She looked up to the fortress with its brightly colored flags flapping above the towers and battlements. Mogador—the Blue Pearl of the Atlantic, as the Arabs called it—rose up behind the ramparts. Cube-shaped houses with no more than two stories were lined up close to each other. Their whitewashed walls gleamed in the sunlight. The tall tower of the minaret rose into a sky so blue as to make the recent fog seem like a dream. The national flags of the foreign consulates were hoisted high above the roofs. Seagulls screeched above. The wind tore at Sibylla’s dress and tousled her hair. Tiny grains of sand stung her skin.
There were other high-sea ships besides the Queen. Sibylla recognized French, American, Spanish, and Prussian ensigns, but compared to the bustling Port of London, they were few. Several smaller boats were berthed at the mole. Fishermen sat along the water’s edge, mending their nets. There was also a small wharf where the wooden frame of a fishing boat was being readied. Sibylla noticed a group of men emerging from the darkened arches of one of the massive entrances to the city.
“The welcoming committee,” remarked Captain Brown, who had accompanied them to deal with the customs formalities.
At the head of the small troop was an Arab with a carefully trimmed silver beard. He wore a white turban, a white tunic under an open black burnoose, and flat slippers. His suntanned face radiated the confidence of a man accustomed to power.
“Is that the qaid?” Sibylla wanted to know.
Brown nodded. “A high-level official. One of Morocco’s ruling elite, the Makhzen—a frequent visitor to the court.”
The other younger Arab, similarly dressed, hung back, as did a man in a black kaftan and turban. The fourth man, a middle-aged European dressed elegantly in a fine tailored suit, stepped forward.
“Welcome to Mogador, Mrs. Hopkins, Mr. Hopkins,” he said with a bow. “William Willshire, British consul, at your service. I am accompanied by His Excellency Qaid Hash-Hash, governor of Mogador; his translator, Nuri bin Kalil; and Mr. Philipps, the harbormaster.” As he spoke, Willshire gestured to the two Arabs and the man dressed in black.
Sibylla’s excitement rose. She had resolved to make the best possible first impression, not merely out of politeness, but for the benefit of her father’s business.
She smiled at the qaid and said slowly but clearly, “Assalamu alaikum, peace be upon you.”
Expecting the governor to be delighted at being greeted in his mother tongue, she was shocked when the man looked right past her—as did his translator. Had she somehow offended the qaid? She had practiced the greeting so carefully. She turned to Mr. Willshire, who shrugged his shoulders and said quietly, “It is not that His Excellency wishes to offend you, Mrs. Hopkins. Quite the contrary, he would never consider being so disrespectful as to address you or even look at you in the presence of your husband. This is his way of honoring you both.”
“Oh,” she whispered. Her first faux pas.
Benjamin was annoyed by Sibylla’s forwardness. Did she want the governor to think that, in England, women considered themselves the equals of men? He stepped forward with his right hand extended. “My pleasure, Your Excellency. My name is Hopkins, of Spencer & Son.”
The governor did not take Benjamin’s hand, but he did bow slightly. “Assalamu alaikum, Mr. Hopkins.” He continued in Arabic. “You have brought us a stiff breeze, as they say at sea. Many a ship has wrecked on our breakwaters. But not the English, kings of the seas.”
Bin Kalil translated and the qaid smiled at every word. But Benjamin felt slighted nonetheless. He turned and asked the consul, “Why the devil didn’t he shake my hand?”
“Well,” said Willshire, clearly embarrassed as bin Kalil translated every word. “His Excellency would never touch an infidel.”
The qaid smiled even more broadly and had the translator tell them, “His Excellency hopes that you will feel at home in Mogador and is looking forward to receiving you in his residence soon.”
The two Arabs bowed and returned to the city. Captain Brown went to the customs station with Mr. Philipps and the rest of the group headed for the city gate.
Having overcome her nausea, Sibylla now watched the bustling port with fascination. Just like in London, the harbor here was teeming with sailors. Some loaded and unloaded ships, using the yardarm of the mainmast as a hoist, while others were busy cleaning or carrying out repairs. She could hear hammering and sawing, and she saw sailors filling holes in ships’ hulls, restoring broken masts, and mending torn sails. Small rowboats in the harbor basin transported crates and barrels of wares and provisions to be checked by the harbormaster’s clerks before disappearing into warehouses or the belly of a ship.
On the other side of the city gate, two adolescent Arab boys held the reins of the donkeys that Mr. Willshire had arranged to transport the new arrivals. Benjamin made a face and muttered that they would look foolish. Exhausted as she was, though, Sibylla was grateful for the opportunity to ride.
They entered the city from the south and rode across the square behind the city gate.
“This gate is called the Bab El Mersa,” Mr. Willshire explained. “There are, of course, other entrances to the city. The caravans from the northeast, for instance, enter through the Bab Doukkala because of its easy access to the souk.”
They passed the qasbah, the fortress. Sibylla noticed some cannons on the fortifications and a pair of storks nesting on one of the towers. The birds, busy feeding their young, made Sibylla think of the baby in her belly. Benjamin also spotted the storks and, when his eyes met hers, they smiled at each other.
The medina was behind the qasbah. Hardly any sunlight reached into the narrow alleys. This form of construction offered protection against the heat of the midsummer sun and the unrelenting wind. Sibylla was surprised by the plainness of the buildings in the medina. The walls were unadorned and whitewashed with unwelcoming blue doors without windows. No sounds could be heard from behind the thick walls. She was disappointed, having pictured palm trees and citrus groves, fig trees and fountains. Yet all she saw here were stray cats, children playing on the well-trodden clay, and a few gaunt beggars cowering on the ground. “In God’s name, please give me something to eat!”
“Is it just me, or were the streets here drawn with a ruler?” Benjamin remarked.
“You are quite right,” Willshire answered. “A French architect designed Mogador on a drafting table seventy years ago. He was the sultan’s prisoner, but after his work found favor with his captor, he was allowed to return home.”
“And why did the sultan want to build this city?” Sibylla inquired.