Her curiosity aflame, Sibylla asked Nadira to teach her more about the Berber tribes that made up much of the rural population of Morocco. But Nadira had always lived in the city and had come into contact with Berbers only when they were selling fruit or sheep’s wool in the souk. She could not understand the Chiadma language.
More Berber women arrived when night came. They were young and beautiful, had gold and silver coins woven in their long black hair and shining belts and heavy silver bangles around their wrists. Some of them sat in a semicircle, singing and clapping. Others began dancing in a way Sibylla had never seen before. They stamped their feet into the ground, their hips vibrated, and their arms moved in serpent-like motions. The flames of the fires were reflected in their kohl-rimmed eyes and made their skin shine like bronze. Sibylla was glad that the dark concealed her glowing cheeks. The best word she could think of was “voluptuous,” and yet they were also exciting and elegant.
Others seemed to feel the same. “Como las gitanas, like gypsies,” one of the Spanish traders whispered and softly clicked his tongue.
Sara Willshire wrinkled her nose. “Shameless!” she muttered. “Simply shameless! Come, William, let us retire.”
She rose and gathered her skirts high as though she feared coming in contact with something filthy. Her husband uttered a reluctant sigh and obediently followed.
Benjamin couldn’t take his eyes off the performers. Sibylla watched as he stood with a group of traders, his jaw hanging open. She felt embarrassed at seeing him like that, while at the same time wounded by the fact that he had never once looked at her with such desire. She rose and pushed her way over.
“I’m tired.”
It was as if he didn’t quite recognize her. “Well then, go to sleep,” he retorted and turned once again toward the dancers’ hypnotic hips.
Sibylla was not surprised when he came back very late, creeping like a thief into their small room. Feigning sleep, she wondered if he had approached one of the dancers to do the sort of things for which men paid women. She instantly felt ashamed. How could she accuse those women of being prostitutes merely because they danced in a way some found provocative?
She listened carefully as Benjamin took off his jacket and untied his boots.
Never suspecting Sibylla might be awake, Benjamin lay down on his narrow cot, wrapped himself in a blanket, and pulled it up to his ears. He found himself in turmoil. Furtively, he began to touch himself, his imagination taking him to the seductive Chiadma, whom he found so much more arousing than his wife.
The following morning, Sibylla felt ill. The baby in her belly had been kicking relentlessly. She was suffering from the heat, which became worse the closer they got to Marrakesh. Her back ached and her legs felt leaden. Benjamin had to assist her in dismounting from her mule for the lunchtime break. Not even the rest in the shade of some date palms provided any relief. For the first time, she feared that Sara Willshire might have been right.
When they continued that afternoon, it was all she could do to stay in the saddle. The scirocco, the desert wind of the Sahara, had blown in, and red desert dust, which the animals’ hooves raised, enveloped the caravan like a cloud. In an effort to protect herself, Sibylla had followed the example of the natives and wrapped a shawl around her head, leaving only a small slit for her eyes. Still, the tiny grains of sand got between her teeth, in her ears, eyes, nostrils, and hair. Nadira and Sara Willshire, riding beside her, had also wrapped themselves in their shawls. Sibylla wondered how Benjamin could tolerate it in his English riding attire. He refused to don a “Muslim costume” and was wearing solid leather boots and a top hat, and clutching a riding crop, as though he were on a leisurely outing on a rainy English day instead of braving the stifling heat of southern Morocco.
“You can blame this wretched scirocco if my head explodes,” lamented Sara.
“And I feel so nauseated,” Sibylla groaned. “Nadira, how do you say ‘I’m sick to my stomach’ in Arabic?”
Her servant, clutching her donkey’s scruffy, short mane, answered tersely, “Am bjejani batne, my lady.”
“Perhaps I should follow your example and dress like an Arab woman. It looks quite comfortable,” Sara declared, eyeing Sibylla, who was wearing a loose silk kaftan and wide silk pants, which allowed her to straddle her mule.
Sibylla had never before ridden like a man, but found the mule easier to control that way. Her outfit was a gift from Rusa and Lalla Jasira after the “English babouches” had arrived. The ladies had been delighted by the shoes, and Lalla Jasira had wondered aloud about next ordering the beautiful silk stockings she had seen the Engliziya wear.
“Arab dress is very comfortable indeed. I haven’t yet decided if I’m even going to go back to wearing a corset after the baby comes,” Sibylla replied as she looked at Sara’s tight-fitting bodice. She could see dark sweat stains under the long sleeves, and the skirt with its many petticoats must have been as warm as a woolen blanket. Sara and Nadira were both riding sidesaddle.
Benjamin was riding next to Toledano and Consul Willshire. He had been finding it hard to look his pregnant wife in the eye for fear she might somehow see the effect the Chiadma dancers had had on him. And anyhow, riding at the front of the caravan put him in an excellent position to discuss business and avoid women’s topics like babies and clothes.
By now he was aware of Toledano’s position as the most powerful of the Jewish traders in Mogador. No one looking at the elderly man, dressed in his faded black kaftan and slouched on his donkey—the sultan did not allow Jews to ride mules or horses—would have believed it. But Benjamin had been a guest at his house, where, behind an inconspicuous facade, Toledano lived in charming luxury with his wife and several children.
In the afternoon of the following day, when the walls of Marrakesh appeared on the horizon, Sibylla was so relieved she almost began to cry. She had been feeling a pulling pain in her belly, not too severe, but persistent enough for her to begin to worry. The ground was uneven and every stone gave her an unpleasant jolt. She clenched her teeth and tried hard not to think about what it would be like to be delivered of her child along a caravan route.
She directed her gaze to the cornered minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque, which towered over a sea of rooftops. Sunlight glittered in its gilt spheres. In the distance, one could see the violet-blue and white colors of the High Atlas.
“Is that really snow at the top there? So close to the desert? What a fantastic country!” she exclaimed.
The caravan crossed the Al-Haouz plain, a fertile region of olive and pomegranate groves, which the Arabs called the Sultan’s Gardens. Sibylla saw goats, sheep, and cattle grazing in green meadows. Along the roadside there were granaries built out of the red mud typical of the area, and colonies of sparrows nested in the trees. She could hear a mysterious rumbling and rushing underground.