“So the Engliziya got herself pregnant by you. I have known there would be misfortune ever since Tamra read the bones of a dove for me!” She turned her back to André, but observed him carefully in her silver mirror while massaging argan oil into her hair.
André was sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off his boots. He grimaced at her words and angrily threw his boots in the space between two carved trunks. “Will you never stop believing that old witch’s nonsense? And another thing: I’ll thank Tamra and you not to characterize Emily as a misfortune ever again, is that clear?”
He longed for peace and quiet and, after a week’s absence, to hold Aynur in his arms again. She looked sensual and seductive in her flowing, floor-length silk shirt. The flickering lamplight outlined her figure in shadow and made her bronze skin shimmer. When she shook out her long black hair, making its ends brush against the curves of her bottom, he became aware of his growing desire.
“Come here,” he whispered to her. “I’ve had an exhausting day. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
Aynur turned around, but stayed where she was. Her eyes smoldered in the semidarkness. “Why did the Engliziya wait until now to give you the child? Or did you not want the child?”
André tried not to groan. It was clear Aynur would not drop the subject until she had gotten answers.
“It’s all very complicated, especially for Emily,” he answered tentatively. “I brought her with me so that she could get some peace of mind.”
“I understand. The Engliziya was angry when she saw me at Qasr el Bahia with you. She must have known then that she was expecting a child. I had thought that foreign women were more careful than that.” A catlike smile flashed across her face. “You betrayed her love. That is why you deserve to feel her wrath. I would also let you feel my wrath if you betrayed my love.”
Before André had a chance to answer, she blew out the lamp and darkness engulfed the room. He heard her naked feet softly padding on the floor. When she sat next to him, he could feel her breath on his neck. She smelled like the roses growing outside in their garden.
“Do you share her bed when you are in Mogador?” Aynur whispered in his ear.
In all the years they had been together, she had never asked him this before, but when he heard the quiver in her voice, it dawned on him how much the uncertainty must have tormented her. He felt for her hand. “My bringing Emily here has nothing to do with Sibylla and me. It concerns only Emily and me.”
She withdrew her hand. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“I do not share my bed with her. Never. Not once since you entered into my life!” he answered more vehemently than he had intended. “Are you satisfied?”
Aynur leaned over his ear. “That depends . . .”
He pulled her into his arms. “Don’t worry. You are the best companion I could wish for. Without you, I would not have my other wonderful children and Qasr el Bahia would not be what it is today. Do you think I could forget that?”
Appeased, she placed her cheek on his chest. “I believe you, beloved. Your daughter shall want for nothing here. Please forgive me for violating the holy laws of hospitality. It will not happen again.”
He lifted her chin and kissed her. She deftly pulled his shirt over his head, then kneeled behind him on the bed and began massaging his back. “Hard as a rock. It must be painful, beloved. But I will make the pain go away.”
He leaned forward and surrendered to her even, powerful ministrations. “?’est merveilleux. You have magical hands, Aynur.”
Her hands slid over his chest and stomach, slipped under his waistband, and grasped his member. “You want me,” she declared with satisfaction.
Instead of answering, he turned and gently pressed her onto the mattress.
Mogador, end of April, 1861
The crowd in front of the Bab Doukkala grew silent as the funeral procession neared. Four pallbearers entered first, Samuel Toledano’s coffin on their shoulders. They were followed by the mourners: first, the rabbi; followed by Aaron Toledano, the eldest son and new patriarch; Samuel’s widow, who was being supported by her daughters; and the rest of the family. Last came more relatives, friends, business associates, and neighbors from the Jewish community of Mogador.
Sibylla took a deep breath. The long procession of silent, darkly attired people depressed her. André had been in Mogador three weeks earlier. Although he had conveyed greetings from Emily, she suspected that he had made that up in order to console her. At any rate, he had not brought the letter from her daughter that she so longed for.
Emily had been gone four months now, and Sibylla could not remember a more joyless Christmas season. It was now the end of April and still she felt just as sad and despondent as if their falling-out had come just yesterday.
“She will return to you,” André had said when he left. “Be patient and don’t worry! I am taking good care of our daughter.”
If only patience were not so difficult, she thought and looked across the funeral procession to Qaid Samir, who was standing on the other side of the city gate, surrounded by his entourage, to pay his last respects to the dead tujjar al-sultan. Next to her, two traders were engaged in a conversation under their breath.
“To think a simple box with a body is all that is left of one of the country’s most influential men,” one of them whispered, looking at the humble wooden casket, adorned by neither picture nor ornaments nor flowers. Only the dates of Toledano’s birth and death according to the Hebrew calendar were engraved on the lid.
“The man was eighty years old. I hope I can reach such a venerable age,” said the other and reverently doffed his hat.
Sibylla thought about Benjamin. He’d have been fifty-one years old now, had he not died a gruesome death. The secret he’d left still cast a shadow over Sibylla. For his part in things, Toledano had gotten off lightly. Too lightly, in Sibylla’s opinion, and she had stubbornly refused to do business with him all these years.
She turned to John and was about to tell him that she wanted to go home when Victoria accidently met her eyes, then quickly lowered her gaze.
Victoria had apologized, but the relationship between the two remained strained. The peace was superficial and, in her heart, Sibylla had not yet forgiven her. She knew that John had had a very serious talk with his wife and told her that under no circumstances was she to tell outsiders either the reason for Emily’s sudden departure or her whereabouts. Since then, Victoria had hardly left the house and Sibylla assumed that the young woman felt lonelier and unhappier in Mogador than ever.
The funeral procession had now gathered around the grave in the Jewish cemetery, a dusty, untended piece of land. The rabbi was reading aloud from the book of Genesis, and Qaid Samir and his entourage returned to the city. The traders too began to leave.
“Hello, Mrs. Hopkins. This weather is perfect for a funeral, is it not?”