Alia’s eyes shine. ‘Mrs Zoe, can you come with me to my home in the medina? I need to show these things to someone there. Someone I’d like you to meet.’
We step through the nondescript door and into another world. The small riad that is Alia’s home is an oasis of beauty and greenery tucked behind high walls within the maze of narrow streets. The walls of the interior courtyard are whitewashed, creating a peaceful sense of space, and overhung with the leaves of potted palms. The scent of jasmine fills the air. Low settees face one another across the geometric tiles of the floor and I can imagine the inhabitants of this home, whose rooms are arranged on the two upper floors, looking inwards on to this quiet space, gathering here in the evenings to share a meal and enjoy each other’s company.
Alia gestures to me to take a seat and then hurries away. I clutch the leather-bound journal and the sandalwood box, wondering whether someone is going to demand them from me. I know I’m not their rightful owner, but I’ve come to feel I’m keeping them safe in memory of Josie and I couldn’t bear to give them away to a stranger.
Alia reappears, followed by a woman who’s wiping her hands on a dishcloth, evidently having hurried through from the kitchen.
‘Mrs Zoe,’ she says. ‘I am pleased to introduce you to my mother. You already know much about her. She is Josie’s friend. She is Nina.’
I look up and find myself gazing into a pair of warm brown eyes. They are smiling, welcoming, and yet at the same time there is a look of something else there. I’m so taken aback that it takes a moment for me to register what it is: anxiety, I think.
I stand, setting the box and journal carefully on the cushion beside me, and reach out both my hands. ‘Nina,’ I say. ‘Nina who loves reading Dorothy L. Sayers books, and skipping? Nina who stood beside Josie in some of her hardest moments? Nina who was given a flamingo feather by her best friend many years ago?’
She smiles more broadly. ‘I still have that feather.’
I open the box and bring out its twin. She takes it from me and gently strokes the coral fibres. ‘Mine has faded much more than this one – I guess being in the box undisturbed for so many years has helped preserve its colour. Alia tells me you found a journal written by Josie too.’
I don’t feel quite so reluctant to pass it to her, knowing that in Nina’s hands it will be safe.
Alia says something to her mother in Arabic, a rapid stream of words that make Nina frown and shake her head. Alia seems to be persisting, though, trying to convince her mother of something. Nina glances at me and her eyes are filled with that same look of anxiety again. At last, reluctantly she nods at Alia and turns to face me fully.
‘Alia tells me you asked about the dreamseller. Apparently you read about her here in this notebook. Of course, my mother’s aunt died many years ago. But there is still a dreamseller. And Alia feels you should meet her, because you yourself are in need of help.’ There’s still a hesitancy in her expression and I sense there’s something she’s withholding. She glances at my hands and I nod, self-consciously pulling my sleeves down to cover the raw patches on the backs of them.
‘Very well. Please come with me.’ Nina hands the feather back to me and I replace it in the box. She carries the journal carefully, almost gingerly, and leads me up a narrow staircase to the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The room we enter is dark after the brightness of the whitewashed walls outside, and it takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust. A tortoiseshell cat is curled up on a low couch. It lifts its head, regarding us with inscrutable golden eyes, then blinks and yawns, stretching luxuriously before tucking its head into the crook of its shoulder again and going back to sleep.
Sitting on a chair at a desk in one corner is an old woman, hunched over a piece of paper on which she appears to be writing. Her face is partially covered by the richly embroidered Berber shawl she wears draped over her head and shoulders. Nina knocks on the door frame, announcing our presence, and she turns to look at us. As she does so, the shawl slips a little and I stifle a gasp. The woman’s face is like the melted wax of a candle, the skin distorted by what appear to have been terrible burns. She raises a henna-painted hand to readjust her shawl and smiles at us. And that’s when I see her eyes.
They are still bright and lively within the ruined beauty of her face. And they are the clear green of a piece of jade-coloured sea glass.
Nina puts a hand on my arm. ‘Go gently,’ she says softly as she hands me back the journal. ‘Her mind comes and goes. Today is a good day, but we don’t want to give her a shock.’ Then she says a little more loudly, ‘Josie, you have a visitor. Someone who wants to talk to the dreamseller. Her name is Zoe.’