The Saffron Gate Read online

  The Saffron Gate

  Linda Holeman

  Dedication

  To my sister Shannon, who brings joy to my life.

  ONE

  Strait of Gibraltar April 1930

  We were caught in the levanter. I heard this word as a small knot of Spaniards huddled on the deck, pointing and shaking their heads. Viento de levante, one of them said loudly, then spat and said a word with such vehemence I knew it could only be a curse. He kissed the crucifix hanging about his neck.

  The Spaniards moved to the wall of the ferry, crouching on the balls of their feet, their backs against the building as they cupped their hands around small rolled cigarettes in an attempt to light them. The air had a sudden texture, one of moist, thickening fog. This, as well as seeing the Spaniard kiss his crucifix, seemed a troubling portent.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said to the middle-aged man standing beside me at the railing. I had heard him speaking English to one of the porters as we boarded, and knew he was, like me, an American. He looked as though he had lived a life of excess, with his rather puffy, florid cheeks and pouched eyes. We were the only two Americans on board the small ferry. ‘What are they saying? What is levante?’

  ‘Levanter,’ he said, buttoning his topcoat. ‘Levante, Spanish for east. Levanter is to rise. It’s a terrible wind blowing in from the east.’

  I knew of siroccos and mistrals, the winds that haunt the Mediterranean. But I had never heard of the levanter.

  ‘Damn,’ the man said, and then, immediately, ‘pardon me. But these things can really hold on. We may have to turn back if we can’t outrun it.’

  In spite of the wind I smelled his cologne, too flowery and powerful. ‘Outrun it? Will it not just blow over us?’

  ‘Can’t tell. Reaches its maximum intensities here, on the western side of the strait!’ His hat suddenly lifted as if by unseen hands, and although he grabbed for it, it swirled briefly in front of us before disappearing into the air. ‘Damn again!’ he shouted, his head back as he scoured the low, heavy sky, then turned to me. ‘You must forgive me, Mrs … ?’

  ‘O’Shea. Miss O’Shea,’ I said. My cape billowed up and then swirled around me as though I were a whirling dervish; I clutched it against my chest with one hand while I held on to my own hat with the other. Even with a number of hatpins woven through my hair, the felt hat was lifting in an unsettling way, as if it might, at any moment, be torn from my head. I couldn’t catch my breath; it was partly the wind and partly fear.

  ‘Could … could the boat … overturn?’ I couldn’t bear to say sink.

  ‘I again apologise for my — manners, Miss O’Shea. Overturn?’ He looked over my shoulder, towards the stern. ‘Doesn’t happen too often any more, ships going down in the strait. Not with the sturdy engines these ferries are equipped with now.’

  I nodded, although somehow his words didn’t calm me as I’d hoped. I had recently sailed from the port of New York to Marseilles, and then from Marseilles to the southern tip of Spain, and hadn’t encountered anything worse than a day or two of rough waves on the Atlantic. I hadn’t considered that this brief stretch of sea could be the worst.

  ‘This climate is so unpredictable,’ the man went on, ‘and at times infuriating. Levanters usually last for three days, and if the captain makes the decision not to go ahead, we shall have to return to one of the terrible little port towns in Spain and wait until at least Saturday.’

  Saturday? It was Wednesday. I had already been forced to wait far too long in Marseilles. Every day that passed added a layer to the slow, yet ever-growing panic that had been building since the last time I’d seen him, seen Etienne.

  As the wind blew a salty spray into my face, I rubbed at my eyes with my gloved fingers, partly to clear my vision and partly to attempt to wipe away the image of my fiancé. Wherever he was now.

  The man added, ‘You’d better get inside. This spindrift … you’ll soon be soaked by both the sea and the very air itself. You don’t want to be falling ill as you arrive in Tangier. North Africa is hot a place where one wants to be ill.’ He studied me further. ‘North Africa is a place where one must keeps one’s wits about one at all times.’

  His words did little to comfort me. I thought of lying in the narrow bed in Marseilles, less than ten days ago, feverish and weak. Utterly alone.

  The man was still studying me. ‘Miss O’Shea? Have you travelling companions?’

  ‘No,’ I shouted, the wind suddenly rising to a shriek. ‘No, I’m on my own.’ On my own. Had it come out louder than I meant? ‘Do you know Tangier?’ I realised how ridiculous we must appear to the Spaniards as we attempted to be heard over the wind. Slightly protected by the overhang, they had managed to light their cigarettes and were smoking intently, their eyes narrowed as they watched the sky. It was obvious that a levanter was not new to them.

  ‘Yes,’ the man yelled back at me, ‘yes, I’ve been a number of times. Come now, come.’ He touched the small of my back, directing me towards the door of the ferry. As we stepped inside the narrow passageway leading to the main salon, the door slammed behind us, and I realised what a relief it was to be out of the wind. I pushed back the hair stuck to my cheeks, and adjusted my cape.

  ‘Could you recommend lodging in Tangier? Just for a night or two; I need to get to Marrakesh. I’m not sure … I’ve read varying reports of the route one takes from Tangier to Marrakesh, but whatever information I could find was a little confusing.’

  He studied my face. ‘The Hotel Continental in Tangier would be the appropriate choice, Miss O’Shea,’ he said, rather slowly. ‘It’s the most fashionable; there are always a number of decent Americans and Brits there. Quite favoured by wealthy European travellers. It’s within the old city walls, but a safe haven.’

  ‘Safe haven?’ I repeated.

  ‘You’ll most certainly feel a little wary in Tangier. All the narrow, twisting streets and lanes. Quite disorienting. And the people …’ He stopped, then continued. ‘But the Continental has a definite old-world colonial feel. Yes, I’d heartily recommend it. Oh,’ he said, as if just remembering something important, ‘and thankfully no French. If they don’t have family to stay with, they congregate over at the Cap de Cherbourg or the Val Fleuri.’

  I didn’t respond, but he went on. ‘The lounge at the Continental gets quite lively most evenings. Lots of cocktails and often a sing-song. If you like that sort of thing,’ he said, eyeing me further. ‘It’s not the place for me, but I sense it would suit your needs.’

  I nodded.

  ‘But you said you’re going on to Marrakesh?’ he asked. ‘All the way across country?’

  Again I nodded.

  His eyebrows rose. ‘Surely not on your own. Are you meeting friends in Tangier?’

  ‘I hope to take a train,’ I said, not answering his question, but as his expression changed, I added, ‘There is a train to Marrakesh, isn’t there? I read …’

  ‘You don’t know North Africa, I take it, Miss O’Shea.’

  I didn’t know North Africa.

  It was also abundantly clear now that I hadn’t really known Etienne.

  When I remained silent, the man continued. ‘Not a journey for the faint-hearted. And especially not a journey I’d recommend for a woman on her own. Foreign women in North Africa …’ He stopped. ‘I don’t recommend it at all. It’s a good distance to Marrakesh. Damn country. You never know what to expect. About anything.’

  I swallowed. Suddenly I was too hot, the dull light in the corridor blurring into a brilliant white as the sound of the wind and the thudding engines receded.

  I couldn’t faint. Not here.

  ‘You’re not well,’ the man said, his voice muffled by my light-headedness. ‘Come and sit down.’
<
br />   I felt his hand under my elbow, pressuring me forward, and my feet moved involuntarily. With my leg as it was, walking on board a ship presented its own difficulties for me even when the sea was calm, and in this case it proved even more tricky. I kept a hand on the wall for support, and at one point I leaned against the man’s solid upper arm to avoid stumbling. And then there was a firm push on my shoulders, and a hard seat beneath me. I leaned forward, my arms crossed against my stomach and my eyes closed as I breathed deeply, feeling the blood thud back into my head. When I finally sat up and opened my eyes I saw we were in the narrow, smoky salon, lined with metal chairs bolted to the floor. It was half filled with a mix of those identifiable as Spanish or African by their features and dress, as well as many more that I found impossible to name by physical description alone. The man was sitting beside me. ‘Thank you. I’m feeling better.’

  ‘You’re not alone feeling ill in these conditions,’ he said. I grew aware of the moans around me, the cries of children, and realised that many of the passengers were experiencing the effects of the violently rocking ship.

  ‘Now. You were asking about the train,’ he said. ‘You’re correct: there is a train that goes into Marrakesh. The tracks were just laid the last few years — but it’s unreliable at the best of times. Besides, it doesn’t run from Tangier. You’ll have to first get to either Fez or Rabat, and board it from either one of those cities. I don’t recommend going to Fez. It’s far inland and quite out of the way; Rabat is a safer bet. Even so, you’ll have to hire a car and driver to get you there. Why don’t you stay in Rabat, if you want to leave Tangier and see Morocco?’

  ‘No. It must be Marrakesh. I must go to Marrakesh,’ I repeated, trying to lick my lips. My mouth was so dry; suddenly I was incredibly thirsty.

  ‘To be honest, I really wouldn’t count on the train from Rabat to Marrakesh, Miss O’Shea. Unreliable, as I’ve said: the rails are always shifting, or are blocked by camels or those infernal nomads. Best to hire a car and drive all the way there, really. Then again, the damn trails that pass for roads — well, the French are proud of them, but in places they’re as isolated and bone-rattling as anything you might imagine.’

  I blinked, sitting straighter and trying to keep up with so many details. And all of them negative.

  ‘You’ll surely run into problems even on the roads, and be forced to take the old routes, simply tracks in the sand made for camels and donkeys and not much else. Now look,’ he said, ‘as I keep saying, there are other cities closer to Tangier. And you should stay nearer the sea, for the cooling winds. It’s coming on full summer in Morocco; terrible heat. If you’re insistent on leaving Tangier, as I said, stay in Rabat. Or even go on to Casablanca. It’s much more civilised than—’

  ‘Thank you for the information,’ I told him. He was trying to help, but he couldn’t possibly understand my urgency in reaching Marrakesh.

  ‘Think nothing of it. But really, Miss O’Shea, Marrakesh. I take it you have family there. Or at least friends. Nobody goes to Marrakesh unless they’ve someone there. And they’re all French, you know. You do have someone there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, hoping I sounded confident, when I didn’t know whether I spoke the truth or not. The answer would only be revealed when I arrived in Marrakesh. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear anything more, or answer any more questions. Instead of making me sure that I could and would do this thing — travel across the expanse of North Africa on my own — the conversation was filling me with even more uncertainty and dread. ‘Please, don’t feel you have to sit with me any longer. I’m fine, really. And thank you again,’ I said, attempting a smile.

  ‘All right then,’ he said, standing. Did I see relief in his face? How must I appear to him — so alone, so uninformed, so … desperate? Did I appear desperate?

  As he left, I noticed a Spanish family with three small children sitting across from me. The children’s eyes were huge and dark, their narrow faces solemn as they studied me. The smallest one — a girl — held up a tiny doll, as if to show it to me.

  I was overcome with an unidentifiable ache, and told myself it was caused by thirst and worry.

  The levanter grew worse, and because of the roughness of the sea I couldn’t tell whether we had turned back, as the American had suggested we might, or were still going ahead. The ferry forced its way through the waves blown up by the wind, and we rose and fell with a rolling regularity that made me feel even more ill than I had previously. Others did as well; some hurried out to the deck, where I assumed they hung over the railing to be sick, and with no warning, the little Spanish girl leaned forward and emptied her stomach on the floor. Her mother wiped the child’s mouth with her hand and then pulled her on to her lap, stroking her hair. The smell in the room grew worse, and the heat increased. I ran my sleeve across my face, grateful now that I had eaten nothing all day. If only I had thought to bring a flask of water, like most of the other travellers. Everyone was now still, bodies rising and falling with the ship, and, in contrast to the earlier cacophony of voices when we left Spain, silent. Even the youngest of the children were quiet, apart from the whimpering of the little girl in her mother’s arms.

  Again I thought of the ship capsizing. And again I realised what a position I’d put myself into, with little thought for safety.

  When a particularly deep roll of the ship tipped me on to the empty chair beside me, knocking my elbow on the hard seat and wrenching my hip, I involuntarily cried out, as did others. And yet still no one spoke; they simply righted themselves and sat, silent as before. I put my hand over my mouth, swallowing and swallowing to keep down the burning bile that rose up my throat and then slid back, echoing the swelling of the waves. I closed my eyes and tried to draw deep, calming breaths, tried to ignore the howling of the wind as it whistled around the deck windows, tried to not breathe in the smell from the reeking puddle on the floor.

  And then, so slowly that I wasn’t at first aware of it, the heaving of the ship grew less severe. I sat straighter, no longer able to see the sea rising and falling through the windows. The floor beneath my feet was once more solid and familiar, and my stomach settled.

  As relief came over me, one of the Spaniards from the deck opened the door and shouted, ‘Tangier. Ya llegamos!’ and a low rumble of relief went up. I assumed he meant that he had spotted the city, or that we were approaching it. So we had managed to outrun the levanter, leaving the winds to continue churning through the centre of the strait. I closed my eyes in thankfulness, and when I opened them again, some of the children had rushed to the windows. The babble of languages started as a murmur, rising in pitch as what felt like, a mild euphoria went through the stifling room. And then everyone stood, stretching and moving about, chattering as they gathered children and packages. The family across from me left, the mother carrying the little girl, who still clutched her doll. I stood as well, but immediately felt light-headed and nauseous again, whether a lingering result of the rocking of the vessel, or my thirst and lack of food that day, or from my recent illness.

  I sat down.

  ‘Miss O’Shea? Pity you didn’t get out to the deck to watch our arrival. Quite magnificent, with the sun … Oh. But you’re still feeling under the weather, I see,’ the American said, frowning, and I knew my face must be damp and pallid. ‘Can I help you find—’

  I shook my head. ‘No, no,’ I said, interrupting him. Although his offer to help me was tempting, I was embarrassed by my weakness. ‘I’ll just rest another moment, and then I’ll be all right. Thank you so much; you’ve been very kind. But please, go on your way. I insist.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘But watch out for the touts. Lots of them hanging around the docks. Take un petit taxi, or, if there are none, a cart. And pay half of what they demand. Half. They’ll give you a story about their ten hungry children, their ailing mother, but stay strong. Pay no more than half,’ he repeated.

  I nodded, now wishing he’d leave so I could again shut my eye
s to stop the spinning.

  ‘Goodbye, then, Miss O’Shea. I wish you luck. You’ll need it, if you do truly go on to Marrakesh on your own.’ His footsteps were slow and heavy as he walked away.

  After a few more moments, hearing only muted shouting from outside the boat, I shakily stood in the empty salon. Then I went out to the deck, into warm sunshine. As soon as I stepped through the door my head cleared; the air was fresh, smelling of the sea and also something else, something tangy, perhaps citrus. It was a clean scent. I breathed deeply, feeling stronger with each intake of breath, and looked at what I could see of Tangier.

  It was indeed magnificent, as the American had said. There was the sense of an amphitheatre, white houses rising up from the dock amidst a sea of palms. Minarets stood high above, the sun gleaming on their towers. There was a foreign beauty, unlike the teeming and industrial docks of New York or Marseilles. I stood, gazing at the gently swaying fronds of the palms. And then, drawing my eyes from the city, I looked at the people moving about the docks. It was only men — where were the women? — and I thought, for one odd moment, that there were monks everywhere … yet how could this be? Was not Tangier a city of Muslims? In the next instant I realised my mistake: it was simply the hooded robes the men wore. What were they called? The name escaped me. But I assumed they had the hoods up against the hot sun, or perhaps because it was the custom. The hoods extended on either side beyond their faces.

  For an inexplicable reason, such a simple thing as these hooded robes that rendered their wearers faceless filled me with a sudden ominous sensation.

  I was a stranger here, with no one to welcome me.

  I made my way down the gangplank, holding the thick, hairy rope along the side.

  There were no guards, no border inspection. I knew Tangier was a free port, an open zone called an international protectorate, and there were no restrictions on who might enter or leave.

  As I reached the bottom of the gangplank I spied my luggage, wet from sitting on the ship’s deck, the identifying chalk markings now blurred and smudged. My two heavy cases sat alone; I was the last passenger to leave the ferry. As I went to them, wondering how I would find the strength to lift them, a small dark man with a filthy white turban arranged like a tangled nest on his head came towards me, leading a shaggy grey donkey attached to a cart. He spoke to me, but I shook my head at the unknown language. Then he spoke in French, asking me where I wished to go.