The Lost Letter from Morocco. Adrienne Chinn

      ‘One minute. Where do I wash my hands?’

      ‘Put water in the bucket and pour it down the toilet.’

      When she opens the door, Omar’s leaning against the courtyard wall waiting for her. He examines her loafers.

      ‘You made your shoes wet.’

      Addy peers down at the dark splotches on the tan leather.

      ‘I know. It’s hard for me to squat. I kept falling over. I tried to clean them with some water.’

      Omar shouts for his sister. ‘Fatima!’

      Fatima emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron printed with apples and oranges. She’s followed by a pretty girl in purple velour pyjamas and a pink hijab with matching pink babouches. Omar says something to Fatima. The girls look at Addy’s shoes and break into giggles. Fatima disappears behind a blue wooden door beside the kitchen. The other girl says something to Omar and he laughs. Fatima returns with her purple plastic Crocs.

      ‘Give her your shoes, honey. She’ll clean them for you.’

      ‘She doesn’t have to do that.’

      He takes the Crocs from Fatima and pushes them into Addy’s hands. ‘She’s happy to do it.’

      ‘If you’re sure …’

      ‘It’s fine. Mashi mushkil.’

      Gripping Omar’s arm to steady herself, Addy changes her shoes. Omar picks up her discarded loafers and shoves them into the hands of Fatima’s friend. Fatima bursts into another fit of giggles. The girl drops the loafers like they’re infectious and storms out of the courtyard, slamming the metal door behind her.

      Addy stoops down to pick up the offensive shoes. ‘Who was that?’

      ‘Zaina,’ Omar says as he takes the shoes from Addy and hands them to Fatima. ‘She’s a friend of Fatima.’

      Addy watches Fatima disappear into the kitchen with her loafers. ‘I don’t think Zaina likes me.’

      ‘She don’t like foreign ladies. It’s normal.’

      ‘What do you mean by that?’

      ‘Amazigh ladies don’t like foreign ladies because they go with Amazigh men. They’re jealous.’

      Fatima rests her chin on Addy’s shoulder and wraps her arms around her waist. ‘Come, sister,’ she says in French. ‘It’s the time of supper. I make delicious brochettes of chicken for my sister, Adi.’

      ‘You go eat, honey.’ Omar turns and heads towards the front door.

      ‘Where are you going? Aren’t you eating?’

      ‘Later. I’ll go to find the plumber. Enjoy.’

      Fatima reaches for Addy’s hand and leads her into the living room. Aicha smiles her white smile and pats a place for Addy beside her on the flowery banquette. The low table is laid out with stacks of glistening chicken brochettes, a salad of chopped tomatoes, onions and olives dressed with olive oil, and fragrant discs of warm bread dusted with semolina.

      Aicha grabs a disc of bread out of the blue plastic basket and tears off a large chunk. She offers it to Addy. ‘Eesh, Adi. Marhaba.’

      ‘Shukran.’

      Addy tears off another piece and bites into its warm yeastiness. As she chews, she looks around the narrow whitewashed room. A poster of a girl praying at Mecca is tacked over the banquette on the opposite wall. Beside it a framed photograph, garlanded with pink and yellow plastic flowers, shows a sharp-suited King Mohammed VI. At the far end of the room, a large flat-screen television hangs on the wall, the dark screen filmy with pink dust.

      Fatima picks up the remote. The television screen springs to life. She flips through the channels until she comes to a Turkish soap opera. Addy wonders where Jedda is. The black-and-white cat slinks into the room and settles on the mat by Addy’s feet.

      They’re silent as they climb the steps to Addy’s veranda. She’s conscious of his warmth behind her, the gentle pressure of his hand on her waist when she stumbles on the final step. She walks over to the railing and gazes out at the night-cloaked mountains. The air is cool and stars cluster like glass chips in the black sky. A low buzz of cicadas underpins the silence.

      Omar joins her and looks out at the inky outline of the High Atlas Mountains in the far distance.

      ‘It’s dark tonight, honey. No moon.’

      ‘Yes. But you can see the stars really well.’

      ‘The plumber called me when I was at Mohammed’s restaurant watching the football. He said he fixed your water. It might be I should check it for you.’

      ‘No, it’s okay. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

      ‘Adi …’

      It happens before she knows she’s done it. Her lips on his neck. Softness. A pulse. His moan. A kiss. His body warm against hers. Her arms around his neck.

      ‘Adi …’

      No. She can’t. She mustn’t. It’s too complicated. Her life’s already a mess. She drops her arms and steps back from his embrace. She presses her fingers against her burning lips.

      ‘I’m so sorry, Omar. I shouldn’t have done that. Please forget I’ve done that.’

      He reaches out to her. ‘Adi, what happened? Don’t worry.’

      She hurries to the blue door and into the house. Her heart’s in her throat, pounding, pounding. Oh, my God. What was I thinking?

       Chapter Eleven

       Zitoune, Morocco – December 1983

      Hanane skids through a slick of thick blood-red mud.

      She laughs. ‘Omar, the surprise had better be worth it. I’m getting splattered with mud.’

      The boy waves his hand in the air on the path in front of her. ‘Mashi mushkil. It’s not so far now.’

      Hanane stops to catch her breath. Wisps of her thick black hair escape the purple scarf draped loosely over her head. The sky is a canopy of blue over the damp red earth. Nothing but rocks and mud. A few leafless bushes. The river, about ten metres below, courses roughly on its path through the canyon walls.

      ‘If I’d known we’d be walking to Oushane, I’d never have come.’

      Omar turns around, smiling broadly as he opens his arms wide. ‘So, why would I have told you, then?’ He flicks his eyes over her shoulder.

      Hanane glances back but sees nothing but the narrow goat path they’ve just descended.

      ‘What is it, Omar?’

      ‘Nothing.’ Breaking into a jog, he waves at her to follow him. ‘Not far now, Hanane. Yalla.’

      ‘I’m not running, Omar.’ She steps gingerly along the muddy plateau. ‘I’ll break my leg.’

      ‘Stop.’ Omar shoots his right palm into the air like the traffic police she’s seen in Azaghar. ‘Stop. There, just there. Where you are.’

      ‘What? Why?’

      He points at the muddy path in front of her. ‘Look down.’

      Pressed into the mud is a huge, three-toed footprint.

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘Dinosaur.’ Omar curls his hands under his armpits, staggering around the ground like a cross between a monkey and a wounded chicken. He lets out a howl.

      Hanane