“Why does your wife never accompany you to Mogador? Do you wish to keep her from us foreigners?” She bit her lip. She had not meant to sound so resentful.
“Sibylla,” André said softly, making her blush as he used her given name for the first time. “I am no longer married to that woman. She moved in with her oldest daughter, who married a man from the Rif Mountains. She wants to help her set up her household. And so she asked me to consent to the dissolution of our union.”
“She can divorce you? Just like that? Just because she wishes it?”
André nodded. “Idri was a widow when I met her. As a widow, she was entitled not only to choose all her subsequent partners herself, but also to divorce them.”
“How unusual!” Sibylla marveled. She studied the floral pattern on her kaftan intently while trying to control the thought that was taking hold in her mind: If only I could get divorced so easily and simply! Yet she knew it was impossible. She had pawned her life to Benjamin in exchange for a little freedom, and nothing would change that until one of them died. She fought to suppress a deep sigh.
André gently turned her chin so that she was forced to face him in spite of the tears filling her eyes.
“Sibylla,” he began, and her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.
“Yes, André?” she whispered.
“Sibylla, if only you . . .”
“Mummy! John let go!” they heard Tom shout. “And now it’s gone! The kite is gone!”
Sibylla and André jumped up guiltily.
The group of children was standing at the beach not far from them, looking up at the kite as it fluttered off into the blue sky. Little Sabri stood next to Tom. They were about the same height and both held one hand over their eyes as they watched the red-and-yellow toy grow smaller and smaller.
Sabri said something to Tom and gave him a huge smile before running off with the other Arab boys. John and Tom raced over to their mother.
“Mummy?” Tom asked as he snuggled up to her. “Is the kite really going to fly to Mecca like the storks?”
“Who told you that?” The question took Sibylla aback.
“Sabri. He’s my friend,” Tom replied earnestly.
Sibylla laughed and took both her boys by the hand. “Well, then I suppose it must be so. Come now, let’s go home.”
André, who had shaken the sand off his jacket and put it on again, said, “If you permit, I shall escort you, Madame Hopkins.”
She only nodded, but over the heads of the children, they locked eyes for a very long time.
Chapter Eleven
“And this is the sweet that the English serve to celebrate the birth of their highest prophet, the festival you call Christmas? It is certainly delicious, but should it not be sweeter, softer? Should it not be more exceptional for such a sacred occasion?” Lalla Jasira’s face belied her polite words of praise.
Sibylla smiled. “I know what you mean. I used to adore gingersnaps. Our cook baked them for Christmas every year. But I must admit that three years of living in Morocco has refined my palate.”
“Nonsense!” Rusa protested. “These pastries are very interesting. Can it be that I taste cloves and honey? Yes, and a hint of vanilla as well.”
“You are too kind, Rusa,” Sibylla replied and set her unfinished biscuit on her plate. “But I only wanted to present you with a little something that has to do with Christmas at home.”
“Would you rather be there now, celebrating with your family?” Rusa looked at her guest compassionately. She had known the Engliziya for more than three years, during which the Christian woman had become more than just a reliable business partner. She saw the woman with lion’s hair almost as a daughter.
Sibylla watched the qaid’s many children playing on the lawn. Nannies and governesses sat nearby and made sure that the children played nicely and that none of the little ones fell into the fishpond. Normally, she brought Tom and John with her to the harem. But today, both had complained of a tummyache and so she’d left them at home in Nadira’s care.
“Rusa, my family is here in Mogador,” Sibylla answered. “I am happy.”
“Perhaps your family will grow soon, Sayyida Sibylla. You are able to give el Sayyid many more children,” Wahida said.
When Sibylla had first met the qaid’s beautiful Abyssinian concubine, Wahida had already borne her master two sons. Now she had two daughters as well.
Sibylla thought of Benjamin and Firyal. If there were to be any more babies in the Hopkins family, they would certainly not be hers.
“Things are fine as they are,” she said without bitterness. “Two boys keep me busy enough.”
Wahida contemplated her. It must have been a long time since the Engliziya had shared her husband’s bed. After all, her youngest child was already two years old. Of course, if she served her husband dry sweets like these, it was no wonder her womb remained empty.
Wahida knew many secrets with which a woman could hold a man captive. She knew how intoxicating fragrances affected him and which ingredients in a man’s food not only delighted his palate but also enflamed his desire: “lady’s navel,” a moist, ring-shaped pastry with a flirtatious dab of whipped cream in the middle, for instance, or “lips of beauty,” which tasted sweeter than a kiss.
But the Engliziya did not appear sad that her husband no longer wanted her in his bed. That could only mean that he either was very inept or preferred the company of boys. Or did the beautiful blonde Engliziya perhaps care so little about her spouse because she had taken a lover herself?
Today, the end of Ramadan, was especially well suited for finding this out. Yesterday, the muezzin had announced the appearance of the new moon, signifying the beginning of the month of Shawwal and, with it, the end of fasting. For thirty days, the qaid’s Muslim wives had fasted and prayed, honored their dead, and given alms. And as a reward, the Prophet, in his infinite wisdom, had bestowed upon them the gift of Eid al-Fitr, the Feast of Breaking the Fast.
When Sibylla had entered the harem’s garden shortly after noonday prayers, the mood was already festive. She had intended only to leave the silk stockings and ginger biscuits as gifts, but Rusa and Lalla Jasira had invited her to join in the celebration.
Now she was resting on comfortable pillows by the water basin with the two most important ladies in the harem and the concubine Wahida. A slave had served Sibylla dove paté and date ragout, lamb with pomegranate sauce, and swordfish wrapped in fresh mint leaves. Afterward, she had drunk tea flavored with cinnamon and cardamom, and, for dessert, the slave had brought apple sorbet with candied rose blossoms.