Tangerine

by Christine Mangan

  “What, now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  She looked down. “But I’m a mess. I haven’t even had a bath yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter, just do it quickly to see how they look.”

  I could see the idea pleased her, and so I pressed until she relented, smiling at her retreating figure as she ran to the bathroom to make the change. The door stood slightly ajar and I watched as she removed her dress, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor, the fabric pooling out around her feet. She kicked it aside. I noticed then that she no longer wore the girdle she had in college, so that though her figure was still slender, it was no longer bound and constricted by that stiff garment she had once insisted on wearing. Instead she stood in only a bra and underwear, a simple garter belt holding up her stockings. Its absence made her look older. Not in a regrettable way that made me long for the past, but one that put our years of living together in perspective. I was suddenly aware of just how much time had passed since that first day I had seen her and all the things that had fallen between us since then.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  She stood before me, wearing my white linen blouse and tan trousers. I had never before seen her outside of her youthful dresses, her childish frills. I had long come to regard them as an extension of herself, so that when I conjured up an image of Alice, the two were inexorably linked. Stripped of such adornments, even her makeup and hair a pared-down version of the usual, she looked entirely different, so that I felt, oddly, that I did not know her at all. The change left me momentarily speechless.

  At my silence, her face collapsed in fear. “Is it that bad?” she asked.

  “No,” I said trying to reassure her. “No, you look wonderful. I almost suspect that if I passed you on the streets, I wouldn’t recognize you,” I said, meaning it.

  Alice smiled and did a little movement like a curtsy before disappearing back into the bathroom. I heard the start of the bath, the water pounding against the bottom of its enameled surface. She appeared in the doorway, still dressed, though the top button of the blouse was undone. “This was exactly what I needed, Lucy.” She closed the distance between us, swiftly, reaching across and grabbing my hand. “Thank you.”

  I smiled. I could still feel her hand’s warmth, even after she removed it.

  I DID NOT SLEEP THAT NIGHT. Instead I remained awake, long past the hour when the sun had set and the sky had begun to darken. Without warning, rain started to fall against the sloped roof of our riad. I had first heard it as I lay in bed, watching as Alice frowned and sputtered in her sleep, murmuring words I could not decipher. Minutes had gone by, maybe hours. Eventually I rose, winding my thin dressing gown around me and exiting our room, slowly and quietly, so as not to wake her.

  I turned my face upward, watching as the rain fell on the glass and then began to slide down, away from our building.

  In the common room, the temperature had shifted. I passed the tables where tomorrow our breakfast would be served—fresh cheese, olives, and bread. A bit of oil, or butter, if we were lucky. I walked, without purpose, without aim, past the floor cushions that served as sofas, the decorative coverings hiding the dilapidated state of the frame. I noticed a forgotten pack of cigarettes, nearly full, sitting on the table, and although I already had some in my handbag, I reached for them. Extracting one and placing it in my mouth, I palmed the rest of the packet, tucking it into the pocket on my nightdress. The cigarette was harsh and it burned my throat. I tried to remember the last time I had had one of this poor quality. Senior year, I recalled. When Alice and I had snuck into the dance studio one night. Of course, it wasn’t really sneaking in, since none of the buildings were ever locked. I had always thought that Bennington inspired a peculiar brand of rebellion in its students—particularly, when the idea of breaking into a school, rather than out, was our definition of amusement.

  Martha Graham used to teach here, you know, Alice had said as we made our way into one of the dance studios. The floors, even in the dark, had shone with a fresh coating of wax. Three sides of the room were covered with mirrors, while the fourth was glass, looking out across the campus, although the view was blanketed in darkness. There, I could see our reflections: thin, long hair, one a bit taller than the other. There was nothing remarkable about either of us, not at first glance. But I had thought then, staring at our reflections, that we could have passed for sisters. There was something so similar in the way that we held ourselves, in the way that we moved, one motion made in reaction to another.

  Did you hear? What I said before? Alice had moved over to the mirrors, where a long, sturdy-looking rope hung from the ceiling. She was holding it between her hands. About Martha Graham?

  Yes, I replied, smiling. I didn’t know who Martha Graham was, but I didn’t say so, eager to have the night go well. Things had been strange between us, with Alice spending most of her time with Tom, or tucked away in the darkroom on her own. Paris, and all the plans we had once made, seemed far away—promises made by two girls I could no longer remember.

  She motioned me over to where she stood. Here, she said, thrusting the rope between my hands.

  I stared at it, doubtfully. What am I supposed to do?

  Swing.

  I continued to look at her in confusion until she sighed and took the rope back from me. Watch, she instructed. Alice pulled the rope to the far corner of the room. Stepping onto the thick knot at the bottom of the rope with one foot, she folded her body, so that her arms and one leg wound themselves around the roping. She jumped, pushing her leg back and up, the force propelling her forward. The rope swung across the space of the room, and I stepped back to watch. Alice’s hair flung first forward and then back, so that her face was obscured, her laughter echoing throughout the small room as she swung back and forth, a human pendulum.

  A clap of thunder sounded overhead, and I was brought back to Chefchaouen. I turned toward the window, although all I could see was blackness and my own lonely reflection. I continued to stare, realizing how much had changed between my memory of that dance studio and Chefchaouen. It was not just Alice who had altered. Without her, my own sense of self had wavered. I had tried, in the days after the accident, to accept that I would never see her again, that whatever had existed between Alice and me had been ravaged, had been burned up inside that raging inferno until there was nothing left but cinder, the remains of something that once was. And I felt it, this loss. A physical pain, a knot in my stomach, that churned, acidic and angry. There had been moments in New York when I had wandered the streets, unable to sleep, unable to stop thinking of her. I had walked until my feet cracked and bled, and then walked farther still, unable to stop. I had been lost, adrift.

  There was that same swooshing noise in my ear, as normal to me by now as it had once been strange. Carefully, I examined it. There was still no pain, no sign of infection—just that unusual feeling of fullness. But then, there was something. I looked at my finger, now covered with grit. It didn’t matter how much I had washed in the bath, Tangier refused to let me go. But where only a few days before I would have relished this notion, I thought of it now with something like panic. Morocco was becoming too dangerous, not just for the expats who remained, but also for Alice, the city threatening to hold her captive. Both of us needed to get back to our original selves, I realized, and not just for twenty-four hours.

  I stood by the window, though the view outside was obscured in the darkness. Alice would have to know. There could be no more stalling, no more waiting. I would have to tell her about what I had seen, about the fast-ticking clock that was sounding behind us, everywhere we went. I knew that John would not wait forever.

  Ticktock. Ticktock.

  And then, Alice was standing behind me, as if she had simply materialized, as if a part of my brain had somehow managed to conjure her. I looked at our reflections in the glass, but we no longer looked like sisters. I wasn’t sure exactly what had changed. It was true that we had different
hairstyles now—mine was still long and old-fashioned, whereas Alice had cut hers into something that resembled a bob. I wondered if she had done it before or after her move to Tangier, if it had been in response to the heat or in anticipation of it. There was something else too, something in the way our expressions settled upon our respective faces. They were no longer interchangeable. Gone were the shared gestures, the intertextuality that had once existed between us. We were simply two women—close, once, but different. No longer the same at all.

  “We need to leave, Alice.” The words came out hoarsely, as if they had caught in my throat.

  A slow, sleepy grin settled on her face. “I know. Although part of me wishes that we could stay longer. Forever, even.”

  She thought we were speaking of Chefchaouen. “No, Alice,” I said, with a slight shake of my head. “I mean we need to leave Tangier.”

  Suddenly awake, her body tensed. She took a step backward, away from me.

  “You can’t stay here anymore. It’s not safe,” I continued.

  “No?”

  “No.” I cleared my throat. “John knows that I know—about Sabine.”

  She looked at me then, confusion crowding her features. But something else was there as well, a peculiar expression that pinched her face and told me what I had already begun to suspect: Alice knew. Perhaps not her name, and perhaps not even with any real certainty, but she knew that John was involved with another woman. Somewhere, however deeply she may have buried it, she knew.

  Alice blinked and asked, “Who?”

  I shook my head, ignoring her feigned expression. There could be no more hiding, I told myself, no more pretending. My voice was stronger, sharper as I told her, “You know who she is, Alice.”

  She looked taken aback, but whether at my tone or my words, I was uncertain.

  “I don’t know,” she protested.

  I leaned forward. “You do.”

  “No,” she said, continuing to back away. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know.” She looked up at me, her expression pleading. “I don’t want to know, Lucy.”

  “Alice.” She began to shake her head then, with such force that I moved toward her, worried. “Alice,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice low and steady.

  Her face was red, her cheeks streaked with tears. “I know,” she said, the words, sounding like a gasp, hanging in the air between us. “I know, Lucy. It’s all so horribly embarrassing, but of course, I do.”

  I exhaled—certain in the knowledge that I had been right, that I could still read her, that I still knew her, just as I once had. “What do you think he’ll do, Alice?” I continued. “When he finds out that you know. When he realizes that the money will stop.” She remained silent, her eyes wide. “You know what we have to do, then?” I pressed. “We have to leave, before he realizes.”

  “Realizes what?” she whispered.

  “That you know as well.” She was silent, and so I whispered: “There isn’t any other way.”

  I was no longer certain if she was listening. She was shivering violently, though it was still warm, the humidity evident in the trail of mist on the glass windows. She wrapped her arms around her body, as if to protect herself against the cold, and I felt myself shiver, as if in response.

  “We’ll go back to Tangier tomorrow. We’ll tell him together. And then we’ll leave,” I whispered, my voice steady, calm.

  “Yes,” she whispered, turning toward the window.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted, Alice?” I asked her. “To leave Tangier? To go back home?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” she replied.

  I felt my heart flutter, felt the realization that now was the time to move, to declare. I leaned forward so that I was only inches from her, my face hovering above her tear-stained skin. And then I kissed her.

  BEFORE HIM, WE HAD BEEN INSEPARABLE.

  But that year, our fourth at Bennington, something changed. Alice began to spend less time in our room, always making her way to and from the photography lab, or into town, arranging to see Tom whenever she had the opportunity. I would often catch sight of her as she bounded across the open lawn and toward the parking lot, headed to the warm interior of Tom’s waiting Skylark. It was easy to spot. A deep red that gleamed in the sun, its outline shimmering against the pale, more conservative cars of the faculty. It was a wonder that anyone as young as Tom could afford such an indulgent vehicle, since most auto shops were still clinging to wartime rules, requiring several months’ down payment before anything could be driven off the lot. I felt the resentment begin to prickle, hot and sharp.

  Tom Stowell. He was, I soon learned, from an old family in Maine—not the side filled with fishermen and carpenters, but the one full of Colonial houses and lobster bakes every summer Sunday evening. One built on old money, which meant that what little of it still existed was tied up in the house, or whatever they could borrow based on their last name. As a legacy, he had received a full scholarship at Williams College—without it, there was no hope of the Stowell name being represented within the walls of any respected educational system in New England.

  Some of this information I had gleaned from Alice herself—though she was surprisingly secretive when it came to Tom—and I’d gathered the rest in various ways, including from other students at Bennington. It turned out that the girls knew everything about the boys at the next college over—had made it their business to know their future husbands. For although the girls majored in literature and mathematics, a few even claiming premed, the vast majority of them, it seemed, had already realized their only profession was destined to be wife and mother.

  It became my business to know everything there was about Tom Stowell—what classes he took, the other boys he counted as friends. I received such information eagerly, as if I were dying of thirst, as if their whispers and rumors were the only water in the world that would quench it. The car, I soon learned, had been a sixteenth birthday present from his grandfather, the stoic patriarch. My studies began to suffer, but I didn’t mind. Tom was my major now—and my life, my happiness, depended on knowing everything about him.

  In the absence of Alice, I retreated to my old haunts, spending afternoons in the library, convinced that she would soon tire of him, that one day she would simply return, walking through the hardwood doors, smiling, her arms stacked with books. The previous months would fall away then, dissipating as if they had never happened. I watched and I waited, patiently, knowing that Tom’s time was running out.

  And when, at the end of each day, she failed to appear, I would head home, shivering, winter falling fast and quick, wondering if I would ever feel warm again.

  To keep her near, I began to borrow pieces of her wardrobe. A scarf, a pair of stockings. Each and every one of them seemed to carry something of her scent, a mix of spice and floral, as distinctive as any perfume. I had once pulled on one of her outfits, the fabric stretching and straining, refusing to be malleable, to my initial disappointment. I reminded myself, then, that Alice and I were not the same. We were each of us separate and distinct, only whole when placed together. Dressed in her clothing, her scent reminded me of this, and worked to still my mind, if only for a brief moment.

  But then she had walked in.

  I’d felt my cheeks burn with shame, so that I had hastily clawed at the dress, feeling the seams as they pulled and gave way. And on her face, I could see the astonishment—and something else, horror, I realized—at finding me like that, dressed in her clothing. And though she reassured me that it was fine, that I could borrow them anytime I wanted, I only sagged beneath her words. She had not understood, had carelessly attributed my actions to vanity alone, not thinking, not realizing that it was all only in order to be closer to her. Afterward, I had felt the need to be cruel, to punish her, consumed by the desire for her to know what it was like to be lower, inferior, to be held at the whim of others. She had done it to me time and again without so much as a second thought, and I wanted, in that moment, for
her to know what it felt like.

  And then one day Alice reappeared in our room, held out her hand to me, and everything else fell away. A small rose gold band with a minuscule diamond gleamed back. I looked up at her and asked, “So, it’s all been decided then?” My voice distant, so that I was convinced that I could hear it echoing throughout the room.

  “Almost,” she said, smiling. “There’s nothing official yet, but we plan to have the ceremony sometime after graduation. After that, Tom’s going to take me abroad.”

  There would be no Paris, no Budapest, no Cairo.

  Not for us.

  I had shaken my head then, had told myself no, I would not be made to go back, to return to my dull little life, a life of obscurity, of mediocrity. She was the one who had dragged me forth from the shadows of the library, from my own mind, and I, in turn, had helped her to dispel the shadows, helped her to move on from the anxiety that had gripped her since the death of her parents. It was all so plainly obvious, but somehow her vision was obscured. She could not see that Tom Stowell could not care for her as I would, that he did not understand her. She needed, I realized then, to be reminded.

  And so, I smiled and offered my congratulations.

  And I started to plan.

  I PRESSED MY LIPS AGAINST ALICE’S OWN, the movement so familiar from the hours I had spent thinking of it—at times convinced that it would never come—and I waited: for a response, for an indication, for anything that told me what she was thinking, feeling. And then—yes, I was certain—I felt Alice respond, felt her body shift and her lips open just slightly. Closing my eyes tighter, I worked to put everything into that one gesture—all the longing and dreaming that I had done in the years since we had first met, the pain of our year-long separation, and the hope I now had for the future.