The Storyteller of Casablanca (46)



Kenza had made the most delicious birthday tea, with little cinnamon and almond pastries called gazelle horns, plus the promised cake with the lovely amlou filling. Papa had even managed to lay his hands on some bottles of Coca-Cola for me and Nina and Felix, and the grown-ups drank mint tea. A very good time was had by all.

So I’ve had an amazing day and now feel very tired and happy. My pearl necklace from Annette is on my nightstand next to the turtle dove whistle from Felix, and my leather slippers from Nina and Kenza are beside my bed ready for me to put on in the morning. My bike is downstairs in the hall.

Thinking about it, I’m guessing that the money from the sale of our old house in Paris must have come through, judging by the very generous gifts from my family and the bottle of champagne that Maman and Papa opened at dinner this evening, which they said was to toast both their teenage girls. Annette had a glass too and I had a few sips.

But even though I’m now 13, I have to admit I still prefer lemonade.

Goodnight.





Zoe – 2010

We’ve been invited to Claudine’s for dinner. As I put on my make-up, applying the mask that gives me the confidence to face these kinds of social situations, I smile a little, thinking that Josie would say this was going to be a Dinner Party, capital D, capital P. I’ve become so absorbed in her journal that she feels like a constant companion to me here in the house, keeping me company, a lively presence whose voice can be heard if you listen carefully enough to what lies beneath the silence. In some ways, her world seems more vivid, more real, than mine. Although she’s long gone, she remains a life force, while I am the ghost in this house, drifting through its empty rooms.

I pull the black dress over my head and zip it up, then push my feet into a pair of high-heeled court shoes. It’s the uniform I wear for any formal events to do with Tom’s work: safe, careful, suitable clothes. The dress hangs a little more loosely than it used to, but the shoes pinch more. I suppose my feet must have spread from wearing nothing but my trainers for so long. They’re far more comfortable in the heat when I walk to the library or Monsieur Habib’s shop in the Habous.

Claudine’s house isn’t far from ours, but Tom drives us there anyway in the company car that comes with his job.

Tonight, everything is a reminder of that corporate world, which is the epicentre of our expat universe here in Morocco. The door is answered by a housekeeper, who takes my wrap and then shows us upstairs to the drawing room. The layout of the house is very similar to ours, just on a grander scale and furnished with far more elegance. We step into the room, lit by the diffused glow of a chandelier, and Claudine – the perfect hostess – sweeps us into the gathering, making introductions as she goes. Her husband, Théo, who’s one of the company executives, has the greatest gravitational pull, drawing in Tom and his colleagues as they stand talking business, drinks in hand. The others are dotted in smaller groups, minor satellites in outer orbits. May calls me over to the sofa where she and Kate sit, and I join them, thankful to see their friendly faces. I tuck my feet beneath the couch and surreptitiously slip off my shoes, relieving my pinched toes for a few moments. May introduces me to Suzette, a woman with hair so stiffly lacquered it looks as if it wouldn’t shift even if the full force of the chergui was blowing. She flashes me a brief smile (if Josie were here she would point out that it didn’t quite reach her eyes, though), and I see her glance taking in my too-loose dress and my too-tight shoes, assessing me and deciding in an instant that I don’t warrant much attention. She turns back to May and Kate, continuing a conversation about where to get the best manicure in the nouvelle ville. I curl my fingers around the stem of my glass, all too aware how ugly my own hands are with their chewed nails and patches of inflammation where the cracks in my skin have become infected.

I quickly glance across the room to where Tom is laughing loudly at something Théo has said. His glass is almost empty and he holds it out with alacrity for a refill when a bottle of whisky is handed round. Looks like I’ll be driving us home again tonight, since he’ll be in no fit state by the end of the evening. I bite my lip, praying that dinner will be served soon.

Kate notices my anxiety and gives my arm a little pat as she includes me in the conversation, asking how I’ve been since we last met for lunch. ‘It’s a bit of a shock to the system after England, isn’t it? Do you feel like you’re starting to find your feet? I reckon it took me about a year before I began feeling a bit less out of my depth in Casa.’

Grateful for her kindness, I tell her I’ve been doing a bit of volunteering at the centre for refugees and she turns towards me, giving me her full attention. ‘That’s not a place I’ve heard of,’ she says. ‘How did you get involved with it?’

I tell her about meeting Monsieur and Madame Habib and how they have made me more aware of the humanitarian crisis that’s happening all around us. ‘I don’t do much, though – just a bit of reading to the kids. It’s the other volunteers who really do the work of trying to support the women there.’

May begins to listen in to our conversation too. ‘That’s an interesting project,’ she says. ‘Kate, do you remember Anneke was telling us she’d heard about it at our last meeting?’ She turns away from Suzette slightly and asks me, ‘Do you know how they fund the centre?’

‘Private donations mostly, I think,’ I reply. ‘They’ve been trying to get a government grant, but their applications keep getting turned down. There’s so much pressure for that kind of thing, I suppose. I know they’re grateful for anything they receive.’ The picture books I bought to supplement the tattered collection were accepted as if they were priceless treasures, and one of the women had hurried away to find a new box to keep them in.

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