Chapter 20
A fter another mule ride through the Medina, Melody found herself being led into the palace yet again. They hadn’t entered through the large main gate that had been used for their previous visit but instead through a small side gate manned by just one guard. The clandestine nature of the visit became more apparent as they entered a large building that Melody assumed was the harem by a side door.
The servant girl knocked three times on the door, and a tall, burly male servant opened it. Melody remembered Omar mentioning that only eunuchs could attend to the women in the harem and wondered if this was also true for the guards. This guard seemed very threatening, not merely because of his giant size but also because of the large, very sharp-looking dagger in one hand.
The guard seemed to be expecting them and ushered them into the building. Melody followed the girl through highly decorated corridors, each step muffled by the many beautiful soft rugs lining the floors. Melody felt the air grow warmer and more fragrant, which she assumed meant they were nearing the hammam. Trying to identify the delightful scents, Melody thought she smelled rosewater and perhaps sandalwood.
Turning from the corridor to a doorway, the girl led Melody into a plain room where another servant girl awaited her. That girl indicated that Melody should disrobe and offered her a plain, very loose-fitting white muslin robe. She then brought over a basin of warm orange blossom-scented water and mimed that Melody should wash her hands.
Then, the other servant girl led Melody through an archway draped with silk into a much warmer, mosaic-tiled room. In the middle of the room, there was a low fountain surrounded by large silk cushions. A young woman lay on the cushions, one hand lazily playing with the water in the fountain. She was dressed in a white robe similar to Melody’s, except that hers was threaded with gold.
At Melody’s entrance, the woman looked up. Melody thought that, as a rule, Moroccans were very attractive people and that the women with their almond-shaped eyes and dark glossy hair were quite beautiful. Unfortunately, the woman waiting for Melody, who she assumed was Lalla Rabia, was the exception to this rule. Every feature on her visage was at odds with the others. Her nose was too large for what was an overly long face. Her chin was too pointy, her forehead rather too dominant. The one saving grace of Lalla Rabia’s countenance was her eyes which were dark brown with large pupils, framed by thick eyelashes of extraordinary length. The eyes were intelligent and kind but also a little guarded.
“Lalla Melody, welcome,” the woman said in a melodic voice. “Please, come and join me in the harara,” Rabia said, rising and leading the way through another door.
Melody followed into a very hot and steamy room. The room was quite dark, its only illumination coming from the daylight filtering through the small, star-shaped cutouts in its domed ceiling. In the middle of the room, there was a large, smooth marble slab that glistened with moisture. Her hostess went and sat on the slab and patted a spot next to her. Melody accepted the invitation and took a seat.
Attendants brought two copper bowls of hot water and placed them on the floor. Lalla Rabia reclined on her front on the slab, and Melody went to follow suit. She was surprised that before she could lie down, one of the attendants had gently opened the robe Melody was wearing and pulled it from her shoulders. Melody was used to being naked in front of Mary, but she wasn’t sure she was prepared to be so in front of a stranger. Luckily, in one swift motion, the attendant replaced the robe with a light cotton sheet and encouraged Melody to lie down on her front with the sheet covering her. Glancing over, Melody saw that Lalla Rabia was similarly covered.
Over the next twenty minutes, every inch of Melody’s body was scrubbed and exfoliated. Once she got over the embarrassment of having a stranger perform such an intimate act for her, she found the experience quite relaxing. After the exfoliation, the attendant used the water in the copper bowl to rinse off Melody’s body. Lalla Rabia said nothing the entire time. Melody knew enough to realise that she could not initiate a conversation and must wait for the royal wife to speak.
After the exfoliation, the attendants left for a few moments. Melody wondered what would happen next. As if reading her mind, Lalla Rabia explained, “They will return with Ghassoul Clay that we use for deep cleaning and softening the skin.”
Clay? Melody wasn’t sure how she felt about having her body covered in clay, but there didn’t seem to be a gracious way to decline. In the end, it wasn’t as unpleasant as she had feared, though she was happy when, finally, it was washed off. Still, Lalla Rabia hadn’t said anything of note. After the clay had been thoroughly rinsed off, Melody’s hair was washed. When this step was complete, she was helped back into her loose robe and led into yet another cooler room. After the humid heat of the harara, this room felt refreshing.
Melody followed Lalla Rabia’s lead in lying on a mosaic bench slightly elevated at one end. As with the warm room, the only light came from the cutouts in the ceiling. Given that Melody’s robe was once again removed, she was glad for the relative darkness. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen to her in this room, so she was surprised when she felt oil being rubbed into her from the tips of her feet through her hair.
“You are being treated with Argan oil,” Lalla Rabia explained. “There is no more luxuriant way to moisturise one’s body and hair. The oil keeps my skin youthful and my hair healthy and shining.” Melody was surprised that the oil only had the lightest scent. She had expected it to feel greasy on her body, yet it didn’t. When she was fully oiled, the attendant then sprayed her body with a light rose scent.
Finally, with her robe back on, Melody was led to a low cushion-covered couch with a table in front of it. Lalla Rabia followed. While the two women reclined, another servant brought long, cool glasses of orange juice and dishes of dates and nuts.
When all the food was set on the table, Lalla Rabia clapped her hands and said something in Arabic. At her words, all the servants melted away, and the two women were alone. Lalla Rabia still said nothing. She took a long sip of orange juice and savoured a date.
Finally, when Melody felt she could not bear the anticipation any further, the other woman asked, “How do you find Morocco?”
Melody thought about the question. “I find it a fascinating country. The landscape changes so dramatically and sometimes quite quickly. You have both sand dunes and snowcapped mountains.”
“Indeed. Morocco is a beautiful country. How do you find its people?”
“I believe that people are people no matter where you travel to. Some of them are good and kind, and some are evil. In between are most people who want nothing more than to take care of their families and live a life of health and happiness.”
Lalla Rabia sat up from her leaning position and looked very meaningfully at Melody. “So, you believe that all people are fundamentally the same and that no one group is significantly different or better than any other?”
This wasn’t precisely what Melody had said. However, now that the words were said out loud, she realised that she did believe that. Melody knew that she was one of the fortunate few to live a charmed life of wealth, ease and influence. Still, it was but a random quirk of fate that had given her that life. If not for Wolfie and Tabby Cat, Melody and Rat might have lived all their lives in Whitechapel. Rat would have joined a criminal gang, most likely. As for Melody, well, the best she could have hoped for was to find a husband who didn’t beat her more than most instead of a life as a prostitute prowling the streets of the East End. Both of those options assumed that she had lived past childhood, which was hardly a guarantee.
Given these far more likely possibilities, how could Melody hold any opinion other than the basic equality of mankind? While there was no doubt that she was a very different person in many ways than if she hadn’t come to life in Mayfair, in the fundamentals, she was who she always would have been. Fate might have made her bitter, and certainly, she would be less carefree. However, she would have been no less intelligent, no less worthy of an education, no less deserving of a full stomach and a roof over her head.
As these thoughts flashed through her head, Melody nodded her head in agreement. “Yes, that is what I believe,” she answered.
“And so why are my people deemed unable and unworthy to rule themselves without foreign interference?”
Melody realised she had been led into a trap and was unsure how to respond. As she had reflected on days before, Xander Ashby, of all people, had recently pointed out to her that many of the citizens of the British Empire might feel as Lalla Rabia did. She now realised that foreign involvement in other countries was an incredibly complex subject.
Then, without considering the wisdom of her words, Melody pointed out, “Did the Arabs who now inhabit Morocco not invade here many centuries ago and impose their rule on the native Berbers?”
There was a long, pregnant pause. Melody worried that she would be thrown out of the harem or worse. Then, Lalla Rabia threw her head back and laughed. It was a deep, pleasant gurgle of a laugh. “Either you are very wise or very foolish,” she observed. “If you are wise, you will never make such a statement within the Sultan’s hearing.”
Then, changing tack without warning, Lalla Rabia said, “My father is one who has always passionately felt that no good comes from having foreigners impose their will on our land. He believed that my husband felt similarly. Yet now, my father is no longer Grand Vizier and French troops occupy Fes.” Perhaps sensing a question Melody wished to ask, Lalla Rabia explained, “We wives and consorts may not leave the harem, and so we ensure that the news of the world comes to us.”
Lalla Rabia suddenly looked quite sly. “For example, I heard the news that you came to plead with my husband for clemency towards a very handsome Italian gentleman he has arrested. Who is this gentleman to you that you cross the Atlas Mountains on his behalf?”
Melody blushed. She didn’t want to but couldn’t help it. Rabia saw the blush and laughed. “Ah, I see how it is. You have a tendre for this man I believe.”
Unsure how best to answer, Melody said nothing. Lalla Rabia noted her embarrassment and said sagely, “Sometimes I believe that the Moroccan way has its advantages. I never had to wonder if I loved Abdelhafid and if he held me in high regard. There was no delicate dance. It became strategically beneficial to both my father and Abdelhafid to link our families. My now husband was not yet the Sultan, but he sought to challenge his brother’s authority. My father, Madani El Glaoui, was the elder of a powerful Berber family. More to the point, my father could command the loyalty of other local Berber tribes, something the then prince would need if he were to seek to overthrow his brother.”
“And so marriage to you was nothing more than a business arrangement?” Melody asked. Even as she said this, she realised that things were not so different with her own Royal Family. This was how alliances had been cemented for many centuries. Maybe Lalla Rabia was correct; perhaps it was easier this way than marriages based on romantic love.
Seeking to move the conversation away from her romantic entanglements, Melody observed, “Your father seems to have made a wise choice for you. Now, you are the wife of the most powerful man in Morocco.”
Lalla Rabia laughed, but this time, it was a hollow sound. “My husband may inhabit the Dar al-Makhzen, the Royal Palace, but his authority is hollow. Every promise and dictate he makes is measured by men who will never bow to him. Do you call that power?”
Melody was surprised that the Sultan’s wife was willing to say such things openly, but then she considered how unlikely it was that any of the servants understood English. Still, what of the other wives? Surely, it wasn’t wise for Lalla Rabia to express such treasonous thoughts. Certainly, Melody did not wish to be overheard agreeing to such a statement.
Instead, she said archly, “Certainly, the Sultan has the power to arrest foreigners and hold them prisoner. As for the rest, it is not for me to speak to Morocco’s relationship with the French.”
“A very diplomatic answer, Lalla Melody. How far might that diplomacy stretch? I wonder, if you were to discover something damning, something that showed the French for what they truly are, would you act on it?”
“Does such a thing exist?” Melody wondered, unsure where this conversation was leading but curious to learn more.
“My father has reason to believe it does. He was alerted to the existence of such proof but then, before he could do anything about it, he was removed from his post. He believes that this was done at the urging of the French. This despite valiantly leading the troops against our own Berber people during the rebellion and almost losing his life.”
As she said these words, Lalla Rabia rose. “It has been an interesting conversation, Lalla Melody. Be careful. The situation in Morocco these days is as venomous as a snake charmer’s viper.” And with that, she turned and left abruptly.