The Heat of Betrayal (37 page)

‘I will never get it. Her father has given me a year to do it, no more.'

‘And the bank won't loan you more?'

‘I have a cousin who works at the bank in Zagora which is why I am getting the loan. But I make so little . . .'

From the look on his face I could see that Aatif wanted to get off this subject quickly; that even speaking about all this was, on a certain level, a voyage into territory he rarely discussed . . . especially with a woman.

We stopped at a village called Melimna, where an elderly woman loaded up the van with several dozen white linen tablecloths and napkins. I got to use a proper flush toilet for the first time in weeks. There were additional stops in Foum Zguid and Alougoum – tiny, sandstruck villages, with a few local shops, a café or two, and many men, young and old, loitering in the streets. At each stop Aatif was greeted in such a warm and welcoming manner that it was clear that the women whose goods he delivered to market trusted him as an honest broker. Again I could see everyone's interest in this woman travelling with him – someone who clearly needed a lot of water behind her burqa. At every stop I entreated him to score us an additional two litres as I was seriously dehydrating encased in all those clothes. Aatif was adept at explaining away my presence, and also telling everyone that a defect at birth had robbed me of both speech and reason.

By the time we left Alougoum on a sandy half-paved side road, it was late afternoon and I could no longer stand being imprisoned in the strict Islamic dress.

‘Surely we can risk me getting out of these clothes for a while.'

Aatif thought about this.

‘We are going to get to Tazenakht – a town, not a village – by nightfall. I know a place beyond it where we can sleep for the night. Until then – this road is not much travelled, because it is unsurfaced. The police rarely set up checkpoints here. So, if you must change . . .'

He pulled over and went for another smoke as I got out of the burqa and djellaba, slipping back into the linen pants and shirt that were still sweat-stained from yesterday, but a complete liberation after the confinement in which I had been living.

Back in the car he had a question for me:

‘You have no children. Is this your choice?'

I paused before explaining the problems I had with my first and second husbands. I was certain that Aatif would think I was damaged goods if two men didn't want children with me. But what he said instead surprised and disarmed me:

‘So you've had bad luck with men.'

‘Or maybe my choice of men . . .'

‘. . . was not worthy of you.'

I was about to thank him for such a lovely comment when, out of nowhere, we both heard the sound of a motorcycle approaching us from behind. Aatif immediately tensed. As did I.

‘Pull over,' I hissed at him, thinking I could jump out and hide behind the vehicle until the bike had passed.

‘Too late,' he hissed back, as the motorcycle sidled right up by our vehicle in the process of overtaking us. There were a man and a woman aboard, both in their twenties, both in jeans and denim shirts, both Caucasians. The woman smiled as they drove by. But seeing me she poked the guy steering the bike and said something urgently to him.

‘Accelerate,' I told Aatif.

But it was too late for that. The bike had stopped directly in front of us, and the man and woman had dismounted and were pulling off their helmets. They both looked super-fit, well-heeled. They waved at us to stop. Aatif looked at me, wondering what to do.

‘I'll deal with this,' I said.

Aatif slowed the car to a stop. I got out. The couple approached me.

‘
Parlez-vous français?
' the man asked in an accent which made it clear he was French.

I nodded.

‘Are you all right?' the woman asked.

‘Yes, fine. Why?'

‘Aren't you the American woman everyone's been looking for?'

‘We've seen your picture everywhere.'

I had a decision to make – deny it and arouse their suspicion, or . . .

‘Yes, I'm that woman. And yes, this man is driving me to the nearest police station to let everyone know I am all right.'

‘What happened?'

‘That's a long story.'

‘We could come with you.'

‘That's very kind but there's no need.'

I could see them staring at Aatif, trying to size up if he was dangerous or holding me against my will.

‘I would feel better if we accompanied you to Tazenakht,' the man said.

‘Again, my thanks for such a generous offer. But I can assure you – I am not in any danger here. On the contrary, this man has got me out of a great deal of danger.'

They exchanged a glance. I could sense that they were wondering about my mental state, especially as I was clearly trying not to be nervous.

‘I can talk to your driver if you like,' the man said.

It was time to end this.

‘I'm grateful for your kindness. But—'

‘Will you agree to meet us at the police station in Tazenakht?'

Damn these good Samaritans. Damn myself for taking off the burqa. I had to think fast.

‘I'll tell you what – I'm sure there's a café on the main drag. Say I meet you there in an hour? Then you can make sure I'm all right.'

‘We should follow them,' the woman said in an undertone not meant for my ears.

‘And I have to phone Paris in thirty minutes. So we'll go to the police station, tell them that we've seen her en route to Tazenakht and put it in their hands.'

‘By all means tell them,' I said. ‘But the thing is, I'll be seeing them as soon as I pull into town . . .'

The couple exchanged a look, and glanced again at Aatif.

‘OK,' the man finally said. ‘See you in Tazenakht.'

‘The café on the main drag,' I said, hoping there was one. ‘We can have a beer.'

The man checked his watch. He clearly had a scheduled call to make. Reluctant to leave me they walked back to the bike and shot off towards the horizon.

As soon as they were out of sight I rushed back to the car and climbed in. Aatif could tell that the conversation with the French couple hadn't gone brilliantly.

‘We have to get off this road,' I said. ‘Now.'

AATIF THOUGHT FAST
. If we headed south back to the main road at Foum Zguid, we would hit something of a dead end, as the road east was unpaved. He knew this because his own village, M'hamid, was a fifty-kilometre straight line from here. But the desert track passed through treacherous sand dunes. Vehicles got bogged down in them – and at this time of year, with temperatures ferociously high, a horrible death was not out of the question.

‘Even if there was a direct road to M'hamid, it would be very hard to bring you to my village.'

‘Understood.'

‘But if we go west for Foum Zguid the road brings us very far south. Then we would have to head north through Agadir. Big tourist town. Many police.'

His solution: he had one more pick-up of goods to make in a tiny village of Asaka, only around ten kilometres inland from here down a narrow desert track. He had a client there whom he was planning to visit in two weeks' time. But she always had goods on hand.

‘I'll tell her that I have a little extra room in the back. There is another track near her house. We can sleep there tonight.'

‘Mightn't the police come looking for us there?'

‘They will have been told by the French tourists that you were in a car with a Moroccan. If we are lucky they won't mention the make of the car. But even so there are many vehicles like this here. You will have to go back behind the burqa. It's the only way we can make it to Marrakesh. If we leave early tomorrow the police in Tazenakht will probably think we headed south. There may still be a roadblock, but my hope is that if they see me driving a woman in a burqa it will fool them again.'

Stepping behind the car I cloaked myself again. Then, with the light receding, we drove slightly north before turning right down a desert track. Unlike some of the other unpaved roads on which I had travelled this one was treacherous – an uneven surface featuring many ruts and the sandy equivalent of potholes. We bumped along at less than fifteen kilometres an hour, our progress slow, torturous. The landscape here was a return to the absolute remoteness of the oasis, only there was not the same sense of wide-open space. Rather it felt as if we were moving towards some cul-de-sac, from which there was no way out. There was a narrow barrenness to this route; a sense of heading to the end of the line.

‘I can see why the cops wouldn't want to follow us out here,' I said.

‘Which is why we need to stay here until sunrise.'

It took us almost an hour to reach the village of Asaka, which had just four houses. The one at which we stopped was lived in by a man in his fifties with a young wife and four children, all of whom seemed to be under the age of six. The wife was still pretty, but clearly beaten down by life. She barked at her children. She barked at her husband who sat on a stool, smoking and looking quietly disconsolate. She barked at Aatif, berating him for something while getting her two oldest kids to load up his van with the djellabas she had made. When her husband offered tea Aatif declined, pointing to the road and making some excuse about needing to get north soon.

As soon as Asaka was behind us, Aatif steered the vehicle down a track so narrow, so hemmed in by sand on either side, that it was just wide enough for our one vehicle. We bumped along for about quarter of an hour until we reached a small clearing by which there was a pump. Here we parked and set up camp for the night. Aatif said that, with a full load in the van, we could cut short the trip and get to Marrakesh late tomorrow evening, but only if we left before dawn. That was fine by me. The sooner I could get to Marrakesh the sooner I could sell my jewellery.

‘The water, it is not good for drinking,' Aatif said as he got one of the jerrycans of water out of the rear of the vehicle; a cargo area now so jammed with goods that there was little room for the spare cans of fuel and water that he carried. He used the clean water to make tea and couscous. I asked him if I could wash at the pump. He told me that I shouldn't use more than four or five pulls, as water was so scarce out here that we mustn't use much. Especially as the next person coming along might be in desperate need of it.

He put the couscous on to boil, then walked off. I stripped down and pumped the water. The first dispatch of liquid was revoltingly brown, the second a little more neutral. The third looked relatively clear. I had no soap, no toothbrush (I hadn't brushed my teeth since that last night in Tata), no basin. Still, the feel of water against my bare skin was restorative. I got into my nightshirt, my skin still wet.

‘That woman, she is always complaining, always bitter,' Aatif said as we ate. ‘But that is not my Hafeza. She is far too kind to turn into such an angry woman.'

I thought that trying to raise four kids in the middle of nowhere, and in poverty, would make anyone bitter.

Instead I said:

‘I am happy for you that you have found someone nice.'

‘I will be happy if I can give her father what he wants. You have dowries in America?'

‘No, not exactly. But trust me, when it comes to the end of love, it's all about money.'

‘Money is not everything,' he said. ‘But without it . . .'

‘What else would you like, besides a house for you and Hafeza?'

‘A mobile phone. It would be very useful for my business. I had one for a while, but it was expensive. Then I had to start saving for a house. So I could not afford the phone any more. Beyond that, a new television maybe. Mine is fifteen years old, and the picture is very bad. And of course, Hafeza will want to furnish the house.'

The hope in his face was so touching. I feared for him if he could not find the money necessary to win her hand. Not that he would fall apart, but that he would know further disappointment.

Night fell. I opened my bed roll, but found the ground near the car far too uneven. So I told Aatif I was going to move behind a small dune just a few feet from the vehicle. I wished him a good night, carried the bed roll over and laid it out. Then, after downing my evening dosage of knock-out tea that Aatif had prepared, I crawled between the sheets, placed the mosquito net over my head, and lay staring up at the stars, thinking:
Tomorrow I will be in a city. Will I ever again see a night sky so vast and clear as this?

Sleep descended quickly. But then, out of nowhere, I heard voices. Angry, threatening voices. I stirred awake as they grew louder. It was still night. I glanced at my watch. Four-twelve a.m. I crawled out of my bed roll and crept to the edge of the sand dune. Poking my head around it I saw four men – I couldn't determine their ages – surrounding Aatif. Two of them were holding him while the other two were emptying his van of all its goods. When Aatif pleaded with them, one of them slapped him hard across the face. I ducked back behind the dune. Frantically digging a hole in the sand I pulled off my two rings and my father's Rolex and buried them, finding a rock on the ground to mark the spot. Then I sat very still, terrified of what might happen next.

More voices, more entreaties from Aatif. The sound of a punch and Aatif now crying. Then vehicle doors opening and slamming, Aatif issuing one last plea, a car engine rumbling into life, wheels moving away along the sand. I waited a good five minutes just to be certain that those men weren't coming back. Then I dug up my rings and watch and dashed over. I found Aatif lying in the sand, holding his stomach, crying loudly.

‘Thieves, thieves . . . they took everything.'

I tried to put my arms around him to help him up, but he recoiled at my touch.

‘Are you OK?' I asked.

‘They slapped my face, they punched me in the stomach, they took everything out of the van. They even found my wallet and stole my four hundred dirhams. The only money I had . . .'