Fiction: Fez

December light spills down the halka, through the shutters and across my bed. Living in Fez, the small daily chores take me back to a country lane in Ireland that houses a thatch cottage where my mother and grandparents lived. As the days and months pass, I harbor my habit of disconnection. Studying Darija has been an opportunity to hide, mostly because it reminds me of studying Irish in primary school and living in Ireland as a teenager in 1996. My grandmother is pacing the kitchen floor puffing from a packet of No.6 cigarettes. She is dressed in her brown skirt covered in black diamonds. She lifts up the blue plastic jug from the kitchen counter full of whipped dream-topping cream that I love to lick. It’s the same duck-blue color that surrounds the framed picture of the sacred heart above her head. In the background the crackling muffles of the radio as I sneakily throw my unwanted dinner in the bin behind her back.

When I open my shutter, the man across the way peeks in. I recall the incident from yesterday, when he flashes me on the street. He lifts up his Jellaba and reveals his wares. My reaction is underwhelming. He is looking for a fight. I, on the other hand, decline and walk away with a slight chuckle.

Today the light is sharper, shining through the soft rain casting my reflection on the Zelig tile in the Dhar. I remember the squelch of my grandfather’s boots entering the back hallway, him being careful not to drag the dirt from the garden onto the floor of our house, reading the Irish Independent newspaper in the worn-in armchair, and when I coax him, he plays scrabble when no one else wants to putter about with words and language.

I am in the upstairs room in Fez. My roommates are two men, one an American named John and the other an Irishman called Patrick. John is the caretaker of the house and graciously allows Patrick and I to stay for free, despite the detail that it’s not his house. Patrick is a broke writer who somehow finds money to travel. Eggy, who lives around the corner, is from the Midlands in Ireland and wears his grumpiness like a lace collar around his neck. A notorious expat, he scurries into the house to announce his current woe: he doesn’t have a washing machine. So, he arrives on our doorstep to borrow ours.

I remember our old washing machine in Ireland, it has a roller on top to squeeze the water out of the clothes. We didn’t have a dryer in those days. It is in an outside shed with an extra toilet that had faulty plumbing. One day I was in there pretending to be a grown up, twisting the roller to flatten out one of my bottle-green school jumpers, when the nearby toilet overflows and sweeps me out of my long darn of a daydream. It is a complete interruption. The water gushes around my feet, and as I yell for help, I leap up and lean toward the door as my grandmother comes out, cigarette hanging from her mouth, to observe the catastrophe.

On this particular morning in Fez, the lashing rain pours in the center of our house because there is to no roof.  Eggy approaches, wet from the rain. John, Patrick, and I sit around a breakfast table, comfortable as sin that would overflow a beer bottle. This day is a refrain to my past, when days were idle, chores were playacting, and the whole entirety of my being was to dither away the days.  Rain pokes mischief out of a quiet endless afternoon as nothing moves. Inhabiting that static wind or picking that blackberry from an unruly bush becomes my familiar idle country lane.

Mid-conversation we joke, and up walks Eggy wet, frustrated, and irksome. In an explosive moment, he emphatically bursts out, “I hate the whole feckin’ lot of yez!” A moment of silence follows, before I seriously respond, “that really hurt my feelings; did that hurt your feelings?” I ask the others. Quickly the table churns in solid laughter that almost stops the rain. Eggy marches off in a giant sulk as we all stare at one another flabbergasted.

When trouble is brewing back home, when you knew to duck behind a chest of drawers or under a bed or climb into the attic, you go to be alone and inhabit that private world that only you knew, a world where ignorance sits without judgement. Staring out a window at a green hedge daydreaming at the big cow’s head helped me push through.

Last night Patrick snuck in my room with the excuse that he was cold. I was watching Jules and Jim, and he claimed he wanted to see the film. He strolled in, singing a line from a song, “I’m moving to the country; gonna’ eat a lotta peaches.”

It didn’t bother him that years ago, we were in a single bed in my parent’s house in Ireland, when he tried and failed. He still tries his best to put his hand up my shirt. My mind is elsewhere, chasing the hum of the winding clock or limping around a fragment of a memory that’s far more intriguing, a postcard moment in a day where an image floats and lands in a pin cushion. Like the first time I cried or let go of anger or hid a feeling so deep I fell into a dark well.

I am not overwhelmed by him then, yet there he was again beside me, breathing in my ear, his head on my pillow. Pulling on the blanket, creating a draft, he leaves to use the bathroom. He returns with a completely white face and mutters, “there’s a rat in the toilet, what should I do?” I sigh, “take the rug in the corner and put it over the toilet seat.” He walks back out to complete the task. Then as I turn my head away from him, a scent blows in that pulls me into my grandparents’ bedroom. My grandfather is walking around in his long johns, and I am lying cozy between my grandmother and grandfather, knowing that as soon as they fall asleep, I will sneak into the giant brown wardrobe to try on my grandmother’s dentures and fur coat and become an alternate version of Frankenstein for Halloween.

The following morning after breakfast I recall Patrick leafing through my collection of DVDs the night before. Upstairs he is packing his bags. I stick my head out the window; he is outside now and turns his head as my DVD of Bad Timing falls to the floor. I turn to pick it up and open the cover…the DVD is missing. I poke my head back out the window. He’s walking away singing “I’m moving to the country; gonna eat a lot of peaches.” I shout at him, “did you steal my DVD?” He turns around momentarily nodding his head and then sneaks away. I smile furiously, wishing I had a can of peaches to throw at him. He is headed back home for Christmas.

I glance down at my clothes on the bed, feeling a combination of shame and guilt. I am in my parents’ living room, hiding behind the green couch next to the old piano. The velvet feels so soft against my skin. If I crouch down more, the wind will stop whistling, and I’ll disappear.

Yesterday I got free milk from the local shop owner. I had forgotten my money. He says, “ghedda inshala,” tomorrow, and when the strap on my bag broke, the cobbler fixed it for free. I am walking down that school lane, the one that steals your thoughts, and the goat with the long rope around its neck terrifies me when I pass, he is staring me down. If the milk comes from there, I won’t drink it, I will implement a milk boycott.

I am friendly with this British chap who is skinny and likes to chat. He wants to shop for a rug. We are walking around together a bit in the old city of Fez, which suggests to the locals we are an item, but that isn’t the case. He regales me with a story about two large ancient doors in the medina that disappeared one night, transported out on donkeys. I can’t get my head around how no one noticed. The doors were incredibly valuable, cherished items. It was important to retrieve them. The British chap tells me eventually the doors reappear at a fair in Casablanca and have to be returned to the original owner.

The sound of two knitting needles click together and then break apart, three plain, one purl,  I imagine that time is fixed, that the windows and doors reflect my discomfort. When all is silent, and I resurface from behind the couch with a new brave face promising to high heaven to narrate a new reality for myself, a dander of a day, a different continent.

That day, I bought a red rug. The British chap bought a mauve one. He asks me “if I’m romantic.” I wonder if he is hinting that I should be. But I am away from all loved ones, stealing solitude, chasing that country stream and thatch cottage all in the misshapen name of a familiar childhood lane. The lane with the well I almost fell down so deep and full of dark mystery that I can hear the refrain in my head; it has an enchanting  rhythm. And the comfort of a different  cozy velvet couch as I sit in its arm, talking to Mr. Kenna who bought our thatched cottage and the amazing sugared pink Easter eggs from Spain with a massive bow. He gifted me them after paying my grandparents the sum of five hundred pounds for the house. I liked him but is this a kind of thievery?

The British chap appears for dinner; pasta is mostly served, but he contributes chocolate and a hot water bottle. In Fez, it’s freezing during the winter because the houses have no heat. The halka keeps the house cool in the summer, though it’s really cold in the winter. Houses in Ireland are cold, too…everyone arguing over who gets to put their backside in the range oven when the winter evenings drive you quickly indoors as one arrives home from school.

My house renovation in Fez is proving challenging. It is the first time I speak to my father so frequently in a long time. I ring him from a pay phone at the top of the medina and ask him what work should I be doing to my house, rewiring the electricity or putting in a septic tank.  Diligently he advises me what to look out for, how to proceed, the renovation happening in Darija. Growing up speaking to my father was hard. He was constantly working, and when he wasn’t, the words didn’t come.

An American architecture student wants to rent my house. In true medina style, we barter. I ask him what he needs for the house, and with the money he pays me, I buy a mattress, a kettle, and other necessities he agrees to. I tell him there is one rule: “Lock the door to your bedroom; this house is a construction site.” He agrees, and we shake on it.

Three days later, the American student has a problem. His phone has been stolen. I ask, “where did you leave it; did you lock the door?” He forgot. So, the following day, I walk over to my Dhar and call a meeting with the work men. They all stand around, and I, a white western woman from Ireland, talk to my “mallum,” the foreman. We begin to discuss this “mushkill,” my problem.

When I was a teenager, my brother worked at Quinnsworth and had this mad notion to rob sweets, Milky Way Bars. As we rode our bikes up the hill in the dark, his bundle of stolen chocolate rattled on the back of his bike. His friend Plug persuades him that the stars in the sky are aliens, and we are being invaded. As the darkness descends upon us, my brother crashes into a ditch. Our stolen cargo, the Milky Way’s, swim away in the dirty ditch water.

All the men stand upright with their arms folded, and my plumber Adil walks into the house. He is coming from the mosque. Dressed in an elegant white jellaba, he looks very respectable. Some of the other men point their eyes in his direction, blaming him. I look at him, and he shakes his head slowly, a solid convincing no, while looking me straight in the eye. Okay. I observe for a second and decide to call their bluff.

One man, is talking incessantly. I can only understand some of the words, but not all of the sentences. I look around the room and have my mallum translate, “I don’t want to have to call the police,” I say. This is followed by silence, then the man who is talking non-stop mysteriously climbs up the stairs and lifts the mattress. The phone reappears. No ditch water rights the wrong. It reminds me of the wandering doors, a journey back to Fez from Casablanca.  The American student gets his phone returned. All is forgiven. I am slowly learning the ways of the medina.

Is it any different than going to Brophy’s? Brophy’s is the local sweet shop; the dogs would piss on the briquettes, and Mr. Brophy, with his crooked glasses, would nearly poke you in the eye with his stare. But my brother knew how to rob the toffee eclairs or a packet of silver mints, slip them in his side pocket, and dash for the door. Brophy would yell after us, “you little scuts!”

A Moroccan man at the Red Eye Café asks my flat mate if I am married to either of the men I live with. Am I being judged? I find it amusing. I quite like the Red Eye Café; he is a local man and super cordial. He makes the most aromatic coffee with such care and dedication. He reminds me of my grandfather as he cooked stewed rhubarb and nettle soup in our kitchen. I call home and my parents are asking if I’m coming home for Christmas. I look at my bank account, which is very low, to see if I can afford an airline ticket. I don’t want to admit that the money isn’t there.

I find myself on a Ryanair flight to Spain. I buy a bottle of champagne. As soon as I land in the airport in Spain, the Christmas songs are playing on a loop. The decorations are full throttle, and I gaze up at the large tree, which momentarily delights me. It is a moment of delving into my Christian roots. What did I cherish from that whole experience? I like the ritual of putting up the tree, some of the songs, but what draws one back to a homeland? Not the judgmental Edenderry head, a not-so-favorite, not-distant-enough family member.  She is odd out, wouldn’t give you the steam off her porridge! Ah, it must be the cows or the sheep.

Strolling around the airport, I decide I’m one of those floaters who paraglide between continents, in search of an alternate reality. I can smell Faran Koicha, a street in the medina, the dead sheep skins, dead chickens and smokey hash. Suddenly that lingering loneliness floats and pulls me into its net and it feels like drowning. This makes me uncomfortable, too private to contemplate.

I remember traveling to Punchestown races on a double-decker bus, carrying my First Communion handbag. It is white. I made my grandfather take me to the top of the bus to look out the window. I feel special, except that I left my bag with all my Communion money inside, a small fortune. I am so enthralled with the day’s outing and the company, everything else fades into soft focus.

I am carrying my grandfather’s written memoir with me back home. My aunt who is now gone had typed it up into a book. His father took him to Punchestown races on an ass and cart in 1916. Now he’s passing on the tradition and taking me. I remember the bus slowing down and stopping. That floating feeling returns, uncertainty and unease, as the drifting continues. And I carry on, climbing the steps of the plane. I land in Dublin airport, champagne in hand.

I hop on a Dublin southbound bus, and a woman next to me chats at me about how she is visiting her mother. She, too, moved away and seems chuffed about her good-looking husband and two daughters. “It’s well for some,” I thought. She announces she is doing well for herself, maybe she is another Edenderry head. I gaze out the window at the Irish hedges, and the misty rain swims like racing fish down the glass pane. I have forgotten it is Christmas Eve. I am headed to the family gathering.

As I step off the bus, the barren trees, I look around to observe the factory town. It has changed since my last trip. I dial the number as my discomfort rises. I want to focus on my feeling more, but it escapes me. Uneasiness drags me down. What is this resistance. Distracted by a discarded coke can on the ground, I kick it down the road until I am tapped on the shoulder. It’s my mother.

In the car driving with mother, I remember a day I got lost. I was dressed in my Communion red trousers suit and a white t-shirt, no shoes, my feet bare. In Co. Wicklow, we were headed off on holiday with our cousins from England and my gran-uncle, thirteen of us packed into a small green Ford Escort Estate. I didn’t have a seat.  I snuck out of the car and discovered a statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by a water fountain.

Enchanted by the water fountain, I fell into the longest daydream, losing myself. I’m seven years old. When I return, the family car has left without me, and the rain makes me cold. As my feet shiver, I cry until an unknown man takes me into his car to shelter from the rain, his wife and daughter huddled with us. They give me a packet of KP peanuts. It feels like a bag of gold. An hour passes and my parents return to collect me, finally noticing I’m missing.

I remember the Virgin Mary statute from that day, and as our car pulls into the driveway for the Christmas party, a mutinous feeling spreads across my chest. Why do memories restrain me, hold me so tight? When I walk into the house, I see my father in his chair. I carefully walk towards him and lean over and whisper for a long while in his distended ear.

He listens, chokes up, a tear runs down his cheek. The air moves about the room. The light shifts as a door bangs. The sound of a barking dog steals my focus, but I remain still as traditional Irish music breaks through. It is my first Christmas home in Ireland in seven years. We are ready. Readiness inhabits doubt, courage tasks the common good, and the lunacy of life marches us on its way, through the stolen door to arrive, and that is the work.