Thirteen in the Medina Read online

  We were ushered straight through the shop into a large, darkened room containing several rows of hardbacked chairs, many already occupied by other groups of tourists. It seemed that we were the last to arrive, which possibly explained Abdul’s eventual speedy exit from the previous shop – as long as it appeared that Diane was a prospective customer he would have stayed by the premises; once it became apparent she was only browsing and teasing the shop assistants, he had other commercial fish to fry.

  Two men escorted us over to one side of the room where several empty seats awaited us. As we had entered the area I had noted a low background murmur, as those already seated spoke amongst themselves and I sensed, as momentarily the buzz ceased, that they were watching us take our seats, staring as we had kept them waiting. However, as I attempted to take the seat next to Keith, one of the men placed a hand on my arm saying, ‘Madam’ and drew me to one side. His associate had likewise stopped Carole and Diane and as we stood motionless, staring at each other wondering what offence we could possibly have caused, so that we were not allowed to sit with our men folk, the man then gestured to me to follow him, and he led the three of us out through a side door.

  The room into which he led us was small, but brightly lit, and after the gloom of the previous room it took several seconds for my eyes to adjust. The man handed us over to a rather good looking, almost pretty youth who looked us up and down critically, before walking around behind us. I attempted to twist to see what he was doing behind my back, but he gently turned me around to face in the original direction.

  In one corner of the room was a long Cheval mirror and in its reflection, I could see he was studying our back views, walking up and down, glancing towards us and then away again, as if contemplating. Then he left us alone. I turned to Diane and Carole but could think of nothing to say. Diane looked bored. Carole stood with her hands on her hips looking a little militant.

  However, it seemed almost in an instant that the young man was back, with what on first glance, looked like shapeless lumps of leather draped over his arm. He handed a dark brown, full length leather coat to Carole, a tiny fitted dark red jacket to Diane, and to me, a black, three quarter length jacket, cut in a boxy style.

  As I stared at him, he urged me to try it on. I did so, and stood there, arms hanging limply at my sides. It was too big and I felt swamped. The modish little jacket, on the other hand, fitted Diane like a glove and she moved over to the mirror to admire herself, preening and turning this way and that. I looked from Diane to the man, who gazed intently at me before turning to Carole, who was struggling to do up the buttons on her coat.

  ‘No!’

  We all looked at the man in surprise; it was possibly the first time he had spoken. ‘No, no, no,’ he repeated for emphasis. He gestured that Carole and I should take off the garments and swap them over. I started to comply.

  ‘No, it’s alright,’ assured Carole. ‘I am sure it will fit, if I take my cardi off, and just breathe in a little bit…’ she said, suiting actions to the words and trying to suck in her tummy.

  ‘No,’ repeated the man, possibly the only English word he knew and he moved to take the coat from her. Carole backed up a couple of steps away from him and clutched at the coat, before reconsidering and finally, reluctantly, handing it over to me. In its place, she snatched the black jacket from my fingers and moodily shrugged into it.

  A little disconcerted, I slipped my arms into the sleeves of the full length brown coat. The leather was soft and supple, more so than the boxy jacket had been, and I effortlessly did up the buttons and tied the sash around the waist, swaying a little to see the fit and flare style of the coat swish around me.

  ‘Yes!’ uttered the man, and clapped his hands, and I thought – oh! two English words. Then he clapped his hands again and ushered us into another anteroom where two ladies, presumably representatives of the other tour groups, stood whispering to each other, both clothed in stylish leather biker jackets.

  A door in the far wall opened, and yet another man appeared, who urged them forwards, and I realised that while the three of us were being dressed in the outerwear, a fashion show had already commenced in the large, darkened arena. Diane, Carole and I appeared to be the final models. Thinking that it might have been nice to have been asked if I wanted to participate, there was no time to back out, I stood and waited for my turn.

  The far door opened once more and an arm emerged, beckoning us forward. I glimpsed spotlights darting about. Diane eagerly skipped forwards, hands in pockets; at the doorway she paused for effect, before sashaying out into the spotlight.

  Carole hesitated only a second, before she stomped after the other blonde woman. She too paused at the doorway, but only to turn around and dart a black look of pure venom in my direction. Why should she be so upset over not being able to wear a coat, which did not fit? I wondered, and one that she had not known she was going to be asked to try on anyway?

  Hesitantly I followed, only I did not stop in the doorway, as I did not want to lose my nerve; I was counting on some sort of automatic momentum to carry me forward into the auditorium. Spotlights were flashing hither and thither and I could hear a low murmur of background noise, as no doubt the remainder of the various coach parties discussed the floor show.

  I had placed my hands in the pockets, in an effort to try and act nonchalantly, swinging the flared coat a little as I walked. Wrong move. In my nervousness I stumbled, and in trying to put my arms out to stop myself from falling, I dislodged a crumpled up piece of paper, that had been wedged into the right-hand pocket.

  It flew out and up into the air, being caught by one of the spotlights, which tracked its progress down to the ground, and then it rolled towards the front row of seats. A second light then picked up the movement of Graham and Carole, as both darted forward to retrieve the scrap. There was momentary confusion, highlighted by the flashing strobe lighting, as first one hand, then another, made a grab at the paper, but only succeeded in the semi-darkness, to bat it further under the seats. It looked almost for an instant, as if Carole kicked Graham, and trod on his hand, in an attempt to thwart his endeavours to reach the fragment.

  Whilst everyone attention was diverted, I quickly sped down the length of the runway, and straight out through the door at the far end of the room. Once back in the safety of the anteroom, I quickly divested myself of the coat and passed it over to the waiting young man, who had originally given it to me.

  For a moment, I thought that perhaps I had dislodged the price tag, which for the purposes of the show had been hidden in the pocket, but as I disrobed, I noted a slip of card dangling down from the tiny strap, just below the collar. My eyes bulged, almost as much as I felt sure Graham’s had done when Carole stood on his hand, when I saw how much the coat cost.

  Despite the best attempts of the numerous salesmen, all young and handsome, all smiling, we resisted the lure of their merchandise. Even Diane decided not to buy the short stylish jacket that she had previously seemed to admire, after she heard Phil mutter “mutton dressed as lamb,” as she passed him by on her way back to the anteroom. I had quickly joined Keith and the others back in the main room, once I had handed back the coat.

  It seemed we were all keen to leave. No-one had any desire to purchase anything, the prices being astronomical, and even the bait of using tourists to exhibit the wares, had not ensured that we bought what we had modelled. As we trudged empty handed out of the shop, the smiles fell instantly from the faces of the sales assistants; even Abdul looked crestfallen.

  Karen was keen to get to a shop or hotel with some sort of first aid kit, or ice, with which to treat Graham’s hand. He kept inspecting it, flexing his fingers to ensure that he could. I felt a pang of guilt that I had inadvertently caused his injury by knocking the wad of packing paper out of the pocket.

  Nancy, however after rummaging in the satchel-type bag that she kept close to her side during our walk, produced what she described as a homemade salve that she though
t might just do the trick and help the bruise to come out, whilst easing the pain. Karen looked a little dubious, but Graham was grateful for any help; although it had one drawback. It had a pong somewhat reminiscent of the tanneries we had visited earlier. At least Hugh declared we would not lose Graham in the crowd – strangers would not want to stand too close to him, and if the aroma suddenly diminished, we would know that somewhere he had taken a wrong turning!

  Lunch was a rather subdued affair. After such a busy(!) morning I was surprised so little time had actually elapsed. Keith had muttered that he was feeling peckish, but I ignored him, as that seemed to be a continual state of affairs, and not an accurate indication of the time of day. Sometimes, I wondered what on earth he did, that required him to be continually eating; he did not appear to be putting on weight. The rest of us ate almost on auto pilot.

  By some sort of mutual consent, when we had separated into our two groups, Graham and Karen were seated on one table, with Gordon and Carole on the other; more I think to keep Karen apart from the other woman, than Graham. Graham managed to eat with one hand. He declared the salve was just the thing and it only throbbed a little, but the makeshift bandage around it was bulky, and made holding cutlery difficult.

  There was a slight moment of tension when Phil had commented that it was a shame that the padding was not thicker, so as to be a more effective barrier containing the stink of the ointment, at which time Ann had tried to shut him up by kicking him under the table, the point of which he seemed completely oblivious to, and thus set them off on another of their spats.

  On the other table, Carole seemed slightly more subdued than usual. I heard her mutter once that it had been ‘an accident’ but it had not looked like such at the time. Out the corner of my eye, I did see her open her mouth to start to comment, when Diane helped herself first to the main meal from the tagine, as the other woman had been busy berating her husband for slopping water in their glasses when pouring, and thus I think it was the only time she had not had the opportunity to serve herself first the largest portion of meat.

  After lunch we went to Dar el-Batha, a museum of local crafts in a converted nineteenth century summer palace. The rooms contained various displays, including carved wood and jewellery. The prize exhibits appeared to be ceramics but I could not conjure up any enthusiasm. We mooched around quietly, rendered relatively inactive after our midday meal and the heat.

  Next, Abdul took us to a metal workshop and we silently admired as an artisan demonstrated his craft decorating a silver tray. Whilst we were given ample opportunity to browse the items on offer, from practical cooking pots, through to decorative goblets, no-one was tempted to purchase anything, and so it was on to the next warehouse, and a demonstration of different types of rugs and carpets.

  While the metalsmith had been extremely skilled and had produced a stunning (and expensive) tray, the carpets were beautiful. There were traditional Barber styles, in muted creams and browns, displayed alongside more striking, modern designs. We were invited to touch the samples, to feel the soft texture, and also to admire the stitching and the different knot patterns. However, after I leaned forward from my seat on the long wooden bench laid around the circumference of the demonstration area, to admire a particular rug, I turned back to answer a question that Ann had asked about the item, when I noticed Bob holding my rucksack.

  ‘It just fell off the bench,’ he explained, looking a little embarrassed. He handed it across to me and I tentatively smiled my thanks, whilst at the same time noting that the bag was still securely fastened.

  Next, we were shown men working the looms, creating the fabric, before being ushered into a large storeroom, where we were shown how to correctly don a Tuareg turban, a Moroccan style headscarf. After the previous stresses of the day, we were all now more relaxed and laughed at our various attempts to wrap the material around our heads in order for it to stay in place, as appropriate protection, if ever we were unfortunate to be caught in a sandstorm.

  I was tempted to buy a throw to use as a bedspread, and after much indecision, and some uncalled for smirks, as I had asked Keith’s opinion – well you do when you are shopping don’t you, consult a friend or companion – and Keith had been a little embarrassed at being consulted over an item for my bedroom, a room he has been in once or twice, but not for the reasons behind all the raised eyebrows.

  Once back at the hotel, I swiftly got my swimming gear together and headed towards the pool for a relaxing swim, after a rather stressful day in the medina. For some reason I seemed to be the only swimmer that afternoon. The poolside was also deserted. This did not bother me in the slightest; in fact, not being in any way a strong swimmer, it was a pleasant change doing widths across the shallow end and not having to time my actions to fit in between the stronger swimmers doings lengths. There was no-one to witness if my stroke got a little sloppy, due to tiredness and the aching of muscles working in unaccustomed ways. I would swim a couple of widths, then rest at the side, hold onto the rail and lift my feet up and lay back a little and contemplate the blue, cloudless sky.

  Gradually, I became aware of a gentle splash, as someone entered the water. Casually, I looked around. Two dark skinned Moroccan youths had eased into the water up the deep end. I decided it was time to swim another couple of widths. As I crossed the pool I noticed that there were now also groups of local youths sat around a couple of the poolside tables. Strangely enough, they were just sitting there, no conversation, nor drinking, but silently sitting in chairs that were turned towards the pool.

  I paused when I reached the far side of the water, and turning around, noticed there were now about ten youths in the pool up the deep end. None of them were swimming though; they were just treading water at the edge, and like the young men – all these youths were male – around the pool, they were all silently watching me, the lone, white woman, swimming widths.

  Some people like being the centre of attention, but I found this situation to be slightly disconcerting. My watchers were not moving; those in the pool were still treading water, none had encroached in any way into the shallower waters; they were just silent spectators but I began to feel a bit threatened, and decided it was time I made a slow and dignified retreat.

  I glided back into the water, and my heart pounding, I concentrated on keeping my stroke as even as possible, until I reached the other side where I made straight for the steps and without pausing, I eased myself up and out of the pool, and headed for the lounger where I had left my belongings, acutely aware of all the eyes still watching my every move.

  I had forgotten my towel, but quickly slipped my sundress on over my head to cover my body, then slipping my feet into my sandals, I stooped and retrieved by bag, and with swift steps, but my head held high, I made my way back into the hotel, aware that I had just experienced a rather strange and slightly unnerving incident.

  After the stresses of the day, I made a point of being prompt for Happy Hour. I was not alone; in a corner of the bar I spied Graham nursing a shot of something medicinal.

  In the dining room – we were back in the large main restaurant, no luxury of the Oasis tonight – it was a rather sombre group who took their seats and ate with muted, stilted conversation as Strauss played his merry dance tunes.

  Ann tried valiantly to raise our spirits when the music transformed briefly into songs from various musicals, particularly The Desert Song, which seemed rather apt, but other than the first words of Blue Heaven no-one could remember any more; all we could manage was a rather untuneful humming accompaniment whilst gently swaying in time. She then proceeded to discuss with Nancy the qualities of Gordon McCrae and wouldn’t it have been nice to have met a Rif similar to his portrayal of El Khobar today until Phil, perhaps feeling inferior in comparison, exclaimed, ‘For goodness sake, Ann! Grow up. Stop drooling like an adolescent!’ At which point he raised his beer glass, somehow managing to miss his mouth and splashed alcohol down the front of his shirt causing him to stomp back to
his room in order to change into a clean, dry one.

  Less than a week into our holiday, personalities were beginning to clash and nerves were becoming frayed; the result of a small group of strangers thrown together and living in close proximity.

  But later, thinking over events – just why had Carole stamped on Graham’s hand? And why were two grown people scrabbling over a piece of paper? In a momentary flash of light I had noticed what appeared to be numbers written in a small, neat hand; and if it was not the price tag – just what exactly had been written on that scrap of paper?

  I dreamt that night that Keith and I had indeed slipped across to the nightclub but on our way, we became trapped in a giant maze comprised of huge hedges, that towered above us. We had to swim our way through twisting, turning passages, that created little choppy waves causing us to fight to catch our breath as we swam, hoping at each corner that it was the final one, whilst trying to avoid huge seagulls that dive bombed us, as they attempted to catch chunks of bread that bobbed about on the surface of the water.

  Suddenly a rope appeared beside us, like the rail around a swimming pool, and we pulled ourselves along until finally we made our way to the centre, only to discover not the nightclub, but a tiny cottage with bars at the windows, inside which lived a shrivelled old crone, with a bony hooked nose, straggly blonde hair and a long glittering necklace, that dangled down between her scrawny breasts.

  Chapter Ten – Sunday - Sahara!

  I awoke covered in sweat and not solely due to the heat of the early morning sun streaming in through the windows. With a sigh, I leaned over to switch off my alarm clock, resolving not to bring Keith on holiday again, if he was going to give me nightmares.