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  ‘Did someone cast a spell on the princesses?’ I asked my mother.

  ‘Of course not. I wish you’d stop listening to Abuela’s silly stories.’ My mother worked as a typist in the local sardine canning plant. She was a modern, educated woman, unlike my grandmother who she said belonged in the Dark Ages.

  ‘Then why were they sad?’

  ‘They were both in love with a handsome cavalier who went to the Sahara in search of a sand rose. He got lost and both N’fissa and Fatma died of sorrow.’

  I watched the play of shadows and light on the white graves and thought of my father. He too got lost, but it wasn’t in the Sahara. It was on his way back from Blida where he’d been building a bridge. The gendarmes found his van in the Chiffa gorges. They believed his body had been washed away in the torrent below. My abuela, however, maintained he would come back.

  I peered anxiously at my mother. ‘Papa has been gone for a long time. You’re not going to die of sadness, are you?’

  She smiled, gave me a peck on the cheek, and took my hand. ‘No, Paulette. I won’t.’

  We followed the narrow alleyways lined with white houses, ancient palaces, and mosques with tall minarets darting towards the pure blue sky before going down a flight of steps onto the market square. My mother held my hand more tightly as we made our way through the noisy crowd. The market smelled of fried food, fish, and donkey dung. Chickens clucked in wicker baskets. Stray dogs barked and snarled as they fought for scraps of food. I wanted to dip a finger in the tubs of yellow or rust coloured spices to see if they tasted as good as they looked, or bite into a honey makrout, a piece of crumbly halva, or a slice of juicy watermelon, but my mother pressed ahead.

  At last she stopped in front of a stall piled high with rolls of fabric.

  ‘This one will do just fine,’ she said, pointing to a roll of shimmering peach satin. She turned to me and winked. ‘Now I think we deserve a milkshake at the Café Américain, don’t you?’

  She folded the fabric into her shopping bag and we walked down Rue Bab-Azoun, which separated the Kasbah from the European quarters.

  ‘Not a word to your grandmother about this,’ my mother urged after we sat down at a terrace and ordered two chocolate milkshakes. ‘She wouldn’t approve of the two of us sitting out here and would probably threaten us with an army of vengeful djinns. It’s not really her fault, poor Abuela. All she ever did was scrub her house, cook for her family, and fill her mind with silly superstitions. How your father put up with her nonsense, I’ll never know.’

  She slipped her sunglasses on, turned to look at the bay and the bright blue Mediterranean Sea criss-crossed by dozens of fishermen boats, their sails flapping in the breeze, and let out a long, contented sigh.

  As always when we came to Algiers, she looked younger and carefree. I guessed she’d rather live here instead of sharing my grandmother’s house in Suffren where we had moved after my father’s accident. They didn’t always get on. In fact, I often heard them argue in the evenings, even if they kept their voices down so as not to wake the ‘neighbours from below’ – the djinns.

  They argued about an obscure ‘ten-year deadline’, about my mother’s short skirts, and above all about her evenings out with Philippe Casabianca, a man who worked at the sardine canning plant who my mother had befriended. Abuela’s eyes grew so dark and grim when she watched my mother get ready to go out that I always held my hand open behind my back and whispered the magic number against the evil eye, ‘Cinq ’ – five. Just in case.

  ‘Ready, darling?’ My mother put her empty glass down and we walked to the town hall where she said she had an appointment at the registry office.

  I played hopscotch on the mosaic tiling in the corridor whilst waiting for her. Her meeting lasted a long time and I grew bored and hot, but when she came out at last I saw that she’d been crying so I didn’t complain.

  We arrived home back in Suffren to find my grandmother sitting at the kitchen table with her old friend Madame Fabregas, who had a reputation for holding séances and communicating with the spirit world. In fact, she was the one who had put into my grandmother’s head the idea that my father was alive.

  ‘Your papa lost his way but he’ll be back,’ she would tell me, squeezing my shoulders with her bony, claw-like fingers. So Abuela hung pairs of scissors from every door handle in the house, as they were supposed to help people or objects find their way back. Although I had my doubts, and couldn’t quite understand how this was possible, I would never have dreamt of removing them.

  With their black dresses, black tights, and black scarves, my grandmother and her friend looked like giant ravens who had been turned into human forms by a mischievous wizard. Abuela cast my mother a reproachful glance when we walked in.

  ‘You took your time.’

  My mother muttered an apology, left the shopping bag with the fabric in on the table, and disappeared into the small bedroom we shared at the back of the house, clutching her handbag against her chest. Abuela turned inquisitive eyes towards me but I had no intention of being submitted to an interrogation regarding our whereabouts while in Algiers, so I fled the kitchen and went into the garden. Moments later, my friend Salima called from the side alley. She was far too scared of my grandmother to ever step into the house or the garden.

  ‘Where have you been? I missed you today,’ she said, leaning over the fence.

  We didn’t have school on Thursdays, so I usually spent the afternoon helping out in her father’s grocery shop. Salima dug her hand into the pocket of her apron and took out a crumbly date pastry, my favourite.

  ‘Father sent this for you.’

  We arranged to meet the following morning before school and she ran back home, her bare feet kicking clouds of fine white sand behind her.

  At nightfall that evening my grandmother had another visitor – a woman called Aicha, who stayed on the threshold and handed her a covered basket. More herbs or magic beads, I thought as my grandmother slipped a few coins into the woman’s hand before taking the basket into her room.

  I had just gone to bed when I heard my mother and grandmother argue again. This time it was about some documents my mother wanted to sign.

  ‘You’re killing him,’ my grandmother said in a harsh whisper. ‘I won’t let you.’

  ‘Armand is dead, Dolores. He’s been dead ten years. I’m only petitioning the court now to have him declared dead officially.’

  ‘I know what it’s all about. You want to marry Philippe Casabianca. Then you’ll leave and Paulette won’t be here when her father comes back …’

  ‘How many times must I say it? Armand won’t be coming back, ever …’ My mother let out a loud sigh. ‘And what if I want to marry again? I’m still young, I don’t want to remain a widow all my life.’

  They carried on arguing but I pulled the cover over my head. I’d heard enough …

  The next morning as usual, I woke up after my mother left for work. I got ready, grabbed my satchel, and hurried to meet Salima.

  ‘Abuela is angry with my mum,’ I told her as we walked to school.

  Salima gasped. I didn’t need to say why I was worried. She knew all about my grandmother’s dark powers.

  ‘Then your mother must wear a hamsa for protection against the evil eye,’ she said, referring to a popular amulet in the shape of an open hand.

  ‘But Maman doesn’t believe in the evil eye.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to buy it for her at the market on Saturday and hide it under her pillow or in the pocket of her blouse.’

  She tilted her chin towards the white-clad silhouettes of the nuns opening our school gates. ‘Why don’t you ask them for help? After all, they have their own magic, don’t they?’

  I pulled a face. ‘I’d rather not. They’ll probably send me to the chapel as soon as I mention djinns or the evil eye, and I’ll have to spend the day kneeling down and reciting thousands of Hail Marys.’

  When I came back from school that day I found th
e house dark and the shutters tightly shut. The oven was still hot and a tantalising smell of fresh bread hung in the air. My grandmother had been baking.

  ‘Can I have some bread please, Abuela?’

  ‘It’s not for you,’ she scolded before covering her hair with her black shawl.

  I knew better than to insist.

  As usual, my mother and I sat in the garden as soon as she came back from work. She was frowning, I could see she had something on her mind.

  ‘I agreed to meet Philippe for an ice cream this evening,’ she said at last. ‘He really wants to know you better. Would you like that?’

  I shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  Although I had nothing against Philippe Casabianca I was far too afraid of my abuela to encourage my mother’s relationship with him.

  Disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm, my mother sighed and pointed to my scuffed shoes. ‘You need a new pair. I’ll take you to Algiers next Thursday.’

  There was nothing wrong with my shoes, I thought, therefore it must be an excuse to go to town and file the papers about my father. I spun round and my chest tightened as I saw a shadow move in the kitchen doorway.

  My grandmother hardly spoke a word during our evening meal. Her eyes dark, her lips pressed in tight, hard line, she toyed with the gold locket where she kept a photograph of my father. However as we were leaving to meet Philippe in town, she pressed a parcel wrapped in a tea towel into my mother’s hands.

  ‘Some olive bread I made for Philippe,’ she said.

  ‘How kind of you, Dolores. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it very much.’ My mother took the peace offering, a surprised, but happy smile on her face.

  Philippe was waiting for us at the ice-cream parlour. He called my mother’s name. She waved back, but as she started across the terrace she staggered and held on to my arm.

  She took a deep breath, forced a smile. ‘I feel a little dizzy suddenly, but don’t worry, it’s nothing. It must be the full moon …'

  ‘Must be,’ I agreed, glancing at the huge white moon staring at us like a giant eye, but a cold hand gripped my heart. Had my grandmother already started her work?

  Even though my mother remained pale all evening, I couldn’t help but notice how warmly she smiled at Philippe, and how his face lit up when he looked at her. We had cakes and ice creams. Philippe ordered coffee and ate some of Abuela’s olive bread.

  ‘This is delicious. I will make sure I thank Dolores tomorrow night when I pick you up to go to the dance club.’

  The next morning, my mother was still in bed when I woke up, which never, ever happened.

  ‘Maman. What’s wrong?’ I touched her forehead. It was warm and clammy. She didn’t open her eyes, even when I shook her shoulder to wake her up.

  ‘Abuela! There’s something wrong with Maman!’ I called in a panic.

  My grandmother came into the room, took one look at my mother, and left again. She returned with a pan of cool water and a flannel, sat on the bed, and started patting my mother’s forehead with the damp cloth.

  I changed into my sundress and slipped my sandals on.

  ‘Shall I get Docteur Rousseau?’

  ‘No. Leave us for now. I know what to do.’

  So did I.

  I knew she kept a money pot behind the stove. I retrieved it, took a few coins out, and slipped out of the front door. I would buy a hamsa and take it back to my mother, and later I would fetch the doctor even if my grandmother didn’t want me to. I only hoped it wasn’t too late.

  The local market was in full swing when I arrived on the main square, but it was only small and it didn’t take me long to locate a jewellery stall over which an old Bedouin was watching. After rummaging through a wooden box filled with pendants and charms, I pulled out a silver hamsa with a sigh of relief.

  ‘You have evil eye trouble, child?’ the Bedouin asked.

  I nodded. ‘My mother has a fever. I think my grandm … I mean, I think someone cast a spell on her.’

  ‘I see.’ He stroked his neatly trimmed grey beard. ‘If the fever has taken hold already, then the hamsa won’t be much help. I’ll tell you what you must do. Go to the beach and fill a jug with the water from seven waves. Then go home and sprinkle water in every room of your house whilst saying these words “Alla ya’ardh lak”, but be careful to leave enough water in the jug to spray on your mother.’

  He made me repeat the words a few times. I put the hamsa in my pocket and ran to Salima’s house to borrow a jug, then ran to the beach to fill the jug with seawater as instructed. Back home, I cupped some water in my hand and sprinkled it throughout the house, whispering the incantation the Bedouin had taught me. When I was done, I pushed the bedroom door open with my shoulder and threw the remaining water on my mother’s bed.

  Too late I saw the black-clad shapes of my grandmother and Madame Fabregas, sitting on the bed like birds of ill omen. The water splashed all over them.

  ‘Paulette! What on earth are you doing? Have you lost your mind?’ My grandmother jumped up, her hair and the back of her dress dripping wet.

  ‘Maman is going to die and it’s all your fault,’ I blurted out.

  ‘What are you talking about? Madame Fabregas and I have made a pot of willow tea for the fever.’

  ‘I hate you, and I hate Madame Fabregas too! It’s Docteur Rousseau Maman needs, not your wicked witch potions.’

  I put my hand over my mouth and took a step back. Never before had I been so rude to my grandmother. I fully expected a resounding slap but all she did was frown.

  ‘I’ll get the doctor if that’s what you really want,’ she said before turning her heels and walking out, Madame Fabregas close behind like a shadow.

  There was no time to lose. I retrieved the hamsa from my pocket and placed it under my mother’s pillow. Kneeling down by her bed, I then clasped my hands together and tried to remember every single prayer the nuns had taught me at school. I don’t know how long I stayed there. A long time I think, because bright sunlight filtered through the curtains and the room became hot and stuffy.

  The door creaking open startled me. I looked up and relief washed over me as Docteur Rousseau walked in. He asked me to leave so he could examine my mother.

  ‘How can you believe I wish your mother ill?’ my grandmother said as we waited in the kitchen. ‘I love her like my own daughter, and I love you too. All I ever wanted is for everything to be right for when your papa comes back.’

  ‘But Maman says he isn’t coming back.’

  ‘Of course he is. I know he is. I feel it, here.’ She put her hand on her heart.

  When the doctor finally came out of the bedroom, he announced that my mother suffered from Dengue Fever. ‘Aspirin, poultices, and plenty of rest will help,’ he said. I wasn’t convinced it would be enough, but I said nothing and secretly resolved to get more seawater the following day. Whatever my grandmother claimed, I knew she was up to something.

  When Philippe called for my mother on his way to the dance club that evening, he was so worried to hear about her illness that he wanted to stay with us. My grandmother wouldn’t hear of it and insisted he went out. To my astonishment she even fed him more olive bread, poured out a glass of fortified wine for him, and made polite conversation while he ate and drank. He left after promising to visit the following morning.

  He didn’t come in the morning. He didn’t come in the afternoon.

  It was Salima who, braving her terror of my grandmother, brought us the terrible news. As he was driving home after the dance, Philippe crashed his Renault through a barrier on the coastal road. He was killed instantly.

  It took a long time for my mother to recover from the fever and from the shock of losing Philippe, but even if she got better she was never the same after her illness. Instead of returning to work, she spent hours sitting on the patio under the purple bougainvillea, lost in a dream. She stopped telling me stories. She didn’t flick through my father’s Michelin guidebook any longer.

&n
bsp; One morning, she said she felt well enough to take me to Algiers, and we headed once again for the Kasbah and the Cemetery of the Two Princesses. There she sat on a bench and took my hand in hers.

  ‘Your father told me so many stories,’ she started in a wistful voice. ‘Most were sweet and romantic, but a few were unsettling or downright scary. One such story came back to me when I was ill and I haven’t been able to think of anything else since.’

  Her voice became a whisper. ‘He said that in villages of the Sahara, armed guards patrol the cemeteries on nights when there is a full moon.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Because of the witches who dig up freshly buried corpses to cut off their right hand.’

  I cried out in shock, but she ignored me. Her eyes fixed on a distant point, she carried on. ‘They use the dead man’s hand to knead dough and make bread, and when the bread is ready they give it to someone they want dead. If that person eats it, they perish without fail.’

  She turned to me, a haggard look in her eyes. ‘Your grandmother baked some bread for Philippe. Now, why would she do that when she hated him? It was the full moon, I remember it well. And Aicha, whose brother works at the undertaker’s, came to visit the evening before. She was carrying a basket with a lid on. I remember thinking she looked shifty, scared even …’

  ‘No, Maman,’ I cried out. ‘Abuela wouldn’t …’

  ‘Wouldn’t she?’ she interrupted in a calm voice.

  I didn’t answer. After all I had suspected Abuela to have caused my mother’s fever, and it was indeed strange that she’d fed Philippe bread and wine the evening he had his car accident …