“No stains, no mold, very good,” she muttered and stroked the soft surface with her other hand.
The quality could be affected not only by stains and mold but by irregularities as well. She held the skin up against the light coming through the open door and examined it with a frown. The light shone through in some places. After several years of drought, even by Morocco’s standards, the leather of malnourished animals left much to be desired in terms of pliability and thickness, despite the best efforts of the tanners in Fez. Sibylla knew that.
“So, let’s start counting then.” She slowly went down the pile with her index finger while her clerk patiently waited with pen and clipboard.
“Three hundred and fifty pieces for Champion & Wilton, London,” she said over her shoulder.
Not one sack of grain, not one piece of leather, not a single ostrich feather was allowed to leave the country unless one of the qaid’s simsars had inspected the merchant’s export list. He would then calculate the export tariff and taxes—a reliable source of revenue for the governors, who were always short of cash.
“Yes, Mrs. Hopkins.” The young man nodded and made a note.
Ten years earlier, after a cruel drought that had dried the grain on the culm, little Aladdin had dragged himself to Mogador, his little brother on his back. The old and the sick had starved to death in the villages, and those who still had enough strength streamed to the cities in search of work and bread.
Sibylla had found the exhausted children in front of her warehouse and taken them to her home. She had given Aladdin and his brother food and a roof over their heads. At the school she’d had built, they had learned reading, writing, and arithmetic. Now they were earning their living as clerks for the Engliziya.
She had insisted that the new school accept boys and girls, foreign and Moroccan children. Until then, only the Arab zaouia and Jewish yeshiva had educated the children of Mogador. The foreigners had educated their children themselves and later sent them to boarding schools back home. That was no longer necessary, and Sibylla’s standing had risen significantly, although there were still those who refused to let their children mingle with children of other religions or nationalities.
Sibylla continued with the next stack, counted, and told her clerk, “Two hundred and fifty skins for Tricker Shoes of London . . .”
“Bonjour, madame!”
The silhouette of a man wearing riding attire and sturdy boots was visible in the frame of the open warehouse door.
She straightened up, smoothed her hair, and replied a little stiffly, “Hello, André. I take it the saffron harvest is in.”
He took a few steps closer and kissed her on both cheeks. She smelled sunshine, earth, and horse on him, the smell he always brought from Qasr el Bahia. She quickly took a step backward. “Please! You know I don’t care for that French custom.”
Although they had been speaking with each other again for some time, Sibylla insisted on keeping their association strictly businesslike.
He smiled. “Do you expect me to greet a lady by shaking her hand as though she were a man? And yes, I did bring the spice of the gods. One kilo just for the Spencer & Son Shipping Company.” He patted the saddlebag that hung from his right shoulder along with his gun.
He was still as flexible as a young man, his figure was strong, and his shoulders were straight. But his skin, weathered by wind and sun, as well as the gray streaks in his hair and the wrinkles around his eyes, betrayed the fact that he was in the second half of his life.
Sibylla raised her eyebrows. “Only one kilo? What a pity! You could make far more money if you used your land exclusively for saffron. I could easily sell this quantity many times over because of its quality.”
Sibylla simply could not understand why André, with such ideal land for growing saffron, wasted half on oranges trees, dates, grains, and vegetables. And he never sold the entire crop but always held some of it back—his rainy day fund, he claimed.
“Do you know how many hands I need to harvest all my saffron?” he countered. “I have tried to hire more Ait Zelten, but many of them don’t like working for foreigners. Your business is diversified too, madame.”
In addition to leather and saffron, Sibylla exported grain, ostrich feathers, gum arabic, sheep’s wool, and cork, which originated in the oak forests north of Marrakesh. She also developed strong relationships with her suppliers, and they’d remained loyal to her even when the sultan opened the larger and more navigable port of Casablanca for international trade a few years ago.
Sibylla adjusted her shawl. “We’d best go into my office so you can show me the saffron. I don’t have all day.”
André made a mock bow. “à vos ordres, madame.”
As he followed her up the stairs leading to the second floor, he studied her tall, slender figure and thought how, over all these years, she had remained a remarkable woman, radiating self-assurance and wisdom. He looked at the skin on her neck, still delicate. Her formerly golden hair was a shiny white blonde now, and the soft curls at her neck were held together with a beaded clip. As usual, she was wearing traditional clothes: chalwars and a kaftan of precious silk and embroidered with small blossoms. Apart from her daughter, Emily, she was the only foreigner who dressed like an Arab woman, but by now that was no longer the subject of gossip.
People in Mogador had long become accustomed to the fact that Sibylla Hopkins was her own woman. She was seen as aloof and wayward, closer to the women of the governor’s harem than the foreign ladies. Some admired her for the way that, years before, she had fought the sultan for her husband’s life. Others praised her for generously funding the city’s reconstruction. The indomitable Qaid Hash-Hash had even praised her benefaction publicly at the opening of the first water-supply system she had donated.
Hash-Hash had since died, but Sibylla maintained good relations with his son and successor, Samir, who was nicknamed el Tawfiq, “he who is favored by fortune.” She had been in business with Samir’s mother, Wahida, and Hash-Hash’s first wife, Lalla Jasira, for many years. André knew from Sibylla that she had helped Wahida and the childless Lalla Jasira to push through Samir’s succession against the sons of Hash-Hash’s other wives. To express their thanks, the two saw to it that the women could continue trading without interference. It was around that time that the Arabs began calling Sibylla “the Lioness of Mogador.”