“Meskeen papak [Poor thing your father],” she said, dabbing her eyes. Another Zemmouri who held my father in high esteem. The string of condolences from Daddy’s acquaintances reinforced the reality of his passing. One of her daughters smiled at me. Poor Zora, I thought. She would need the services of an expert matchmaker to help her marry off her daughters, because finding mates for all six of them seemed an unlikely prospect in so poor a town. “You want something, take it now and pay me later,” she offered kindly. I thanked her and then made for the blind alley not fifty meters away. Near its mouth was our familiar whitewashed façade. The massive door had acquired some additional pockmarks since my last visit. Like all doors in the medina, it bore the scars inflicted by mischievous stone throwers and amateur soccer players kicking who-knows-what against it. Some joueurs de foot interrupted their game with a polite “Bonjour, madame” just long enough for me to step down into our stairwell. The boys’ French was rudimentary and my Arabic halting at best. Fortunately, we were always able to make ourselves understood. As I approached the door, an indescribable sensation of loss, or emptiness, came over me. Here I was on the threshold of two worlds — the one that I grew up in and the one where I now lived. Had it been years or mere months since my last visit? My compression of time threw past and present into stark relief. I was, in effect, entering a new world, one without my father in it. Standing there before the huge door, I felt suddenly uncertain about how to proceed. I paused and then, following convention, rapped the knocker three times. Even through the dense wood, I could hear its metallic clang reverberate through the house. “Shkoon [Who is it]?” came a familiar and sonorous query a minute later. The knock had brought our breathless housekeeper from the second floor. “Kreeb [Someone familiar],” I replied. Security bolts rolled back and the door opened. Like the Oum er-Rbia and Dar Zitoun itself, Bouchaïb Melhaj, our dear gardien and cuisinier, watchman and cook, endured life’s challenges with dignity. His slender build was similar to my father’s, I realized with a start. His cropped hair and compact moustache were a little greyer than when I last saw him. A tear pearled behind his black-rimmed glasses. “Katy! I always expected your father to recover from his illness and return to Dar Zitoun. Now, what are we to do?” he asked, wringing his hands. We embraced as I struggled to find words of reassurance. “Merci, Bouchaïb. My father was very grateful for all you have done.” My pathetic formality seemed to comfort him. He set about unloading the waiting carossa and paying the porter. While he did so I kicked off my shoes to feel the coolness of the mosaic floor in the entryway. The double foyers, with their fusty smell and chiaroscuro, were like a birth canal about to deliver me into the brilliant atrium. “Dar Zitoun is a magical place,” my father used to say. “Once I’m inside, I never want to leave.” At the riad’s epicenter, the sound of the percolating fountain enfolded me. I sensed the reassuring presence of familiar spirits. “I’ve brought him back,” I said under my breath. My brothers and I thought it best not to tell Bouchaïb about the ashes or the burial arrangements for fear of offending his cultural sensibilities. He’d already set a couple of hard-boiled eggs, a saucer of ground cumin, a bowl of black olives, and some warm khobz on the atrium table. I asked him to cancel my order at the ferran. He opened a bottle of Oulmès sparkling mineral water and left me with my thoughts. With glass in hand, I took in the soothing ambiance of the inner courtyard. The atrium, the
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