The Lost Letter from Morocco. Adrienne Chinn

You have the same nose and blue eyes.’

      ‘They don’t recognise her?’

      Fatima shakes her head as she hands the photo back to Addy. ‘No. My mum and grandmother are the medicine women of the village. They know everybody in the mountains here. If she was from Zitoune, they would know her.’

      Addy brushes cookie crumbs off the plastic tablecloth into her hand. She picks up her empty tea glass. Aicha nods and smiles, her coin earrings bobbing against her neck. Jedda sits on the banquette like a wizened oracle, eyeing Addy’s every move.

      Addy follows Fatima out into the courtyard and through a green door into a tiny windowless kitchen. The room is a random mix of wooden cupboards and tiles painted with seashells and sailboats. An enormous ceramic sink propped up on cement blocks takes up most of one wall. Across from it a four-ring hob sits on top of a low cupboard next to a battered black oven connected to a dented green gas canister. Utensils and ropes of drying tripe hang from a wire hooked across the room.

      ‘Ssshhh,’ Fatima hisses, flapping a tea towel at the rangy black-and-white cat who’s poking its head into a bread basket. The cat slinks out, a crust of bread in its mouth. ‘Moush,’ she says, pointing at the cat.

      Addy makes a circle around the room with her hand.

      Fatima smiles. ‘Cuisine. Comme français.’

      ‘En anglais, kitchen.’

      ‘Smicksmin.’ Fatima shakes her head. ‘Très difficile.’

      Omar pokes his head into the kitchen. ‘Come, Adi honey, we go.’

      ‘You missed some delicious chocolate cake.’

      He thrusts his hand into the room. It’s full of cake. ‘I don’t miss nothing.’ He takes a bite and wipes the crumbs from his chin with the back of his hand.

      ‘Did the plumber show up? Is the water fixed? I haven’t been able to get a hold of Mohammed. He hasn’t been answering his phone.’

      ‘I know, I know. Mohammed is very busy. It might be he is in Marrakech. He goes there a lot for business. The plumber went to Azaghar. He’ll be back later.’

      Addy frowns. ‘The water’s still not fixed? What took you so long?’

      ‘I did a tour by the waterfalls. I earned five hundred dirhams, so I’m happy for that. I want to buy a refrigerator for Fatima, but it’s very, very expensive.’

      Omar beckons at Addy with a crumb-covered finger. ‘Come, let’s go for a walk by the waterfalls. Say goodbye to my grandmother. If you kiss her on her head, it shows her good respect. She’ll love you for that.’

      ‘I don’t think she wants me anywhere near her.’

      ‘She does, she does. You’ll see.’

      Addy kisses Fatima on her cheeks and follows Omar into the living room. She edges around the low table past Aicha and bends over Jedda, kissing her on the top of her red polka-dot bandana. Jedda waves Addy away with her stick. Aicha grabs Addy’s hands and smiles. ‘Thank you for the tea and the cake and cookies of deliciousness,’ Addy says to her in rusty French. ‘I appreciate your hospitality of kindness. It would be my honour to invite you at my house for tea.’

      Aicha smiles broadly and Addy realises with a shock that her teeth are false. Omar says something to his mother, who nods vigorously, setting her earrings swinging.

      ‘What did you say?’

      ‘I say you love chicken brochettes. We’ll come later for dinner.’

      ‘Oh, no, Omar. I don’t want to impose on your family. I’ve just eaten my weight in cake.’

      ‘It’s no imposition, Adi. She don’t like for you to eat by yourself. It makes her feel sad. It’s not normal for people to be alone in Morocco.’

      Addy looks at Jedda. The old woman’s one good eye bores into her like she’s trying to excavate Addy’s soul. ‘Except for your grandmother.’

      Omar shrugs. ‘My grandmother don’t like tourists. Don’t mind for it.’ He takes hold of Addy’s elbow and steers her across the courtyard to the front door. ‘Anyway, you are not a tourist to me. You are like an Amazigh lady. Even my mum says it.’

      ‘She did?’

      ‘Maybe she didn’t say it, but I know she think it.’ He opens the metal door. ‘She love your red hair and blue eyes for her grandchildren.’

      ‘Omar, honestly, I—’

      Omar laughs. ‘Don’t mind, Adi. Don’t believe everything I say. Oh, and Adi? My mum, she don’t speak French. It’s lucky because you don’t speak it so well.’

      The daylight is fading when Omar and Addy reach a terrace paved with stones overlooking the waterfalls. A young Moroccan couple sits on the stone wall holding hands. The man speaks quietly and the woman leans her head in to listen. He plays with her fingers.

      Omar and Addy sit on the wall. The last of the day’s sun throws a beam of light across the waterfalls, setting off sparks like fireflies on the water.

      ‘It’s a romantic place here, Adi. Sometimes couples come here to be private.’

      ‘Are they single?’

      ‘No. Everybody marries young here. But maybe there are children and parents and grandparents in the house. It’s the Moroccan manner. It’s difficult to be private.’

      Addy feels a pang of sadness. As a child she’d wished on a star every night, hoping for a brother or sister to play with in the big house by the sea.

      ‘It must be nice to have a big family.’

      Omar takes hold of her hand and plays with her fingers. ‘You have brothers and sisters, darling?’

      ‘A half-sister.’

      Omar draws his black eyebrows together. ‘What’s that?’

      Lights are coming on in the restaurants below, forming pools of yellow around the waterfalls.

      ‘Her name’s Philippa. She had a different mother. My father married twice.’ Addy presses her lips together into an apologetic smile. ‘We don’t get on very well. We’re very different.’

      Omar nods. ‘It’s possible for a man in Morocco to marry four wives. It’s good to have many children. Then your heritage continues even when you go to Paradise.’

      ‘Oh, my father didn’t have two wives at the same time! He divorced his first wife and then married my mother. We don’t marry more than one person at a time. In fact, it’s illegal.’

      Omar drops Addy’s hand and rests his arm around her shoulders. ‘I know it, honey. It might be that it’s better like that, anyway. It’s hard to have many wives. It’s very expensive.’ He rolls out the ‘r’ in very for added emphasis. ‘Each wife must have a house. Often, the ladies don’t like each other. Anyway, now it doesn’t happen so often. Only if the first wife doesn’t have babies, then you marry a second wife. But the first wife is the boss.’

      ‘Why don’t you just adopt or get fertility treatment?’

      ‘You must know your blood is the same in your children for your heritage, so nobody adopts here. It’s very hard to have fertility treatment – you must be very rich for that. Nobody in the mountains can do that. Anyway, they think you’re crazy to do it since it’s easy to marry a second wife.’

      ‘I see.’ Addy’s head is spinning. Why does she care if Omar gets married? Has two wives – three wives – four … And kids. Lots of kids. If they got involved, it could only ever be a holiday romance.

      ‘You know, Adi, some men come to ask me for Fatima to be their second wife. Fatima tells me “No.” She says no to everybody. It’s a big problem