There’ll be time to explore all of that later, once that relentless, restless wind has died down again. For now, I wave goodbye to May and then climb the stairs to the top of the house. I wash the sticky residue from the cakes off my hands, giving them a thorough scrubbing twice over before I go into Grace’s room. I stand at the window watching a trio of turtle doves, who seem to regard these roof tiles as their domain, as they ruffle their feathers and coo companionably to one another.
Beyond the slates, a sprawling muddle of flat rooftops stretches to the very edge of the sea. Above them, the minarets of the mosques soar into the infinite blue of the North African sky.
We came here looking for a new start. But instead of hope, I just feel emptiness. This is a city perched on the edge of an ocean of broken dreams, shabby and windswept, its once fine streets now down-at-heel. The Hollywood glamour of the days of Bogart and Bergman is long gone, nothing but a distant memory now.
It looks to me like the end of the world.
Zoe – 2010
Every house has its own vocabulary. Our new home on the Boulevard des Oiseaux mutters and sighs to itself at night when the city outside finally falls silent for a few brief hours and the darkness drapes itself over the rooftops, as heavy as velvet. I lie awake listening, trying to decipher this new language of creaks and clicks. Perhaps in a month or two familiarity will make the sounds fade into the background, but for now I’m alert to each one. In the bed beside me, Tom lies motionless, sunk in the depths of sleep.
My mind’s still buzzing in the aftermath of the cocktail party at the Club. All that conversation and so many introductions heightened my natural anxiety at being in a social setting. I always find these things such an ordeal. And then there was the added vigilance needed to make sure Tom’s drinking didn’t reach that point where he tips from charmingly expansive to hopelessly addled, slurring his words and lurching into people. The whole event was completely exhausting, but now I’m both too tired and too wired to sleep. Now it’s over I think I can say that the party was a success, though. We got away with it, managing to project the image of the committed young couple, excited at the new opportunities this posting has given them. Tom did a good job of playing the role that’s expected of him and his boss seemed pleased, beaming his approval as I stood at my husband’s side. I must have looked the very picture of a suitable corporate wife, even if really I was trying to resist the urge to flee to the bathroom and wash my hands over and over again.
Tom stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. The distance between us is a wide ocean that neither of us dares cross. I envy him the oblivion of his quiet breaths. I know he’s working long hours in his new job and comes back from the office exhausted at the end of each day, but sometimes he’s more animated than usual when he comes through the door and I can smell the musky haze of whisky on him.
The floorboards of the room above us – Grace’s room – tick rhythmically every now and then as the wood contracts in the relative coolness of the night, reminding me that I need to find a hammer tomorrow and see if I can do something about the loose board beneath the Berber rug in the middle of the nursery. It creaks loudly when I walk over it and I wouldn’t want to risk it disturbing Grace, startling her from her sleep.
At some point, lulled by the rhythm of my husband’s breathing, I finally fall into a deep sleep of my own and, by the time the song of the muezzins wakes me, the bed beside me is empty. Tom likes to run and the best time is at dawn, before it becomes too hot and he gets drawn back into the demands of his work. Sure enough, as I tie the sash of my silk dressing gown, I notice that his running shoes are gone from beneath the chair on his side of the bed. He’ll be back to shower off the sweat, changing into his shirt and tie and grabbing a quick breakfast before it’s time to get to his office at the docks. In the meantime, I’ll go and get Grace up, scooping her out of her cot and covering her smiling face with my kisses as another day begins.
Once Tom leaves, my limbs are filled with a restlessness, fuelled by the two cups of strong coffee I’ve drunk with my breakfast of fruit and yoghurt, so I strap on the baby sling, making sure the clips are securely fastened, and set off for a walk. I have no clear idea of where I’m headed, but my feet turn automatically towards the ocean, skirting the walls of the medina. The wind has dropped today, bringing a welcome stillness after days of its incessant, nerve-fraying bluster. I’ve thrown a light shawl around my shoulders to help shield Grace from the sun. The sea breeze flirts with its edges, making the fringing flutter. At last we reach the corniche with its beach clubs and lines of palm trees that toss their heads in the wind, and I push my sunglasses on to the top of my head to drink in the sight of the golden sand and the ocean beyond. Close in, the water is awash with light, but the far-off horizon is a smudge of darker blue. I show Grace the waves. She watches the Atlantic rollers a little warily at first as they curl and crash on to the beach. Then she decides she likes the spectacle, gurgling and waving her hands in approval.