The Tenth Gift (28 page)

Sir Henry Marten’s house was just off Broad Sanctuary, and with great good luck he was at home, though not in the best of tempers.

“And what does he expect me to do about it?” he roared, having scanned Sir Arthur Harris’s letter.

Rob, who had not been asked to sit down, clenched his knuckles. “I believe, sir, that he would have you raise the issue with other eminent men with Cornwall’s best interests at heart, with a view to putting the petition before the Privy Council so that we may plead for monies from them to ransom our captives back.”

“Ransom? From whom?”

“From the raiders, sir, the men of Sallee who stole them.”

“The Sallee Rovers are a company of pirates, and with pirates there is no treating or confederacy! They are traders only in terror, in blood and fanaticism, and His Majesty’s government must never sully itself by so much as considering their crazed demands.”

“My betrothed, Catherine Tregenna, was taken,” Rob said low, the cords on his neck beginning to stand out with the strain of not taking the man by the throat. “And I am resolved to save her. I have already collected over fifty pounds for her ransom fee alone.”

Sir Henry Marten stared at him. “That is a remarkable achievement, young man, but you might as well spend it on sack and piss it down a drain. Giving these scum money will do naught but encourage them in their trade. It merely serves to validate their wicked practices. Besides, they’ll not be parted from your Catherine if she’s pretty: Women fetch high prices in their markets. They’ll take your money and send you to the galleys, and no one will be any the wiser.”

“I understand what you are saying, sir, but with respect, I am determined on my course.”

The Cornish Member of Parliament sighed. “I do not blame you for wishing to save your young lady from the filthy hands of such heathens, but I can assure you there is never any good to be had out of trading with infidels, let alone those who believe themselves carrying out some bizarre holy war against Christendom—they have no
honor, they believe in nothing, and there is no reasoning with them. If we must parley with such heathens, then at least it should be with someone who has proper authority—their sultan or suchlike.”

“Could you place a motion to do that, sir? The Countess of Salisbury mentioned an envoy from the Barbary States who has met with the King. Perhaps he might be prevailed upon—”

Henry Marten rolled his eyes. “All that impostor did was to drain the resources of the merchant company that defrayed his expenses and depart with a ship full of ‘gifts.’ Lad, there are over two thousand captives held in filthy conditions across the Barbary States—in Algiers and Tunis as well as Sallee—”

“Two thousand?” Rob was aghast. “If there are so many of our folk rotting in slavery, why has nothing been done? Our coasts are unprotected. I know our people are poor and held to be of little account in great places like London, but this is scandalous.”

“Do you think we’ve not tried to find some way of saving them? Armed expeditions have spectacularly failed, so against all sense, we are trying diplomacy. We’ve established a consulate in Algiers, but so far all we’ve managed through strenuous effort is the release of forty poor souls, more dead than alive. And Sallee is quite independent of the rest of Barbary; ’tis a nest of vipers—even seasoned expeditioners have had no luck. Give me your petition, I will add it to the rest. Go home and tell Arthur it is a fool’s mission to try to bring these people back. He would do better to devote his energies to pressing again for more guns for the Mount—that way he can prevent others being taken.”

Rob squared his jaw. “Thank you for your time, sir. You might remember when you return to the bosom of your family that the stolen captives include eighteen women and twelve children amongst their number, two babes in arms and three elderly widows. According to Catherine’s letter, at least two of those children perished on the voyage. How many more will die in slavery while we sit back and refuse to make contact with their captors? I trust you will do what you can on behalf of our people.”

He crossed to the door, then turned back. Sir Henry was looking somewhat purple in the face.

“I wonder, sir, if you might know where I might find the Turkey Company? I seek Sir John Killigrew, for I would speak with him.”

Marten’s face became purpler still. He fixed the lad with a grim look. “If you have any sense at all, you’ll go straight back to Cornwall. London is no place for a decent young man, and the Turkey Company are utter shysters.”

Rob made no move to leave, and at last Sir Henry sighed. “Very well, then. I know not where the Turkey Company operate, even if they have such things as offices, but you might make inquiry at one of the goldsmiths on Cheapside, for they all seem involved in some tricksy scheme or another. But have a care, Robert Bolitho, for Killi-grew’s a worse brigand than any of your Barbary pirates.”

A
N HOUR LATER
, Rob found himself wandering in Cheapside, a spacious high street teeming with life and lined by houses that had been extended up to three, four, and even five stories, so tall and unstable-looking to Rob’s untutored eye that he was afraid to walk beneath their eaves for fear they would at any moment collapse upon him. Crowds thronged the area. The noise was abominable. As soon as he was able, Rob took himself off the main thoroughfare and into the labyrinth of streets that surrounded it, where there were to be found the headquarters of every craft guild in the city—the ironmongers and carpenters, mercers and saddlers, haberdashers, drapers, cooks and coopers and cordwainers. The bakers were situated on Bread Street, the dairymen on Milk Street, and the fishmongers on Friday Street. He found the goldsmiths at work between Bread Street and Friday Street on, unsurprisingly, Goldsmiths Row.

He went from workshop to workshop but none there knew the name of John Killigrew. He was thinking about giving up his fruitless search and was bemusedly staring up at the sign for the Company of Merchant Tailors, which showed on one side of its arms a Turk riding
a bizarre-looking animal like an enormous cow with a grotesquely long neck, and on the other a black man astride a great lion, when he was accosted by a pimply young apprentice, who followed him to the end of the street and tugged on his sleeve. “The man you seek is with some merchants of our acquaintance.” The lad stood there expectantly while Rob glowered at him.

“Where would I find these merchants?” he demanded.

The boy held out his hand, the fingers burned and pitted from the motes of molten metal that were a daily hazard of his trade. Sighing, Rob dug in his pocket and brought out a groat, but the apprentice snorted derisively and would not be satisfied until the Cornishman picked out two whole pennies. He gave the lad one, whipping the second out of his reach. “Take me there and you can have the other.”

The apprentice paled: an achievement, given the pastiness of his face. “My skin is worth more than two pennies.”

“I doubt it,” Rob told him. “But I’ll not tell him how I came by knowledge of his whereabouts.”

Greed warred with fear, and triumphed.

By the time they arrived in an anonymous backstreet, Rob was completely disoriented, but one glimpse of a head of red hair through a grimy window immediately eradicated any such mundane concerns. He tossed the boy his penny and knocked on the door. A suspicious silence fell within, then someone peered out of the window and a moment later the door opened, a hand shot out, and Rob was dragged inside.

“What the—I know you!” Killigrew frowned, searching his memory.

Rob was hard to miss, with his immense height and corn-yellow hair: He did not look much like a city man. “Robert Bolitho. I work at Kenegie for Sir Arthur, who said you would be in London.”

John Killigrew grimaced. “God damn the man, is he spying on me? My business is my own and as honest as any.”

“I come of my own will on a personal matter. I would talk with you alone, sir, of Catherine Tregenna and her mother, Jane. Jane Coode, as was.”

The man’s expression changed. He looked around at the two other men in the room, whose demeanor had become attentive, avid. “Come with me.”

Killigrew pushed Rob before him into a back room that was furnished sparsely and covered in dust, shut the door, and turned to confront him. “The woman is nothing to do with me now. It was a long time ago that she worked at Arwenack.”

“The best part of twenty years, which is, interestingly, her daughter Catherine’s age.”

“And what has that to do with me?” Killigrew blustered.

“Sir, I have it from an impeccable source that she is your daughter. There is no point in denying it: She has inherited the same foxred hue of your hair. You might recall your … encounter with her, in the courtyard at Kenegie.”

A flicker of reaction showed in the pale eyes. “I have bastards strewn the length and breadth of the county—it is hardly shocking news to any who have acquaintance of me. And nothing happened between me and the girl. If she says it did, she is lying to cover up an indiscretion of her own.”

“Both mother and daughter at this moment lie in fear for their lives in some filthy slave prison in the Barbary States.”

“The Penzance raid by the Sallee Rovers?”

That was indeed the name that had been given the bold raiders. Rob nodded. “A ransom note arrived last week. They want … a very great sum of money to redeem the captives.”

Now Killigrew laughed. “And you have come to me in search of this ‘great sum’? You have come to the wrong man altogether if it is charity you seek, for I have none, as you must surely know from my reputation, which I have fostered long and hard. Or did you think in some way to blackmail me? There is no profit to you in that, I can
assure you. I care not one whit what anyone thinks of me. Moreover, I care not at all what happens to Jane Coode or the whelp, though I have to admit she has turned into a comely wench. What do you say to that?” He thrust his face belligerently at Rob.

Rob bit his lip. None of his meetings today had taken the course he had hoped or expected. “I beg your pardon, sir, for taking up your time. There is evidently nothing more to be said on the subject, and I must seek another avenue to save Catherine.” He turned on his heel as if to leave, but Killigrew called him back.

“Wait! Tell me, what would you do to save her?”

Rob stared at him. “Anything. I would do anything in the world if I could bring her safely home.”

“Are you not in Arthur Harris’s employ?”

“I am.”

“But you might consider other offers?”

“It would depend entirely on what was entailed, and the likely outcome. Is it legal?”

Killigrew paused. “Would that make a difference?”

Rob swallowed. He had been brought up to fear God, to love his country, and to abide by the law, but neither his country nor the law seemed able to offer him the means to save Cat, and perhaps God’s way did not always follow the straightest and most obvious path through the darkness. “No, sir, it would not.”

“Then it seems, Robert Bolitho, that you may save me a long, uncomfortable, and probably dangerous voyage.”

“A voyage?”

“There are great fortunes to be made in Barbary. We have something the Moors want badly, and they have much that we wish to have in return. Morocco is a country rich in resources. It seems foolish that we cannot trade openly with their … merchants. Now it seems we might add one other small item into the balance—but I warn you, this is a business venture, not a charity mission. If you undertake this voyage, it will be on my terms. A ship sails for North
Africa tomorrow before the winter seas close in, and if you satisfy me that I may trust you, you may take my place on it. If you help my proxy to strike the deal I seek to make, then you may add your Catherine into the bargain—but no other, do you hear me?”

“There is her mother, and her friend, Matty….” Rob began, already feeling the guilt gnawing at his vitals. “And many other poor souls we might help. And I cannot simply disappear without letting the Harris family know where I am. They have been good to me. They would worry were I not to return, and Sir Arthur would likely come looking for me—”

“Stop! We will walk to Hardwicke & Buckle, who are outfitting the expedition, and I will explain your part in this venture to you. You may write to your employer from there to give your notice, but you will tell no one of my involvement in your decision, or discuss the nature of the trade. Is that agreed?” He held out a hand, and Rob took it, his heart pounding. As they shook to seal the deal, he felt that he was shaking the hand of the Devil himself and about to risk not only his life, but his very soul.

T
HE HOUSE TO WHICH IDRISS BROUGHT ME WAS ON
A narrow street on the southern edge of the medina. Children watched curiously as we passed, Idriss carrying my bags. One small girl, her dark eyes lit by the orange sodium lamps, tugged on my sleeve.
“Baksheesh, madame.
Please,
danke schön.”

Idriss said something in rapid Berber and the children ran away, shrieking and laughing.

“Not the first time they’ve seen a tourist, then,” I said wryly. “Little monkeys, they know they should not beg, I have told them often enough.”

“You know them, then?”

“They are my nieces and nephew, the children of my brother Rachid and his wife, Aicha.” He stopped at a wooden door whose blue paint was barely a memory, inserted a key, and led me inside. This house was a far cry from the splendid grace of the Dar el-Beldi. Bare lightbulbs harshly lit a narrow hallway lined to half height with brightly colored, mass-produced tiles of geometric design. I could hear foreign voices emanating from the rooms that gave off the hall and a television blaring out. Idriss called something over the hubbub, and two women appeared suddenly at a doorway and began to chatter loudly. They came flying out and engulfed me in a cloud of perfume and spice, warm flesh and billowing fabric. I was kissed many times on both cheeks; my hands were wrung.
“Marhaban, marhaban,”
the older of the two said over and over.
Welcome.

At last they stepped back. “My mother, Malika,” Idriss said, indicating
the older of the two, a woman of indeterminate age, her face crisscrossed by lines like a contour map of a life filled with emotional incident. “And my
belle-soeur
, Aïcha, who is married to Rachid.”

The second woman grinned at me. She was young—maybe still in her twenties—and wore a tunic and denim jeans, and a bright silk scarf that she now drew up over her dark hair. “Good day,” she said. “Idriss say you English. I speak English a little. Come, come with me. I show you room.” And she took me by the hand and drew me after her up three flights of tiled stairs to a room on the top floor. “This Idriss room,” she informed me cheerfully. “You sleep here.”

“And where will Idriss sleep?” I asked nervously.

“In salon. Is no problem. I bring you clean things.” She bustled about the room, whisking off the blanket and bed linen with a practiced flourish, and was gone in an instant, leaving me alone to inspect my new quarters. One bed (single), one bedside table, a lamp, a chair, a wardrobe, a bookcase; an old-fashioned candlestick, the candle half burned down. On the back of the door hung an ankle-length robe of dark blue wool with a pointed hood, like a Sylvestrine habit, reinforcing the impression that I had somehow stumbled into a monastic cell.

Aïcha returned with her arms full of linen. As we made up the bed, I asked, “Do you live here, too?”

“Of course. Is family home. Is me and husband Rachid; our children, Mohammed, Jamilla, and Latifa; Idriss; his mother, Malika; his brother Hassan; and our grandmother Lalla Mariam, when she not in the mountains.” She ticked them off on her fingers one by one. “When other family visit Rabat they stay with us, too. While you stay, you are one of our family.”

“Thank you, it’s very good of you.”

She pressed the flat of her hand to her heart.
“Barakallaofik.
Is our honor.” As we spread the striped blanket over the bed, she added, “There is bathroom next door, so you can wash before eating. Come down when you ready.”

If I had thought Idriss’s bedroom spartan, the bathroom was positively rustic. A narrow cubicle next door was tiled from floor to ceiling. A faucet protruded from low down on the left side; high above was appended a plastic showerhead. A water bucket, wooden stool, soap, shampoo; a mug containing three razors, a broken mirror on the back of the door, a small white towel; and an ominous-looking hole in the floor completed the scene. I found myself remembering wistfully the luxurious bathroom suite I had left behind at the Dar el-Beldi and had to push the image fiercely away. Damn Michael.

I
N THE KITCHEN
, I found Idriss rubbing aromatic oil through a mound of steaming couscous, surrounded by a cloud of vapor like a genie emerging from his magic bottle. Behind him, his mother ladled a savory-smelling scarlet liquid into a huge earthenware bowl. They were laughing and talking loudly in Berber, and at one point she held out her hands palms up and Idriss slapped them with his own so that grains of couscous jumped in the air like motes of molten gold, and then they were shrieking with laughter and chattering again like school friends rather than mother and son. Feeling as if I were intruding, I turned away.

“No, no, come in.” Idriss’s long almond eyes were shining. He looked a different man to the taciturn, grim-faced guide who had shepherded me around Salé that afternoon. “Here, taste this—is it too spicy for you?” He held out a spoonful of the scarlet liquid. “Europeans don’t always like much chili.”

I tasted it. Flavors seethed along my tongue, fiery and delicious. “No, that’s wonderful. Really. What’s the Berber word for ‘delicious’?”

“Imim,”
he told me.

I touched his mother’s arm.
“Imim,”
I said, pointing at the sauce.
“Imim, shokran.”

Her face creased into a thousand wrinkles of pride, and then she gabbled away at Idriss, flashing her kohled eyes at me, then back at
him. Idriss shook his head, then rapped her knuckles with the spoon, and the volume of their discussion rose by another decibel. At last, she shooed him out of the kitchen and he took me with him into a small sitting room lined with banquettes encircling a low, round table.

“What was she saying?”

He looked embarrassed. “No matter how I try to explain, she seems to think you are my girlfriend.”

Now I was embarrassed. “I didn’t think people had ‘girlfriends’ here.”

He looked at me curiously. “What do you mean?”

I spread my hands. “Forgive me, I don’t really know anything about your culture. The guidebook said something about sex before marriage being illegal in Morocco. Especially between Moroccans and foreigners.”

His face went very still. “Many things that are illegal still happen,” he said stiffly. “But there is a social code here; people try to respect it. That is perhaps the difference between my culture and yours.” He paused, as if assessing the effect of this strike, then added, “My mother also said you are very beautiful.”

I felt myself coloring furiously. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said
that
about me before.” It was meant as a lighthearted remark to fend off such an unexpected statement, but as I said it I realized it was true. Not even Michael had said that of me in all the time we were together—especially not Michael, as tight with his compliments as he was with his emotions, and his money.

“Well, then, you have surrounded yourself with people who do not value the truth, or maybe do not wish to see it.” And before I could say anything to this, he disappeared again.

When he returned it was with a huge platter of couscous—a mountain of yellow grains studded with slices of zucchini and carrot, squash, green beans, and fennel, and gilded with the glistening spicy sauce. He was soon followed, like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, by a crowd of people, everyone talking at once: his mother, Aïcha; three
children (including the little girl who had accosted me outside); a tall, grave young man in a suit, introduced as Aïcha’s husband, Rachid; another who looked like a younger version of Idriss (“my brother Hassan, means ‘handsome’ in Arabic—It suits him, no?”), who was all smiles and charm, with a pair of sunglasses balanced on top of his head; and an older couple (“my uncle and aunt”): a man in a well-worn robe, and a dumpy woman with iron-gray hair who nodded solemnly at me, then winked. Everyone took their places around the table, on the low sofas or on leather pouffes, after a murmured prayer, and began to eat fast and neat with the fingers of their right hands, rolling the couscous and vegetables expertly into little balls. The older man made a large pellet of the mixture and flipped it nonchalantly into his mouth from an arm’s length away, much to the delight of the children, who made as if they would try to emulate him until Aïcha chided them.
“Mange, mange,”
Idriss’s mother exhorted me, proud of her French.

I smiled weakly and caught Idriss’s eye. He was watching me expectantly, as if waiting to see how I would handle this tricky situation. I set my jaw. I would not, I decided, be such a feeble European as to ask for a plate and fork. I plunged my fingers into the grain mountain and almost yelped, for it was extraordinarily hot. Then I hit on the idea of using a piece of carrot like a spoon and managed to get a large mouthful down me without scattering it all over the table.

The tajine at the Dar-el Beldi the previous night had been toothsome, but this was yet another venture into the world of spices. More subtle than Thai seasoning, more complex than Indian food, more demanding than Chinese, it was a rich and powerful experience.

“Here.” The young man who looked like Idriss pushed a piece of soft orange pumpkin toward me. “Is best: We call it Berber cheese.”

“Shokran.”

They all nodded in approval at my mastery of the language, and soon everyone was picking the choicest morsels out of the mountain and pressing them upon me until I could eat no more.

L
ATER, MUCH LATER
, as it seemed—after I had fended off questions about my life, my family, my friends, my marital status, life in London, why I was in Morocco, how I knew Idriss, and why I was staying with them—I found myself up on the roof terrace, smoking the first cigarette I had touched in twenty years. It tasted horrible, but I persisted with it anyway. My nerves had been rattled so many times today that I felt I needed to do something to break the pattern.

Idriss leaned against the wall, the smoke from his cigarette curling up into the tranquil night air. “So tell me, Julia, why it is you hide from this man who calls himself your husband?”

I sighed and took a final drag on the cigarette to delay the need to respond. I had been waiting for this question ever since we left the Dar el-Beldi, and I still didn’t know how I was going to reply, whether I would trust this stranger with the truth or offer a strategic lie. Down below us lay the remains of a little market: striped tarpaulins jerry-rigged over scaffolding posts, drifts of rubbish, strewn vegetables. A thin cat sat in the middle of this, having taken back its territory for the night, grooming an outstretched leg. At last I said, “I have something he wants, something valuable.”

In the darkness it was hard to tell whether the gleam in his eyes was one of mere curiosity or of avidity. “He must want this thing very much, to have crossed continents to find it.” He dropped the dead end of his cigarette and ground it underfoot until its glow was extinguished. “Or perhaps it is you he wants.”

“I don’t think so!”

“You say that very definitely, and if I may say so, with some bitterness.”

I stared at him, then looked away.

“Is he your husband? Or perhaps he was once your husband?”

“No. Not now, not ever. Why are you so interested, anyway? You’ve only just met me.”

“Julia. I never saw a woman look as terrified as you looked this afternoon at the riad. Something about this man has frightened you, and I do not like to see that. But I promise you, here you are safe. My house is your house, and while you are here you are a member of my family. On my honor: No one can threaten you here.”

Tears pricked my eyes. I leaned my forehead against the balustrade and it was cool and rough against the flush of my skin. “You said earlier you know someone at the university who’s an expert on the corsairs?”

He nodded. “A friend, yes, Khaled. He is a historian, he lectures there.”

“Have you known him a long time? Is he trustworthy?”

“He is a good man, a friend of my father since their childhood together in the mountains. He is like an uncle to me. If you ask me if he is worthy of trust, then yes, most certainly, yes.”

“Could we go and see him tomorrow, do you think?”

“He will be teaching in the morning, and after that he will visit the mosque, but maybe he can see us in the afternoon. If you like I will call him.”

“Thank you.” I glanced up, feeling some relief.

But he was not looking at me. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the night sky behind me. “Look!”

His hands were warm on my shoulders as he spun me around just in time for me to see a star tumble through the black air. “Oh!” In the northwest sector of the sky, right over the distant sea, another fell, then another. “Shooting stars …” I had not seen such a thing since I was a child, sitting on the little pebble beach near our home with my father at the age of seven, when the future held unimaginable promises and everything was full of newness and magic.

“Beautiful, no? My
jeddah
, my grandmother, used to tell us they were the Devil’s fireworks. But those are not stars that are falling but a meteor shower—the Perseids, at this time of year. It is great good fortune to see them.”

“Perhaps I won’t need to burn any chameleons for a while.”

I felt his laughter as a vibration that trembled through his hands and into my bones. His breath was warm on the back of my neck; for a terrible moment I thought I was going to turn and kiss him. Tremors of intent ran through me. In a split second I had imagined the contours of that strong, dark face between my hands, the sensation of his lips upon me, his lean hands roaming beneath my shirt. Sexual tension grasped us like a vise; then I stepped quickly aside and broke free of it.

“Come with me,” I said, a decision made. “I want to show you something.”

“T
HIS IS THE
thing that Michael wants so much that he followed me to Morocco to get it.” I took
The Needle-Woman’s Glorie
from my bag and handed it to Idriss. Then I sat down on the bed as he moved the chair closer to the candle and bent his head over the book, touching its calfskin cover reverently, opening it as carefully as if its pages were the petals of a fragile and long-dead pressed flower. For a long time, he scanned it silently, then he read out loud, haltingly and with many self-corrections: “‘… I feare my future, for on account of my foolish lye hee stille thinkes wee are of a riche familly who wille paie a grate ransom for oure return. But hee also threttens mee with being solde to a sultan, who I beleeve is lyk unto a kyng in ther countrie, for he saies I wille fetch a goode price at Sallee’s market wyth my redde haire and faire skyn. How I wishe I had took old Annie Badcock’s advyse and gone home with Rob to Kenegy …’