The Storyteller of Casablanca
Fiona Valpy
Zoe – 2010
May McConnaghy perches on the overstuffed chaise in the drawing room and fans herself gently with the little booklet she’s brought with her. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get used to the heat. And once they get the air con working again you’ll be just grand. When the chergui’s blowing like this it creates all sorts of havoc. Wasn’t that sandstorm yesterday a pain? They have a nasty habit of knocking out the electrics in these old buildings.’ She has a pleasing, low-pitched voice with an Irish lilt that goes with her auburn hair and pale, freckled arms.
The shutters are pulled to, casting deep shade over the furniture to protect it from the blaze of the mid-morning Moroccan sun, the louvres angled to allow in just enough light. Despite this, the air in the room is hot and heavy and I try hard not to scratch at the angry welts on my hands, which have flared up again. I’d hoped the move to a warmer climate might have helped my dermatitis to heal a bit, but it seems to have had the opposite effect. My skin feels too tight where the heat has swollen my fingers and my wedding ring cuts into the flesh. I’d tried to take it off when I woke up this morning but the knuckle was already knotted into a hard, unyielding lump, so I had to leave it and hope that if I run my finger under cold water tonight it’ll ease the discomfort. The hot wind blowing in from the desert frays the nerves as it insinuates its way down the boulevards and alleyways of the city, the fine, dry dust hissing and whispering as it scours the patched and pitted city pavements. ‘You don’t belong here,’ it seems to be saying. As if I needed any reminding.
The housekeeper sets a tray of tea things down on the low table between us and nods when I murmur my thanks, closing the door gently behind her as she goes.
May waits until she hears the quiet pad of Alia’s leather slippers fade away down the hallway and then says conspiratorially, ‘Isn’t it heaven having staff? I don’t know how any of us will be able to adapt to having to do things for ourselves again when our postings come to an end. Make the most of it while it lasts!’ Her laugh tinkles like the clinking of the glasses on the silver tray as I pour mint tea into them. I pass her one.
From the handbag on the floor beside her, May extracts a beautifully wrapped package and passes it across to me. ‘These are the best honey cakes in Casablanca,’ she tells me. ‘You’re lucky having the bakery right on the corner. Though it’d be the ruination of my figure if I had it so close by – just too tempting! Now then, most of the information you’ll need is in the booklet.’ She puts it on the coffee table between us and pushes it towards me. ‘The Club’s wives’ committee compiled it and we all chipped in with the important bits and pieces to help newcomers hit the ground running. It mentions the bakery here, see?’ She points one red-lacquered fingernail at the relevant page, headed ‘Food and Drink’。
I look at it politely, pretending to scan the list of shops and restaurants.
‘And I’ll take you around the city one morning to show you where everything else is,’ she continues.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That’s really kind.’
‘Oh, don’t worry.’ May waves a hand airily and I’m not sure whether it’s to dismiss my gratitude or an attempt to stir a breath of coolness into the hot, heavy air. ‘It’s all part of the deal. I’m on the welcoming committee. It’s always good to meet the new arrivals and help them learn the ropes. Morocco can be a bit of a shock to the system at first, but you’re among friends here. Us expats stick together. We all know what it’s like to be new to a place.’
We only moved into our new home – an elegant townhouse in the French Quarter of the city, rented for us by the shipping company Tom works for – two days ago, after spending our first week in Casablanca in a hotel. Not that there was much to move, just a few suitcases of our belongings. We’ve left the house in Bristol with everything in it, ready to visit whenever Tom has leave and so we’ll have a home to go back to when his posting ends in five years’ time, when he’ll most probably return to the office at Avonmouth. The HR Department offered us the option of furnished accommodation and since, quite honestly, I have neither the time nor the energy to spend on setting up a new home from scratch in a completely foreign place, I’m happy to live with someone else’s furniture. The things here are old and a little shabby, but of good quality.
‘Have you everything you need?’ May surveys the room with an appraising eye.