They stood waiting outside the large, Moorish, cedarwood front door that was no longer really in vogue. You didn’t see riad-style doors or zellige-tiled fountains much anymore in Anfa Supérieur. Now it was all wrought iron gates, plate glass windows, white villas like in Los Angeles and dogs. A minute earlier, as they’d turned into Rue Ibnou Jabir, the labrador belonging to the villa on the corner had barked as they went by. Yaya leapt in fright, then muttered, ‘Dirty beast. Who keeps a fucking street dog in their house? They really fancy they’re French.’ The heavy double doors drew slowly open and a maid appeared, wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Welcome, Lalla, welcome, Sidi.’ She bobbed her head, smiling. She led them along a little stone path set into the grass. As they made their way among the palm trees and red hibiscus, Sarah counted her footsteps—one, two, three, ten steps, fifteen steps, as many as her street in Hay Mohammadi, and they hadn’t even reached the garden
