A House in Fez: Building a Life in the Ancient Heart of Morocco (32 page)

One morning, they turned up separately, still not speaking to each other, and Fatima refused to work with Halima. I took them aside, and with Si Mohamed translating gave them a pep talk. I began by saying we were very happy with their work, but that to Sandy and me, a home wasn’t just about the bricks and mortar, it was about the feeling in the house. At which Fatima interrupted to say it was the same for her, she was working from her heart. I went on to say how unusual it was to find women in the construction industry, and it really helped that they had the support of each other. I knew there was a problem
between
them but they needed to put aside their differences and work together. Perhaps when they were feeling calmer and less emotional they could talk about whatever it was.

By the time Si Mohamed had finished translating, they had tears in their eyes. Halima embraced Fatima; I gave each of them a kiss and went away, leaving them to it. When I came back I heard the rise and fall of their normal chatter. I never learnt the cause of their argument, which apparently remained unresolved, but at least they were civil to one another and ate lunch together, although they continued to arrive and leave separately.

Another morning, Fatima had a stand-up fight with Noureddine, who’d been teasing her about something too close to the bone. Fatima was screaming and crying and both of them had to be held back from doing one another physical damage. But as with most arguments I’d witnessed in Morocco, it was all over in five minutes. They retreated to their separate corners and sulked. Later, Noureddine apologised by bringing Fatima a cup of tea and some cake, and an uneasy truce reigned.

The last time I’d seen Ayisha she’d been on a high, but she was looking more serious when I ran into her in the street one day. She stunned me by saying in hushed tones that she’d just been to visit a witch. Was this the same woman who rejected all the old superstitions as ‘nonsense’? (Before, it must be said, going on to reveal she had once seen a djinn.)

‘So what did the witch say?’ I quizzed her.

‘Nothing. She was no use at all.’ Ayisha threw her hands up in disgust. ‘I went to ask her what should I do about the two men in my life and she couldn’t tell me much. Just general stuff.’

‘Did you tell her specifically about the two men?’

‘Of course not. It is her job to tell me.’

As Ayisha’s mother was waiting for her on the corner, she promised to come around and tell me more in an hour or so.

It transpired that her mother had convinced her to see the witch, since Ayisha was confused about the direction of her life. Show me a 23-year-old who isn’t, I thought.

The witch had begun by asking Ayisha if she had any metal in her pockets, metal apparently being a no-no when you’re trying to hone in on someone’s psyche. She held Ayisha’s hand over an incense burner that was wafting out clouds of smoke.

‘No one wishes you any ill will,’ the witch had told Ayisha. ‘Your energy is clear. However, I sense something else. Something more ominous. You are beautiful and a djinn has become jealous of you and is possessing you. There are two men who love you, but you will not marry either of them, or anyone else, because the djinn will not let you.’

Ayisha was laughing as she told me this. ‘I went home and told my mother and she was horrified.’

I understood why. For a Moroccan girl not to marry was considered a tragedy of immense proportions, as it meant she could not have children, and in traditional Moroccan society this was seen as a woman’s primary purpose in life.

‘I don’t believe in all that magic rubbish,’ declared Ayisha,
and
in the next breath was offering to come and burn incense and perform a ritual in our house when the building was finished.

While we’d been talking we’d been preparing dinner together. Ayisha was very precise about the way things should be done. The tomato cut like so, the cucumber like this. At the end of it all we had a feast. Disaster was narrowly averted just before serving when Ayisha, taking a can from the fridge, was about to spoon tuna cat food over the salad. I stopped her just in time, realising later that she would be quite unused to the concept of buying a special can of food to feed a cat.

Sandy and I wanted to ask the plumber to join us. He had just overcharged us for something or other, which he’d turned up to do only after repeated phone calls, but it was seven at night and we couldn’t eat while he was watching on hungrily. Ayisha said we were mad.

‘Either he gets your money or your food, but not both,’ she declared.

I told her that one of the things I liked about Moroccan culture was the way people shared food. Whenever I was travelling by train, people would offer me some of theirs.

‘Then they are stupid and are going to starve,’ Ayisha said.

‘So you include us in that?’ I asked.

‘No, not you, I am talking about them.’

Sandy and I got our way and the plumber ate with us. He and Ayisha had an animated conversation about how people used to fast during the harvest month leading up to Ramadan, as well as during Ramadan itself. Now adherence to religious principles
was
becoming less strict and many no longer did this. The plumber still fasted for the additional month, as did Ayisha’s mother, although Ayisha and the rest of her family did not.

Ramadan would be upon us in a couple of weeks. As I found it a hardship going without food for more than four waking hours, the prospect of a month-long daytime fast, let alone two months, was inconceivable.

There was excitement in the air in the lead-up to Ramadan. People got their best clothes ready and stockpiled special foods. Apart from not eating in daylight hours, Muslims are not permitted to smoke or have sex during Ramadan. Pregnant or menstruating women are exempt from the dietary restrictions, as are the sick and elderly. All the Moroccans we knew took this commitment to God very seriously, as a form of spiritual purification. So seriously, in fact, that it proved to be a bit of a worry when Ramadan came round.

One day, a week or so into Ramadan, I found the plasterer’s assistant rolling around on the floor and groaning from severe stomach cramps. Playing my usual Florence Nightingale role, I produced a couple of Imodium tablets. No, I was told by half a dozen workers, the assistant could not let anything pass his lips. Why not? I wanted to know. After all, the sick are exempt from Ramadan.

‘He can only take medicine if he is dying,’ Mustapha said.

Listening to the groans of the agonised young man for the next few hours, it certainly sounded like he was.

The
zellijis
– tile craftsmen – had started with a bang, completing their work in the bathroom in just two days. This was no mean feat, since there were four hundred handmade tiles to the square metre. We were thrilled, and thought the completion of all our tile work was imminent, but the next day they didn’t turn up. When we rang the chief
zelliji
we were told, very sorry, but they had other work.

It seemed that contractors the world over had developed a technique to ensure the maximum amount of work for them and an equivalent amount of frustration for those employing them. Their credo seemed to be, start a job and get the clients committed, then nick off to start another job, until you have several on the go at once and everyone screaming to get theirs finished. Whoever screams the loudest or pays the most wins.

I threatened and cajoled, saying we were on a deadline and they were holding up the plasterer, and the chief
zelliji
promised they’d work Friday, the usual day off. They did indeed come on Friday – for two whole hours, before discovering there wasn’t enough white tiles to finish. So they went home for couscous with Mama instead.

It had always been intriguing to see who of our contractors would show up each morning, although our usual team was reliable and hardworking. But one day, our big gentle worker from the Sahara didn’t arrive, and I was astounded to be told he was on strike and wanted a pay rise. He figured he worked harder than anyone else and he wanted more money to compensate. Anxious to avoid a wages breakout, I said we’d find someone else, but
Mustapha
claimed he was such a good worker he was worth the extra money. I relented and got Si Mohamed to call him and agree to an increase, provided he kept it confidential. He returned to work within half an hour, smug satisfaction all over his face.

When the team spirit was needed, though, it was there in spades. After a day with eighteen workers on site, we had a dinner party for five friends to prepare. The entire work crew remained after knock-off time and transformed the place in ten minutes flat, sweeping up bucketloads of dirt, washing the floor of the downstairs salon, shifting the big dining table and chairs into it, even though the plaster on the walls was still wet. Sandy and I did the cooking in a corner of the courtyard, wearing mountaineer’s headlamps to see what we were doing.

David, who had just returned from several weeks in the States, walked around the house open-mouthed, ogling the changes. ‘You guys have managed to do more in three months than I have in five years,’ he marvelled. We pointed out that he had a full-time job, while we were dedicated solely to the project and had a minimum of twelve people a day working on it.

But it was true that in the previous month the pace of work had picked up. Now the
halka
was finished, the catwalk was under way, the kitchen had been plastered, along with the downstairs salon – which also had stained glass in the windows – the trenches in the courtyard had been filled, and the bathroom was close to complete. I had designed some furniture and had it made – a dining table and chairs, and a wrought-iron sofa
with
vibrant red cushions. Things were on the up. With the salon doors shut, we could almost pretend the place was finished.

This was pure illusion, of course, since opening the door revealed a courtyard that looked like a missile had landed there. But we were feeling optimistic that we might even get the bulk of the work done before we had to return to Australia.

My trip to Granada had renewed my interest in the work of the refugees from Al Andalus, so one morning I set off for the Andalusian quarter, with no particular plan in mind other than to follow the main street and see where it led.

The character of this quarter is subtly different, its buildings more compact and not as tall as those in other parts of Fez. Close to the top of the hill on Derb Yasmina, a heavy gateway frames a
masharabbia
screen door. This is the entry to the Medersa Sahrij, one of three religious colleges surrounding the thirteenth-century Jamaa Andalous Mosque, where theology students live and study in tiny rooms. Inside the gate is a most exquisite place.

I found myself standing in a long rectangular courtyard bound by beautifully decorated walls. In the middle was a large pool of a clear aqua colour, also rectangular, fed by a low circular fountain at one end. I was immediately transported back to the Alhambra, except that instead of being among hordes of tourists, I was alone. The work in both places was similar, and as they had been constructed during the fourteenth century, perhaps some artisans had worked on both. Every square centimetre of
the
Medersa Sahrij’s walls had the same elaborate carved plaster as the Alhambra, and the balustrades were made of detailed
masharabbia
. The columns along the two longest sides of the courtyard were covered with
zellij
.