Tunisian Dreams

The drizzle was slowly but surely soaking her and making navigating a bicycle over the "kinderkopjes", the granites cobble stones like round children's skulls, of the small streets of the old Dutch university town, a dangerous affair. One too rash move would have her sliding. Nevertheless, Maartje almost willed her bicycle forward and peddled as fast as she could.

"Maartje Sarah de Vries, you have to make it on time you fool!"

Exactly today when the Cathage exhibition in the archaeological museum would be officially opened by professor Selim Hassan and the ambassador of Tunisia, one of the mothers of her third graders URGENTLY had to talk to her.

Yes of course it could not wait. And no it had not helped that she had mentioned several times she really needed to go. The woman had just been full of herself and completely blind to every signal. And if she really had something important to discuss. No it had been just some whining.

Oh Maartje really loved her job as a teacher. She loved to see the little ones grow from toddler to teenagers. And after her divorce she needed the money too. But today was special. Today Maartje would be an archaeologist again and not an aging spinster schoolteacher.

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Twenty years ago Maartje had come to this ancient city to study archaeology. She had spent months in Syria digging up a hill and had dreamt of living and working in all kind of faraway places. Of the adventure of foreign cultures, different landscapes, new foods.

But she had already fallen in love with Jeroen by then. Jeroen who was a few years older and who just had his first job as a contract lawyer at a big firm in the capital. She could not bear to be separated from him for a long time and travelling from dig to dig with her would in fact kill his career. It had seemed logical to make his job a priority. Did not attorneys earn a lot more money than a starting freelance archaeologists?

She had listened to Jeroen's advice and gotten a degree in teaching history to students in highschool. By then they had been happily married and ready to start a family. Jeroen and Maartje had moved to the rural east of the country so they could move into the small estate he had inherited and Jeroen had started his own lawfirm there. He had asked Maartje to be his secretary so all the income of the firm would go into their pockets.

Maartje had been happy to be of help to secure Jeroen a foothold in the legal landscape in the small provincial town. Even when the lawfirm had grown and many new associates were working there, she still was his secretary because somehow no baby appeared.

When at last Maartje had herself checked out at the hospital she was told she would have no problem to conceive so it must be a problem on Jeroen's side. When after quite a delay he had gone to have himself tested the verdict had been devastating: Sterile.

Maartje had seen her lifelong dream of a small head suckling her breast crumble to dust. Adoption had never been an option as Jeroen was against that. Maartje had cried and cried in secret but she loved her husband and they both had to deal with this loss and go on with their lives would they not?

With the plan of her own family forever lost Maartje had contemplated a career again. Jeroen was now a big shot and they had more money than they needed. So she had planned to go into teaching. However the highschools were not exactly waiting for a history teacher with no work experience. In the end someone had told her the primary school was looking for someone to teach the little ones. It was only for three months as the regular teacher was having a baby.

Maartje had left the lawfirm and enjoyed her new job. She might not have her own children, at least she had children around her all day. Jeroen seemed to have trouble to cope with that however. When she started to tell things that had happened during the day he would just grumble a bit.

When the blossoming mother had resumed her job Maartje had expected to go and help Jeroen again while she was looking for another job. But he had said he did not need her at the office anymore as he hired a new girl and she best could go and do some volunteering at a museum

That had been easier said than done and sitting home in an empty house had her boring herself to death, so she had insisted on coming back to work at the office. Jeroen had looked strange when she said that. The next morning when she was ready to go back to work he had taken her to his room in the lawfirm and closed the door. Then he had introduced her to mrs Verheij one of his associates.

Out of the blue he had told her he had an affair with his new secretary and was divorcing her and mrs. Verheij would represent him and she could discuss all with that lady. Of course she would understand it that from now on she had to live somewhere else.

Flabbergasted she had looked at the man. The man who she had loved over 15 years and for whom she had been willing to give up on children. He had someone else?

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She had moved back to the old university town and used the money from the divorce settlement to buy her cheap walkup apartment. To her horror she had discovered her prenup made sure all the estate went to Jeroen and the business was in his name only. Mrs Verheij had made it abundantly clear she might be very grateful that as a sign of goodwill Jeroen had been willing to grant her 50,000 euro to settle in somewhere else at least 100 kilometres away from him. Her own lawyer had adviced her to take it.

That was now two years ago and after some chats with a psychologist, long nights of crying, a ton of cookies and junkfood she had found herself a slightly overweight, aging spinster with no living family and ignored by former in-laws and business acquaintances, who had to live from such a small amount of alimony that equalled welfare. Oh yes Jeroen definably was a good lawyer. More and more she had come to realise it had always been about Jeroen and Jeroen only.

Of course even as a Dutch lawyer he would have been able to have a decent job if he had followed her abroad. He could have done a PhD or teach at a foreign university. Instead of helping him at his firm he could have suggested she would do a PhD when money was not tight anymore. He even did not seem to care that she was not growing heavy with children as now he could still show her off as his goodlooking wife. And have some juicy young flesh on the side.

After the grief had come the anger. And after the anger had come the resolve. So Maartje had accepted a job at the local school, got herself a subscription to the local gym and when the museum of antiquities advertised they were looking for a volunteer to help with the typing for the Carthage-expo she had applied.

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The last 6 months she had spent her Thursday evenings at the museum and her weekends typing about the history of Carthage.

Carthage situated in what was now Tunisia, had been the city of queen Dido and of Hannibal the general who crossed the Alps with his elephants. The archenemy of Rome. In the end Rome had won the Punic wars and Carthage had been razed to the ground, salt ploughed into the soil. Then the Romans had started their own outpost close by.

The museum had partnered up with the Tunisian museum of Carthage to bring several artefacts to The Netherlands for display. Their director, professor Selim Hassan, was coordinating. Maartje spent many hours translating his text for the book that people would be able to buy at the museum. She had also taken care of all the descriptions that would explain the objects discussing what would sound best with the professor. Showing him different types of layouts and stories. Together they had decided to make a special version for children who would come to see the statues.

Professor Hassan did not do Facebook or Whatsapp so all their conversations were by mail or over Skype. Although he did not use a camera on Skype and she thought it was unprofessional to ask. His museum did not have pictures of the staff on display on their website and as he had told her his wife and his daughter were teachers like her she pictured him a nice elderly gentleman with probably a big moustache. In the months working together on the project she had told him all about her recent grief. He had said that in his experience working hard and find new goals worked best.

He also would tell her a lot about his country. About the Cathage dig. The museum started by monks. The way the bay looked in the sunshine. About his house in the beautiful village Sidi Bou Said with its white walls and blue doors leading to courtyards. Sometimes she had the feeling she could see the place in her mind when she would hear his rich deep voice talking about it. She knew a lot of the Roman era of Tunisia but was completely unfamiliar with the later Arabic history so she loved to hear him talk about his house that was two centuries old.

Working hard on the same project had created a bond and she was happy he was coming to the Netherlands to officially open the exhibit. He had promised her last week to buy her dinner as a thank you for all her volunteering providing she would take them somewhere really Dutch. She had said that would be pancakes. During her break today she had called the restaurant and then realised she had forgotten if mrs Hassan would be there as well or just the two of them. So to be safe she had made a reservation for three.

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And now the drizzle was ruining her new shoes and making her hair look that of a wet poodle. Her curls were plastered at her head and she was shivering in the cold November wind.

Hurry, hurry or she would be late for the opening. She had to be early so she could hand everyone a booklet and coupons for coffee.

With a sharp turn she steered her bicycle onto the street lining the major canal. She was getting close now. The bridges were steep and she had to make speed but the museum was in sight.

Just when she was almost there a pizza delivery boy on his moped came tearing out of one of the small alleyways. He tried to make the turn onto the canalstreet but the combination of cobblestones slippery from the rain and too much speed made him loose control. The moped and the boy slipped sideways and onwards. Onwards towards where Maartje was making top speed on her bicycle. She felt the ground being dragged from under her and with a loud crash she fell on the stony floor. A sharp pain in her ankle and in her head. Darkness surrounded her.

"Martjeee, I am here," said someone in a French accented English. "Please open your eyes."

She looked up and saw a guy her own age hidden behind a huge woollen scarf, a beanie on his curls, stubble shadowing his jaws and big brown eyes look down at her. "Shssss sweet. The ambulance is coming. Do not move

The last thing she thought was "Do I know that handsome man?" and then darkness was back.

The next thing she saw was a bay with mountains on the other side hazy in the heath. The water a blue mirror. Some old fashioned ships en route to a port. Someone was talking in a foreign language. Was that not Arabic?

CHAPTER 2

Ali Dey, the dey and ruler of Tunis, was standing on his balcony overlooking the bay. It was already fall but the weather was uncommonly hot.

The mountains at the other side of the bay were hazy due to the humidity. The sea itself was like a blue carpet. A mirror of the sky above.

His palace on the hill above Tunis had been an oven. The city stinking of offal, spices and sewage. The vapours drifting up to the palace of the king who only had to obey his feudal lord the Sultan far away in Istanbul.

They Dey had ordered his men to pack and move to his small summer residence on the other side of the laguna. There was most of the time a slight sea breeze and the only thing one would smell there was the clean sea air.

This had been the spot the old Romans had made their camp. The ruins of the baths still present in his garden. Those old boys had known where to build. All along the coast from Morocco to Egypt traces could be found of Roman cities.

His small retinue had reached Cartago around noon. Covered with sweat he had taken a bath in his private baths and then had gone to his room to have a nap during the midday heath. His head eunuch had regretted to inform him his favourite concubine, the Dutch slave Leila, was unavailable.

She had apparently miscarried a very early pregnancy and had to recover. Leila. The woman with hair so blonde it was almost white. With big blue eyes and gorgeous tits pointy like a Roman statue because of her youth. And what was even best: she could bounce on his cock as no one else could. Perfect when he was tired and wanted a release without too much work.

For a brief moment he had thought about going to see her and comfort her with her loss but then he had realised she probably would only regret she had now less power to wield then with a living son. He was no fool. That slave was cold and calculating. Well the only thing he needed of her was her cunt.

Ali looked out over the bay. Well that was not entirely true was it? Deep down he wished that he would meet some woman who would look him in the eyes with love and would tremble in his arms longing to be with him. Someone he would die for if needed. Someone like in the stories from the times of Haroun Al Rashid, the 1001 nights. Real love.

Oh yes he had three wives and he cared in his way for all of them but none of them he loved like the men in the fairytales. Apart from his wives he had some concubines in his harem as well. Slave girls from Spain, Leila from Holland, from Libanon but although they were pleasant company in his bed and grateful for the good life he granted them he did not love them and they did not love him like in those fairy-tales.

Fairy-tales were fairy-tales. But still Ali had never wed a fourth and last time. Somehow still hoping he would one day look into eyes above a veil that would grab hold of his heart.

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The Dey looked at the ships in the bay on their way to the port of Tunis. One huge Christian ship lay becalmed as there was no wind to sail. What Ali recognised as the ships of Murad Rais, the corsair, were tugging their price towards the harbour by the use of the oars manned by slaves.

Ali wondered what plunder would be on that ship. It probably was the last price of this year. The corsairs captains, the rais, would not risk their ships during the stormy winterseason. You did not want to lose men and maybe a ship conquering a Christian price to see that price sunk by heavy waves and not enough sailors to sail it through the storms.

The Dey thought about that price Barbarossa Rais had sailed into port in the early spring. It had been a big East India ship on it's way to the Dutch Indies. Barbarossa had a ship capable to sail the Atlantic Ocean and had picked it up near the Canary Islands. Not only had it all kind of gold and tradegoods on board it had also been carrying passengers. A merchant had brought his whole family with him to the colonies. The men were killed in the fight when the ship was taken. His wife and young boys were sold as slaves. The young boys had fetched a high price he was told later. Some men liked slaves like that.

The Dey only liked female flesh. Barbarossa had send Leila and the merchant's daughter as a present to the Dey. His head eunuch had accepted the gift. The Dey was no fool. Leila might claim she was a daughter but her hands said maid. But that did not matter because as a concubine she performed splendidly.

Tits and a cunt did not need a pedigree. Sometimes the pedigree was making things worse. His second wife was the sister of a sultan and cold and haughty.

The other Dutch virgin whose name he had already forgotten had first be like dead in his bed and had then become completely hysteric. Enough to make a man go limp. The Dey knew enough men who would have her whipped for that but he never wished to see his women beaten. He had just given the girl to his old cleric whom he knew never to raise his flagpole again. He had told the girl to make sure the old man was happy, had good food and a warm bed and she would never have to worry about having a man inside her again. Last that he heard the old man had expressed his gratitude. Seemed the girl was a great cook. Ali grinned.

Who knows what this new ship would bring.

The Dey walked out of his bedroom and send a Nubian slave to find his head eunuch, Tulip Aga and tell him to join him for a walk into the palace garden on the bottom of the rockcliff the palace was located on.

The two men walked down into the garden and the Dey asked his trusted servant to bring him up to speed on the news. It seemed his first wife was still doing fine even when she was approaching the end of her pregnancy. Ali smiled. He liked her. She was the daughter of the former Dey and her father and his father the general of the ruler had considered young Ali, already a renowned warrior, a good match.

They were good friends and had three daughters together who now were all successfully married but after those children she had never conceived again. But now when they both were old and past forty she suddenly had become pregnant again. Her greatest hope was to have a son at last.

His second wife, the sister of the sultan, had given him six children. Two of them boys. The daughter of the Sahara tribal chieftain, married to cement peace in the South, had given him three other sons and a daughter. And his concubines had given birth to five other children who were all girls however. Well he loved them all. The very pale ones and the ones with a skin like caramel. The girls and the boys. And they loved their father. No Turkish practises here. He had told Hadishe his second wife that he would flay her alive if she ever killed off anyone like the Turkish women in the serail in Istanbul did with the competition.

Ali and his old servant walked slowly under the canopy of palm trees. The sun was unable to reach them and the shade provide some relief from the humid warmth. He heard children laughing.

"The princes and princesses are playing in the old Roman pool, " the old eunuch said. "Sara asked me if she could take them there in the afternoons."

"Sara?" said Ali.

Then just as the scrubs cleared and he saw his children play in the shallow pool a clear voice started singing. His children joined in for the chorus. It was in some heathen language. What the hell!!

The Dey stormed forward and shouted: "Who is teaching my children Christian infidel hymns?"

In a flash he saw Franco, the old French eunuch, and a woman prostate themselves. In a flash he saw big blue eyes and hair the colour of honey curling from under a scarf and then that head was bowed onto the ground. Who was that?

He strode towards them to yank that woman to her feet. Her lips trembled and he had the feeling she was about to pass out. He shoved her towards Tulip Aga. "Who is this?"

The old man grabbed the woman and said: "This is Sara oh Lord."

"Husband. Lord. She is not teaching them a hymn from their church. She is teaching them a song about pirates."

He turned around and saw his very pregnant wife struggling to get up from the bench she was sitting on.

"Please sit my dear". He walked over and helped her to get down again. "What did you say?"

"My Lord. Sara is teaching our children. Leila said she was the teacher of the children of Fatima's household. The woman you gave to the old man. I thought she would be a good nanny to our children. She is learning them English, Dutch, French and Latin and telling them stories from her own country. Today she was telling us about corsairs and pirates because we saw the ships come into port. In her country they had privateers like our corsairs who attacked the Spanish. The song is about men who want to go to see as a corsair. But that every man should have a beard".