Thirteen in the Medina Read online

  My disgruntled mood progressed further when I was packing my rucksack in preparation for our onward journey. I was checking it contained my guidebook when a folded slip of paper that had been tucked between the pages floated out. Thinking that the previous owner of the second-hand book had made a few holiday notes curiously I opened it out. Then dropped it quickly as if it was made of red hot coals.

  It was a billet-doux inviting to me to meet him in the bar for a friendly drink and signed “Bobby.” Bobby! He must have sneaked it into my bag at the carpet warehouse when my back was turned.

  What was wrong with these people? First Diane had her claws into Keith and now Bob – who I had tried to discourage by hinting that the body lotion had been a gift from a male friend – was making passes at me! Did he think this was an 18-30 holiday?

  I was on holiday with Keith (sort of) – did Bob think we were into partner swapping? Was this trip turning into one of those sitcom farces on TV? Bob sends love notes to Carrie; Carrie fancies Keith; Keith is making assignations with Diane; all it needs is for Larry to develop the hots for Bob.

  I dumped the paper in the bin in disgust then checked out of my room.

  There was a large crowd of people in the foyer. I like to think I am a normal human being and that means I am as nosy as the next person, so I casually strolled over to see what the excitement was all about.

  Pinned to a large notice board was a selection of snapshots that a local photographer had taken the day before of various tour groups traipsing through the medina, supposedly catching people unawares and thus in natural situations. We were cordially invited to peruse the collection and, if we liked, we may purchase as many as we desired. However, there was only one print of each picture available, which was causing some animated conversation between various couples and groups who each wanted a copy, with one person promising another that they would later send them a reprint.

  I gazed at the array and soon spotted the section of the display which featured our little party. Karen and Graham joined me and decided to purchase a couple of candid shots that showed them intently considering a terracotta tagine as a souvenir. Nancy appeared at my side, and we looked over the rest of the exhibits, from Bob looking bored while waiting for Diane to leave the leather shoe shop, to Hugh puffing away on his cigarette in a quiet corner, and Phil and Ann looking like they were engaged in one of their squabbles. The cameraman had even included a picture of Carole, with Gordon trailing behind her looking rebelliously at the back of her head.

  As we giggled over it a gnarled hand appeared and promptly snatched the offending photo off the board. I turned in time to see Gordon quickly paying for his purchase at reception, before ripping it into tiny pieces, which he stashed in his pocket.

  ‘Ah, destroying the evidence,’ commented Nancy. She turned to me and smiled. ‘And what about you my dear, have you selected which photos you would like to buy?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m very much afraid that there do not appear to be any of me,’ I replied. ‘Or perhaps that’s just as well; I’m not always particularly photogenic.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she exclaimed. ‘Perhaps your friend has already bought one or two?’ she added encouragingly. I doubted that. There were a couple featuring Keith on the board including him bursting from the tannery gasping for air and one where he appeared to be smiling at Diane as if they were enjoying a private joke.

  Then I looked again and noticed that there were a handful of photos featuring that lady’s blonde head as she strode through the medina in her brightly coloured summer dress (the rest of us ladies in our party wearing more serviceable trousers, either full length or to just below the knee); Diane posed in a shop doorway, Diane looking at pottery, Diane trying on the pair of leather slippers, and in many of the photos Keith was not too far away. Perhaps the photographer thought her husband wealthy enough to purchase numerous pictures.

  ‘I don’t think they have many peroxide blondes in Morocco,’ mused Nancy. ‘Must be why she seems to have caught the cameraman’s eye.’

  I was trying to decide if she was being caustic when Keith sauntered up, noticed the pictures, said, ‘Oh!’ as he if he had just realised he had been caught in a compromising position with another man’s wife and quickly walked away again. No, I decided, my “friend” had not already bought a photograph of me.

  I settled myself in my seat and prepared to watch the countryside whiz past the window as we began our journey into the Atlas Mountains – named after the Titan in Greek mythology who, after being defeated by Zeus, was condemned to hold up the sky upon his shoulders - on our way to Erfoud and the Sahara Desert.

  Despite the brochure offering the chance of a camel ride to watch the sunrise over the sand dunes, before we had alighted from the coach yesterday afternoon Abdul had suggested that actually an evening visit could be more easily accommodated into our schedule. It had meant leaving this morning a little earlier than originally planned, but not as early as we would need to tomorrow in order to experience the sunrise, and he continued, a sunset could be just as dramatic.

  The only dissenting voice had been Carole’s and for someone whom I knew to be an early riser, as she normally appears one of the first for breakfast, this was somewhat a surprise. She gave no reason but declared she would rather have an extra hour or so here and arrive later at our destination. However, a quick head count of who was interested in the camel ride indicating almost half the group, it was decided that it was fairer to leave Fes a little earlier to give those wishing to experience the optional excursion into the desert time to do so and then return at a reasonable time for dinner.

  Thus, a rather disgruntled Carole had stomped onto the bus this morning and took her seat directly behind the hapless guide where she icily stared at the back of his head for the best part of the morning.

  As the wide road meandered up into the mountains we occasionally passed bus stops complete with shelters, benches and waiting travellers seemingly in the middle of nowhere. With all the twists and turns in the road I was glad I had thought to take my travel sickness pills in consideration of a long day spent mostly sightseeing from the coach; plus, my stomach may have been a little queasy from the recent unusually high consumption of alcohol.

  It was not long before our first stop of the day at Ifrane, in the middle Atlas Mountains, a skiing area with an alpine feel to it, which boasts the lowest temperatures in Morocco. It was originally built as a French hill station before being developed as a garden city between the two world wars, with tree lined streets and European style architecture.

  We stopped along one wide tree lined street bordering a green park in order for Abdul to show us its lion statue. He also pointed out a large stork nest, complete with stork in situ, on the roof of a substantial modern detached house that would not have looked out of place nearer home in Sandbanks.

  As we left the suburb we drove passed the Royal Palace - how many have we seen now?

  Mid-morning, we drew into a tarmacked open space beside a fairly new looking building. So new, in fact, that it still looked in the process of being built. I wondered where we were. There were no other buildings, no shops or houses in view, not even a garage, just this two storey “motorway” coffee shop.

  I nudged Keith who seemed to be dozing and I wondered again about his nocturnal habits.

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’ I asked him. ‘Little boy’s room?’

  In reply he yawned and stretched, and yawned again, grabbed his backpack and slid lithely out from his seat.

  I followed him up the two, rather large front steps of the café, across the patio and into the main room. It was large and airy, with a modern spiral metal staircase just off centre leading up to the restrooms. A young lad, who was busy energetically mopping the pink marble floor, paused briefly to stare at us as we trooped through to the counter. I ordered my usual mint tea while Keith went for a caffeine boost supplied by black coffee. We collected our drinks and sauntered back out to the front patio area and selecte
d a round table shaded by a striped verandah in shades of pink.

  I casually looked around as I waited for my drink to cool and realised all the other patrons in their head to foot covering Djellabas and brightly coloured voluminous kaftans were locals. Up until now, other than on Friday when we had visited the shrine in the hill town of Moulay Idriss, we had been tourists in large multi-cultural cities; now we had left all that behind and our motley crew of sightseers appeared to be the only non-indigenous people in the area.

  I decided I might as well beat the queue and use the facilities, however it soon became apparent that I was not the only person waiting for their drink to reach an ambient temperature, as the queue reached down to the topmost steps, and as I mounted the staircase the whole structure rocked a little in an alarming fashion.

  There were two tiny cubicles at the top of the stairs, a ladies and a gents and they both shared one roll of soft pink toilet paper. As each person entered their respective loo they tore off a sheet or two from the roll leaving that article outside for the next person. Inside the space was cramped and the floor sloped in a manner more reminiscent of being in a mediaeval building than a new build.

  I kept a careful hold on the metal rail, as I negotiated my way back down the wonky stairs, that tipped first one way and then back the other with each footfall, and trod cautiously across the newly washed floor. Back outside, I checked with Keith that his travel insurance was up to date before he ventured up to the toilets.

  After finishing our drinks we wandered around outside to stretch our legs; there was nothing to see, however. The back of the café was still in the process of being built, or knocked down, it was hard to tell which from the mound of debris and rubble and general building material.

  Back on the bus, we drove through longs stretches of mountains interspersed with towns and villages. Once or twice someone tried to hail our bus as we drove past, one man even ran along beside us for a few strides in an attempt to catch a ride. Did our bus look the same as the vehicle used by the local service? I pondered.

  Gradually, as we drove along, the terrain changed, becoming more arid. We passed huge swathes of reddish brown earth dotted with large boulders and the occasional scrubby plants. Merged into this landscape, at sporadic intervals, were the tents of the nomads, long, low lying structures of usually striped material of similar brown hues.

  I remembered watching a television programme featuring these Berber people and their hard existence, erecting their tents on a daily basis, up at first light, moving along with their meagre possessions, trying to find shrubs for their goats to eat in the barren ground, huddling together at nights when the temperature dipped below freezing.

  I gazed out through the windows of the air-conditioned coach from my padded, comfortable seat. These huge open spaces seemed such a contrast to the narrow, twisting pathways of the cramped medinas.

  We stopped for lunch at a casbar that seemed to rise up out of the ground as it had been constructed from brown mud bricks. Inside it was huge and spacious, light and airy and had space to potentially cater for several coach parties. We were seated at round tables in three groups; somehow, I got separated from Keith and ended up with Karen, Graham and Hugh and Nancy, whilst my erstwhile companion sat with Bob and Larry and, of course, Diane, leaving Phil and Ann to lunch with Carole and Gordon.

  We were on the fruit course, a sumptuous platter of bananas and passion fruit, grapes and the ubiquitous melon when Karen asked her husband what he was thinking about, as he gazed across the room.

  ‘Oh, the usual,’ he replied, airily. ‘The female species is deadlier than the male.’ He nodded to where Diane was talking animatedly to Keith, her hand on his arm to ensure his attention.

  ‘Umm, she’s definitely got him trapped,’ agreed Hugh, selecting a banana and proceeding to deftly split it open.

  ‘Are you worried?’ Nancy asked me, a frown marring her brow.

  I considered this. ‘Perhaps,’ I said, carefully. ‘Or rather, concerned. I’m not sure what Diane is after, well, other than the obvious.’ We all laughed. ‘I mean, there she is being very friendly to Keith, and Larry does not seem to mind.’

  ‘Sometimes I think he does,’ interjected Graham.

  ‘That’s just it – it’s inconsistent,’ I exclaimed, picking absently at some grapes. ‘It’s as though sometimes he is encouraging his wife’s flirtations and then at other times it makes him annoyed. I hope they are not trying to take advantage of Keith’s good nature.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ queried Karen, leaning towards me, an expression of concern etched across her features.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It might sound a bit silly but the thought had crossed my mind that they were trying to befriend Keith for a reason.’ I looked across to their table where Larry seemed to be recounting some sort of amusing anecdote. ‘Keith often seems to be changing money at reception, or looking for a cash machine, and I just wondered if perhaps, well,’ I hesitated loath to give voice to my suspicions lest it make them come true, ‘that they are not so well off as they make out, and that Diane’s flirting is a means for them to get someone easy going like Keith to buy them drinks.’ My companions nodded.

  ‘Or, I had another thought,’ I added, remembering how my bag had been tampered with by the side of the pool. ‘Bridget Jones was arrested for being an unwitting drug mule, carrying cargo for someone else. Keith appears to be the perfect mug for something like that. Or maybe they are trying to be nice to him but Diane has her own agenda and then Larry gets a bit angry.’ The others considered this but then Karen appeared to abruptly change the subject.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she began tentatively, ‘but wasn’t there something about a thirteenth sign of the zodiac?’ She paused to see if anyone agreed with her. ‘Perhaps you don’t read your horoscopes, but I seemed to remember an extra sign using the spider as its symbol.’ Both Hugh and Nancy were nodding knowledgably.

  ‘That’s right – or sort of,’ agreed Nancy, ‘the sign of Arachne, the spider goddess, spinning her web, situated between Taurus and Gemini, and people governed by this sign are rumoured to be psychic, have special powers, such as ESP and mind reading.’

  ‘That’s what reminded me,” exclaimed Karen. ‘When Graham,’ she patted his hand, ‘referred to Diane as a deadly spider.’

  ‘Except, that it is widely accepted that the book written to promote this was produced as a sort of joke,’ Nancy replied, ‘a satire on people who religiously read their horoscopes and live their lives accordingly, just as the Romans would interpret omens before making important decisions.’

  I decided to keep quiet about the fact that I delay loading my washing machine if my horoscope for the day mentions the possibility of any leaks, just to be on the safe side, so as not to tempt fate.

  ‘If you think about the personal attributes designated to people supposedly born under this sign it is just a touch incredible – water divination, clairvoyancy.’ Nancy smiled at Karen as the other woman looked a little crestfallen. ‘However, another sign has been suggested as an addition to the accepted horoscope, that of Ophiuchus, the serpent bearer, taking its place at the end of November, beginning of December.’

  ‘But I think people prefer to keep their horoscopes as twelve signs,’ suggested Graham with a smile. ‘Thirteen signs?’ He shrugged.

  ‘But then some people believe time travel is possible,’ added Hugh, patting his pocket in a search for his postprandial cigarette, ‘that time is fluid like a gymnast’s ribbon - you can fold it, and where the material touches back on itself, time meets.’

  I nodded remembering my meeting earlier in the summer with a woman called Ellen.

  ‘So, if people believe we can travel back to the past why should we not be able to see into the future?’ And on this question, Hugh stood up as Abdul appeared, giving us our five-minute warning for the bus and thus starting a frantic retrieving of bags and last-minute trips to the loo.

  I mulled over the thought of a predator
y Diane trapping Keith and wondered if I could, or indeed should, do anything to help him.

  I mooched slowly back to the bus feeling replete and luxuriating in the warm African air. Despite sticking to my resolve to drink only water during the day and keeping alcohol consumption until the evening, with the sway of the coach as we drove up and around the twisting, turning mountain roads, reminiscent of Hugh’s description of time folding back on itself, I soon found my eyelids drooping.

  My thoughts drifted back to the recent conversation, muddled in with our excursions, and I dreamt I was lost in the medina with Keith; which medina I do not know, it could have been Fez or Marrakesh or Tetouan, all I know is that we had become detached from the rest of the group, and were endlessly turning down side streets and blind alleys, and not managing to locate the rest of our group.

  Keith had grabbed hold of my hand and was dragging me along with him, until we turned down one narrow dark alley, where blocking the end, hung a huge spider’s web, with at its centre, a giant spider reminiscent of a Harryhausen creation, with ginormous jowls dripping saliva and an odd blonde wig perched atop its grotesque head.

  ‘Arachne!’ exclaimed my companion. ‘We need to get out of here!’

  Tell me something I don’t know, I thought, as he grasped the end of the web, and then pivoted and we ran back the way we had come, unravelling the web as he fled, dragging me along with him. I grabbed hold of the thread as we turned down another side alley, only to pull up short, as a monstrous bull, with a shaggy blonde top knot flopping over its eyes, let out an almighty roar. Again, we retraced our steps, in danger of getting tangled up in the unravelling thread from the web.

  And then, as if by magic, as we turned the corner, our clothing metamorphosed into more traditional ancient robes, and while I tried to avoid tripping in an ankle length, white loose-fitting dress, Keith sported a skimpy loin cloth, such as the Cretan bull leapers wore.