Emily took her charcoal and began to draw. She started with the broad strokes before getting down to details. She sketched the fisherman’s weathered features, which told of his hard life at sea as well as the concentration with which he worked. She drew his bent back, his crooked fingers that stitched up holes with a wooden needle.
Ever since Emily could remember, she had been passionate about drawing. She had scribbled in her fairy-tale books, on the whitewashed walls of her room, and later on at school, she had drawn figures and landscapes on her slate instead of numerals and letters. Her teacher had been extremely angry upon discovering his portrait with an unflattering bulbous nose in Emily’s arithmetic book, but later, she and her mother had laughed about it. After that, Sibylla had ordered colored pencils and drawing paper from England, as well as a book that taught Emily to develop drawings of people and animals from geometric figures, how to show perspective and adjust proportions.
Yet this was a learned technique. The expressiveness with which she drew had never been taught to her. Monsieur Rouston had once remarked that she expressed the soul of her subjects. And for her fifteenth birthday, he had given her an easel, canvases, brushes, and paint.
Emily especially liked to draw at the harbor or in the souk, wherever there was a lot of activity. Many of Mogador’s inhabitants knew her and were happy to have her draw their portraits, while others did not like it, as representative drawing was considered a sin against God, the sole creator of everything.
But the fisherman by the quay wall did not mind. Every now and then he smiled at Emily. She sketched the folds of his kaftan with very few lines and smudged them with her thumb to show shadows. When the drawing was finished, she scribbled her name and the date at the bottom and placed it in a leather portfolio. Then she propped herself up with her hands on the rough stone wall, leaned back, and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her skin and the wind in her curly hair.
In three months, she would turn nineteen, and she knew it was about time for her to figure out what to do with her life. Most of her peers from school had traveled to Europe to be introduced into society and meet suitable husbands. Some had written her to tell her that they were engaged. John’s wife, Victoria, was only one year older than Emily and already a mother! But Emily felt no longing for marriage or motherhood and was grateful that her own mother did not press her. Her greatest desire was to attend an art academy in Europe to study painting and perhaps even learn about the new art of photography.
She had shared this wish with her mother not long ago. “Why not?” Sibylla had answered, much to her Emily’s delight. “But it’s impossible just now. You cannot travel to Europe by yourself and I cannot abandon the business here. Once your brothers return from Europe and John can take over some of the business, we’ll talk about it again.”
Now that Thomas and John were about to return from England, Emily passionately hoped her mother would keep her promise.
A shadow fell on her face. She opened her eyes and recognized Mr. Philipps, the harbormaster, standing next to her.
“Good morning, Miss Hopkins. I have received word that the Urania is coming through the port entrance. If I am not mistaken, that’s good news.” He winked at her congenially.
Emily jumped up. “Tom and John are back! I must tell Mother right away! Thank you, Mr. Philipps!”
“It’s unimaginable that Emperor Nero had saffron strewn on the streets of Rome for his triumphal procession,” André remarked and ran his fingers through the tiny dried pistils. Just a few weeks before, they had still been embedded in the heart of the small crocus plants that had created a thick carpet of lilac blossoms. Soon they would tickle fastidious taste buds in dining rooms and restaurants all over the world.
“With the quantities that would entail, I suspect that he resorted to marigolds and the like,” Sibylla replied dryly. She unlocked the wooden cabinets, took out two round earthenware vessels and a scale, and placed everything on her desk. After weighing the saffron, she filled the two pots with it, returned them to the cabinet, and checked that the padlock was locked.
“May I offer you a cup of tea?”
“Avec plaisir.” André was delighted.
“How has business been this year?” he inquired, after Aladdin’s brother had placed the steaming glasses on Sibylla’s small table.
“Please, take a seat.” She pointed to the low table with some chairs in the corner of the room. “To be honest, this year has been patchy. On balance, Spencer & Son has not suffered any losses, but the years of drought have definitely impacted the local leather, our main export.”
He grinned. “Businessmen always complain. I am sure that your brother in London will still be pleased. He knows that no one is better equipped to handle the Morocco trade than you.”
“You know, I believe you are right,” she said, flattered.
“Of course I’m right. If he weren’t pleased, he would have sent someone else to Mogador.”
Sibylla took a sip of tea. “Luxury items are what sells best these days. Qaid Samir’s wives do the most exquisite embroideries for me.” He could hear the enthusiasm in her voice. “The fashion-conscious ladies in Europe can’t get enough of handkerchiefs, shawls, and cushions embroidered by dainty hands in an exotic Oriental harem. I’m negotiating at the moment with embroiderers in Fez and Marrakesh because the demand is so great. Unfortunately, I am in competition with the merchants of Casablanca and, since the harbor there is larger and more modern, I don’t fare very well. Sultan Sidi Mohammed ignores all my contributions to the expansion of the harbor here.”
After ruling Morocco for thirty-seven years, Moulay Abd al-Rahman had died that August, and his son, Sidi Mohammed IV, had succeeded him. The new ruler was already a mature man of fifty-seven years and had inherited an onerous task. His country was deeply in debt, and the populace was discontented and ready to revolt after several crop failures and a devastating cholera epidemic. At the same time, France, England, and, most recently, Prussia were competing for the greatest possible influence in his country. Their consuls in Mogador and Tangier were saying quite openly that it was only a matter of time before one of three countries incorporated Morocco into its colonial empire.
Sibylla finished her tea and rose. “How long will you be in Mogador?”
“One week. I have been given a terribly long shopping list. I’m probably going to need a pack donkey to get everything home.”
He noticed too late how Sibylla’s cheeks flushed, and he could have kicked himself. He knew any mention of his family in Qasr el Bahia could endanger their tenuous truce.
Sibylla stiffly looked at the floor and declared, “I have to go to the warehouse anyway. If I don’t get the numbers to the qaid’s simsar, I won’t be able to ship my leather tomorrow. Good-bye, André. I wish you a merry Christmas.”
He wanted to thank her, but all he saw was her back.
As Sibylla stormed down the stairs, she asked herself if she would ever be able to forgive him for deceiving her with Aynur.