Passport to Heaven

Sarah smiled to herself as she filled the plastic tubs with the thick paste; Mohamed will be pleased she thought, as she clicked the lids firmly into place and carried them over to the bed. The rest of the ingredients had been double-wrapped in plastic and carefully placed amongst the clothing in her case. Now all she had to do was wrap the tubs, place them inside and make sure they were well padded against the knocks of the baggage handlers. Finally satisfied that all was secure, she zipped the case shut and closed the padlock.

Carrying the case into the hall she placed it near the door ready for when the taxi arrived and for the tenth time that morning checked that she had her ticket and passport. Glancing at her watch she realised she still had fifteen minutes to wait. Flipping open her laptop she checked her mail; two new messages, one from her mum wishing her Bon Voyage and the other from Mohamed asking if all was well and letting her know that his friend Abdul would pick her up from Al Tet airport. She typed a quick reply, ‘Everything OK, see you soon, Sarah.’

She was looking forward to seeing Mohamed again. Who was she kidding; she was dying to see him again. It had been two years now since he had gone back home from Newcastle University and she hadn’t realised how much she had missed him, until he had contacted her by email two months ago. For two of the three years he had been in England they had been an item, she a peaches and cream English rose and he her dark skinned, dark haired, French Moroccan lover.

They had been lovers but it had been a fiery romance. She was a feisty independent girl into politics and he, despite his looks and charm, had a touch of the superior Moroccan male about him. They would argue for days on end, spitting and fighting like cat and dog, mainly about politics and then spend a fantastic few days making up, before something would start them off again.

At the end of term his father had ordered him to come back to Rabat. He had kissed her goodbye, promised to keep in touch and she hadn’t seen our heard from him until the email two months ago. Two weeks after the email he rang her from Santa Pola on the Costa Blanca. He had moved to Spain the year before, set up in business and he asked her to come out for a holiday. Maybe she shouldn’t have agreed, but the sound of his ‘come to bed’ French accent had awakened old feelings and besides, in exchange for the ingredients that she was delivering, he had promised her a passport to heaven.

Sarah nodded off and only awoke as the plane thumped down and raced along the runway with the reverse thrust of the engines screaming. Thank God she had been asleep she hated landings. She didn’t like takeoffs either, but landing were the worst. Her overactive imagination, always painted pictures of flames and explosions as they ploughed into the unforgiving concrete.

Three quarters of an hour after touch down as she pushed her way through the crowd at arrivals, she spotted Abdul, he was small and older than she expected, but she recognised him by the piece of cardboard he held with her name on.

‘I’m Sarah. Do you speak English?’ she asked, desperately trying to remember a few words of Moroccan from the past. None came, at least, none that were suitable beyond the bedroom.

He gave her a gap toothed grin, shrugged his shoulders and motioning her to follow led her to an old beat up Seat Ibiza. Fifteen minutes later when they pulled up outside the hotel Miramar, Abdul gave her a note from Mohamed and left her to carry her own case inside.

Later in the room she read the note, ‘Sorry, I have some business I must attend to, but I’ll pick you up at eight. Love Mohamed.’

By seven forty five she had unpacked her case, showered, changed and packed the ingredients into the small holdall she’d carried as hand luggage. Filled with excitement and too impatient to wait, she made her way down to the lobby. Mohamed arrived at eight and drove her to an apartment, filled with the aroma of Moroccan spices and while he fussed about at the stove, she unpacked the holdall and prepared what he had missed most from his time in Newcastle stotty cake sandwiches, filled with ham and pease pudding. In exchange Mohamed served her favourite dish, Moroccan Lamb, a true Passport to Heaven.