Authors: Jacqueline Briskin
He answered with a smile.
* * *
Despite the shadows engulfing the crowded, cacophonous alleys of the Marrakesh medina, the heat was so intense that the oddly jutting old houses with their silvery, ancient cedarwood screens wavered and appeared swollen out of proportion. Beneath her long-sleeved, beige cotton midi, Honora was perspiring freely, large drops oozing between her breasts and behind her knees into her linen boots. Even though Morocco had no draconian laws regulating women’s clothing, when in Islamic countries she outfitted herself decorously. She had lacked the heart, though, to muffle her six-and-a-half-year-old, so Lissie wore a skimpy white sundress.
The child had left her hearing aids at the hotel.
The Ivorys had arrived the evening before. Early this morning Curt—accompanied by the Ivory senior vice president who had made the trip with them—had taken off for a meeting with Fuad and some other Lalarheini ministers here for the Pan-Arabic Conference. Honora had visited Marrakesh several times, but this was Lissie’s first time in the Mideast and she was wild with excitement, twisting around to take everything in—the newly dyed cloths hanging between buildings like bunting for a parade, the fat cloth merchant beckoning at them with bright-colored fingers, the skinny little apprentice no taller than she who darted by with a hanging tray of glasses filled with weedy mint tea.
Their short, stringy brown driver, walking a few yards ahead of them as their guide through the maze, had already passed the open space where five alleys met: at this moment the little square appeared empty. The brilliance of the penetrating Sahara sun blinded Honora to the two small, cross-legged figures in the deep shade of a green tile overhang. As her eyes adjusted to the vivid light, she saw them. She first thought they were twin children, then she made out the deep wrinkles carved into the powdery darkness of both faces. One little man caressed a flattish, closed basket. “Madame,” he called softly. “Mademoiselle.”
Lissie, unable to hear the singsong voice, caught the movement. She halted.
Immediately his comrade lifted the flutelike instrument, playing a slow, sinuous melody. The basket was opened. A cobra—was that what the loathsome snake was?—poked its spoon-shaped head out, rising on its body.
Gasping, Honora stepped backward. But Lissie transfixed as the reptile uncoiled. Swiftly, the owner grasped the jewel-faceted skin behind the head, pulling the snake from the basket. In rhythm with the minor-key flute-wail, the creature wrapped symbiotically around the bare, bony arm. The man grinned toothlessly and the snake also parted its jaws, darting its forked tongue.
Honora met the serpent’s eyes, brilliant as black sequins in the dim light, an innocent, unknowing projection of evil.
The snake charmer took winding steps toward Lissie. The child let out her high, atonal scream.
Honora lunged, picking up her daughter. “Get away from us!” she shouted, trying to escape into the metalworkers’ alley, where the driver had disappeared.
The miniature man forestalled her, darting in front of them. “Mademoiselle?” His hissing burden uncoiled, defying gravity to extend itself toward Lissie.
Honora felt as well as heard the child’s rising screams.
Just then a masculine voice snapped a few words in Arabic. The snake charmer backed away, the flute ceased. As Lissie’s shrills of terror lessened, Honora looked shakily over her
daughter’s head at their rescuer.
To her surprise he was the tall young man she had noticed near the massive stone entry arch of the medina. At that time she had thought he could have been stamped
Made in USA
, so much the archetypical young American did he look with his fair hair covering his ears, his long, lean legs encased in faded Levi’s, the sleeves of his white shirt casually rolled up. Even the dark glasses curving around his tanned face were the latest style in California. His command of Arabic, though, threw her off. Deciding he must be a French Moroccan, she said breathlessly in her schoolgirl French,
“Merci beaucoup, monsieur.”
“Hey, like it’s no big deal,” he said in the familiar accent of the far western states. He tossed coins at the pair. “That’s how they make a living, snake charmers, terrifying women and little girls.”
The driver, having rushed back, was shouting and waving his arms menacingly as the two swarthy little men scurried for the still rolling coins.
Lissie’s face remained buried in Honora’s shoulder.
“Are you all right, honey?” the young man asked in a gentle tone.
“She can’t hear you,” Honora said.
Lissie, sensing they were talking about her, lifted her crimson, tear-splotched face. To hide her embarrassment for her screams, she said, “Nay.”
Honora accepted the oddly pitched
Nay
for
snake, but few other people would have.
The young man did. “Snakes aren’t my favorite either,” he said enunciating carefully. He looked at Honora. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Alexander Talbott.”
Squiggles of light danced in front of Honora’s eyes. The heat, the metallic clamor, Lissie’s weight closed in on her and she thought that she might pass out.
“Hey, are you all right?” The concerned male voice seemed battered out of shape.
“N-no. I m-mean, yes,” she stammered, giving herself a moment to compose herself by setting Lissie down and straightening the white spaghetti straps of her sundress. “I’m Honora Ivory,” she said slowly. “And this is my daughter, Lissie.”
The glasses hid his eyes, but his mouth opened in shocked surprise and his cheeks drew in.
“Coincidences,” she mumbled.
Alexander took several breaths.
Then he bolted.
The top of his head brushed against a rainbow of dangling cloths, possibly blinding him, and he collided with a porter bent under a load of bright-blue pottery. The dishes fell and the hot air rang with the clamor of shattering plates and cups.
Alexander Talbott had disappeared.
A turbaned merchant had risen from his stool and was pointing a dye-stained finger toward Honora. The crowd in the alley stared at her. She fished out a wad of bills, with no idea of
their value, thrusting them at the porter.
When they reached the car, Lissie scuttled inside. On the way to the medina she had bounced around in the air-conditioned Mercedes, talking excitedly about the donkey carts, Djemaa-el-Fna Square, the Koutoubia minaret, the veiled women whizzing by on motor scooters. Now she was silent, snuggling to the comfort of Honora’s side as they returned to the hotel.
It wasn’t until after the Mamounia’s doorman had bowed them into the mercifully cool lobby that Lissie spoke. “Why he run away?”
“Very good speech, Lissie,” Honora said, forcing a smile and waiting until they were in the elevator to kneel at the child’s level. “His name is Alexander Talbott.” She spelled the names in the manual alphabet. “Alexander is . . . well, remember, I’ve told you Auntie Joss and I have another sister?”
“When Grandpa talks about her, he says not to talk about anything to you or Daddy.” Lissie’s communication was a lively mingling of sound and the manual alphabet. “But you don’t mind my knowing Auntie Joss is my real mother, so why should you care about Aunt Crystal? Is he something to do with her, And?”
“Alexander.” She spelled out the name again. “He’s her son. My nephew, your cousin.”
Lissie, lacking older siblings to brag about at Prescott, a small, highly staffed private school for the hearing impaired, had informed her classmates that
she
had two cousins who were grown-up men. “Why he run?” she
asked orally.
Honora shook her head, signing that she wasn’t positive. “I think he was surprised to find out who we were.”
When Curt returned for lunch Honora told him about snake charmers and the incredible, unbelievable coincidence that their rescuer was her nephew. “I’m afraid I blew it badly when he told us who he was.”
“He ran away,” said Lissie in her usual mixed media. “He crashed into a man carrying dishes and they spilled.”
“Now that is what I call an overreaction,” Curt said, signing a slightly different version to his daughter.
* * *
Lissie’s governess, Miss McEwen, a plump, middle-aged Jamaican with dark freckles covering her broad, café-au-lait face, had landed a plum of a job because of her knowledge of sign language. Honora took care of Lissie, and Miss McEwen’s responsibility was an occasional stint of baby-sitting.
At twenty to nine she was performing her function.
The Ivorys were waiting for the maître d’ of the Mamounia’s Moroccan-style restaurant, which was lit only by pierced metal lanterns. Glancing around, Honora spotted Alexander Talbott. Despite the dimness, he had on his shades: though he was facing in their direction, she couldn’t tell whether he saw her or not. She lifted her hand in a tentative wave.
He rose from his pillows, handsome and lean
in his white dinner jacket, coming toward her.
“I really made an ass of myself this afternoon, didn’t I, Mrs. Ivory?” he said.
Honora was subtle enough to hear the hint of preparation in his apology, yet the nose with the tilt was the masculine version of Crystal’s, and there was something of her sister, too, about the lips, certainly in the bright hair. Unlike Crystal, though, he had inherited the Sylvander slender height.
My nephew
, Honora thought, a blood knot tying within her. “Do call me Honora,” she said warmly. “And I was the one who behaved like an idiot. My only excuse is that the snake petrified me as much as Lissie.” She turned to Curt. “This is our rescuer, my nephew, Alexander Talbott. Alexander, this is Curt Ivory.”
“I owe you one, Alexander. I can’t thank you enough for rescuing my girls from the largest serpent in North Africa.” Smiling, Curt extended his hand.
Alexander’s dark glasses were fixed on Curt’s face. The harem-outfitted entertainer passed them, clapping her tambourine. Alexander continued to stare. Even taking into consideration the family feud and Curt’s being Talbott’s major rival, the younger man’s hesitation seemed disproportionate to Honora. Her heart began to thump and it seemed an endless stretch of time until he at last took Curt’s strong, squarish hand.
Honora, impelled to cover the awkwardness, said, “You really do look like Crystal.” Her
voice went low. “Alexander, how is my sister?”
“Fine, absolutely perfect,” he said in a subdued voice. “Nobody believes she can be the mother of two aging lunks.”
Alexander had shifted a few feet on the beautiful old rug to stand farther away. Even more flustered, Honora heard herself effusing, “She always was so beautiful that it was unfair. And it’s terrific how she’s carried on with Talbott’s.” Though her praise was sincere, it came across as phony. “Alexander, will you join us for dinner?”
“I . . . uhh, what about a rain check? I’m expecting somebody.”
The maître d’ bustled over, ushering the Ivorys to a large divan by the window jalousies. Sinking into the low, soft pillows, Honora glanced over to where Alexander had been sitting. He was gone.
Curt followed her gaze. “So much for his big date.”
“Curt, we’re the enemy. He’s very young. Meeting us is hard on him.”
“I’d say a shade too hard.”
Because she had entertained this same thought, she said fiercely, “That’s not fair.”
“Agreed, when he found out his damsels in distress were his unknown aunt and cousin, he could have been quite naturally shook. But when he came over to talk to you it must’ve occurred to him he’d have to shake my hand.”
“Maybe he takes the rivalry harder than we do.”
“And what’s he doing here anyway? Talbott’s
doesn’t have any Mideast projects.”
“Maybe he’s on holiday.”
“Maybe he likes a hundred-and-fifteen-degree heat,” Curt said acidly. “But wouldn’t you say wearing dark glasses in this coal mine is a bit Hollywood?”
“I like him,” Honora snapped.
A dark boy in a red fez approached them with the copper pitcher and bowl for handwashing. After the ritual, she sank into gloom. Her son—Curt’s son—would have been two years older than Alexander.
The following morning, Lissie—influenced by her brush with the snake—suggested staying at the hotel to swim.
As they emerged from the glassed entryway designated for bathers, Honora felt the heat clamp over her like a giant leech and she moved lethargically. Lissie, unaffected by the temperature, zigzagged from side to side on the broad, vine-shaded path, stamping her clogs to leave footmarks on the recently raked earth.
The vast gardens of the Mamounia dated back to the seventeenth century, and Honora’s horticulturally trained eye took in the ancient, gnarled olive trees, the varieties of palms, the rose gardens—a vast harem of blooms ranging from white to palest coral to near-black crimson that spread their wilting petals to give off dense,
odalisque perfumes.
Sun-worshiping, out-of-season French tourists rayed around the glinting blue pool while sweating waiters in long white jellabas carried them tall drinks from the open-fronted pavilion. Lissie dashed across the burning deck, arcing into the water, emerging in the center of the pool. Honora cooled off with the breaststroke she’d learned at age five on a summer holiday in Worthing, then sat under a blue and white umbrella, writing postcards. One to Joscelyn, who was living in Georgetown while working on the Washington Metro project, one to Langley, who had just returned from a vacation in Alsace, one with a view of the hotel’s ancient ramparts to Mrs. Mel Akers: Vi’s third marriage had taken, but at the beginning of the year Mel had died, leaving her a substantial bank account and a garishly furnished condominium overlooking San Diego Bay.
“Hi,” said a masculine American voice.
Alexander Talbott stood over her.
The brown, pale-haired length of his legs glowed with sweet-odored suntan oil, and over one broad, bony shoulder was draped a zebra-patterned beach towel rather than the Mamounia’s ubiquitous royal blue.
“Good morning,” she said, feeling genuine pleasure at the sight of her nephew. With a twinge of alarm lest he take flight again, she slid the postcards into her address book. “So you’re at the Mamounia, too?” That zebra-striped terrycloth made her remark rise questioningly.