She still made André’s heart beat faster, for she was a woman like no other. He would not forgive himself until the day he died for having been so stupid as to forfeit her love.
He remembered how happy he had been when they faced each other alone again for the first time since the disaster with Aynur five years before. During those intervening years, he had tried knocking on her door many times, but in vain. He had written her letters she had never answered. He had come to see her in her newly built office in the warehouse, and she refused him entrance. If by chance they met in town, she had ignored him. It was only the saffron trade that had finally brought them closer.
Now, they stood in Sibylla’s office. “Please see to it that I am not disturbed for the next hour,” she told Aladdin’s brother before closing the door.
She turned to André and her smile made her face seem less severe. “With you, at least I know I’m not getting marigolds or safflowers.”
He hung his gun over the back of a chair, took his saddlebag off his shoulder, and pulled out a linen sack. “If you had bought from me back then rather than from those scoundrels from the High Atlas, that wouldn’t have happened. But you had to learn the hard way.”
While he loosened the cord, Sibylla spread a cloth on the desk. André carefully emptied the contents of the sack, plucked a few of the delicate red-gold threads, and held them up to Sibylla’s nose. She took a deep breath with her eyes closed, and he could tell by her expression that she was satisfied.
When, after several years of experimenting, he had finally succeeded in harvesting saffron of the highest quality, he could think of only one person to whom he would offer the spice. With a sample in his suitcase, he had ambushed Sibylla as she was leaving her office at the harbor one cool evening just before Christmas. She had been paralyzed by fear when he had suddenly blocked her path and had shouted at him, “Leave me alone, André! Just go away and leave me alone once and for all!”
Her bitter words had hurt deeply, though he knew he deserved them. “I would fall on my knees and beg for your forgiveness if I didn’t know that it would have no effect. So I have brought along something that perhaps will help you to forgive.”
“There are some things that are simply too grave as to be forgiven!” she had hissed at him and tried to push her way past.
But again he had blocked her way. “At least take a look! If you don’t want it, I won’t trouble you again. I promise, Sibylla. I shall leave you alone forever.”
She had acquiesced and taken André to her office, where they had stood at her desk as they were standing today. He had shown her his saffron and explained what a large quantity of bulbs he’d had to plant to reap one single kilo. The precious threads could be harvested only on the first day of the bloom, early in the morning before they were burned by the sun. He had instantly noticed the interest with which Sibylla was listening to him and, when she inquired about the price, he knew that he had won.
“What do you think of this year’s crop?” he asked now in anticipation.
She opened her eyes. “Aromatic, somewhat bitter, with a trace of honey. Very good! But I would not have expected anything less from you. As agreed, here is one hundred pounds sterling.”
“What’s the rush?” André pushed the cloth with the saffron aside and leaned toward her gently. “Why don’t you tell me how you are? After all, we’ve not seen each other for almost a year.”
Sibylla was silent. The single deep wrinkle that had appeared on her forehead back when he’d hurt her so unspeakably deepened.
“Have you made preparations for Christmas?” he ventured.
She nodded and her face brightened a bit. “This year I am celebrating in a grand way. Thomas and John are coming home. I expect them any day now. John is bringing his family: his wife Victoria and the twins. I’ve been a grandmother for a year, André, and haven’t seen my grandchildren yet, can you imagine?” Now she was radiant.
“No, quite honestly, I cannot fathom that you are a grandmother, Sibylla. Not if I compare you with my old mémé, sitting by the fire in the wintertime, knitting socks with her arthritic hands. I believe your daughter-in-law is going to be quite surprised, and quite taken with her remarkable mother-in-law.”
“You’re flattering me, André Rouston. Victoria is a Londoner. She will surely find me backward and out of touch.”
“Never!”
He was delighted to see her blush and added, “Incidentally, I just saw Emily at the harbor. She was sketching the fishermen. I must say, your daughter is growing ever more beautiful. Can she really be eighteen already?”
Sibylla’s smile vanished. “What about this saffron? Do you accept my offer?”
André tried not to sigh. He had so many questions he wanted to ask about Emily. But every time he tried, Sibylla shut down.
Chapter Twenty-One
Emily Hopkins sat on the quay wall, chewing on a dried date and looking at the warehouse from which André Rouston had just come. She really liked Monsieur Rouston. He always inquired how she was and always brought her a little gift. Today, it was dates from his estate.
When she was younger, Emily had sometimes pretended that Monsieur Rouston was her father. She knew next to nothing about her real father, Benjamin Hopkins, other than that he had been killed before she was born. Her mother did not like to talk about him. But Firyal had told her that he had been a gentleman and had died a hero.
“El Sayyid Hopkins was very handsome,” she had said reverently. “It was my duty to take care of his suits. He had very elegant suits from England, not like the tunics that Arab men wear. He was also taller than Arab men and did not have such coarse hair. The master’s hair was like gold.”
Unfortunately, Emily’s mother had caught Firyal waxing lyrical about her master and sent her to the kitchen at once. After that, Firyal had never mentioned Benjamin again.
The other servant, Nadira, never mentioned him either. “The mistress does not wish for us to talk about the deceased master,” she had explained to Emily. “It causes her pain.”
Once, Emily observed to her mother that she and Monsieur Rouston had the same dark, curly hair. But her mother had reacted so angrily that Emily had never mentioned Rouston to her again.
She picked up another date and looked over at the fisherman, squatting in his small boat and repairing his net, undisturbed by the rocking of his boat. He had spread the coiled net out on his lap and was carefully checking for tears in the meshwork.