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Asilah.”
    She gasped. “He was a real person?”
    â€œA revolutionary,” he agreed, “who tried to overthrow the monarchy. He failed,” he added dryly.
    â€œMy goodness, I thought it was all fiction.”
    â€œMost of it was,” he told her. “But I also enjoyed it. In my country, foreign films are a large part of our entertainment.”
    His country. France, she was certain. She smiled. “I’ve never been to France,” she mused. “I’ll bet it’s beautiful.”
    â€œBeautiful,” he agreed, deliberately encouraging her mistaken idea of his background. “And old. Like most of Europe. The kasbah of Tangier dates back to Roman conquest and even earlier.”
    â€œI love all of it,” she said fervently. “Every cobblestone and villa, every little shop, the people who meander through those narrow walled streets. It’s like a fairyland.”
    His black eyes narrowed. “You enjoy foreign places.”
    She looked over at him. “I’ve never even been out of Texas before,” she confessed. “Not even to the Mexican border. I’ve never been…well, anywhere. And to get to see Africa, of all places.” Her heart was in her eyes. “I feel as if I’m living a dream.”
    â€œDo you know,” he murmured absently, “that is exactly how I feel.” Then he smiled, and the intensity of his gaze turned to the passing coastline.

Chapter Three
    A silah was bustling with activity. Before 1972, Bojo the guide told them, the whole city was inside the ancient walls. Now there were shops outside as well, and new construction underway. As they searched for a parking space in the crowded city, they saw small donkey-drawn carts carrying people from one side of town to the other, and just outside the kasbah on a tree-lined street near the bay, there were sidewalk cafés. But first the guide indicated that they should go away from the old walled city toward the highway, because that was where the once-weekly open air market was held.
    â€œMarket day,” Philippe told Gretchen, gently taking her arm to guide her across the busy street which was packed with cars as well as carts. “This will be an adventure.”
    It was. She saw beautiful fruits and vegetables, herbs and spices, all presented in beautiful order and not one blemish on any of it. There were exotic spices, potions, clothing and hats. There were leather goods and even live chickens and rabbits for sale. Outside the ramshackle order of small tents teeming with people, donkeys and camels lay in the shade waiting for the return trip to their small villages.
    â€œThe produce is just beautiful,” she exclaimed. “My goodness, this is even prettier than in our supermarkets back home, but it isn’t refrigerated.”
    He chuckled. “Yes, and on this market day, much of it gets sold to city dwellers.”
    He acquainted her with the various spices and the displays of olives before the guide led them back into the city.
    â€œAre you thirsty?” Philippe asked her.
    â€œI could drink a gallon of water all by myself,” she panted, wiping the sweat from her forehead with a tissue from her pocket.
    He grinned. “So could I.”
    He and the guide led her to a small café where he ordered bottled water for her and mint tea for himself. He offered her some tea, but she declined, nervous about trying anything that didn’t come out of a bottle.
    â€œYou must try the mint tea before you leave Morocco,” he told her. “It is famous here.”
    â€œI will. Right now cold water sounds better.”
    â€œI don’t doubt it.”
    He handed her chilled bottled water and took his mint tea to a small group of tables under a spreading tree near the walls of the old city. Their guide remained behind to speak to a shop owner he knew. “The café owns this small space,” Philippe told her, “and