André Rouston leaned down to the Arab boy and handed him a basket full of sweet-smelling oranges. “You are to give this to the English lady, not the cook or any of the servants, you understand?”
“Yes, sir!” The boy looked at him innocently.
“And what are you going to say to the lady when you give her the oranges?”
“At the time for noon prayers, she is to come to the place of which the faransawi has told her,” the boy repeated.
Rouston smiled. “Very good!” He opened the leather pouch attached to his belt, took out a few coins, and gave them to the boy.
“I’ll wait here. When you come back and you tell me that you have spoken to the lady, you’ll get another reward.”
At midday, Rouston had already waited for two hours for Sibylla. When the Arab boy returned and proudly reported he had done just as the faransawi asked, André had hurried from the French consulate, where he stayed whenever he was in Mogador, to the little church. He was aware that he was early, but perhaps Sibylla would be early as well, and she might leave if she did not find him!
He had placed a small rug with just enough room for two people on the elevated stones beneath the steeple. He sat down on it and gazed at the golden ribbons of light that slipped through holes in the roof.
It really is quite ludicrous, he thought, shaking his head. I am thirty-three years old. I have seen far more of the world than most and I have known plenty of women. And here I am, excited as I was at fourteen when the innkeeper’s daughter allowed me to reach under her bodice when we were hiding behind the shed.
His eyes roamed the interior of the small church. The last priest had left when the Portuguese had to abandon their trading post in the middle of the sixteenth century. The structure had been falling into ruin ever since. There was no more holy-water basin by the entrance for the faithful to dip their fingertips into, no more benches on the cracked stone slabs to allow the prayerful to kneel, the glass windows were broken, cobwebs hung suspended from the walls, and pigeons were nesting in the corners. Pirates, seeking refuge along the coast, had stolen the organ pipes and bells for scrap, leaving the steeple to the bats. It was peaceful here. André heard the wind whistling in the drafty corners, the cooing of the pigeons, and the scuttling of mouse feet. Were it not for the headless statues of Portuguese patron saints Anthony and Isabel, dressed in the habit of the Franciscans, no one would have guessed this ruin had once been a church.
He wondered why Sibylla had failed to come that night four weeks earlier. Someone or something must have prevented her. Her husband, perhaps, who had chosen that particular night to share her bed? It was almost unbearable for André to imagine Benjamin holding and loving Sibylla. Or perhaps she had not wanted to meet him at all—an idea he liked even less. Perhaps she’d lost her nerve? But a woman like Sibylla did not lose her nerve. She did what she thought was right.
That night, when he had waited for her in vain, he had resolved to leave Mogador until the fall when it was time to sell the date harvest. Perhaps by then his feelings for this married woman would have cooled.
However, the days had passed, he had not left, and now he found himself sitting in the ruins of this old church, praying to the heavens that Sibylla would not strand him there a second time. Next to him sat a basket with red wine, dark and thick as syrup, truffle paté, and ham that tasted of the oak forests of his childhood home—delicacies he had bought from the French consul’s cook. He wished to spoil the one woman who captivated him more than any other.
But where was Sibylla? He tried to gauge the time of day. It had been at least half an hour since the muezzin had called midday prayers. I’ll wait another half an hour, he decided desperately. If she had not come by then, he would never again impose on her.
He froze. The door latch clicked, the rusty hinges squeaked, and a figure squeezed through the gap. Sunlight flooded into the church for a moment and he made out a woman’s backlit silhouette. Then the door fell shut.
“André?”
“Sibylla!” He stood up and went to her. A pigeon flapped its wings and disappeared through one of the holes in the roof. All at once, they were in each other’s arms.
“Tu es là!” he whispered. “Mon Dieu, how I have waited for you!” He took her face in both hands and kissed her, and his happiness knew no bounds when she threw her arms around him and kissed him back.
“Pardon,” he uttered once they had finally released one another. “I couldn’t help myself.”
She shook her head and placed her fingers on his lips. “Thank you for the oranges,” she whispered.
“Did anyone follow you? Your husband perhaps?” He anxiously looked to the door.
“Benjamin has been on a business trip to Fez and Marrakesh for weeks. There were a few merchants in the alley outside. They were looking for the Portuguese consulate. I hope they did not recognize me.”
He reached out and pulled the shawl off Sibylla’s hair. As always, she was dressed like the local women: an embroidered, silver-gray damask tunic and a loose-fitting pair of pants, the chalwar. Her tousled hair made for a charming contrast. Never before had a woman cast such a spell on him!
André cleared his throat. “If anyone recognized you, it was because of your blue eyes. But they would lose their minds as soon as you looked at them, just like I did.”
She did not know what to say. Benjamin seldom paid her compliments. Did André really find her so beautiful, even seductive?
He took her palm and covered it with kisses. “I am so glad!” he repeated. Then he led her to the stone pedestal. She looked around curiously.
“All these years in Mogador and I never knew this church existed.”
“Hardly anyone does. And that is why we will be completely undisturbed,” he assured her.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed as she noticed the rug and the basket. “What have you done?”
He just laughed and, in one fell swoop, swept her into his arms.
“Ooh!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and beamed as he carried her to the dais and gently lowered her onto the rug. He pulled the wine bottle and corkscrew from the basket.
“What shall we drink to?” he asked as he filled two glasses.
She took hers and held it up to a beam of light so that its contents sparkled like garnets. “I’ll drink to having met you,” she answered quietly and looked into his eyes.