The Storyteller of Casablanca (21)

Hamid put us through our paces in the yard outside the stable block, to let us get to know Najima and Marguerite and give them a chance to get to know us. We’d had a few riding lessons in the Bois de Boulogne when we lived in Neuilly, so it didn’t take too long to feel comfortable. Then he led out his own horse – a tall black stallion called Malik – and jumped into the saddle without needing to use the mounting block at all.

We waved to Maman and Papa, who were sitting in the shade holding hands and listening to the doves, and followed Hamid and Malik along a dirt road running parallel to the line of mountains in the distance. We had a lovely ride through the orange groves and Hamid let us canter when we got to a meadow on the other side. It was filled with a carpet of wildflowers – buttercups and daisies and pink mallow – which made me think of the colourful rugs hanging up in the Habous. We rode through it and the flowers rustled like the folds of Maman’s best silk evening gown as we passed. Hamid told us that in a couple of weeks they’ll disappear once the short spring is over, and there’ll just be dry grass and dust. Marguerite lived up to her name and pulled up a bunch of daisies to eat. Even Annette forgot to be as moody as she is usually and laughed her head off at that. We took the horses down to a stream, lined with forget-me-nots and dark green watercress, that ran along the boundary of the farm, and gave them a good drink. Hamid told us the water is very pure as it comes from the snow on top of the highest mountains. It’s hard to imagine there can be snow in such a hot place. He said that in the summer the stream dries up completely.

We rode back slowly and I took some deep breaths of the country air, which smelled so good – of the horses, and the leather of their tack, and the faint scent of blossom from a line of almond trees that we passed. Back at the stables we gave our horses a handful of corn and I stroked Najima’s neck and promised I’d come and see her again soon. Then we went to join Maman and Papa, who had just got back from a walk.

We spread out a picnic rug beneath a huge old olive tree whose trunk was as gnarled as something from a Grimm’s fairy tale. The midday heat was a lot more bearable there than it is in the city streets and the air was filled with the hum of the cicadas and the songs of the tiny birds that fluttered among the silver leaves above our heads. Kenza had made a delicious kind of pie, stuffed with spices and nuts and sultanas, and there was lemonade to drink. Afterwards we peeled little oranges, so sweet and tangy they made my mouth water, and ate the segments along with almond macarons. Papa declared it to be a feast fit for a sultan and we all agreed.

Maman rested her head on his shoulder and he kissed her hair very gently. It was nice to see her looking a lot happier and more relaxed out there in the countryside. She is usually pretty jumpy in the city, where she says the French police are bad enough but the Gestapo really give her the creeps. Perhaps when we go to America we could live in the countryside on a farm with horses. I’d like that.

After lunch, my stomach was so full of all that good food that I stretched out on the picnic rug and let the little drops of sunshine dazzle my eyes. The golden light and the silver leaves seemed to weave themselves together into a rich tapestry. It’s possible that I dozed off for a moment or two. When I opened my eyes again, I sat up and leaned my back against a comfortable bit of tree trunk, watching the horses contentedly munching on hay in the paddock. High above them a bird of prey hovered against the blue sky, seeming to be frozen there. It reminded me of the dreamseller with her bright eyes and talon-like fingers with the henna designs, and for a moment I was tempted to tell Papa and Maman about my visit to see her. But I thought the better of it because Annette would probably just be scornful and make fun of me and Maman might not let me go to the medina with Kenza and Nina again if she thought I was listening to what I knew she’d refer to as superstitious nonsense. It wasn’t nonsense, though, because it helped me sleep much better and stop having so many of those bad dreams.

Suddenly the bird spotted something and swooped down as fast as an arrow. As it rose into the air again, a snake was writhing in its talons. It made me feel a bit sick because the scene that had been so beautiful and peaceful just a second before had turned into something quite brutal. The others hadn’t seen it. The bird flew off before I could point it out, and in a way I was glad because I didn’t want to disturb their peace.

I had a nice bath when we got home, to wash off the dust and the sweat. My legs are quite sore from not being used to riding. I hope I’ll sleep well again tonight after all that fresh country air. But I keep remembering the image of the bird with the snake in its claws and it makes my stomach feel quite queasy, the same way I felt when I saw the snake charmer in the medina.

Kenza has given me a tin lantern, which she brought from her home, to put by my bed. It’s like the one in the dreamseller’s room. She says Nina has one too, to help keep the darkness at bay while she falls asleep. The top and sides of it are pierced with the shapes of moons and stars and I love to watch the light from them flicker on the wall. It’s almost as if they are keeping me company.

I think I will stop writing now and read a bit of my next Dorothy L. Sayers book instead. It’s called Strong Poison and it has a heroine in it called Harriet Vane, who is an expert in all kinds of poisons. Lord Peter Wimsey has to rescue her from prison when she is accused of using arsenic to murder her lover, and he falls in love with her too and proposes. But Harriet Vane says she never wants to get married. I don’t know if I would ever want to be married, unless the man was very kind like my papa or Felix. I think I’d probably rather have animals instead, like Josephine Baker.