Read Online The Torch of Tangier by Aileen G. Baron - Free Book Online
Authors: Aileen G. Baron
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came. Romans ruled from there, Berbers, Phoenicians, Carthaginians ruled from there. And before that, Neolithic farmers lived there.”
***
Faridah had dumped the forks on top of a stack of paper napkins in the middle of the table, and now she emerged from the kitchen with a tray of silver finger bowls and towels, her eyes steamy with resentment, sweat glistening on her upper lip. The tassels on her scarf bobbed as she plopped the finger bowls and towels in front of the diners and flounced back to the kitchen.
Drury waited until Faridah had left the room. “Tariq came into town today.”
MacAlistair nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “Later,” he said.
Zaid, watching silently, dipped his fingers in the bowl and dried them on the towel.
“By the way,” MacAlistair said to Lily. “You’re invited to tea tomorrow. At my aunt’s—Emily Keane Shereefa of Ouzzane.”
Her Highness, Emily Keane Shereefa, the duenna of British-Tangier society, was a legend, famous for her charities and good works.
Lily was impressed.
“She’s your aunt?” Lily had seen her once, at a tea of the British Women’s Association in the El Minzah. A small, frail woman in rustling taffeta, she had moved slowly and carefully through the reception area, leaning on the arm of her grandson Phillipe.
“My great-aunt. My grandmother was her sister. My mother brought me to see her when I was a child. She was beautiful and had a special way with children. I couldn’t forget her. I fell in love with Morocco then—with everything Moroccan.” He looked over at Zaid and smiled. “I returned for a visit after my mother died, and I’ve been coming back ever since.”
Lily had heard that after Emily Keane’s arrival in Morocco in the nineteenth century as governess for the children of the British consul, she had married Moulay Abdulsalam es Shereef, descendant of the Prophet, nephew of the Sultan, leader of the religious brotherhood of Ouzzane.
“She must be very old,” Lily said. “Your aunt, I mean.”
“Almost ninety.”
Faridah cleared away the finger bowls and returned with a tureen of lentil soup. She plunked the tureen in front of MacAlistair and stomped back to the kitchen.
“Quite an honor to be invited to tea with Emily Shereefa,” Drury said, while MacAlistair ladled the soup.
“Will you be there?” Lily asked.
“Not tomorrow.” Drury took a spoonful of soup. He turned to MacAlistair. “Tariq said he saw German U-boats near Cape Spartel.”
MacAlistair put down his spoon and wiped his face with the napkin. “Inside the Straits? On the Mediterranean side?”
“He said they were…” Drury began. His voice trailed off as Faridah came into the dining room carrying a steaming dish almost as large as the table.
Drury waved his hand toward her in a gesture of approval and made a show of breathing in the aroma of the pastilla. “Magnificent,” he said to Faridah.
She paraded out. They waited until the clatter of pots came from the kitchen before anyone spoke.
“You can talk in front of her,” Zaid said.
“No,” MacAlistair said. “We can’t.” He dished the layers of filo dough, stuffed with pigeon and almonds, olives and sweet fruits, onto plates and passed them around.
“What happened today?” Drury asked.
“It’s nothing,” Zaid said. “She was looking at a book.”
“What book?”
“Just a popular British novel,” Zaid said. “One of those love stories women like.”
MacAlistair picked up his napkin and threw it down again. “ Rebecca . She found it at the bottom of a drawer in my wardrobe.”
Drury frowned. “She reads English?”
Zaid leaned forward. “She doesn’t read at all. She stole nothing.”
The argument had a hidden significance that Lily couldn’t fathom. She looked away and noticed movement behind the lattice that lined the shaded gallery of the upper floor. Drury followed her gaze as she watched the shadow pass from room to room.
“Get rid of Faridah,”
***
Faridah had dumped the forks on top of a stack of paper napkins in the middle of the table, and now she emerged from the kitchen with a tray of silver finger bowls and towels, her eyes steamy with resentment, sweat glistening on her upper lip. The tassels on her scarf bobbed as she plopped the finger bowls and towels in front of the diners and flounced back to the kitchen.
Drury waited until Faridah had left the room. “Tariq came into town today.”
MacAlistair nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “Later,” he said.
Zaid, watching silently, dipped his fingers in the bowl and dried them on the towel.
“By the way,” MacAlistair said to Lily. “You’re invited to tea tomorrow. At my aunt’s—Emily Keane Shereefa of Ouzzane.”
Her Highness, Emily Keane Shereefa, the duenna of British-Tangier society, was a legend, famous for her charities and good works.
Lily was impressed.
“She’s your aunt?” Lily had seen her once, at a tea of the British Women’s Association in the El Minzah. A small, frail woman in rustling taffeta, she had moved slowly and carefully through the reception area, leaning on the arm of her grandson Phillipe.
“My great-aunt. My grandmother was her sister. My mother brought me to see her when I was a child. She was beautiful and had a special way with children. I couldn’t forget her. I fell in love with Morocco then—with everything Moroccan.” He looked over at Zaid and smiled. “I returned for a visit after my mother died, and I’ve been coming back ever since.”
Lily had heard that after Emily Keane’s arrival in Morocco in the nineteenth century as governess for the children of the British consul, she had married Moulay Abdulsalam es Shereef, descendant of the Prophet, nephew of the Sultan, leader of the religious brotherhood of Ouzzane.
“She must be very old,” Lily said. “Your aunt, I mean.”
“Almost ninety.”
Faridah cleared away the finger bowls and returned with a tureen of lentil soup. She plunked the tureen in front of MacAlistair and stomped back to the kitchen.
“Quite an honor to be invited to tea with Emily Shereefa,” Drury said, while MacAlistair ladled the soup.
“Will you be there?” Lily asked.
“Not tomorrow.” Drury took a spoonful of soup. He turned to MacAlistair. “Tariq said he saw German U-boats near Cape Spartel.”
MacAlistair put down his spoon and wiped his face with the napkin. “Inside the Straits? On the Mediterranean side?”
“He said they were…” Drury began. His voice trailed off as Faridah came into the dining room carrying a steaming dish almost as large as the table.
Drury waved his hand toward her in a gesture of approval and made a show of breathing in the aroma of the pastilla. “Magnificent,” he said to Faridah.
She paraded out. They waited until the clatter of pots came from the kitchen before anyone spoke.
“You can talk in front of her,” Zaid said.
“No,” MacAlistair said. “We can’t.” He dished the layers of filo dough, stuffed with pigeon and almonds, olives and sweet fruits, onto plates and passed them around.
“What happened today?” Drury asked.
“It’s nothing,” Zaid said. “She was looking at a book.”
“What book?”
“Just a popular British novel,” Zaid said. “One of those love stories women like.”
MacAlistair picked up his napkin and threw it down again. “ Rebecca . She found it at the bottom of a drawer in my wardrobe.”
Drury frowned. “She reads English?”
Zaid leaned forward. “She doesn’t read at all. She stole nothing.”
The argument had a hidden significance that Lily couldn’t fathom. She looked away and noticed movement behind the lattice that lined the shaded gallery of the upper floor. Drury followed her gaze as she watched the shadow pass from room to room.
“Get rid of Faridah,”
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