Free A House in Fez: Building a Life in the Ancient Heart of Morocco by Suzanna Clarke

squirted straight upwards. It needed more than a new shower head; the pipes had to be completely redone, but I didn’t want to do that before the
flambement
was repaired. Until then, I would have to make do with bucket washes.
    But for every thoughtful act by Khadija and Abdul, there seemed to be one that left me feeling doubtful. One evening, they appeared at my door with a man they introduced as the guardian for the district. I had noticed him dabbing brown paint on doorways lower down the alley in the past few days, but now Abdul said the guardian was offering to remove the bags of rubble left by the door by the previous owners. I was happy to have this done, and after some consultation with Abdul, a price of a hundred dirhams was quoted. That sounded pretty steep; the restaurateur had told me it would be around forty dirhams.
    Khadija took me to one side and explained that, as this man was the guardian of the area, he was my second line of defence after them, so I needed to establish a good relationship with him. He also cleaned the street, she said, and if I paid him an additional twenty dirhams he would keep a special eye on my house.
    I felt as if I were being ambushed. Was this some kind of strategy to extract money from me? What would happen if I didn’t pay the money? Would the guardian let one of the neighbourhood thieves know when I was out? Feeling pressured I agreed, but only to paying half the amount now, and the remainder when the rubble was removed.
    The street guardian started to finger my door thoughtfully, running his hands over the protruding metal studs. I knew he was just dying to be let loose on it with that tin of brown paint I had seen earlier. ‘
Non
,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘
Non, merci
.’
    Next morning the rubble was gone, and that evening, quite late, there was a knock on the door and three men I’d never seen before were waiting outside with Abdul. They wanted the rest of the money. I had no idea how they fitted into the picture, but I gave them the remaining fifty dirhams and they wrote me a receipt for twenty. Since I’d now paid a hundred dirhams, I told them I wanted a receipt for that amount.
    They looked a little surprised, and Abdul quickly leapt in with an explanation I couldn’t understand. They altered the amount and I closed the door knowing I’d been fleeced, but uncertain how they had divided the proceeds.

DAVID FINALLY RETURNED to Fez, having spent August in the United States. I was on my way to catch up with him over dinner one evening when something unpleasant happened. Two young American women stopped me, saying they were lost and asking if they could follow me.
    ‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘I’m just going down to where the taxis are.’
    A moment later, a local man in his early twenties appeared. ‘I will show you the way,’ he said in French. It was a statement, not an offer.
    ‘Thanks, but it’s okay,’ I replied. ‘I’m taking them.’
    He stared at me coldly. ‘No,’ he insisted, ‘I will show them. The Medina can be a dangerous place.’ He narrowed his eyes, clearly annoyed that I was getting between him and a potential fee.
    ‘
Non, merci
,’ I said firmly, not about to let him intimidate me.
    He began to walk right in front of us, forcing us to slow our pace to his. I stopped to let him get ahead and the girls halted behind me, but he paused as well. ‘I am showing you the way,’ he said.
    I told him that I lived in the Medina, I knew the way, and we did not need his help.
    ‘I know exactly where you live,’ he replied, his piercing green eyes staring right into me.
    A chill ran down the back of my neck. I tried to keep my face neutral and move past him. At that moment he turned, stepping in front of me, and I accidentally kicked his ankle. Swinging round, he glared at me, eyes now filled with hate.
    ‘
Excuse moi, monsieur
,’ I said with a hint of sarcasm.
    ‘You will follow me,’ he stated, starting to lead us again.
    I had had