“What, then?”
She hesitated. “Something that Benjamin has left me.”
He frowned as he thought. “If you don’t want to keep it, give it to someone who needs it.”
She reflected and smiled. “Why not? No, truly, that sounds very sensible.”
A short while later, she carefully extricated herself from his arms. “I have to go. The Haha have turned our house upside down. There is a lot of work waiting for me.”
André reached for his jacket. “I’m leaving Mogador today. The qaid no longer needs me and, quite honestly, I can hardly wait to see the land the sultan has given me.” He tied the sash of his tunic. “Do you want to come? Perhaps you’ll like it so much you’ll want to stay—with your sons, of course.”
Sibylla blushed. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to remain here in Mogador for the time being. I have to figure out how to proceed without Benjamin. I could imagine myself taking over the business for Spencer & Son permanently—if I can convince my father, that is.”
André bent over to tie his boots, trying to hide his disappointment. “I’ll ride alone then. I don’t have any idea how much work awaits me, but I would like to visit you now and again.”
She beamed at him. “That would be wonderful!”
Qasr el Bahia in the Atlas Mountains, May 1840
André slid out of his saddle, kneeled on the ground, and picked up a clump of soil and crumbled it. Was this soil suitable for his great dream of growing saffron? He let the soil run through his fingers.
Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman’s present lay on a plateau a quarter mile above sea level in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. At this altitude, the little sand-colored bulbs of the Crocus sativus received sufficient warmth without being parched by the desert heat. At the same time, it was not so high that the valuable bulbs would freeze in the cold earth during winter. The air and the chalky ground stored enough moisture, although the region was dry and deficient in rain. Irrigation was also provided. The sultan’s architects had installed the same underground rhetaras as on the caravan route to Marrakesh and thereby irrigated the magnificent pleasure garden that had flourished here at one time. He would build low protective walls out of quarry stones to prevent the thin layer of soil from being blown away by the wind. André got up, placed one foot in the stirrup, and mounted his mare.
I shall do this, he thought as his gaze wandered over the area and he felt a deep sense of contentment.
He had been filled with pride a week before, when he rode through the gate of the impressive four-part complex that was half palace, half fortress. The sultan had named this property Qasr el Bahia, the Palace of Beauty, and André immediately understood why.
It had taken him almost a whole day ride’s from Mogador on the rocky, winding path along the riverbed of the Oued Igrounzar, first east and then south, until he had found the tributary of the Oued Zeltene and first seen the property from afar. Its majestic walls were painted red-golden by the evening sun and the cedar forest on the hills behind it almost black with the coming night. All of it—the mud-and-stone fortification walls, the stables, storage buildings, and farm buildings—reminded him of a Chiadma tighremt: a closed-off compound that could be easily defended against enemies. In the residential buildings, however, he found the colorful opulence of Moorish architecture.
Although a closer look revealed that the erstwhile splendor of the Palace of Beauty had faded, this did not dampen his enthusiasm. The wind, heat, and cold had taken their toll on the walls, the two-winged cedar gate hung crookedly from its hinges, and wild animals had taken up residence in the buildings. When André entered the stables, he disturbed a family of jackals. Swallows and sparrows nested in the rafters, and wild pigeons filled the two towers to the right and left of the gate.
Upon entering the rooms of the former lord and his court, he discovered mice living in the torn upholstery of cushions and sofas. In one room, he stumbled over a fallen chandelier and, in another, moth-eaten rugs. Floor tiles were broken and the roof had holes in several places. There was much work to be done, but his Chiadma friends would surely help him.
André was completely alone here and grateful for the solitude. He made himself a bed in the stable next to his horse and awoke in the middle of the night when a predatory animal slunk around outside, growling and hissing. Yet he was not frightened. He was happy and full of plans for the future.
The following morning, he saddled his mare and explored the grounds. Bees buzzed among the poppies and thistles. There were wild roses and sprawling bougainvillea. He even discovered an olive grove and the remnants of water basins. Standing in the center of the courtyard was the emblem of Qasr el Bahia, a magnificent Atlas cedar tree. He planned to build terraced fields to ensure his saffron crocuses would get ample sun. In between, he would plant pomegranate trees. The juice of their fruit was in great demand by rug makers as a dye. And he would plant a new flower garden. Or better yet, he would ask Sibylla to do that, so that she could see that Qasr el Bahia was her home as well.
When he returned to the residential buildings around noon, he encountered two thin, ragged shepherd boys eyeing him suspiciously. The bigger one, who had a conspicuous port-wine stain across his face, stared at him with hostility and squeezed a rock in his hand. However, when André shifted his gun to the front of his saddle, the boy dropped his rock. André greeted them, first in Arabic, and, when they did not respond, in Tachelhit, a Berber language spoken mainly in the south of Mogador. Now the one with the port-wine stain replied that they belonged to the Ait Zelten, a clan belonging to the Haha tribe.
André thought it wise to explain the ownership situation right away. “His Imperial Majesty Moulay Abd al-Rahman, the ruler of this country, has given me Qasr el Bahia as a gift. Go and tell your sheikh that Qasr el Bahia now belongs to André Rouston, and also tell him that I look forward to smoking shisha with him.”
“This land always belonged to our people until the sultan stole it from us. He has no right to give it away!” the boy explained angrily.
The little one chimed in. “Where are our goats going to graze now?”
André pointed to the entire area around them. “There is plenty of land around this estate. And anyway, I’ll need some skilled hands to help me rebuild. With the money I pay, your sheikh will be able to buy feed as well as comestibles.”
“The Ait Zelten are no accursed slaves!” The older one spat on the ground in front of André. He motioned to the younger one and the two of them and their herd went on their way.
Mogador, June 1840