The African Shore (The Margellos World Republic of Letters) by Rodrigo Rey Rosa

Author:Rodrigo Rey,Rosa [Unknown]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Yale University Press
Published: 2013-10-21T20:00:00+00:00

XXIX

Mme. Choiseul’s house, in the upper reaches of the Sidi Mesmudi road, stood on a small plateau surrounded by a large olive garden, a high curtain of eucalypti, and a canebrake.

“Artifo!” she shouted, getting out of the car and letting loose the Pekingese, which ran toward the lower part of the yard.

The garden, descending in small terraces, had a fountain, many narrow flower beds, and, farther down, a black monkey tree that rose up against the sky.

Artifo, an old man with a close-cropped beard and a fisherman’s cap, appeared in a side door.

“Yes, Madame?”

“Tell Fátima we’re going to have tea. And light the fire in the living room and in my room. It has to be done every day,” she explained, turning her back on Artifo.

They came out of the garage. From where they stood the sound of waves could be heard under the murmur of the wind in the branches. But the shore had to be far off, he thought.

They passed through a dark hall into a living room decorated with many potted plants and flowers where the dwindling light came through several small arched windows. The walls were upholstered in red, pink, and violet satin bands, and the floor was spongy, thick with Berber rugs covered with designs suggesting hands and eyes. The little coffee tables were stacked with art books, and the bookshelves were also heavy with old volumes. Julie took the birdcage from his hands and put it on a sideboard between two windows.

As they sat down next to the fireplace, Mme. Choiseul on a small sofa, with the Pekingese on her lap, Julie on a Moroccan pouf, her arms around her knees, and he on a low couch, Artifo covered a heap of dry eucalyptus leaves with sticks of firewood and lit them.

The colors of the room brightened with the first flames and a medicinal smell enveloped them.

“I know it’s not so cold as to need a fire,” said Mme. Choiseul, whose cheeks were turning red in the firelight, “but it’s not too hot to light one either. I worship fire.” She looked at the fireplace. “I get cold easily.”

Artifo left the room.

Now Mme. Choiseul looked at the owl.

“It’s lovely,” she said, and turned toward him. “The Moroccans have a whole repertory of animal stories, did you know? There’s one about an owl.”

An old woman, slightly stooped, with a white kerchief tied around her head, appeared at the door from the kitchen, carrying a large tea service.

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