right, I think we should see the fire. I love a fire, don’t you? We should take them some food,” Posy said, looking at the dates and mandarins. “Please take us to the fire,” she suddenly said to Rashid, who as usual hovered near. He shook his head.
“It is dangerous,” he said. “It is far. Monsieur does not wish it.” Ian had said we were not to come, etc. Of course I was distracted by questions about Rashid—how had he known to take me to the saffron man, was he trusted by Ian, what did Ian know, and so on, an infinitude of questions raised by what had just happened. But Posy had taken up the cause.
“We wish it. We insist. Your brother can drive us.” We were a tiresome chorus, and he had to agree, but from his surly expression, I understood that by defying Ian’s instructions, we were making an enemy, or at least not making a friend. The problem was, I would come to understand, that women do not have wishes and the power to insist, at least in public. Yet we had power over him too, Western and spoiled members of his master’s harem.
“Very well,” he said at last. “We will take the truck from home.” Another taxi took us back to Ian’s; Rashid produced a small pickup truck from the garages at the back of the house, and we set out.
It took us about forty-five minutes to reach the foothills of the mountains, but we imagined we could see a plume of smoke high in the sky almost as soon as we left Marrakech. To a Californian the foothills of the Atlas range felt like a natural landscape; the rising ground, ravines, and scrub undergrowth looked like it does around Santa Barbara, still arid but at least not flat, and at the lower levels, there were gardens and vineyards, terraced and reassuring, with flocks grazing and all the lovely details of agriculture and husbandry one might also see in Italy or Spain.
The route was complicated and I could see why Rashid hadn’t wanted to take a taxi, for he seemed to know the way perfectly. It was steep. In three quarters of an hour we’d climbed a thousand feet, passing occasional trucks and carts coming down, and the smoke and fumes had increased before at last we pulled off the road into a dirt track on the right and then across an expanse of hard ground for perhaps a half a mile. “God in hell,” Posy complained of the bumpy, hard ride, “I’m sure to miscarry.”
You would have to know where you were going to find the place at all. Up ahead a small group of men and a couple of vehicles were clustered some distance from the still-blazing building. A few other men, in work clothes or uniforms of the gendarmerie, had assembled at the edge of the road, gazing in the twilight at the spectacle. I had noticed in the square in Marrakech that people gathered together were noisy, but here they stood in silence.
As for the building, a huge, rectangular, cement-block industrial structure, there wasn’t much doubt it was beyond reclaim. From the fingers of flames still shooting from every window, I could imagine the inferno earlier, and the metal roof began to buckle as we watched. The heat was too strong to allow us very near. A smell, very strong now, was getting worse. A white fire wagon was parked near us, with its hose coiled on the ground like a lethargic serpent; no one was trying to use it. There was no hydrant, there was really no way to stop a fire, and I was surprised that that there were so many people—I imagined the onlookers were workers in the factory. Another small, helpless-looking fire truck trailing a water tank arrived; two men unwound its hose and aimed a thin stream of water at one of the flanks of the building, but it was only a gesture.
Ian and Robin Crumley were standing by the side of the road, Ian with an expression of preoccupation, and both men smelled of fire and chemicals. They were amid a knot of men, perhaps seven or eight, all gazing with the eagerness that people always feel to see something burning. The men moved away from
“It is dangerous,” he said. “It is far. Monsieur does not wish it.” Ian had said we were not to come, etc. Of course I was distracted by questions about Rashid—how had he known to take me to the saffron man, was he trusted by Ian, what did Ian know, and so on, an infinitude of questions raised by what had just happened. But Posy had taken up the cause.
“We wish it. We insist. Your brother can drive us.” We were a tiresome chorus, and he had to agree, but from his surly expression, I understood that by defying Ian’s instructions, we were making an enemy, or at least not making a friend. The problem was, I would come to understand, that women do not have wishes and the power to insist, at least in public. Yet we had power over him too, Western and spoiled members of his master’s harem.
“Very well,” he said at last. “We will take the truck from home.” Another taxi took us back to Ian’s; Rashid produced a small pickup truck from the garages at the back of the house, and we set out.
It took us about forty-five minutes to reach the foothills of the mountains, but we imagined we could see a plume of smoke high in the sky almost as soon as we left Marrakech. To a Californian the foothills of the Atlas range felt like a natural landscape; the rising ground, ravines, and scrub undergrowth looked like it does around Santa Barbara, still arid but at least not flat, and at the lower levels, there were gardens and vineyards, terraced and reassuring, with flocks grazing and all the lovely details of agriculture and husbandry one might also see in Italy or Spain.
The route was complicated and I could see why Rashid hadn’t wanted to take a taxi, for he seemed to know the way perfectly. It was steep. In three quarters of an hour we’d climbed a thousand feet, passing occasional trucks and carts coming down, and the smoke and fumes had increased before at last we pulled off the road into a dirt track on the right and then across an expanse of hard ground for perhaps a half a mile. “God in hell,” Posy complained of the bumpy, hard ride, “I’m sure to miscarry.”
You would have to know where you were going to find the place at all. Up ahead a small group of men and a couple of vehicles were clustered some distance from the still-blazing building. A few other men, in work clothes or uniforms of the gendarmerie, had assembled at the edge of the road, gazing in the twilight at the spectacle. I had noticed in the square in Marrakech that people gathered together were noisy, but here they stood in silence.
As for the building, a huge, rectangular, cement-block industrial structure, there wasn’t much doubt it was beyond reclaim. From the fingers of flames still shooting from every window, I could imagine the inferno earlier, and the metal roof began to buckle as we watched. The heat was too strong to allow us very near. A smell, very strong now, was getting worse. A white fire wagon was parked near us, with its hose coiled on the ground like a lethargic serpent; no one was trying to use it. There was no hydrant, there was really no way to stop a fire, and I was surprised that that there were so many people—I imagined the onlookers were workers in the factory. Another small, helpless-looking fire truck trailing a water tank arrived; two men unwound its hose and aimed a thin stream of water at one of the flanks of the building, but it was only a gesture.
Ian and Robin Crumley were standing by the side of the road, Ian with an expression of preoccupation, and both men smelled of fire and chemicals. They were amid a knot of men, perhaps seven or eight, all gazing with the eagerness that people always feel to see something burning. The men moved away from
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