Tangerine

by Christine Mangan

  There was nothing.

  Or was there?

  At some point in the night, I began to feel a presence. My heart stammered, the blood rushed to my face. Where before Lucy had acted as a barrier, a shield, between me and everything else—for nothing would ever happen while she was there, I had reasoned—at that moment I was alone, defenseless. I pushed myself to the edge of the bed, so that my back aligned with the cold glass surface of the window. I closed my eyes and held my breath—certain that, as I did, the sound of breathing continued. It’s not real, I told myself, although the words did little to comfort, to dispel the feeling that I was being watched. That I was no longer alone in the bedroom.

  I slept little that night. In novels, the heroines always tossed and turned, exclaiming that they were unable to remain still and pass the night in a peaceful sleep. I did not toss and turn. Instead, I remained entirely still, rigid, I thought, as if the preservation of my life depended upon the immobility of my body. After several hours of this, I began to sweat from the exertion. Passing in and out of sleep quickly enough that I could no longer tell how much time had passed, my body bathed in dampness, I could pass a hand across my chest and feel the wetness clinging to my palm. The terror abated only at the first bit of sun peeking through the curtains. Instead of waiting for the day to start, I swept aside the sheets, as if this movement would somehow hasten the arrival of dawn. I had had enough of night. And yet still I lingered, unsure where to go and what to do without Lucy’s presence to guide me, to help mark the time. She was always the first to rise, and I waited until she had retreated to the toilet to do the same. Without her, I stalled, lying, waiting.

  Sleep-deprived from my night alone, I drifted off, despite my intention to stay awake. Instead my eyelids began to droop, my breathing becoming slow and heavy. I could feel myself falling asleep and yet I could do nothing at all to resist its soft, insistent call.

  I awoke, heart pounding.

  At first, I wasn’t sure what had woken me, but then I became aware of her presence. I watched, my eyes still half-closed in pretense of sleep, as she lifted her blouse over her head, so that she stood in just her bra and underwear, a garter belt, rather than a girdle, holding up her stockings. My aunt had insisted I purchase the latter, despite my protests. You may be naturally thin now, she had said, but just wait until you’re married and have had a few babies—you’ll be happy for it then. I realized that I had never seen Lucy this unclothed before. It seemed strange that after years of living together, I had yet to see her without clothes, though I knew I had done much the same to avoid such a situation—changing when she was out of the room, or rushing to the bathroom to hastily throw on my outfit for the day. I was struck by the sheer whiteness of her skin. She was pale, I knew that already from her complexion, but there was something different seeing it stretched out along the rest of her body. She seemed to glow, so that I was convinced that even if it was completely dark in the room, I would still be able to find her.

  I was suddenly conscious of just how naked she was. Both her bra and underwear were white, though not the same shade, and typical of the fashion—plain, with a simple trim of lace on the top, which fitted just below her navel. Her bra also had few adornments, just a single white flower between her breasts. My eyes rested there for a moment, wondering at her generous proportions, ones that seemed ample compared to my own, and how she managed to hide them underneath her clothing. I tore my gaze away and back to her face. “Lucy,” I said, sitting up, the word sounding like a whisper, too soft for what I had intended. “Lucy, where is it?” I asked, working to make my voice strong, sturdy.

  Lucy looked over at me and frowned. “What?”

  I let out a deep breath. “The bracelet.”

  “What bracelet?” she asked, shaking her head.

  “My mother’s bracelet,” I pressed.

  She shrugged. “I’m sure it’s here somewhere. I haven’t seen it since you last wore it. About a week ago?”

  The words that I meant to speak, that I had prepared and memorized over the hours since we had last parted, evaporated then, disappearing into a vaporous trail before I could make them concrete. I struggled to understand what was happening. It was as if the past day, our past conversation, had not happened at all, as if—I stopped, shuddered—as if I had only imagined it. I looked up at my roommate, searching for something—anything—that could be considered as proof, evidence, of what she had done, of what she was still doing. There was nothing. She looked sincere, had sounded sincere, as if she truly didn’t understand what it was that I was talking about, as if she were genuinely worried for me.

  I don’t believe you.

  I was surprised by the vehemence behind my thoughts and worried, for one moment, that I had spoken them aloud. I shook my head. I held firm, resolute, reminding myself that I knew the truth. She had taken the bracelet, angry at me for Tom, for not spending as much time with her. But then—the idea was too strange, too unsettling. I wondered why I had even thought of it in the first place.

  “I don’t—I don’t know,” I finally said. They were the only words that I could think of as my brain stuttered and failed to keep up with what was happening, the only truth I could arrive at. I didn’t know.

  Lucy frowned. “Don’t worry, Alice.” She gave a brief smile. “We’ll look for it together, I promise.”

  She enveloped me then, a more intimate gesture than the others we had previously shared, and not simply because she was standing in her underwear. For it wasn’t my roommate who was exposed, who was laid bare—it was me, and all of my shortcomings, the fragility of my mind silently splayed between us. I did not like to think of it, of that period after my parents’ death—but now it seemed to burst forth between us, undeniable, so that there was no other choice but to take it out and look at it once more.

  I remained frozen, still unsure in that moment what to believe. But then, eventually, my arms left my side and I grasped her tightly—too tightly, I knew, but I was suddenly afraid to let her go, this person who knew each and every one of my secrets and had never judged me.

  And so I clung to her, afraid to break from our strange embrace.

  Six

  Lucy

  I MET YOUSSEF AT CAFÉ TINGIS, SEVERAL DAYS LATER, AT THE agreed-upon time. He stood, leaning against the wall. “Ready?” he asked with a grin.

  I smiled in return, ready to set out, to toss aside the words and warnings of others. For there was something about Youssef, I had decided, that felt infinitely more familiar than the Johns of the world. We were, both of us, on the outside, the periphery—myself by birth, Youssef by circumstance. There was something, if not quite as strong as the affinity I shared with Alice, at the very least an understanding, which I felt ran between us. I was still wary, of course, still cautious, but I trusted the otherness that marked us to form a connective thread that would keep us tied to each other, in spite of, or perhaps because of, the world around us.

  We left the medina behind, the confined and chaotic streets giving way to long, wide stretches. Fewer people dotted the path. We walked in a companionable silence, and though I was content to let my mind wander, I found myself turning to him and asking, “So is it Youssef, or Joseph?” I had been thinking about it in the hours since we had last met, ruminating over the difference. Joseph. Youssef. Were they the same, only derivations of one another? I wasn’t sure. In fact, I was no longer entirely certain which one he had first introduced himself as, and which one Alice had used when referring to him. In my mind he was already Youssef, but that was possibly my projection alone, trying to instill upon him a particular brand of foreignness that appealed to my own sensibilities.

  He shrugged. He had lit a cigarette as we began walking, and he reached for it now, taking a long pull, his calloused, darkened fingers apparently untroubled by the still-hot ash that spilled over them. “Does it matter?”

  I frowned. Did it? I found I was no longer sure as I turned the question over in my mind. “It�
�s your name,” I protested.

  “We, all of us, have many names,” he responded.

  I squinted. “How do you mean?”

  “Husband. Father. Brother.”

  “Those are titles, not names,” I countered.

  He shrugged again, apparently unconcerned with the distinction. “Tangier has many names. First, she was Tingis.” He paused and reached again for his cigarette. “In French, she is Tanger. In Spanish, she is Tánger. In Arabic, she is Tanjah. So you see, she has had many different names. Or titles. It is all the same.”

  I was quiet a moment more. “And so you go by either Youssef or Joseph, without any preference one way or another? Like her, I mean.”

  He smiled at this. “Yes, like her.”

  I MOVED TOWARD THE CLIFF’S EDGE, looking down below. There were a few other couples, scattered here and there, to either side of us. Some sat, staring out at the ocean. Others unwrapped bundles of food. I saw bread and cheese, a few pieces of fruit. There were women in niqabs, women in Western dress. It seemed that this was a place for both locals and outsiders alike. Although where here was, I had yet to learn. I turned toward my companion, waiting for an explanation.

  “This,” he began at last, “is where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic.”

  “Another layering,” I observed ruefully.

  “Yes, Alice.” Again, he smiled, as if he were pleased, as if my answer had satisfied him and I had passed a test to which only he held the questions and answers. “It is a layering of history.” He pointed to his feet, and I shifted my gaze to take in the white formation below us. “These are tombs. Phoenician. From the ancient city of Tingis.”

  I knew Tangier had been repetitively conquered throughout its existence, so it was always absorbing culture after culture until it had become an accumulation of everyone and everything that had passed through its gates over the centuries. I wondered whether anyone could still trace their lineage from this moment back to the very start without discovering at least one interruption, one interference from the outside world. I looked at my companion and wondered whether he had ever tried, wondered what his blood, what his heart would say, if it murmured as mine did. Whether his words would also be indecipherable or whether the message would be clearer, stronger—succeeding where I had failed.

  “Come,” Youssef called. “The café is just this way.”

  We moved onto a narrow pathway, one that was quickly ensconced by gleaming white walls set on either side of us. There was something different about life set high above the medina—quieter, cleaner perhaps, somehow apart from the frenzy that marked the streets below. It seemed only natural that this quiet, this stillness, should be reflected in the very stone. I placed my hand out. It was cool to the touch, and I let my fingers graze over its surface as we walked, my hand trailing languidly at my side. Soon the entrance appeared before us, the title formed by a grouping of rocks affixed to the white wall. CAFÉ HAFA. FONDÉ 1921. I reached out and swept my hand over the now-smooth pebbles, just a slightly darker shade than the stark white walls they were placed upon, wondering how many other hands had done the same in the years since they were first set there. I thought I could feel it then—history, heavy and weighted, as if the knowledge that great writers and painters and musicians had similarly passed through this entranceway provided a gravity missing from every other place before it.

  Tangier, I decided then, was a ghost town in many ways. Only instead of being dead, empty, barren—it was alive. It was thriving and bursting with the remembrance of those great minds who had walked its alleyways, who had thought and sipped tea and been inspired here. It was a testimony, a tomb, to those who had come before. But there was not a sense that it was over, done with. There was something still here, churning, thriving, waiting to be discovered or released. I could feel it, tingling in my hands. I wondered if Alice felt it as well. In the days since my arrival, I had already found myself thinking that it was as if I had been waiting for Tangier my entire life. As if everything that I had done, every thought and action, had brought me here, specifically for the purpose of finding her once more, and the life we could have. It was perfect, I wanted to tell her, desperately wanting her to see it as well—how wonderfully perfect it all was: Tangier, her, the two of us together in this foreign city.

  I turned the corner, my eyes quickly taking in the terrace-style seating that faced the ocean, the blue of the water offset by the dazzling white of the teahouse. “It’s beautiful,” I whispered, conscious of the words even before I uttered them.

  Youssef did not seem to hear. Instead he moved slowly down the terraces, one by one, until selecting the very last. “So you can lean over and look out,” he said, settling into a chair.

  I nodded, knowing the moment had come. For I had another reason for agreeing to meet with him—something more important, more urgent than sightseeing, the knowledge of what Youssef had to offer now beating steadily within my chest. I sat next to him, trying to stop myself from imagining what he might be able to give me—a magic key, a secret incantation, something, anything, that was more definitive, more concrete than a glimpse caught in the reflection of a mirror.

  I removed a photograph from my purse and placed it onto the table. “There is an Englishman,” I said, but then, before I could continue, a young boy appeared, asking for our order. “Tea, please,” I replied, and turning to Youssef, assured him, “It’s my treat.”

  Money was an issue we had not broached before, but the look in his eyes as I glanced toward him warned me never to make the same offer again. I shifted in my seat, remaining silent, waiting. Although the words I wished to speak, the questions I wanted to ask—about John, about the local woman I had seen him with—burned, begging to be released, I could see that Youssef would have to set the tone, the pace of the conversation, after the misstep I had just taken.

  “This is him?” he asked, after a few minutes of silence had elapsed, the tea delivered. He did not move to pick up the photograph, only let his fingers—clenched around a cigarette—linger above it. I worried for a moment that the ash would fall and leave a burn mark. I had removed the photograph earlier that morning from one of the frames in Alice’s sitting room, my fingers working quietly, afraid that Alice would walk in and find me stealing a photograph of her husband. If caught, I hadn’t a clue as to what I would say. I flinched now, watching as the ash from Youssef’s cigarette grew, forming a leaning tower that burned, white and hot. If it fell, there would be no way to explain its presence—Alice would know.

  I breathed a quick sigh of relief when Youssef moved his hand away, the ash tumbling to the ground.

  “Yes.” I hesitated, still waiting. In my mind, Youssef seemed to exist on some border, halfway between official and unofficial, between light and dark. In my imagining of how this conversation would proceed, I had assumed he would direct the ebb and flow of our words, that he would know how and where this was supposed to move. “There is also a woman,” I said, casting a quick, hurried glance in his direction.

  His eyebrows raised. “Not his wife, I presume?”

  I shook my head. “No. But I wonder . . .”

  He looked over at me. “What do you wonder, Alice?”

  I held his gaze. “Who she is.”

  “Will it help?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “To know this answer?”

  I nodded, trying not to betray my eagerness. “Yes, I think so.”

  He paused and then said: “She is French.” He tilted his head, apparently reconsidering his previous statement. “Well, half. Half this, half Moroccan.” He gave a short laugh. “Not so uncommon as one might suppose.”

  I was about to sip my tea, but at his words, I stopped. “You know her?” I asked, surprised. “And do you know him?” I pointed to the photograph. I had figured that after our conversation Youssef might ask around, perhaps look into the matter himself—I had not considered that he might already possess the answers.

  He shrugged. “Do you want to know?
”

  “Yes,” I said, eagerly, adding please only as an afterthought.

  He paused, as if he did not wish to continue, as if to emphasize that he was doing so only as a favor to me, and I wondered then what he would ask for in return, for I was certain that he would, that nothing he did was ever done without consideration of what could be gained. There was, I knew, a difference between refusing charity and giving something away for free.

  “She is a Frenchwoman. An artist. That is how I know her.” He paused. “She also works at a nightclub.”

  I let the word settle. A nightclub. We both knew what he actually meant. Despite the pretense, the nightclubs in the city were little more than a gathering place for prostitutes, geared toward Westerners. They were scattered throughout Tangier, most of them run by Frenchwomen who had decided to leave behind a life of selling their own bodies in order to sell another’s.

  “And her name?” I pressed.

  “Sabine.” He turned to look at me. “Her name is Sabine.”

  I leaned forward, all pretense at disinterest gone. At this information, at the power it provided me, my ears began to roar, my hands shake. I had not thought it would be this easy, and up until that moment, I had not wanted to admit to myself just how much I needed the answers. “And how long has this been going on? Between them, I mean.”

  He looked as though the question did not interest him. Instead he shifted in his seat, tossing his cigarette to the ground, and said lazily, “I would advise you not to be that girl.”

  At the word, I felt myself retreat, and though I could not explain my reaction, the sound and shape of it, the implication behind his use, set my heart racing. I silently chastised myself—it was only a word, after all. It did not mean anything. But no, I knew that was not true. It did mean something—everything. “What girl?” I demanded.