“I always thought I knew Mogador well, but I have never been in this alley before,” Nadira told her mistress.
The closer they drew to the mosque, the clearer it became that they were in the quarter of religion and scholarship. Booksellers and bookbinders, calligraphers and miniaturists had their small stores and workshops here. A merchant offered prayer rugs and embroidered prayer caps for sale by the entrance to the house of worship. Opposite, an instrument craftsman had set up his stand. Contentedly smoking his water pipe, he stood among large and small drums, flutes, zithers, and lutes the faithful could purchase for holiday processions.
The two women walked around the mosque and came to a house. The holy green of Islam on the door and roof tiles indicated that this was the zaouia of the city. A sign reminded visitors to enter this noble place only in accordance with religious rules—abluted and with respectful demeanor. Through an open window upstairs, Sibylla and Nadira heard a man’s deep voice reciting from the Hadiths: “Sometimes a revelation comes to me like the sound of a bell, and that is, for me, the most difficult form . . .”
“If Haji Abdul only knew how true his words are,” Sibylla remarked drily and looked up at the window from which a chorus of young boys repeated the teacher’s text.
The house of the Abdul bin Ibrahim family was adjacent to the zaouia. Like Sibylla’s, it was two stories, brilliantly whitewashed, with no windows facing the street and a blue wooden front door.
Nadira knocked. “El Sayyida Sibylla wishes to speak with Sayyida Almaz,” she told the guard looking through the hatch.
He disappeared and, a short time later, they were received by a female slave who led them across the inner courtyard to the women’s quarters.
Unlike the qaid’s harem, this private area was very plain. The living room was square and not particularly large. A stodgy cast-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling and quotations from the Koran on the walls were evidence of the inhabitants’ deep devotion. Woven rugs lay on the dark wood floor, sofas stood along the walls, and there was a low table with a ceramic bowl of dates and candied almonds. The only luxury was an artfully carved cedar table bearing a leather-bound and gold-embossed edition of the holy book. The silk rugs, silver chandeliers, elaborately glazed wall tiles, and crystal mirrors that made Qaid Samir’s harem so decadent and carefree were absent.
Sibylla recognized Sabri’s mother right away by her tawny skin, large brown eyes, and classically beautiful Abyssinian features. Consequently, the plump little Arab woman, whose gold-laden hands belied her demure black garment, had to be Haji Abdul’s first wife. The two wives sat as far apart as the small room would allow and did not deign to look at each other.
Three young women sat between them on a divan. They were wearing colorful garments and watched the visitors curiously with their kohl-rimmed eyes. Sibylla took them to be three of Sabri’s six younger sisters. The oldest was probably Emily’s age. She held a baby on her lap, and a toddler sat by her feet, contentedly sucking on a date. Lastly, there was an old woman wrapped in a blanket sitting in an armchair and staring at Sibylla with opaque, blind eyes: Sabri’s grandmother. Her nostrils vibrated with suspicion.
The women received Sibylla in silence and reservation compared to the exuberant welcome that she was accustomed to in Arab households. After all, standing before them was the mother of the girl who had turned their son’s head so much he had thrown honor and propriety to the wind. But Sibylla was determined not to let the cool reception discourage her.
“Assalamu alaikum,” she said pleasantly and stepped toward the old woman’s armchair to pay her respects. In doing so, she tripped over a baby’s rattle lying on the floor.
Sabri’s sisters giggled behind their hands and, finally, the first wife rose and came toward Sibylla. “Wa-alaikum salam, Sayyida Sibylla. My house is also your house.”
“Please give me the honor of presenting my modest gifts.” Sibylla signaled Nadira to present the silk shawls. She noted with satisfaction that the women’s eyes lit up with interest. It was obvious they would have liked to put them on immediately instead of placing them aside as etiquette demanded.
“Please allow me to share the foods of my home as a way of expressing my thanks.” The first wife clapped her hands and ordered slaves to bring tea and refreshments. Then she invited Sibylla to sit next to her. Nadira stood by the door.
While two slaves served fragrant tea, sweet almond pastry, and fresh labneh with pomegranate jelly, a third brought a basin with water and towels for hand washing.
The women ate, drank tea, and exchanged some small talk, but Sibylla knew that was only because hospitality here was sacrosanct. Once politeness had been established, one would come directly to the point.
And indeed, the first wife soon said, “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Sayyida Sibylla?”
Sibylla slowly set her tea glass on the table. She had thought carefully about how best to reach her goal and had come to the conclusion that it was best to speak mother to mother, even though it was impolitic to pass over the first wife.
“Honorable Sayyida Almaz.” She turned and looked at Sabri’s mother directly. “My daughter has gone away, and I am afraid that I will never see her again.”
Almaz’s eyes grew wide. She sat bolt upright on the sofa and Sibylla had the feeling she knew exactly what she was trying to say.
“Well, she’s not here,” the first wife said snidely, obviously feeling insulted.
Sabri’s grandmother chimed in as well. “That infidel girl has destroyed our domestic peace!” She beat the armrest of her chair with her bony hand.
The three daughters of the house were silent, their eyes flitting back and forth between Sibylla and Almaz.
At last, Almaz spoke up. Her voice was not loud, but calm and dignified. “No mother should have to give up her child, Sayyida Sibylla. But what does my son have to do with your fear?”
“My daughter and your son boarded a ship to England. I have just learned that they have gotten married on board this ship. They are now in Lisbon and fear the wrath of their families.”
The first wife wheezed in surprise and the old woman lamented, “Oh, that seductress! More treacherous than a mirage in the desert sand, she has lured the son of this house to his ruin!”
Almaz uttered a distraught cry, but one of Sabri’s unmarried sisters sighed longingly, “By God, how great a love that must be!”
Sibylla looked at Almaz. “Did you know about their plans?”