“But there is no other way, my lord.” Almaz sat down on the edge of the bed. “Do you want your family to fall apart? Do you want to lose your only son? Never play with his children on your lap? Not see them grow up?”
Haji Abdul drew on his pipe and was silent. His family meant everything to him. He had been so proud of Sabri when he became a doctor, but now he was horribly disappointed. For years, he had been watching the infidels creeping into Morocco with their consulates and commercial settlements, with their money, with their modern weapons and armed fleets. Twenty-two years ago, the French had aimed their cannons at Mogador, and two years ago, after some bloody battles, the Spaniards had annexed the city of Tétouan in the north. The infidels were gnawing like rats at his beloved country and dictating the ruler’s every move. He ran into them everywhere in Mogador: the qaid’s palace, the hamam, some of them even trespassed at the mosque, and now his own son had brought them into his family! And his wives had helped him do it!
Almaz watched him silently. She gently took his right foot, placed it on her lap, and began delicately massaging it. “God is merciful. He wants you to forgive your son and his wife. Remember: the worst man is he who accepts no apology, forgives no sin, and excuses no mistake.”
“Don’t try to teach me wisdom, daughter of infidels!” he growled.
Almaz did not reply and continued massaging his foot.
Haji Abdul sighed. “You’ll find out soon enough what your intrigues bring, woman!” He placed his other foot in Almaz’s lap. “Every mother-in-law gets the daughter-in-law she deserves.”
Qasr el Bahia, May 1862
André squatted next to the furrow Christian had just plowed and crumbled a handful of dirt. “Again, no larvae. It really looks as though we’ve overcome the infestation.” A smile spread across his emaciated face. He stood up and patted his son on the shoulder. “This deserves a celebration! Malika has made something special: shoulder of lamb with caramelized onions.”
The fifteen-year-old turned away and busied himself with the mule’s harness. “Imma’s was better.”
André laid his hand on his back. “I’ll tell you what, we’ll have a glass of French wine with dinner. I’ll get out a bottle from my stash. You’re working like a man and that kind of work needs to be rewarded.”
Christian did not turn around. “Are we done here, Baba? Can I unhitch the mule?”
“Go ahead.” André watched the boy leave, trudging next to his mule in the direction of the main gate, his shoulders pulled up.
The assault on Qasr el Bahia six months earlier had changed them all. Christian was quiet and withdrawn, Frédéric directed his anger into working furiously on the estate, André Jr. had lost his childlike cheerfulness, and Malika tried with all her might to replace Aynur.
André looked past the estate to the old holly oak. Malika visited the graves of her mother, her sisters, and Tamra every morning and left little nosegays made of fragrant herbs and flowers that André Jr. had picked. The young boy spent a lot of time with his sister. Together, they had created fieldstone borders around the graves.
We are all looking for ways to come back to life, thought André. And sooner or later, we will succeed.
The terrible events had left a mark on him as well. Outwardly, not much was visible aside from a narrow scar on his forehead. Like his eldest son, he sought oblivion in his work. But his children were not alone in missing Aynur.
André knew he would never truly make peace with her agonizing death. But he hoped that life could return to Qasr el Bahia now that the last of the locust larvae had hatched and flown away.
Normally, they should have begun harvesting the barley next month, but this year, he had not sown any to avoid providing nourishment to the larvae. In the humid warmth of late spring, they had hatched in huge numbers like a terrible ghost of the previous fall. But after just a few days, the infestation was over. Without sufficient nourishment, they had to move on and soon disappeared in the direction of the sea.
“So you really didn’t find any more larvae?” Frédéric had come from the stables to make sure it really was true. He was eighteen now, taller than his father, muscular, with broad shoulders.
André nodded with a smile. “We can plant the saffron bulbs soon.”
“That’s good.” Frédéric placed his fists on his hips. “We can’t keep on living off our savings.”
He had accompanied his father to Mogador that winter. They had bartered part of their saffron supplies for provisions, seeds, and grain for the horses before returning directly to Qasr el Bahia. André had not visited Sibylla. He was not up to answering her questions or enduring her scrutinizing, pitying looks. He wanted to be alone, to take care of his children and his land.
“Someone is here.” Frédéric looked nervously toward the south. A rider was climbing the hill, still too far away to be recognized. André instinctively felt for his gun over his shoulder. Since the assault, he was careful to have his weapon within reach at all times. But as the rider came closer, he relaxed and went toward him. “Asselama en ouen,” he welcomed the sheikh of the Ait Zelten.
“Asselama.” The sheikh looked closely at André. “You don’t look well, my friend. If a man lives without a woman for such a long time, his loins dry up. I’ve always told you that one woman is not enough for a man. You,” he said, pointing a bony finger at Frédéric, “should start out with two. There are many beautiful girls in my village who would love to get a strong young fellow like you!”
“Good advice!” Frédéric smiled.
“What have you brought us?” André pointed to the bulging linen sack hanging from the sheikh’s saddle.
The man’s suntanned face turned serious. “I have long been in your debt because those ignoble bastards from my people attacked your home and brought misery to your family. I swore to you that I would atone for this sin, and now the day has come at last: my sons have ended the lives of those good-for-nothing criminals. They tracked them down and killed them the way they deserved. Now vultures pick the flesh off their bones and their souls rot in the pits of hell!” He waved André nearer. “Here, my friend, I want to prove to you that I am speaking the truth.” He loosened the lacing of the sack.
André carefully peeked inside and pulled back immediately. “My God, that stinks to high heaven!”
Yet he had seen enough to recognize the leader’s stained face, despite the decomposition and the maggots. His eyes began to water and he was forced to support himself against the horse’s shoulder. His rib cage quivered as he took a deep breath and felt the leaden weight that had been pressing on his shoulders ever since the robbery slowly lift.
“I thank you, my friend,” he whispered quietly. “You have given me back my peace of mind.”
“What is it?” Frédéric asked, wrinkling his nose. “It smells like three-week-old carrion.”