The Storyteller of Casablanca (4)
And then a woman steps out from a doorway just in front of me and I stumble into her, apologising. She turns to look at me, her eyes widening in concerned recognition beneath the neat folds of her headscarf.
‘Alia!’ I gasp, almost weeping with gratitude.
‘Mrs Harris, are you all right? What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve been out for a walk, but I lost my way.’
She smiles, momentarily resting a reassuring hand on my arm. ‘Well, you’re not far from home. Come, I’ll show you, I’m on my way there now. We can walk together.’
My heartbeat slows to a more normal pace as she leads me out of the medina, through a narrow keyhole-shaped arch in the ancient walls, and suddenly we’re back on the broader, art deco streets of the nouvelle ville. I spot the bakery on the corner and we turn into the Boulevard des Oiseaux. My hands are still trembling a little as I fit the key into the lock, but Alia stands back respectfully, giving me space, so I’m not sure she notices.
Relief floods my body as I step across the threshold. I ease off my trainers and heave a big sigh of relief as my aching, swollen feet meet the smooth coolness of the mosaic floor in the entrance hall. Alia closes the door behind us, shutting out the fierce glare of the sun. ‘I’ll bring you some iced water with lemon, shall I?’ she says.
I nod gratefully. ‘Please put it in the drawing room. I’ll be there shortly.’ I hurry upstairs to the nursery to soothe Grace, scrubbing my hands three times over before I change her and wipe her face with a cool cloth, settling her for her morning nap. The pounding of my heart gradually slows and now that I’m back in the safety of the house I feel a little calmer as the sense of being overwhelmed recedes. How could I ever have thought I’d be able to navigate this new city – this new life – on my own?
As I move quietly about the room tidying things away, the loose board creaks, protesting loudly beneath my feet. I pull back the faded rug and see that a length of floorboard has warped and lifted away from its neighbour along one side. I press down tentatively, hoping I might be able to wedge it back into place, but it doesn’t budge. There’s a knothole at one end just big enough for me to hook my finger into. The wood is slightly rough and it resists at first, but it gives as I tug harder and I’m able to pull it out, wincing and cursing beneath my breath as a splinter catches in the sore skin surrounding my fingernail. In the space between the floor and the bedroom ceiling beneath it, covered in decades of dust, are a little box and a leather-bound notebook. I lift them out carefully, rubbing the box with my thumb to reveal its inlay of mother-of-pearl. A faint scent of sandalwood rises from it, as if it’s breathing out a soft sigh of relief after its years of incarceration. My curiosity is piqued by this intriguing find, a forgotten hoard of treasure hidden here – how long ago? Years? Or decades? I wipe the top of it with the corner of my shirt tail and the geometric design gleams faintly, the mother-of-pearl like drops of moonlight in my hands.
I ease open the lid, revealing a small cache of objects. One by one I take them out and lay them on the rug. There’s a Star of David on a tangled gold chain as fine as the filament of a spider’s web. There’s a feather the colour of coral, and a sliver of jade-green sea glass worn smooth by the ocean. Next comes a folded sheet of pale blue writing paper on which is written what looks like a signature in faded sepia ink. And finally there’s a hollow wooden stick with a notch cut into it towards one end. I raise it to my lips and blow softly. There’s no sound at first but as I adjust the angle and blow into it again it makes the gentle, sorrowful sound of a turtle dove’s coo, echoing the murmurs of the birds that roost on the roof outside Grace’s room, overlooking the courtyard behind the house.
Very carefully, I set the little collection of artefacts back in the box, wondering at the significance of each one as I do so, before turning my attention to the notebook. The leather is as dusty as the box, desiccated by exposure to the hot, dry air in its hiding place beneath the floor. But I can still see that the cover has been beautifully tooled and I trace the complex curlicues with my fingertips. Curious, I open it. It seems to be some sort of diary. The pages within are covered with looped handwriting and when I turn to the first page I read the inscription there:
This journal belongs to Josiane Fran?oise Duval.
Private.
Scrawled underneath, as if as an afterthought, and underlined heavily, twice, is written:
GO AWAY ANNETTE!
I glance around involuntarily, as though someone is watching me. These items have been deliberately hidden from prying eyes and for many long years, judging by the accumulation of dust. Should I show them to someone? To Alia, perhaps, or to Tom when he comes home tonight? But no, my instinct is to keep them a secret. I flip to the next page of the notebook and spot a date inscribed at the top: 1941. I’ve never been one of those people who skips to the end of a book to find out what happens, and I resist the urge to do so now, even if I don’t have the willpower to resist reading someone’s private journal. I justify it, telling myself I’m the one who’s found it after – what? – some seven decades of it lying undiscovered. Its rightful owner is long gone. Somewhat guiltily applying the principle of ‘Finders Keepers’, I feel I am the self-appointed guardian of these artefacts now. I need to find out more, to unravel the mysteries they hold, before I show them to anyone else. Are they simply a random jumble of objects, or do they tell a story? I hope the answer may lie in the journal. In any case, I realise they represent a very welcome distraction as I carefully place each of the items in turn back in the wooden box.