to hatred. She wanted to ask him why he was here with her, why he sought her company but then rejected it, why he payed her so much attention if he
didn’t want her. At the same time, she felt an irrational appreciation for any glimpse of affection from him. When he did deign to look at her, he gave a frisson of delight, which in all the
years they had been together, George had never succeeded in eliciting from her.

“Is this where you view your women to paint them?”

“Sometimes.”

“Are they ever naked?”

“No!”

Armand saw her watching him and handed her the roll up. She took it from him and breathed in deeply, before retching. The sweetness of it sickened her. Armand laughed, taking her hand.
“The Historian holds a certain fascination for you, doesn’t he?”

A silence stretched out between them.

“He is plausible in his explanations,” said Maia eventually.

“He is very clever.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.”

“I’ve had enough of this city. How would you like to get out for a while?”

Maia did not hesitate. “Didn’t you hear what I told you before?”

Armand didn’t bother replying. He had already assumed she would follow him. For a moment she thought about leaving her paintings and the responsibility she had with the Historian. The
majoun
had made her feel remarkably free and lightheaded.

She was decided, “Of course I do. Do you really want me to come?”

“I wouldn’t have asked you, if I didn’t mean it.” Replied Armand, looking bored.

“I always wanted to escape somewhere.”

“And have you got what you came for?”

His eyes met hers, and she knew in that moment that she was a mere amusement for him. Despite all this, Maia was unable to walk away from him.

Armand stayed on the roof and smoked while Maia collected her things together. He appeared at the bedroom door, his leather bag in his hand. He was impatient, “Let’s go.” He
grabbed her arm. “The car is parked near the square... ” He held up her face and gripped her chin. “You need a change of scenery. I’ve been looking at your paintings.
They’re...
merde
.”

Maia was crestfallen. She was hurt by his abrupt condemnation of her work.

He went to stand beside her. “These women are very ugly.”

“I did not paint to please you. I see character in their faces.”

“Where did you see them?”

“In the souk.”

“You paint like a child.”

The blues and yellows merged on the canvas, so that just in looking at them she relived the excitement and urgency she had experienced when she had painted it. She looked at the shadows in
contrast to the pure sunlight and wondered at how rapidly she had managed to improve her technical ability. Radiating energy and light danced across the canvas, but when she stood back from the
canvas, she wondered if he was right.

“You need to retouch this area,” Armand told her, and he touched a corner of the painting with the tip of his finger, seeing how it pained her. At first, her growing attentions had
flattered him. Her passivity had excited him. But as he looked at her, he saw that the more he demeaned her, the more eager she was to please him.

“I don’t feel that it is necessary to retouch.”

“Feel, feel – you always concentrate on how you are feeling! You take yourself far too seriously. It is not the most attractive state, you know, for a woman.”

“I know someone,” she said, giving a laugh she did not feel, “who takes himself far too seriously.”

“Do not laugh at me, Maia,” he said, coldly.

Maia stared back at him, “I have nothing to hide.”

“All you women have something to hide.”

They stood there for a moment, looking at the painting. The female collective fascinated Maia; all the love and the subjugation, the mistreatment, exploitation and neglect, but Armand’s
face was twisted in disgust. She waited uneasy, suspended. The only reaction that she had elicited from him was disgust, and Maia realised this was another man who wanted women to wear masks. But
still she accompanied him; and on the staircase they passed Ina, who barely acknowledged them. Maia left the Historian a note on the kitchen table and she went out with Armand into the empty
street. As they drove together, the city fading behind them, Maia glanced at his shadowed profile. She knew she was mad to leave with Armand, but she was past caring. It was inexplicable, but
something was propelling her forward.

She must have slept for most of the drive, and when she awoke, the sun was just rising. Here, the roads were treacherous and they stretched out before her under a clear sky. On one side, a
jagged mountain rose up, whilst on the other, a huge ravine fell down steeply.

Armand’s window was open and a cigarette was dangling from between his lips. He looked at her, as though for the first time, but said nothing.

The road was slow going, eternally twisting. A roof of soft sky stretched out endlessly. Between rock and sky, the air was held motionless and below them there was only the rough, bare ground
and the starkness of the ravines, and then, far below them, the odd tree clinging precariously to the mountainside. As Maia stared down into the valleys, she saw the neglect of this part of the
country. The view of the dirty scrub road soon became monotonous, and the parched landscape was cool and eerily quiet as the sun went down. She must have fallen asleep again because next time she
awoke they were at a police road block. Maia was horrified to see that the driver’s door was open, and Armand was no longer there.

Ahead of her, she saw him talking with an official. As Maia stepped out of the car she watched the two men shake hands. Armand marched back to where she was standing confused, one hand placed on
the burning roof. A swarm of people came out of nowhere and they began to surround the car, pestering her, asking if they wanted hashish. Armand took out a pistol and two shots blasted sharply into
the air. The noise resounded around the valley and the crowd dispersed.

“Get in,” he snapped, and ushered her back into the car.

Moments later, Maia couldn’t hold her tongue any longer, “Do you want to tell me what all that was about?”

“Not at all,” Armand replied.

She looked at him and another intense rush of desire claimed her as she settled back down into her seat. The balance of power between them was all wrong, and again she felt a fool. It occurred
to her that she may have simply exchanged one master for another. He made her so passive, to the extent that she felt far removed from whatever it was that he might be dragging her down into.

She opened the window and felt the cool, clear air. They were high up into the mountains, and as Maia looked down, she saw the red tiled roofs of tall, bright blue buildings, all converging upon
a square. The car was descending steeply through the rust coloured hills, and Maia’s sense of unease was blurring into excitement.