“Did you . . . ahem . . . marry again after that?” Emily felt a bit envious of her sister for having had such experiences already.
“No. I don’t like Arab men, and I don’t like Berber men either. I don’t like their scruffy beards and how they dress, those long tunics.” She shook her head. “I would like to marry a foreigner, from my father’s country, but foreigners don’t come to Qasr el Bahia. So I would have to leave, and I don’t want to do that.”
Come with me when I go to the art academy in London, Emily wanted to cry. But then, for the second time, she remembered that she had given up her place at the academy and that it was unlikely she would ever travel there. She bit her lips and stretched out her left hand. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”
Malika pointed to a spot below Emily’s forefinger. “Two lines make a cross here. That means you already know your great and eternal love. The heart line is long, clear, and red. You will always be true to your chosen one and you will love him wholeheartedly and passionately.” She lifted her head and smiled at Emily. “Who has captured your heart, Sister?”
Emily could feel her pulse in her throat. She instinctively looked around, but no one was paying any attention to them. Not even the young woman, who was humming softly to her baby.
“You don’t know him, he lives in Mogador,” she whispered to Malika. “He is the hakim in the city.”
Malika whistled softly. “An Arab man!”
Emily nodded. “But he has been in England and studied medicine there.”
Sabri’s image appeared before her mind’s eye, the way he had looked that day when he spoke of taking her out. She had often wondered what else he might have said had not Thomas burst in. Her brother had spoiled everything, not only the wonderful moment with Sabri but all of her happiness!
Emily drew a quick breath. “Do the lines say that we have a future together?”
“You will have problems,” Malika answered with a serious look. “There will be disappointments, but if you stay strong—”
A shadow fell over the two girls. “So this is where you are—startled like thieves caught in the night! Well, I hope that is because of your guilty conscience for shirking your work!” André stood before them, his hands on his hips, but his eyes were twinkling.
“Father!” Emily quickly withdrew her hand from Malika. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to ask you if you felt like coming with me. We are going to take lunch to the men who are clearing the field and then we’re going to ride out.”
“I’d love to!” Emily jumped up.
The new field lay on a sunlit plateau bordering Aynur’s vegetable garden and an orange grove with scattered beehives. Behind it, the slopes of the Atlas rose to bluish, snowcapped peaks. The men had burned off the brush, but now they had to painstakingly hoe the roots out of the soil. Emily saw the large heap of roots lying by the side of the field. Bleating goats were jumping around on the area strewn with charred branches, rocks, and deep holes, with André Jr. and his playmates supervising. Emily thought about how much time and sweat it would take the men to transform this cratered landscape into a tillable field. And then there were irrigation ditches and retaining walls still to be constructed.
They dismounted just as the workers were finishing their midday prayer. There was no muezzin on Qasr el Bahia, so people determined prayer times according to dawn and dusk, the position of the sun, and the length of shadows.
Emily led the pack donkey over to some olive trees where the men were sitting and unpacked flatbread, vegetables in olive oil, goat cheese, dried meat, and oranges.
After their meal, one of the men pulled a flute from his tunic and began to play, another struck up a song, and the rest of them clapped their hands in time and sang the refrain. Emily still couldn’t understand much of the Ait Zelten dialect, but André explained to her that the song told of an old legend of the Imazighen—the “free people,” as the Berber referred to themselves.
“A long time ago, God revealed knowledge of agriculture and weaving to the free people. The plow and the loom were His gifts. The Ait Zelten sing praise to agriculture, which they consider a holy activity much like the art of weaving. When they plow the new field, you will notice that they always dig the furrows at right angles. In that way, they recreate the pattern of a woven rug’s warp and weft. They thus serve God and protect the land from the powers of demons.” He touched Emily on the shoulder. “Shall we?”
“Gladly!” She got up.
“Baba!” André Jr. shouted. “Look! Over there!”
A band of six riders came galloping out of the orange grove uttering ugly cries and waving their guns aloft. Suddenly, a shot rang out, the sound reverberating off the rocks. André Jr. screamed and covered his ears. Men and children jumped up and ran around in confusion.
André felt for his gun and cursed when he realized that it was hanging from his saddle several strides away. He quickly looked around to make certain no one had been hurt. Emily had had the presence of mind to throw her little brother on the ground and cover him with her body. The Ait Zelten men had formed a circle around the other children, but they were almost completely unarmed. Some had grabbed hoes and shovels, others had ripped their knives out of their belts, but no one had a gun.
“Father!” screamed Emily. “Look out!”
The riders were heading straight for André. Horrified, she watched as he did not take even one step back. At the last second, the group pulled up short. Even when their horses reared above his head, André did not budge.
Emily cradled her terrified little brother and eyed the troublemakers. They were young Ait Zelten men, most no older than she was. Only their leader was a little older. His eyes glowed and he had a port-wine stain running from his left eye across his whole face. He sat proudly on his horse, holding the reins with one hand and brandishing his gun with the other.
André took one step in his direction. “What a heroic deed it is to shoot at children and unarmed people! And you call yourselves men?”
“Filthy foreigner!” the man hissed. “Your greed devours our land like the desert devours a fertile oasis! Take your brood and go back to the infidels!”
“Shame on you for tainting our friendship with the faransawi! You’re not a man but a dishonorable coward. Go home and crawl back into your mother’s lap!” The sheikh of the Ait Zelten stepped up next to André and shook his soil-stained fists.
Loud, angry muttering came from the group of riders. The leader aimed his weapon at the man. “You son of a dog! You’re betraying your own people to an infidel!”