“But are there certain things that are too grave to be forgiven?” Sibylla probed.
Lalla Jasira looked at her with her dark, kind eyes. “Only God can decide how grave a transgression is. Only He knows the innermost nature of all human beings and their deeds.” She tapped her pearl-studded wooden clogs. “I can sense that your heart is weeping, honorable friend. If you will allow me, I will tell you a story about forgiveness.”
“Ouch! By all the saints!” Bahar’s scream shattered the air. Qaid Samir’s favorite concubine was completely washed and rinsed and lying on a silk rug. A slave had spread a paste of sugar and lemon juice all around her genitalia. Once it had dried, the slave pulled off the crust together with the undesirable pubic hair.
Sibylla could sympathize. She remembered all too well the burning pain of her first hair removal. Back then, she had been in Morocco only a short time and had had no idea of what went on in a hamam. She had been horrified when the hamam worker had busied herself with her most intimate body parts—a ritual that she now would not do without.
“Now, now!” Wahida calmed the young concubine. “You must be able to suffer a little pain. After all, you don’t want to go before your lord like a hairy bear!” She sat next to Bahar and sniffed at the different perfume bottles being offered on a silver tray. “Musk,” she decided. “We’ll take musk for Bahar. My son is like the Prophet: he loves prayer, women, and fragrance.”
Sibylla turned to Lalla Jasira again. “I would very much like to hear your story, Princess. Please tell it!”
Lalla Jasira placed her sorbet glass next to her on the marble bench. “Many years ago, two young women lived in the harem of a powerful man. One was a noblewoman from the ruler’s house, raised in luxury and wealth and destined to become the man’s chief wife. The other was a poor slave, kidnapped and forced to leave behind her family and her faith. Both women were beautiful and both were determined to win their master’s favor. Initially, the man was just. He divided his attention between them and summoned them to his bed an equal number of times. Before long, the slave became pregnant. The man was overjoyed. Over the years, she bore him more sons and daughters and he loved her more for each child she gave him.
“But the chief wife’s womb remained empty. She sought the advice of doctors, sages, and witches, made pilgrimages—all to no avail. She became sad and embittered. The angrier she became, the less frequently the lord summoned her, until, at last, he ignored her altogether. In her sorrow, she became angry with God for trying her so severely, and slowly her bitterness turned to hatred. Hatred against herself, her husband, and against the slave who had risen to become the lord’s favorite wife and who had everything she herself desired.
“When she had lost all self-respect, God took pity on her. He came to her in a dream and said, ‘If too much pressure is exerted on you, you become hard like dry wood that splinters and breaks. Be like a reed that gently sways in the wind and you will regain your happiness. Follow my example, for I, the Eternal One, am also forgiveness and reconciliation.’”
Lalla Jasira fell silent and her gaze was lost in the bath’s twilight. Sibylla looked over to the two slaves who had begun making up Bahar’s eyes with crushed green malachite and black kohl. Sukalina sat glowering on the opposite side of the hamam, smoking a water pipe.
Sibylla thought about Emily and André, about Victoria and Sara Willshire. The number of people she resented had grown over the years. And for the first time, she began to consider the possibility that there were, likewise, a good many people whose forgiveness she needed. She sighed. “Thank you for telling me this wonderful story. It’s quite complicated, isn’t it?”
Lalla Jasira looked at her in surprise. “Did not your prophet Isa ibn Maryam, whom you call Jesus Christ, also preach love and forgiveness? I want to tell you how the story continues after the powerful man’s chief wife accepted that it was her fate never to bear children. She forgave herself and thus found peace. And in doing so, she regained the respect of the women in the harem as well as that of her lord. He did not take her to his bedchamber very often, but he valued her wisdom and her kind heart more than he had ever valued her body, and he sought her advice more and more frequently.”
“And that is the end?”
Lalla Jasira gave her a dreamy little smile. “The story of love and forgiveness never ends, does it, my honorable friend?”
“Good evening, Mother. Do forgive me for making you wait. I simply had so much to do. It wasn’t until Aladdin reminded me that I remembered my promise to pick you up.” John leaned forward to kiss Sibylla on the cheek.
“Not at all, darling. I had a wonderful afternoon.” She returned her son’s kiss.
He offered his mother his arm. As they walked through the dark alleyways, he told her about his day, of the two ships of theirs that had left the harbor. He also told her that he had spoken with several more people about the break-in, among them the harbormaster and Consul Willshire. But all claimed not to have noticed a thing amiss. There had been no other break-ins in the foreigners’ quarter. Whoever the intruder was, he seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.
“A very troubling notion.” Sibylla thought about the scattered dirt around the foundation of the sundial.
“Isn’t it, though? If he hadn’t left traces in our garden, one might think we’d imagined it all.”
“I wish we had,” she sighed.
“My lady! You’re back at last!” Hamid said, relief all over his face.
“Why? Has something happened?” Sibylla asked anxiously. “Another break-in?”
“No, my lady, no break-in, but—”
“My lady!” Nadira called. “Thank goodness you’re back!”
“What’s happened?” Sibylla scrutinized both of her servants.
Nadira took her coat. “You have a visitor from Qasr el Bahia. He is waiting in the drawing room.”
“I hope nothing has happened to Emily!” Sibylla took off running, followed by John. When she pushed open the door to the drawing room, the guest hastily rose from the divan and bowed awkwardly. Sibylla stopped dead on the threshold. “André?”
After a few confusing seconds, she realized that, although the young man looked like André, he did not look like the André she knew, but André as he must have looked as a very young man.
“Mrs. Hopkins?” The stranger looked at her uncertainly. “My name is Frédéric Rouston. Emily has sent me. She said that you would help us. Qasr el Bahia was attacked this morning!”
“Good Lord!” Sibylla felt her knees giving way. She felt John’s hand supporting her back and heard his voice as if from a distance. “I am Emily’s brother John. Please take a seat, Frédéric.”