Margot sips her coffee. It’s strong, bitter, the way she likes it. Henri used to say she likes her coffee the same way as his fellow soldiers. He saw it as a masculine trait. He didn’t like masculine traits in women. It made him suspicious. She doesn’t know why she thought of that. She sits on her balcony under the shade of a table umbrella. The sun is coming up now and in the early morning hours, the sunrise shines directly on the balcony. The umbrella helps alleviate that. Next to her half-empty coffee cup, a pack of Gauloises, an ashtray with three spent cigarette butts, an unread newspaper, and an unopened letter from her sister. It’s already warm, the air telegraphing that it’s going to be another hot day. She’s been awake for hours, long before sunrise. Down below, the city has just awakened. The morning prayer calls from the local mosque echoes through the neighborhood, competing with the sound of traffic and the rattle of store shutters. Yes, a new day has come. She’s already dressed for it, though she has no plans going anywhere. It’s her favorite dress — the black one — and it’s a little worse for wear these days. She’s worn it often since Henri died.

         Inside the apartment, Yasmine hums a song to herself. Margot has heard her hum that same song for years but she never bothered to ask what it was. It’s not a French song. That much she knows. It isn’t so much a song as it is a memory of one.

         Yasmine steps out on the balcony and removes Margot’s empty cup of coffee from the table. ‘Would you like another?’, she asks.

         ‘Yes, please. If you don’t mind.’

         Margot looks out over the city. She can see Yasmine in the periphery but she doesn’t look at her. She can smell her, though. That airy perfume she always wears. She loves the scent but she never openly said so. Only when Yasmine leaves the balcony does she turn to look at her. She’s wearing a black dress as well. The one she always liked. It compliments her full figure. She watches Yasmine walk towards the kitchen, her finger unconsciously caressing her lower lip. She looks away and reaches for her cigarettes. She lights one with a trembling hand. This bothers her. She’s changed. She no longer feels she’s the same woman she once was.

         Yasmine returns with another cup of coffee. She gently places the cup and saucer down on the table. Margot glimpses Yasmine’s hand. They are quite exquisite hands.. Then she looks at her own as she reaches for the coffee cup. Her’s are not as exquisite, at least not anymore. They show their age now. She touches Yasmine’s arm, holds her hand there.

         ‘Merci,’ she says softly.

         ‘There are some fresh oranges,’ Yasmine says. ‘Would you like one?’

         Margot looks up at her, her eyes studying Yasmine’s pretty face. ‘No, thank you,’ she says, smiling.

         Yasmine lingers for a moment, as if waiting for another request. Her perfume lingers in the air between them. It dominates the smell of coffee and cigarette smoke. When Margot doesn’t say anything, Yasmine retreats into the apartment, again humming that now familiar song. Margot turns to look at her as she walks towards the kitchen. She raises the cigarette to her lips with a trembling hand.

 

. . . . . .

 

Margot sits at her desk sorting her mail. She takes the unopened letter from her sister and reads the envelope repeatedly. Every week she receives a letter from her sister in Marseilles. This week is no different. Her letters are often filled news about her children, the weather, the rising cost of things, and other generalities which Margot couldn’t care less about. She hasn’t seen her sister in years, nor did her sister invite her anymore. These letters are the extent of their communication. Not even phone calls. She sets the letter aside, unopened.

         Another prayer call. It must be noon.

         Yasmine is on her knees in the middle of the living room but she’s not praying. Yasmine never prays. Instead, she’s polishing one of the brass candlesticks from the mantle. When she hears the muezzin’s call to prayer, she looks up and says, ‘Where does the time go?’ Margot watches her, studies Yasmine’s hands as she polishes the candlestick. Even when engaged in such a strenuous task, her hands never lose their elegance.

         ‘I’ve notices you never pray when he calls,’ Margot says.

         ‘Never.’

         ‘I always assumed you were religious.’

         ‘No, not really. I do believe in God, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pray, either. Even at Henri’s funeral. I always assumed you were religious, too, but I never wanted to ask. That’s your business. I didn’t feel it was my place to ask.’

         ‘Sure it is. You’ve been with me for years. I’d like to think you are more to me than just a maid.’

         Yasmine looks up at her and smiles. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I appreciate that.’ She turns her attention back to the candlestick. ‘I like to think so, too.’

         Margot continues to watch her. Yasmine was always a very pretty woman. When Henri hired her, it was initially a cause for concern. She didn’t care for how she always looked at her husband with those dark, hypnotic eyes of hers. Any concern she may have had were alleviated over time. She was hired help, the servant, an unequal. Henri would never be caught dead with getting involved with one of them. She doesn’t even remember how Henri found her, but one day there she was and she’s been there ever since. She’s grown quite fond of Yasmine over the years, especially the last two, since Henri died. At first she was just a presence, taking care of them and the household duties. Now she’s virtually the only one Margot sees these days.

         Yasmine finishes polishing the candlestick and holds it up to the light. Satisfied, she places it back on the mantle. Margot watches her, her eyes following the contours of Yasmine’s natural curves. She aged well, she muses. Much better than she has. She looks away, lights a cigarette, and finally opens the letter from her sister.

 

. . . . . .

 

Later that evening, after dinner, and after Yasmine finished cleaning up and washing the dishes, Margot lights a cigarette and sits on the sofa with her old portfolio. Yasmine opens the door to the balcony to allow some fresh air in and to clear out the cigarette smoke. She then sits crosslegged on the floor with the book she’s currently reading.

         Margot hadn’t looked through her photos in a long time. She hasn’t taken any in a long time. The photos remind her of who she once was and the work she used to do, before moving to Oran with Henri, before her life became his. She had forgotten about many of the photos she’d taken. Artistic portraits of Paris, Marseilles, the French countryside, the faces she’d encountered around the Casbah and her travels abroad, one of which earned her an award. There are many personal photos as well — of Henri in his uniform, self portraits from her youthful years, which only serve as a stark reminder how old she’s become. There are a few of Yasmine, one of which was always her favorite. A candid shot she’s taken at one of the local cafés. She stares at the photo for a long moment, then looks over at Yasmine sitting on the floor reading her book. She’s aged as well but she’s no less beautiful. If anything, she’s even more so.

         She never quite understood why she felt so drawn to Yasmine over the years. It partly had to do with just having another woman around, one she could talk to about womanly things. She knew other women, of course. Mostly the wives of Henri’s friends and colleagues, but it wasn’t the same. She saw something of a kindred spirit in Yasmine, though their backgrounds couldn’t have been more different. She thinks it changed on the day she took that photo of her at the café. It was the first personal conversation they had with one another, just the two of them, with no male presence around to interject. They spoke of love and marriage and children. They spoke of intimacies and old lovers. Yasmine ceased being the hired help and became a human being. She looks over at Yasmine again. She’s grateful she’s there. After Henri died, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do. Yasmine’s presence helped her through hard times. Her presence still does.

         Margot sets the portfolio aside and lights another cigarette. Yasmine looks up and they hold one another’s gaze but they don’t say anything. Then, after a long silence, Margot asks, ‘Do you ever want to leave here?’

         The question startles Yasmine. ‘Why would you ask me that?’

         ‘I’m just curious. I mean, it was Henri who hired you, and now that he’s gone… I also don’t exactly lead the most exciting life.’

         ‘There’s you,’ Yasmine says. ‘Am I not doing my job well? Are you not satisfied?’

         ‘No, it’s not that. I want you to stay. You’ve been with me for a long time. I’ve grown quite fond of you.’

         ‘And I of you.’

         ‘What about your family? Do you ever want to see them?’

         ‘Coming here was the best thing that ever happened to me.’

         ‘Don’t you miss them?’

         ‘No.’

         ‘Didn’t you ever want to get married and have a life of your own?’

         ‘There is no one.’

         ‘Wouldn’t you like to meet someone?’

         ‘It’s very difficult to meet someone,’ she says. ‘I’m very happy here. I have you. I do not wish to leave.’

         ‘I’m happy to hear that. I don’t want you to leave.’

         ‘You’ve given me a nice home, treated me with kindness and respect.’

         ‘You never wanted children?’

         ‘If God willed it.’

         ‘I suppose it was never that important to you, otherwise you’d have left years ago. Henri was always adamant about not having children.’

         ‘Did you want children?’

         “Sometimes. Other times… I mean, look around us right now. Imagine bringing a child into this world? Besides, before I met Henri, I had ambitions. Children didn’t fit into the plan.’

         ‘You’re a well known photographer.’

         ‘I was.’

         She looks at the framed photographs hanging on the living room wall. Testaments to her prior life.

         ‘Come, sit with me,’ Margot says. ‘I want to show you something.’

         Yasmine sits next to her on the sofa. Margot places the portfolio on her lap. ‘Look,’ she says, showing Yasmine the photo from the café.’

         ‘Oh, my! When was that taken?’

         ‘Years ago. It was at that café down the street.’

         Yasmine leans forward to take a closer look. ‘I can’t believe I was once so young. I look like a child here.’

         ‘Do you remember the day I’m referring to? It was the first time you and I started to get to know one another.’

         Yasmine learns forward again, closely scrutinizing the photo. She’s sitting close enough for Margot to smell her perfume, feel a strand of Yasmine’s hair brush against her cheek. She inches away slightly, then turns the page of the portfolio.

         ‘That’s me,’ she says, ‘before I met Henri. Somewhere in Paris. I forget where. It’s hard to tell. The background isn’t in focus. I think my sister took this photo.’

         ‘You were so beautiful.’

         ‘That was around the time of the occupation, I believe. I met Henri not long after this photo was taken. We were married before the end of the war. I thought he would leave the military when the war ended but he stayed on, made it his career. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that, but I loved him. Perhaps a little too much.’

         ‘I don’t think you can ever love someone too much.’

         ‘I once thought so, too. Now I’m not so sure. Is it out of love that one surrenders their life for the life of someone else? Back then I reached for the stars. Once I married Henri, they seemed forever out of reach.’

         ‘I don’t know if I agree with that.’

         ‘That’s okay,’ Margot says. ‘It’s just how I feel sometimes.’

 

. . . . . .

 

It’s two-thirty in the morning and Margot can’t sleep. She gropes for her pack of Gauloises on the night table and pulls a cigarette from the pack. She sits up and lights it, allowing the rush of nicotine help soothe the sudden onset of anxiety. She gets out of bed and steps out onto the balcony. It’s a warm evening, breezy and quiet for once. No activity below save for the occasional jeep full of soldiers. It makes her think of Henri and how he never thought the recent troubles would touch him — or touch them. She finishes smoking her cigarette and goes back inside.

         She left her sister’s letter on the desk. She picks it up and reads it again. Perhaps this is the source of her anxiety. The letter was like all the others, mostly concerned with her sister’s problems, but it was how she signed off this time which triggered her: You were always one to reach for the stars. You will again. You just need to have faith. She reads that last line over and over, but she’s no longer sure if she believes that. She folds the letter and slips it back into the envelope, places it with all the others in the bottom drawer of her desk.

         On the way back to her bedroom she notices Yasmine’s bedroom door is ajar and the light is on. She doesn’t knock. Instead she slowly pushes open the door. Yasmine is asleep on her back, outside the sheets. The window is open and the ceiling fan is on. She sleeps in a night shirt and her underwear. Margot’s eyes trace the contours of Yasmine’s body, particularly her hips and thighs. She’s a very lovely woman, she muses. She always wondered if Henri was secretly attracted to her. She wouldn’t blame him if he was. He was always so adamant about the inferiority of the local population that she never dreamed he would ever get involved with anyone. Perhaps it was a ruse, a deflection tactic. She could never prove anything, even if it did happen. She was forced to trust him, to trust Yasmine. After the bombing which took Henri’s life, her social circle couldn’t understand why she would continue to have Yasmine around, as if she were somehow responsible for Henri’s death. No, she could never believe that Henri would have an affair with Yasmine, nor could she believe she would do so, even if he tried.

         Yasmine’s eyes flicker open. It takes her a moment to become cognizant of Margot’s presence in the doorway.

         ‘Is everything all right?,’ she asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

         ‘Your door was open and the light was on,’ Margot says. ‘I thought you might still be awake.’

         ‘I meant to shut the door and turn off the light but I guess I fell asleep.’

         ‘I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.’

         ‘What are you doing up?’

         ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

         ‘What’s troubling you?’

         ‘Nothing,’ Margot says with a smile. ‘Go on. Go back to sleep.’

         Margot turns off the light and closes the door.

         She still can’t sleep. She lies in bed thinking about the possibility of Henri and Yasmine. What if she had slept with her? Would he have been the same lover she knew? Would he have done the same things to her? Would he have found as much pleasure? What would have Yasmine felt? Would she have been as passionate? The thought of it makes her uncomfortable. She doesn’t want to think about it. In some ways, she can’t ever imagine Yasmine being passionate with anyone, much less with Henri. She’s never even seen her with anyone, never heard her mention another man. It occurs to her that the thought of Henri being with her is not what’s making her uneasy.

         She closes her eyes and tries to sleep but sleep won’t come. Too many intrusive thoughts. In order to think about something else, she thought of her sister’s letter. How did she allow herself to surrender? Why does she continue to?

 

. . . . . .

 

Margot steps out of the shower and wraps herself in a towel. She wipes away the condensation on the full length mirror on the bathroom door and looks at herself. She lets the towel drop to the floor. She lost so much weight. Perhaps too much. She twists and turns, searching for any trace of the woman she once was. At least to her mind. She needs to eat more, she tells herself. It’s been a rather difficult two years.

         She picks up the towel and dries her hair, combs it out with her fingers. Evidence of grey now appears at the roots. She combs through it with her fingertips, trying to hide them. She takes one last look at herself, then wraps the towel around herself again.

         Yasmine is already up. She’s in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Eggs, ham, potatoes. It triggers a pang of hunger. She watches Yasmine from the kitchen doorway. How is that she’s able to maintain her figure? She walks away before Yasmine is aware that she was even there.

         It’s another hot morning and she dresses appropriately. Some of Henri’s thins are still on the dresser — his bottle of cologne, his comb, a par of cufflinks. She couldn’t get herself to remove them. In a way, it allows her to feel he’s still present. When she finishes dressing, she grabs her pack of Gauloises from the night table and walks out to the balcony. It is a hot morning, and the sun has risen enough to make sitting outside a little uncomfortable. She adjusts the table umbrella for more shade, then sits down and lights a cigarette.

         Yasmine appears with Margot’s first cup of coffee.

         ‘Merci,’ Margo says.

         ‘Breakfast is almost ready.’

         Margot takes a long drag from the cigarette and takes her first sip of coffee. It arouses her senses, gives her the boost she needs. What would she do without Yasmine? She turns to look at her, through the window of the kitchen counter, where Henri always had his morning coffee. His ghost remains. She can almost see the back of his head, smartly dressed in his uniform. He always looked so handsome in his uniform. She believes Yasmine thought so, too. It revealed itself in how differently she looked at him whenever he wore it. It used to bother her. Then it no longer did.

         Yasmine returns with Margot’s breakfast on a tray. Margot thanks her and examines the eggs, ham, and potatoes. Yasmine never eats the ham she prepares, and Margot always felt guilty about eating it in front of her. Henri never cared, of course. If anything, he flaunted it.

         ‘Where are you going?’, Margot asks as Yasmine begins to reenter the apartment. ‘Have you eaten?’

         ‘I have,’ she says. ‘Just a cup of yogurt.’

         ‘That’s hardly a breakfast.’

         ‘It’s good for me.’

         ‘Did you have your coffee? Tea?’

         ‘Not yet.’

         ‘Go prepare yourself some and come join me. I can use the company this morning.’

         Yasmine returns with a cup of mint tea. Margot can smell the peppermint along with Yasmine’s perfume.

         ‘It’s going to be another hot one,’ Margot says. ‘Are you going out today?’

         ‘I have to go to the market,’ she says. ‘We’re low on eggs — and other things.’

         ‘I’ll go with you. I could stand getting out of here for a little while. I haven’t been to the Casbah in a while. Would you like to go?’

         ‘I would love to. Let me get ready.’

         ‘Relax, enjoy your tea. What’s the hurry?’

         They sit in silence. Margot eats her breakfast. Yasmine sips her tea. Margot occasionally glances at Yasmine, studies her face. It’s such a pretty face. If she ever wore makeup and let her hair down, she would be positively stunning. In some ways, she envies her, how she was able to maintain her natural beauty. Would Henri have attempted to seduce her?

         ‘There was a tie when I used to go often,’ Margot says.

         ‘I remember. Why don’t you anymore?’

         ‘I just don’t feel like it.’

         ‘That’s understandable.’

         ‘It’s not safe anymore.’

         ‘No, it isn’t.’

         ‘How about you? Why don’t you go out?’

         ‘I never really want to. Only sometimes.’

         ‘No friends? No man you’re interested in?’

         ‘There is no one,’ Yasmine says. ‘But that is okay.’

         ‘You’ve always been somewhat introverted. I’ve become something of one myself.’

         ‘It’s very difficult, I imagine.’

         ‘I miss him.’

         “I miss him, too.’

         ‘He never treated you all that well, did he?’

         Yasmine doesn’t answer her, sips her tea.

         ‘We quarreled over that sometimes.’

         ‘That wasn’t necessary.’

         ‘You’re a human being with feelings just like anyone else. It wasn’t right.’

         ‘He was my employer.’

         ‘That’s no excuse. You’re a very kindhearted woman.’ She looks at her, places her hand over Yasmine’s. ‘You deserved to be treated with respect.’ Margot holds her hand there for a long moment before pulling it away.

         ‘I always felt welcome here.’

         ‘You were always welcome here, despite Henri’s occasional abrasiveness.’ She touches Yasmine’s hand again. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

         Yasmine smiles, places her other hand over Margot’s.

         ‘Go on,’ Margot says. ‘Let’s get ready to go.’

 

. . . . . .

 

As they work their way through the souk, Margot observes the surrounding architecture, the market stalls, and the sea of interesting faces with a photographer’s eye. She regrets not bringing her camera.

         Yasmine walks a few paces ahead of her, pausing at one stall, then the next. She blends in seamlessly  while Margot feels uncomfortable and out of place. She never felt that way before but things are different now. The heavy presence of soldiers serves as a stark reminder. Henri’s uniform. They’re all wearing it. They are heavily armed. She now regrets coming here, for among these interesting ancient faces are those responsible for Henri’s death. She was repeatedly told to avoid going to the Casbah after his death, but it was always one of her favorite places. She had taken a lot of photographs here. Yes, things are different now, and these photogenic faces suddenly appear menacing, suspicious. She tries not to think about it and reclaim the joy she once had wandering through these labyrinthine streets, smelling the exotic aromas, listening to the atonal music emanating from the instruments of the musicians holding court. These faces don’t even look twice at Yasmine, that is, until the two of them begin walking together. Nervous, she slips her arm around Yasmine’s, pulling her closer to her. Yasmine looks at her and says, ‘Maybe we should go.’

         ‘No,’ Margot says. ‘I’ll be all right. Just stay close to me.’

         Margot doesn’t let go of Yasmine’s arm as they continue their way through the souk, casually browsing stall to stall. Yasmine purchase some of the items she needed, and they continue browsing. Margot keeps pulling Yasmine closer to her, clinging to her, a raft which will prevent her from drowning.

         ‘Are you all right?’

         ‘Yes, love,’ Margot says. ‘Just stay close to me. I’m just feel a bit anxious, that’s all.’

         An older man behind one of the stalls looks at her. Was that a smile or a sneer? An old woman glances at her as she passes by. Was it merely a glance or were her eyes full of daggers, ready to strike? And what of the children? Are they giving looks of curiosity or fear? Her heart races. She’s finding it increasingly difficult to breathe. She wobbles on her feet. Yasmine does her best to hold her steady.

         ‘I need to sit down,’ Margot says.

         Yasmine navigates through the crowd and squeezes past one of the market stalls, finding refuge in a doorway up one of the alley-like streets. Margot leans forward, tries to catch her breath. Yasmine puts her arm around her shoulder, pulls her close to her. It’s not quite an embrace but to Margot it feels like one. It immediately comforts her. Yasmine gently brushes the hair away from Margot’s face.

         ‘Just hold me,’ Margot says.

         Yasmine embraces her and holds her close. Margot hangs on, for she does not want to let go. Its the only thing preventing her from falling further into the depths of despair.

         ‘Maybe it was a mistake coming here,’ she says, weeping now. ‘I should have stayed home.’

         Yasmine strengthens her embrace, hangs on tight. She won’t allow Margot to fall.

         Margot suddenly senses a presence. She looks up. Before her stands a young soldier, his rifle slung over his shoulder. His expression reveals nothing. Neutral. Not even curiosity. He’s wearing the exact same uniform as Henri’s. The name tag over the left breast pocket says ‘Marceau’.

         ‘Is everything all right, Madame?’, the soldier asks.

         ‘Yes, thank you,’ Margot says. ‘I think it’s just the heat.’

         The soldier looks at Yasmine and holds her gaze. His facial expression remains neutral, but his eyes are full of suspicion.

         ‘She’s with me,’ Margot says. ‘She’s family.’

         There is a perceptible shift in the soldier’s eyes. Almost questioning. ‘Just be careful,’ he says. It’s not safe.’

         Margot nods. She knows better than anyone.

         The soldier leaves, rejoins his comrades who were standing a few feet away watching. Margot just notices them, all of them young, almost too young. As Henri was when she met him.

         ‘We should go,’ Yasmine says, and helps Margot to her feet.

 

. . . . . .

 

Margot sits in the armchair, two fingers pressed to the bridge of her nose, her sister’s letter open on her lap. You we’re always one to reach for the stars. You will again… The words keep repeating in her mind. She feels a little embarrassed about what happened at the souk. She’s grateful Yasmine was there for her, as she always seems to be. She closes her eyes, tries to quell a burgeoning headache. This is not like her, to fall apart in the manner in which she did. She doesn’t think she ever lost control like that, not even upon the news of Henri’s death. She carried herself with poise, dignity, grace. She didn’t want anyone to pity her. Everyone, even their closest friends, knew the risks involved. Henri especially, which is why he made sure if anything ever happened to him, Margot would be well taken care of.

         There was something else about rereading her sister’s letter. It’s the first time she seriously wondered how her life would have turned out had she not married Henri and actively pursued her own life. She most certainly wouldn’t be in Oran for one thing. Like her sister, she would have remained in France. Paris, most likely, and she would have had her own studio, been socializing with other artists, would have probably met another man with similar interests. She probably wouldn’t have been a middle aged widow living far from home, in a culture alien to her own, despite how things were meant to resemble home. She was never a pied-noir, but a settler, like many of her peers, those who followed their husbands’ call of duty. She supposes what is now happening was inevitable, though she never seriously thought it would touch them. Now she has no one. Only Yasmine, who will remain loyal to the end.

         She opens her eyes and peers at Yasmine through the counter window as she finishes washing the dishes. She can tell Yasmine’s thoughts were elsewhere. There is a line at the corner of her mouth which always deepens whenever she’s deep in thought. What was she thinking about? It made her look a little older than she was. Nevertheless, the skin of her shoulders and arms looked smooth and warm in the light of the kitchen. Margot folds her sister’s letter and slips it back into the envelope, leave it on her lap.

         Yasmine finishes washing the dishes and comes back into the living room. Her hair came loose, a single black curl dangles over one eye. She pauses before Margot, drying the excess moisture from her hands on the hem of her shirt.

         ‘How are you feeling?’

         ‘Margot lights a cigarette, looks at Yasmine through the rising tendrils of smoke.

         ‘I had a friend once,’ she says. ‘A long time ago. Long before I met Henri. We went to the university together and we shared a dorm room.’

         Yasmine says nothing, waits.

         ‘We sometimes shared a bed.’

         Yasmine listens, her eyes holding Margot’s gaze.

         ‘I never told Henri. I never thought it mattered.’

         ‘Did it?’

         ‘I don’t know. I’m not even sure why I’m telling you this.’

         ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea?’

         ‘No, thank you. It was a wonderful dinner. I’m absolutely stuffed. I don’t think I can handle anything else. Even coffee or tea.’

         Yasmine crosses the room and stands behind the chair. She places a soft touch to Margot’s shoulder. Margot remains still.

         ‘Will you stay?’

         ‘Of course,’ Yasmine says. ‘I want to stay.’

        Margot closes her eyes. The chair creaks softly as she leans back.