Free Sultan's Wife by Jane Johnson Page A

good God. ‘Does it?’ Have they even interviewed the wretched slaves? The idea is absurd, but even the walls have eyes in this place. ‘I was wearing pattens when I went out but they were the devil to walk in, so I took them off, preferring to go barefoot. It is a lot easier to wash mud off one’s feet than one’s shoes.’
    The two officers exchange a look. I wonder what it means.
    â€˜May we see the babouches, sir? For the sake of completeness,’ the older man says almost apologetically.
    Hell and damnation. I point to my feet. ‘Here they are: I have them on.’
    They look down. These Fassi slippers start life the colour of a new lemon, but with time they mellow to a muddy brown, and the leather spreads and moulds itself to the shape of your feet. Mine are as scuffed as those of the poorest carpenter, hardly warranting the necessity for pattens. The officers look suitably sceptical. ‘And these are the only babouches you own?’
    â€˜Yes.’ It sounds unlikely even to me.
    â€˜You won’t mind if we have a quick look through your room.’ A statement, not a question.
    I stood aside. ‘Go ahead.’
    It does not take them long: there is not much to see. They go throughthe chest, even flicking through my books, as if I could have hidden incriminating slippers between the pages. They find the wrapped packages I bought for Malik and forgot to give him: the ras el hanout and essence of attar; but these are easily identifiable by smell. Then they have a good look at the lap-desk, sniffing the inks as if they think I have bottled poisons out on display. When they find my
khanjar
, the ceremonial dagger all men (even the cut) carry on special occasions, they become quite animated; but their faces soon fall when they find it blunt and rusty, useless for sawing through an old man’s beard and throat. At last, unsatisfied, the young officer takes out of his satchel a roll of cloth and lays it on the floor. On it the shape of a foot has been imprinted in a dark, rusty brown.
    â€˜I made this impression at the scene of the crime. Would you be so good as to place your right foot upon it, sir?’
    Still so polite. I do as requested. The leather of my old babouches has spilled over the original line of the sole: my foot engulfs the smaller impression.
    â€˜Thank you, sir.’ The officer’s voice is pinched, spiteful. He rolls up the footprint resentfully. But still he isn’t finished. ‘Rachid,’ he says to the older man, ‘the pattens, please.’
    Oh, Maleeo … there they are, the damned things. The second officer removes them from his bag and places them on the ground before me.
    â€˜Would you slip these on … sir?’ His tone is spiteful.
    Should I pitch myself to the floor, feign sudden illness? Should I bluster and refuse to comply? I do neither. Balancing carefully, I push my right foot into the corresponding patten. But instead of incriminating me it sticks halfway down, the comfortable old leather babouche a good two sizes bigger than its pretty jewelled counterpart. The officer seeks to force the issue, but it is obvious that slipper and patten do not fit together. With a wrench that almost has me losing my balance, he separates the two and throws the offending patten aside.
    A huge smile threatens to light up my face, but I summon my kponyungu mask and quell the urge.
    â€˜They must have belonged to the dead gentleman.’ I spread my hands apologetically. ‘Is that all, sir? I have many duties to attend to.’
    The first officer regards me stonily. I return the stare, unblinking. At last his eyes slide past me. ‘And do you have the private use of the courtyard?’
    â€˜Others use it too,’ I say warily, but out they file.
    The rain has washed all the traces of blood from the fountain: the marble gleams pristine white. They kick around the enclosed square for a few minutes while I