The Lost Letter from Morocco. Adrienne Chinn

of dinosaur feet and a cave with many old drawings. We can make a good negotiation.’

      ‘You’ll make me a poor man, for sure, Omar. What about if I teach you English so you can talk to any English tourists who visit the waterfalls, not just the French? You can corner the tourist market. No one here speaks English.’

      Omar squints at the glowing coals as he mulls over the offer. Dirhams now would be good. But then once the man leaves, the money stops. But, if he learns English, even when Gus leaves, he can still earn money. Lots of money. Omar holds out his hand.

      ‘Deal.’

       Chapter Seven

       Zitoune, Morocco – March 2009

      A flat-roofed house of orange sandstone rocks sits on a hill thick with cacti. Blue shutters frame the square windows and a basement level hugs the hillside, jutting out to provide the base for a veranda shaded with a twisted grapevine. An olive tree with a gnarled trunk as thick as Addy’s waist leans over the house. A donkey is tethered in its shade. Scrawny black chickens scratch around the donkey’s hooves.

      Omar sets down Addy’s luggage on the gravel path. ‘You like it?’

      ‘It’s perfect.’

      ‘It’s okay. It’s a bit small. I’m making a big house.’

      Addy shades her eyes from the stabbing rays of the late afternoon sun with her hand. ‘For your family?’

      ‘One day, inshallah. Or maybe it will be a guest house for tourists. I must to be rich one day.’

      Addy shifts her camera bag to her left shoulder. ‘Let’s wait on the veranda for Mohammed.’

      On the veranda, she sets down her camera bag on a long wooden table and leans on the stone railing. Below the house the river winds its way towards the waterfalls through budding oleander bushes and shivering ash trees. Across the river the sandstone cliffs of the Middle Atlas Mountains ripple around the valley, while in the distance the snowy peaks of the High Atlas Mountains stand resolute against the fading blue of the sky. Addy sighs.

      Omar leans against the railing. ‘You don’t like it?’

      ‘No, I love it. This is just what the doctor ordered.’

      ‘Your doctor told you to come here?’

      Addy laughs. ‘It’s just an expression. It means it’s perfect.’

      ‘Just what the doctor ordered. I like it.’ Omar nods his head towards the blue door. ‘Why do we wait to go inside?’

      ‘I texted Mr Demsiri to tell him I’ve arrived. He needs to bring me the key.’

      Omar strolls over to a flowerpot spilling with red geraniums. He tilts the pot over and holds up a key.

      ‘You knew where the key was?’

      ‘Everybody knows. Mashi mushkil. Don’t worry. It’s very safe in Zitoune. You don’t need to lock the door. Nobody will bother you.’ The dimple in his cheek. ‘Except me.’

      ‘Omar …’

      A crunch of footsteps on gravel.

      ‘Allô, madame! You find the house okay?’

      A tall, bald middle-aged man climbs up the path, his brown djellaba straining at his sturdy belly. An impressive hooked nose lends him the regal appearance of a Roman emperor.

      Omar gestures to the older man. ‘Adi, honey, this is Mohammed Demsiri. He owns many places in Zitoune. He’s a rich man.’

      Addy raises an eyebrow at Omar. Honey? She extends her hand to the older man. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. The house looks lovely. It’s such a beautiful setting.’

      Mohammed smiles, two bright gold teeth where his canines should be. Ignoring Addy’s extended hand, he pats his broad chest and nods. A thick silver watch encircles his wrist and several chunky silver rings decorate his fingers.

      ‘It’s a pleasure for me to welcome you to Morocco, madame. I remember you well.’

      ‘You remember me?’

      Mohammed slaps Omar on the back. ‘I was at the restaurant today when you ate the lunch with Omar. He came into the restaurant to tell me he met a beautiful lady with hair like fire. I looked outside and I saw you. I told Omar he choosed well, Adi, honey.’

      Omar chokes. ‘Laa. Her name is Adi. It’s only me who calls her honey. It’s like habibati.’

      Mohammed’s face freezes into a look of horror. ‘I’m so, so sorry, madame. Please excuse me.’

      ‘Don’t worry. Mashy mushkey. Just call me Addy.’

      Mohammed gestures towards the bright blue wooden door studded with large black nail heads. ‘Please to come into the house. You will like it very much. It’s the most beautiful guest house in Zitoune.’

      ‘Until I build my guest house.’

      Mohammed chuckles. ‘You can see already Omar will be a rich man one day, inshallah. He’s a hard worker. I must be careful. He will make me to look like a poor man.’

      ‘You’ll never be a poor man, Mohammed. Amine is a lucky boy.’

      Omar picks up Addy’s suitcase and slings the black nylon tripod bag and the brown leather overnight bag over his shoulder. The wine bottles clink and Addy winces.

      ‘Who’s Amine?’

      ‘It’s my nephew.’ Mohammed opens the blue door, waving them to enter. ‘He work in my restaurant. He serve you the lunch today.’

      ‘Oh, yes. He seemed very nice, although Omar ran him off his feet.’

      Mohammed furrows his forehead and asks Omar something in Tamazight. Omar shrugs.

      ‘Excuse me, madame. Amine still have his feet.’

      Addy laughs as she swings the camera bag over her shoulder. ‘I mean Omar kept him busy. Ran him off his feet is just an expression.’

      Mohammed nods. ‘I run Amine off his feet every day. It’s good to learn English well.’

      Addy stands on the veranda and waves at the two men as they trek down the gravel path towards the village. Golden light from the waning sun falls across the sides of the mountains. Somewhere in the village a dog barks. A clatter of metal against metal. Sharp feedback from a microphone slices through the stillness. ‘Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.’ The amplified voice of the village’s muezzin echoes around the valley as he recites the call to prayer: God is great. Addy listens until the last words dissipate on the cooling air.

      The night is drawing in fast. The sun has turned fat and orange, and streaks of red splay across the darkening sky. She wanders back into the house. The large whitewashed living room is furnished with low, round wooden tables. Banquettes strewn with colourful striped cushions line two of the walls and pierced tin lanterns hang from the beamed ceiling. A thick white wool rug marked with crossed black diamonds covers the polished grey concrete floor.

      She enters the larger of the two cool white bedrooms. The solid wooden bed is draped in a blue-and-green striped bedcover and a filmy white mosquito net bunches on the floor around the bed. Addy opens her overnight bag and pulls out a plastic duty-free bag. She unwraps the two bottles of white wine. Good French Chablis. Luckily screw top.

      In a kitchen cupboard Addy finds a water glass and pours out a generous serving. She kicks off her sandals and crosses the cool concrete leading out to the veranda. She feels like a butterfly shrugging off its chrysalis. Free of London. Free of Philippa. Free of Nigel. Free of cancer. The scar on her left breast throbs and she touches the coin-sized divot in her flesh.

      She