“Delphine is not even two years younger, and is just as tall,” Celeste pointed out.
“But Delphine does not have Mitzy’s…” He trailed off uncomfortably.
“Mitzy’s what?” said Celeste, in a dangerous tone of voice.
“Never mind.”
“What, Charles? Tell me. Tell me what it is that fascinates you so, that you must put her face in every picture, and your daughters’, your mistress’s, in none?” Celeste leaned towards him and stared intently into his eyes. Dimity was glad that Delphine and Élodie were a good way off and would not hear. Her own cheeks blazed, and she kept her eyes down, hoping to escape Celeste’s attention.
“There’s nothing in it, Celeste. It is only a matter of her age, and the propriety of using one’s own child to model for a celebration of nubile beauty-”
“I see. So I am not young enough, and Delphine is not beautiful enough. You are honest, even if you are not loyal,” she snapped, rising to her feet and glaring savagely at Charles. Dimity snatched a glance at her, but averted it at once when the Moroccan woman’s eyes turned to alight on her. There was a dreadful pause, and then relief as Celeste stalked away without another word, and Dimity let the pleasure of hearing Charles talk of her beauty echo in her head.
For ten days they took outings together, fitting them in around Charles’s spasms of creativity. Dimity noticed that Celeste chose to walk close to her daughters, rather than with her or Charles, and she was happy with that arrangement. They visited El Attarine, the sprawling thatched souk in the center of the city, where anything under the sun was available to buy if you knew where to go within the cramped plethora of shops. They climbed the stairs of a house, tipping the elderly man who lived there a few coins, and walked out onto his roof to see the tanning and dyeing vats laid out below; row upon row of white clay pits, full of stinking hides and tanning solution or the wild, rainbow colors of the dyes. They saw blue and white pottery and tiles being made and painted and fired; and once, by mistake, they saw a small brown goat hung up by its back legs, kicking desperately as its throat was cut. From another vantage point, they gazed upon the jade-green tower of the Karaouine Mosque, and the array of mosaicked university buildings and sacred courtyards surrounding it, forbidden to infidel feet.
“What would happen if a Christian were to go inside?” asked Dimity, in awe of the beauty and grandeur of the place.
“I think it might be best not to find out,” said Charles.
“It’s so beautiful and perfect… and yet so many of the other nice buildings in the city are being left to fall to pieces,” said Delphine. Celeste put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.
“Moroccans are a nomad people. Berbers and Arabs both. We may build homes for ourselves from stone and brick these days, but still we think of them as tents. As though they are temporary, not permanent,” she said.
“Well, there’s no surer way to make a building temporary than to neglect it, I suppose,” said Charles, grinning at Celeste to show he was joking. She didn’t smile back at him, and his grin faded to nothing.
At dinner that night talk turned to the end of the trip, and a return to Blacknowle before the summer was spent. Celeste fixed Charles with steady, unforgiving eyes.
“I could stay here forever. But we are at your disposal, as ever. As I choose to be,” she said flatly.
“Please, Celeste. Don’t be that way,” said Charles, taking her hand.
“I am as I am. Feelings do not go away.” She shrugged. “Life would be simpler sometimes if they would.” She gazed at him without rancor, but with such strength of feeling that he looked away and said nothing for a while. Dimity sat in the heat of the night and felt herself burn, as if all her pent-up thoughts would ignite. No. The word scorched her silent tongue. She wanted the trip to last forever-not a trip at all but a new life, a new reality. In this place, where she could sit for Charles every day and nobody whispered or called her names; and there was no Valentina, all pinched with spite, demanding she ask for money; where food was brought to her by black-eyed young men, and she did not have to hunt for it, or find it in a drenched hedgerow; skin or pluck or cook it herself; where she could wear colors as bright as the bougainvillea flowers and the tiles on the walls and the roofs of the holy buildings, clothes that swung and floated around her like royal finery; where she lived in a house with a fountain at its heart and a hot sky instead of a ceiling. Morocco was a place of dreams, and she never wanted to wake up.
The next day, Celeste took her daughters and went again to visit her mother. Dimity tried not to let her excitement show; tried not to let them see how happy she was to be left alone with Charles. She felt elated, and dreaded that Celeste would be able to see it. Celeste turned at the door and gave them both a steady look, but she said nothing. Charles seemed distracted, and he frowned as they set off into the city, his art materials in a leather satchel over his shoulder. He walked quickly, striding ahead so that Dimity struggled to keep up. She kept her eyes on his back, and watched as a dark fan of sweat spread slowly through his shirt. After a while, it seemed as though he was running from her, trying to leave her behind, and she hurried on, feeling a rising desperation that she couldn’t quite define. Desperate to be kept, and not abandoned. Desperate to be loved, and drawn, and wanted. Her heart was full of him; the words he had said to her sang like prayers in her mind. I’ll do my best for you, Mitzy. She is perfect. Had he said that? Called her perfect? She was sure he had. Who knows which way life will take us? And how he had looked after he said that, how deep in thought, lost in imagining; clearly the future he saw was different from the present. And he would not marry Celeste; he had good reason not to. A reason the girls weren’t allowed to tell her. A reason that was her? Perfect. For you, Mitzy. The new swan turned out to be the most beautiful of them all.
Soon they were out of the city’s bustling heart and on quiet streets running between clustered houses. Dimity was fighting for breath and her legs felt heavier with every step. She realized that their path had turned uphill, and felt a trickle of sweat run down her own spine. They must have walked right across town and been climbing out of the valley, a long, long way from the guesthouse. The sun was rising to its highest point, sharp as a knife. They came to a place where the walls on either side of the alley were no more than two feet apart, and the shadow pooling between them was cool and deep. Unable to go on at such a pace, Dimity gave up and leaned back on the wall for a moment to catch her breath. Realizing that her footsteps had ceased, Charles looked back at her. He still wore the same distracted frown.
“You need a rest, yes, of course,” he said. “Thoughtless of me.” He came to stand opposite her, lit a cigarette, and took a long pull.
“You’re never thoughtless,” said Dimity. Charles smiled.
“You must be the only person who thinks that, and I fear you’re being more loyal than truthful. The people close to an artist often lose out to the art itself. It’s unavoidable. Sometimes there just isn’t enough room in my thoughts for everybody.”
“We all need time to ourselves. Time to breathe, and be left alone. Or we’d forget who we really are.”