I had tried to convince Alice to come, but she had refused, shaking her head, waving her hands around the cluttered apartment to indicate all the work she should do before John arrived home—work that never seemed to be completed but that went on and on. Go, she had said, enjoy your holiday. I had frowned and pleaded, but it soon became apparent that she did not intend to give in. The vehemence with which she shook her head when I had pressed the issue, the thin white of her lips as she moved them together, gave the impression that her reluctance to show a friend around the city was something much more serious than just her need to attend to the laundry.
I thought of her as I walked—Alice, her lovely lily-white skin that had obviously not seen sun for quite some time, locked up within the walls of their flat. I remembered the paleness of her face from the night before, after that wretched beast had bitten her, after she had fainted and fallen onto the ground. She had grown quiet—quieter still—as we had been forced to find a doctor in the hours afterward, a frantic search for a vaccination and a check for any possible concussion. And in the ensuing chaos, I had been forced to push aside what I had seen, what I had witnessed, in the moments before Alice had been bitten.
It had happened shortly after John disappeared from the table.
I had looked up, away from Alice, away from my drink, and into the mirror fastened on the wall before me. I had seen him, his image distorted by the divots in the glass, standing at the bar. Only, he had not been alone, had not been with anyone named Charlie. Instead a woman stood beside him, her face half obscured by a mane of long dark hair. A local, I thought, watching as his fingers trailed the upper part of her thigh, pushing at the material of her dress.
I had glanced at Alice, but it didn’t seem like she had noticed, and I cast a hurried glance back to the mirror, appraising the angle at which it hung, uncertain whether she would be able to see them at all, even if she did look up. Part of me wanted to show her, to point out the reflection, the truth displayed brazenly before us. But something stayed me. Something whispered that it was not the time, that I should wait before revealing this bit of information to her, this girl I had once known as well as myself and who looked at me now with an expression I couldn’t quite understand, couldn’t quite manage to breach.
I wound my way through the medina and over to the Grand Socco, where a pleasant sort of plaza greeted me. Green spaces filled with flowers, couples, groups of men, and expat pensioners enjoying a leisurely stroll in the afternoon heat, and several feet away a large, imposing building that towered over the rest. CINEMA RIF, the sign read, its facade dim and grimy. What had once no doubt consisted of brilliant reds, blues, and yellows had faded under the thick application of dust that had since settled. Housed within the cinema was a small café, a scattering of chairs arranged just inside the building, the doors thrown open to the sun, with a few leftover tables and chairs scattered on the sidewalk outside.
I moved quickly to take a seat: a small round table intended for two, pushed up against the building’s rough wall, underneath a poster advertisement for a French film I had never heard of before that pictured a young boy standing beneath a red balloon. Several moments passed before the waitress appeared: a short, squat woman whose face was lined with wrinkles. I was relieved to find she spoke French, and although I knew only a scattering of words, it was enough to successfully place an order, as within minutes she returned, a tall glass filled with hot Moroccan mint tea clutched between her fingers. Her severe face broke into a grin as she placed it in front of me.
“Merci,” I murmured, moving to adjust the glass. I instantly recoiled, hissing with surprise. I glanced down at my fingers—the tips of which had turned a bright pink.
“Attention”—the woman laughed—“il est chaud.”
I blushed. “Oui, merci.” While all of the guidebooks had extolled the virtues of drinking mint tea in Morocco, they had failed to advise on just how treacherous the endeavor could be. I was used to the thick porcelain of New England diners, not thin glass that seemed to threaten to melt one’s fingers. There were no handles and I wondered how on earth one was supposed to drink the concoction.
“Lentement, mademoiselle.”
I looked over my shoulder to see who had spoken.
“Slowly. You must have patience.” He was standing at the opening of the café, neither inside nor outside and without food or drink in hand, leaning with confidence against the wall of the building. I could see right away that it was the same man from the day before, the one who had been watching me in the medina.
I smiled but turned back, hesitant to be drawn into conversation with him.
To the left of where he stood, a shoe shiner was busy at work, moving swiftly between his client’s right and left foot—though his own shoes, I noticed, appeared to be placed on backward. After a few moments of closer inspection, I could see that the man appeared to be missing his feet altogether, and that he had placed the shoes backward upon the stumps of his legs only in order to steady himself. I continued to watch him work, falling into an near trancelike state as he first applied shiner and then, withdrawing a rag from his belt, began to swipe with long, vigorous strokes, repeating this movement with sustained intensity before moving on to the next shoe.
I took a sip of my mint tea—no longer scalding—and felt the rush of the syrup as the sweetness exploded on my tongue.
The man was still watching. I could feel his eyes boring, examining, trying to pick me apart from across the way. There was a shift then, a change in the air, so that it seemed rife—with danger, with possibility, though I didn’t yet know which. And so I waited, breath held in expectation, already wondering whether I wanted him to leave me in peace, or whether I would be disappointed if he did.
“I am Joseph,” he said, the decision made, moving toward me and extending his hand. He did not wear the traditional djellaba, I noted, though he was most certainly Moroccan. Instead he wore a pair of charcoal-gray trousers, a light button-up shirt that was rolled to the elbows. A thin scarf was thrown across his neck, and a tan fedora hat—adorned with a purple ribbon once again and which I suspected bore the stains of being worn in such unforgiving heat—sat on his head, tilted to the left. There was something dapper about his outfit, despite its thriftiness, or perhaps it was the way he wore it, with a jauntiness that was out of place among the other Moroccan men I had observed and who appeared, in comparison, solemn and grave.
I hesitated at his introduction only for a second—and then the word slipped from my mouth easily, as though it were true: “Alice.”
“Welcome to Tangier, mademoiselle.” He paused. “And where are you staying during your holiday, Alice?” He said the name so that the last part came out sounding like a hiss: Al-iss. He asked the question, his eyes averted, staring down and back into the medina. His tone was casual: deliberately so, as if he had rehearsed the question before it was asked.
“With friends,” I replied, trying to make my voice sound light, effortless—as though I were used to answering such questions from strangers, as though my life were spent moving from one place to the next, from Paris to Cairo and on to the Orient. I let the idea settle, the one that Alice and I had given birth to so many years ago now and that remained trapped, just beneath the surface, simmering, it seemed, waiting to be released. There were times when I could feel it—the desperation of wanting, wanting to watch the sun set over the pyramids, wanting to taste the salty egg and sweet cardamom noodles of Arabia. Wanting to be anywhere and everywhere but the depressing tiny shared bedroom of a boardinghouse and knowing that it was impossible.
“And you are not afraid to explore the city, on your own?” he questioned.
I peered up at him, wondering what it was that he intended.
“Should I be?” I asked.
He gave an exaggerated shrug. “Only last year we had a madman running around the city with a butcher’s knife.”
I eyed the streets in front of us, assessing. “And was anyone injure
d?”
“Yes, of course,” he answered easily. “The man killed five people and injured nearly half a dozen more.” He must have seen the hard look that I affixed on my face, for his expression lost some of its seriousness and he broke into a large grin—one that I found somehow more disconcerting than his formerly somber mask. “Relax,” he advised, pausing to bring a cigarette to his lips. “I was only teasing, Miss Alice.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, wondering still at the motivation behind his words. “So that didn’t happen?”
His smile disappeared. “Oh no, it most definitely happened. The man was shot in the stomach before he was taken to Malabata prison. But you are quite safe here—that is the part I was teasing about. There is nothing to worry about now, Miss Alice,” he assured me. “Where are you from?”
“Chicago,” I lied.
“Chicago!” he exclaimed, frowning. “This is the most dangerous place of them all. I have a cousin who went to Chicago. It was very horrible, he said. Too many murders. You do not have to worry about such things here.” He paused. “But if you are looking for a place that makes sense, I feel I must provide this warning—you will be disappointed.” He let out a small laugh. “This is Africa, after all.” He grinned, his smile stretching across his gaunt, tanned face. “Many forget that, they think we are somewhere different entirely. This might be true, but it is also false. Tangier is still Africa. One need only consult a map to know this.” He turned back toward me, eyes boring into my own. “And where do your friends live?”
“In a flat,” I replied.
He smiled, thinly. “Yes, but where is this flat?”
I searched for an answer, unsure whether I wanted to part with such information. There was something about him that whispered he was harmless, another mosquito that could easily be flicked away, but still, the answer hung heavily on my tongue. I was not afraid of him or afraid for my safety. Men like him, I knew, were not the ones to fear. I was simply unsure—of what I had to offer him, of what he could offer me, of the potential usefulness that we might offer each other. “Beyond the medina, somewhere,” I finally answered. “I’m afraid I can’t offer any more specifics. I’ve only just arrived and I’m not too familiar with the city yet.”
Lies, we both knew. I could tell by the glint in his eye, the slight curve of his lip. The only question was how he would react to it. He tilted his head from side to side, as if weighing my answer, my betrayal. “This is good,” he finally observed. “It is better to be in a flat than a hotel. Unless you are only staying for a few days, then a hotel is always best.” He looked at me, waiting for a response.
“I’m staying for quite some time, I hope.”
He nodded, apparently pleased. “So you are a tourist?”
I nodded. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Not a traveler, then?” He laughed.
I puzzled over the difference in words—between tourist and traveler. I had never really been many places, had never really seen much, so I supposed myself a tourist rather than a traveler. But there was something in the way he had pronounced the words, a disdain for the former that suggested it was the latter that I should strive for—whether or not it was true. I began to place my coins on the table, my tea now empty. “Is there a distinction?”
“Yes, of course.”
I could see then, instantly, that I’d said the wrong thing—but that this was also what he wanted. To be able to shake his head and laugh at the naïveté of the young American woman in front of him. To lean in, with a conspirator’s grin, beckoning me to come closer, closer and closer still.
“You are unfamiliar with Bowles, I see. You must read him, if you wish to understand this place,” he instructed.
“Is he Moroccan?” I asked, unfamiliar with the name.
He laughed. “He is not Moroccan, no, but he spends a good deal of time here. We see one another often and wave. He is familiar, a neighbor. Not simply a famous writer.”
Bowles. I placed the name somewhere in my mind, making a mental note to check whether John had any of his work scattered among the unread books that lined the flat. For while I considered myself something of an expert in classical literature—particularly anything British—I was the first to admit my deficiencies in more contemporary work, as it had never managed to hold my attention in the same manner. Give me the wilds of an English moor, or the gritty urban streets of Victorian London, and I would feel, if nothing else, at home. But as to the latest stream of authors sweeping the country, I was essentially a novice.
Perhaps this is what the man offered—a guide to the country that Alice now called home, however reluctantly. Perhaps there was worth to be found there, I thought.
“I promise to read him, the very first chance I have,” I said.
“Good. Then you will learn the difference between a tourist and a traveler. And we shall see which one you are.” He leaned over, offering a cigarette. “Here.”
I paused—Alice did not smoke. The distinction seemed important to uphold, so I shook my head demurely. He shrugged and pulled an expression, as if to indicate it was my loss. And I did regret my decision—almost instantly. I inhaled the fragrant smoke: heavy and perfume-like. French, most likely. Gauloises. One didn’t smell many of them around Tangier, I had already noticed. I wondered if I could change my mind, but then, that would reveal a part of me to this stranger that I wasn’t yet sure I could trust. Better to remain behind the veneer a bit longer.
“I have a studio by the ocean, where I paint,” he said, after a few moments’ consideration. “This is where you must come.”
“By the ocean?” I repeated. After several days in Tangier, despite the fact that it was a port city, I had seen very little of the water. It was strange, I thought, the way the city was able to swallow you up so completely.
“Yes, it is next to Café Hafa. Do you know it?”
I shook my head.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “this is the place you must go. It is where all the artists are. They also have the best mint tea,” he said, gesturing to my empty glass. “And the view—it is much better than this. Just the ocean, nothing else.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
“It is.” He smiled, nodding his head. He peered at me through the smoke. “So, Miss Alice, tell me. Do you want to see the real Tangier?”
I hesitated, assuming he meant to offer himself as a guide and wondering, at the same time, at the advisability of such an idea—disappearing into a city I knew little about, with a man about whom I knew even less. But then I thought of Alice, stagnated by fear, stuck inside the dark confines of her flat day after day, waiting for John to return from work. Waiting, both of us, always waiting. I shook my head, as if to shake the word from my mind, as if I could somehow physically dislodge it from my vocabulary. I had spent a good deal of my life waiting. Too much time. I nodded—a sharp, pointed gesture that conveyed my acceptance of his offer.
“Morocco is your home.” He said the words slowly, watching my face closely as he spoke. “Yes, it is yours. You are a Tangerine now.”
He pronounced it tangerine, like the fruit. I smiled, letting the thought settle. Morocco was mine. And it could be, I reasoned. After all, what did I have to return to? A damp, shared room on the wrong side of New York. Endless days spent typing up other writers’ manuscripts. Here I could finally write something of my own, put pen to paper as I had always dreamed of during college—as Alice and I had dreamed, together. And if that meant making Morocco my own, I was prepared to do just that.
I was a Tangerine now, after all.
Five
Alice
I DID NOT ASK HER WHERE SHE HAD SPENT HER DAY, OR WHOM she had spent it with. I did not ask what she was doing in Tangier, why she was here, what she wanted—still too afraid of the answers I might receive. Instead, I smiled, the gesture feeling odd and forced, and told her to sit, told her I would make drinks again—the nights already beginning to take on the shape of those
we had spent at Bennington.
I wondered at the ease of it, of how quickly we had slipped back into our roles, how comfortable already it had begun to feel. And I resented it, the feeling that I had tried to clasp onto at the bar suddenly mine, strong and fierce, until I could think of nothing else but the way that she had so carefully reinserted herself back into my life without a mention of the past, of her part in what had unfolded between us, the tragedy that had ensconced us. I didn’t know what I expected her to say, not exactly, but there was neither a word nor a glance, not anything at all that seemed to indicate she recalled those last few weeks we had spent together and the tension that had grown between us.
I could feel my anger growing, and I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand, peeling the zest from the lemon that I had bought at the market two weeks past, the skin of the fruit now dried, withered.
I called from the kitchen: “It’s like this most nights, I’m afraid. John is always off to one dinner party or another.”
“And what about you? Don’t you ever go with him?” she called back.
“No, not anymore.” I thought of the faces I had been introduced to those first few months—appraising and cold. “I did at first, but well, it turned out they weren’t for me. Tangier seems to attract a certain type, and I’m afraid that I don’t generally fit the description.”
I found her perched beside the window, gazing out. At my entrance she turned, frowning. “Do you like it at all, Alice? Tangier, I mean?”
My face burned a fiercer shade of red. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I haven’t really given it a chance. Or at least, that’s what John always says.”
I did not add that I often doubted whether there was any truth in what John said, wondered instead whether the truth wasn’t something much simpler: Tangier and I were not suited for one another, that we never would be, no matter how many chances I gave it. From the little I knew of it already, I had realized what a hard place it could be. It was not a place where one simply arrived and belonged—no, I imagined that it was a process, a trial, even an initiation of sorts, one that only the bravest survived. It was a place that inspired rebellion, a place that demanded it, of its people, its citizens. A place where everyone had to constantly adapt, struggle, fight for what they wanted. I looked up at the woman in front of me. It was a place for someone like Lucy.
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