Chapter 11
A healer had been called out that evening, tending to Fouad’s wounds as Aicha, Samira and Rachid sat in the hallway beyond his room. Only Sidi Mohammed had been allowed inside.
Aicha’s knees shook so much that, eventually, Samira placed a hand on her thigh, halting her with one soft, comforting squeeze.
“Just breathe,” she said. “He’s alive. That’s what matters.”
Steady, sure of herself, that was how Samira sounded. It was how she always sounded. Unrelenting yet muted, gentle in her approach. Like the tide before a storm. But the sheen in her eyes indicated that she was anything but those things, and Aicha could not help the guilt festering inside her.
Sidi Mohammed didn’t divulge the full damage; perhaps he thought Samira and she could not handle it. Aicha wasn’t sure. All she knew was that nausea churned in her stomach for the hours that passed as they waited.
When the healer emerged, Aicha pulled herself up abruptly. Spots dotted her vision from the sudden movement, but she walked towards her with one hand braced on the wall.
“Can we see him?” She hated how fragile she sounded.
Like on the precipice of shattering. She hated even more that it was true.
The healer, Fatima-Zahra, nodded. Her red hair was pulled back beneath her scarf, a few strands lined her forehead, which glistened with sweat. She motioned for Aicha to move past her, only halting her for a second to place a comforting hand on Aicha’s shoulder.
Samira followed just behind her, hovering closely as they pushed the curtain aside and stepped into their baba’s room.
He lay flat on his back on the bedroll, facing the ceiling.
A sharp inhale of breath echoed in Aicha’s ear from her sister, but she could not be so contained at the sight of her father’s face.
Both eyes were swollen shut; red and purple bruises littered his face and jaw. His nose was broken, and the skin on his cheekbones and brows had split open, only just stitched together by Fatima-Zahra recently. The skin was an angry red, raw from her work. He looked fragile, broken.
Aicha’s chest cleaved open, teeth cutting into her lower lip to keep the trembling at bay as a whimper forced its way out.
“Don’t cry,” Samira whispered, but it was too late.
Fouad’s head only just managed to shift towards them, and he reached out a hand. “I am all right.”
Tears burst through, streaming down Aicha’s cheeks in rapid succession and staining the collar of her tunic. It clogged her throat, and a stone sat heavily in her chest as the first sob broke through. Aicha took hurried steps to her baba, crouching beside him to place her head on his abdomen.
His fingers touched her cheek, wiping away her tears. “Shhh, shanewla. It is all right.”
But it wasn’t. None of it was all right.
Duarte had done this because of things she had stolen. Because of an idea she had been adamant about bringing to fruition.
It was all her fault.
“I’m sorry, Baba,” she choked out, unable to breathe through her sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Lat,” he shot out, despite wincing at the pain. “No daughter of mine will ever apologise for being brave.”
But she hadn’t been brave. She’d been stubborn, full of pride for what now felt like a stupid reason. Proving herself.
“I would take a thousand beatings for you and your sister, shanewla. I’d surrender my life.” He coughed, his knuckles caressing her cheekbone, before pushing her hair over her shoulder.
Aicha looked back to Fouad, and despite the damage inflicted, despite how surely agonising it must have been, he smiled. “And I would be proud to do it.”
Anger, visceral and poisoning, flooded through her veins as she thought of all the stupid things she had done that had led to her baba’s state.
It entwined itself with her fear and pain, until one could not be distinguished from the other.
All of it poured out of her as she gripped her baba’s shirt, fisting the fabric tightly.
As though if she let go, he would disappear.
As though if she let go, they’d be back outside, with Duarte’s fists breaking skin and bone, with her baba’s teeth flying from his mouth.
And she would have no choice but to sit there, wrapped in the arms of Rachid, forced to watch it over and over again. Until Duarte snatched her baba’s life, all because of something she had done.
She was a curse that had latched onto his soul, and her blood ran cold at the thought that, next time, she would bring him a fate far worse.
It was midnight when Aicha headed to the Gardens.
Forbidden and perhaps a little reckless, she knew, considering the current circumstances, even during the day.
At night it would have made Fouad’s heart burst with distress.
But the fact that the Gardens could be bleeding with soldiers didn’t deter her.
The sight of her baba’s bloodied and beaten face had torn open her ribcage, excavating her heart and wreaking havoc on her.
Nausea had kept clawing its way up her throat until the horror and guilt of what he had suffered had become so overwhelming she needed to leave.
Go somewhere that could momentarily soothe the ache inside her.
In short, she needed her dearest friend to hold her for a little while. To tell her that things would be all right. Even if it was a lie.
The front doors were open as Aicha made her way inside, discarding her sandals and following the loud laughter and music that echoed from the courtyard of the riad.
Ilham’s girls flitted between clusters of men and women alike, aching for their futures to be told, or for their cheeks to be caressed as whispers of comfort drifted into their ears.
Despite the amount of times Aicha had visited, she was still in awe of the explosion of colours in the fabrics and sidaris that lined the walls.
Jugs of wine and juices spilled out as they overflowed in the cups, making the tiled floor sticky for her bare feet.
It was as if the current blockade of supplies had barely touched them.
Her gandora, one she usually used for sleeping and was longer than her legs, dragged on the tiled floor.
It was oversized but thin to compensate for the heat, and the material was soft on her skin.
Gentle on the injury on her arm, and the cuts and gashes that had littered her elbows and knees when she had crawled across the floor, clawing towards her baba.
As if she were a flame in the night, her eyes gravitated towards Lala Ilham. She spotted the woman by the fountains, offering a bowl of fruit to the musician who sat there, the same woman she had seen just days ago.
And as if Lala Ilham could sense when she had eyes on her, she looked up.
Locking onto Aicha as if she were a lighthouse calling her home.
Placing the bowl by the musician’s feet, Ilham stood to her full height.
Her kaftan was a simple dark red, but the gold stitching was so intricately woven that it made it appear far more extravagant than it was.
Kohl lined her eyes, dark skin glowing against the fire torches that lined the courtyard.
Always so beautiful, Aicha thought. She was almost envious of how someone could look so perfect all the time.
As Lala Ilham moved closer to her, the crowds parting instinctively, her arms opened up for Aicha.
To her surprise, Ilham pulled her in for a hug, and her hold was gentle and protective.
Aicha stood frozen, unsure what to do, until the press of Ilham’s hands in her shoulder blades started to feel like less of an intrusion, and more of a comfort.
Something inside Aicha broke then, slicing through her heart and forcing that familiar burn behind her eyes. Was this what it was like to be comforted by your mother? If so, Aicha couldn’t help but feel cheated. Like comfort such as this had been stolen from her.
“I heard about your father,” Ilham whispered into Aicha’s loose hair. “Is he well?”
“He’s resting.” It was the best she could give.
“Come.” Ilham ushered her towards the stairs. “Naima is in a reading. Some widow arrived, very hysterical, demanding to know if her husband was at peace. He was one of the soldiers on watch in the cistern.”
Aicha remained quiet as Ilham spoke, unsurprised by the lack of remorse at the information.
The image of her father’s bruised and broken face was too fresh, the horror and pain of what she had witnessed too raw in her mind to consider the widow’s sadness.
Ilham continued to talk, until Aicha found herself in the elder’s sleeping quarters.
It was nothing like the room she had seen in her dreams, the furniture had been different.
Unlike Naima’s room, Ilham’s was not lined with sidaris.
Instead, it resembled the Portuguese quarters: a traditional bed was in the centre, surrounded by a frame carved from a deep brown wood, and ruby-red curtains decorating the corners.
Aicha had never slept in a bed like that, and she wondered if its comfort differed.
Lala Ilham’s room could almost resemble royalty’s, with her grand wardrobes and ornate dressing table.
Jewellery was scattered across it, making it look cluttered.
Aicha had never thought of Lala Ilham being a messy person.
A small pot of bakhoor—no longer burning—was on a small table by large doors that opened to a balcony.
Aicha’s mouth watered when she spotted the slices of bright red watermelon in the bowl.
It had been so long since she’d eaten it.
In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten at all. Perhaps the day before.