Bea felt herself swooning slightly as they passed on foot under the famous Blue Gate into the ancient medina. Her remaining senses, already heightened by her loss of sight, were suddenly on overdrive, her skin prickling at the coolness of the shadows, her ears ringing with the sounds of bustling midday activity echoing off the thick, sandstone walls, her mouth watering from the scents of oranges and coffee, cinnamon and ginger, cloves and nutmeg. She slid her sneakers over the bumpy, uneven stones under her feet, grateful that she’d brought the ugly shoes along. They would have to walk, Amina had warned them. A lot. No cars were allowed inside the medina. Her father would park and then follow with a porter, who would bring their luggage by cart.
Bea could almost smell the mystery of this city in the air. She couldn’t wait to start exploring. The hammams, the Sufis, the fakirs, the djinn, the magic; she had to experience it all. Even before Charlie had agreed to the trip, Bea had checked out every audiobook related to Morocco that she could find in the local library. Guidebooks, history, memoirs, novels—she was practically a walking encyclopedia by the time they boarded the plane. The Paul Bowles quote was her favorite. Something about Morocco being a place where travelers expect mystery, and find it. The thought made Bea shiver with excitement.
But then there was Charlie. “No trouble, no mischief, no drama,” her granddaughter had made her promise before saying yes to the whole thing. “And none of your psychic stuff, either.” Sometimes that girl was just no fun at all. Though she tolerated Bea’s involvement in the “lunatic fringe,” as she liked to put it, she claimed not to believe in Bea’s ability to communicate with those who have passed. If only the girl would open her mind a little, Bea felt certain Charlie would discover that she possessed some of the very same skills herself.
And drama? What about all that drama Charlie stirred up on their trip to Haiti? Getting all mixed up in other people’s problems when she should have been focusing on her own. Of course, it had ended up just fine, with Charlie reunited with her mother, and new friends down there who were now like family. And also, Robert . . . But still. Bea sometimes wished her granddaughter would lighten up. She had hoped this trip would do the trick, seeing as Charlie was such a wanderer. She was like a shark: perpetually in motion just to stay alive. Bea knew how hard it was for her granddaughter, living the quiet life in sleepy Carmel-by-the-Sea, holding down the fort at the salon. She felt guilty being the millstone around Charlie’s neck. Charlie did seem a little more content now that she had April, her mother, back in her life, even if the connection between Carmel and Haiti was limited to phone and e-mail. But still, that girl had a restlessness that she wore like an itchy sweater.
So why did she seem so dispirited now? Normally she’d be chatting away, providing Bea with a blow-by-blow description of everything going on around them. And there was a lot going on around them, as Bea could tell from the crush of warm bodies, the parade of muffled footsteps, the shouts of children playing in the streets, and the braying of donkeys, the sound of their hooves clattering over the stones a signal to flatten oneself against the closest wall to avoid getting trampled. Bea held tight to Charlie, squeezing between her and Amina like a boxcar between the engine and caboose when the narrowing roads forced them into single file. This, Bea thought, was not going to be easy.
“So, talk to me,” Bea shouted above the din into her granddaughter’s ear. “Be my eyes, Charlie.”
“I am being your eyes,” Charlie shouted back. “Trying to keep us both from falling flat on our faces.” The ground had begun to slope upward. Bea struggled to keep her balance.
“Well,” Amina offered, “mostly, it’s just everyone going about their business. There are also tourists, and many tour groups. As usual.”
Indeed, Bea had already heard a few British accents, along with some German and Spanish mixing into the Arabic, all tongue and throat, echoing off the walls.
“The shops are selling handbags, tons of them, and now we’re passing a tiny one with jewelry, and next to it, a guy with some pashminas. Basic tourist stuff. And shoes, our traditional babouches, in every color of the rainbow.”
“Shoes and scarves! I’m gonna love this place.”
“I know a place that sells the most beautiful embroidered shoes. I will buy you some before you leave,” Amina promised. They walked a few steps further. “And now there’s a woman with a pile of towels on her head coming our way.”
“Probably a hairdresser!” Bea laughed. “Ack!” She stopped dead in her tracks. “What’s that?” Something soft had brushed against her leg.
“It is just a cat,” Amina explained. “There are strays everywhere in the medina—thousands of them. People try to take care of them the best they can. There are bowls of water left for them outside shops and riads. The ones that look fat and happy, they’re getting scraps of fish and meat from the markets, in exchange for keeping the pests away. The others, they’re not so lucky.”
“Poor things.”
They continued to walk. “The doors of the houses are something I really wish you could see.” Amina steered Bea to the side of the road and guided her hand to a smooth surface studded with metal.
“Smells like cedar, am I right?”
“You are. The doors are huge, wide and tall. And feel this.” She placed Bea’s fingers against a cold metal shape hanging from a hinge.
“It feels like a hand.”
“Khamsa, the Hand of Fatima. It’s a door knocker. They are everywhere, to ward off evil. Some houses even have two of them, one higher, one lower, which make different sounds.”
“Why’s that?”
“It is from the times when it wasn’t appropriate for a woman to open a door to a man. Visitors would choose which knocker to use according to their gender, so that the women in the house knew when it was okay to answer.”
“Seriously? That’s wild!”
“Now we’re passing a communal bakery. The ovens are where all the nearby families bring their dough to bake.”
Bea’s nose had already detected the smell of fresh bread. “What else?” she asked.
“Well,” Amina answered, “traditionally, every quarter in Fès has five things: a bakery, a hammam, a school, a fountain, and a mosque. We’ll pass every one of those before we get to the house.”
Suddenly Bea felt herself flattened against a wall, pinned tightly by Charlie’s arm.
“Balak! Balak!” a man shouted as she heard a clip-clop echoing off the stones, within inches of her feet.
“The donkeys don’t believe in yielding?” Bea asked.
“It’s pretty much every man for himself around here,” Amina explained. “You have to stay on your toes.”
They continued to inch their way upward, as if they were ascending the sides of a giant bowl. Bea imagined it full of whatever delicious food she could smell being cooked behind the walls of the medina. Cumin, if her nose was correct. Her stomach growled, but the sound was masked as the high-pitched squeals of a thousand children filled the air.
“They’re being let out from school,” Amina explained. “For lunchtime. Tons of kids.”
Bea could sense the streets becoming more congested, louder, more chaotic. “Hello. Welcome.” She felt a hand reach out to touch her arm. “Come, have a look at my shop.” They continued to move. Then a tug on her sleeve. “Oh, you are like my grandmother. Let me help you.” A finger on her shoulder. “Welcome to our country. Come see my scarves.” Amina seemed to have no problem keeping their little group in motion, forging ahead while expertly rebuffing each appeal in her native tongue as if she were gently batting away a trail of pesky flies.
Suddenly the sound of a dissonant chorus echoed through the streets. The call to prayer. Bea had read descriptions of it, but had never heard it until now. Around her, it felt as though there was a pause in the swarming motion. Then, almost as quickly as things had stopped, they started up again. “What’s everyone doing?” she asked Amina.
“Well, there are men who are heading to the mosque. Many of them are older, moving slowly. The shopkeepers put a broom or something in their doorway, to signal they are at prayer. The tourists are just listening, waiting to go about their business.”
Their ascent continued. By now Bea’s calves were burning, and her shoulders ached. Her whole body felt as though it had been pounded and kneaded like the dough she had smelled rising in the ovens. Her mind was on fire, reeling with a loop of imagined color and movement that left her dizzy. She had never felt so exhausted, or so alive.
Just as she thought she could go no further, they finally came to a stop. Bea heard the thud of metal knocking against wood, then the creaking of hinges. Amid a flurry of French and Arabic, and lips smacking against cheeks, Amina, Charlie and Bea were ushered across the threshold. When the large door was shut behind them, it was as though someone had abruptly turned off the volume. In an instant, the air became silent and still; so much so that, for a brief moment, Bea had to wonder if she’d somehow lost the rest of her senses.