Wedding Bells… Not! - Part VI

I married well known Czech photographer, Werner Forman, on a dark rainy day at a registry office in London, largely because my mother, who had a crush on him, insisted. Her feelings for Werner, her desire to keep him in the family, were what led to his proposal of marriage and everything that followed.

THIS IS PART 6 of a NINE-PART STORY

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

Werner and I had stepped into another world, a timeless world that could have been many centuries old. The man who greeted us at the entrance to the walled city was to be our host; he gestured for us to dismount and for the boys tending the horses to lead them away. We never learned his name. He told us he was the “Glaoui” of the city and surrounding area, a term we took to mean “Lord” or “Mayor.” (This was a historical term that was somewhat lightly thrown around, and we later learned that many people called themselves Glaoui.) He was middle-aged with a friendly, but also slightly crafty look on his face; instinctively I didn’t trust him.

Still, our guide had disappeared and we were in this man’s hands, so we followed him into a steep, narrow, three-story house. On the second floor, we were ushered into a gorgeous living room, one that might have been a movie set for typical Islamic style and luxury, with keyhole-shaped windows that looked over the green valley below, scattered floor pillows, thick Berber rugs. Werner explained that he was a photographer eager to take pictures of the house, the town, the Glaoui himself. Glasses of iced tea were brought to us, and I immediately noticed that Werner’s tea was different from mine — filled with sugar and a little jungle of mint, whereas mine was plain, honey-colored. As we drank our tea, the Glaoui, whose English was quite good, told us we were esteemed guests and he hoped we would spend the night. 

“That won’t be possible,” Werner said.

 “I insist,” said the Glaoui. 

Already the light was failing, it was growing dusky. A number of burly men in djellabas had entered the room and were standing around, staring at us. I was beginning to feel uneasy.

Once again, the Glaoui insisted that we spend the night. A sumptuous meal would be prepared and we would sleep in luxury. And, once again, Werner said no — he had to return to Marrakech for a different camera but would come back to the village the following day. He was very excited; the shots he would set up would be perfect for his book, Cities of a Thousand and One Nights. 

The Glaoui made it plain that he was disappointed. But somehow Werner was able to explain to him that we really would be returning the following day. And that we had to leave NOW because it was already practically dusk. 

But that was the weird thing: Werner, who was extremely nervous about the horseback ride back to the car in the dark was now dawdling, staring out the windows and around the room, and saying in a slow, rubbery, halting voice that this place was more beautiful than any place he’d ever been. 

That didn’t make sense to me. I knew something was wrong.

Cover photo: Kyriacos Georgiou

Next: Read Wedding Bells… Not! Part 7