“I suppose,” I said, ignoring, even as I did so, the dangerous smile on his face.
Pushing aside the venomous words that he had spoken to me that night in the street, I followed him to Café Hafa and beyond, through one of the numerous unmarked doors that signaled the dwellings of the local community. I even agreed to the ridiculous proposition that he eventually put forth—a request for a portrait—wanting, needing to know in that instant just what it was that lurked behind his smile, both tired and angry that he was the second person in my life who had decided to try to put something over on me that day.
Once inside, I noted the dozen or so canvases lining the room, and moving silently among them, I wondered whether any of the work actually belonged to Youssef, or if these too were part of his facade. Perhaps the paints and brushes were just props on a stage, the canvases completed by another hand—that daughter that either John or Alice had once mentioned, though I could no longer recall who had spoken the words. The paintings themselves were adequate if unremarkable. A sunset, an ocean, the market on a busy day. Everyday life in Tangier, I noted, though the colors were bright and cheerful, dispelling the notion that anything untoward ever ran through the veins of the city. All trace of filth, of grime, swept away. I was struck with the sudden desire to laugh.
There was one, though, that caused me to pause. It was of a series of rooftops, nothing remarkable, but the vibrancy of the paints struck me. Perhaps it was the broad careless strokes, or the clashing colors—clotheslines, I could decipher, a tenuous link that held each building together, a jumbled mess that made it impossible to pick out where one began and the other ended. It was horrible, in some ways, going against everything they taught you in class—and yet, there was something else there as well, something that reminded me of Tangier, as if I were already gone. Whatever it was, I slowed, my fingers resting lightly on the frame.
“This one is beautiful,” I said.
Youssef nodded, directing me toward a stool that he had set in the center of the room, a beam of natural light illuminating the space, his easel and canvas only a few paces away. “Please,” he said.
I sat, grateful for his suggestion, for the opportunity to let my mind relax, to wander, to not dwell on all that had happened over the last few days, on all the things that would have to happen still. My eyes began to flutter in the calmness of the room. I felt the warmth of the sun against my face and I sighed, my body relaxing.
“You know,” Youssef said, his voice cutting through the air, “I saw you.”
I frowned, my mind still slow from the heat. I had not expected him to begin so quickly. “You saw me?” I repeated, opening my eyes to look at him.
His face emerged from behind the canvas, his eyes strangely bright. “Yes. I saw you the other day. By the tombs.”
I stopped. My hands twitched in my lap, but I stilled them. “With my friend, you mean?” I replied, working to keep my voice light, breathy—though I was awake now. “Yes, I took her up to Café Hafa. I thought she would enjoy the view.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “I saw that too.”
Ah. So here was the truth of it at last—he had been following me, tailing me, like some heroic detective in a third-rate film. It seemed I had not given Youssef enough thought. He had faded into the background, a mosquito to be flicked away, but now, thinking about it, recalling his expression when I had brushed him aside that night—irritation, yes, but something more as well—I felt his buzzing return. Anger. That’s what it had been. An anger that ran wide and deep, and that was, I knew, directed at far more than just me. My mind raced. If he had been following me, that would mean—my breath caught in my throat—he knew, I realized. He knew, and he had decided that he would try to trap me with it.
“Yes,” he continued, speaking slowly, with confidence, with ease—confirming my suspicions. “I saw you with him.” And then, just so that there was no misunderstanding between us, he added, “I saw what you did.”
I did not move. “I have money,” I said evenly, as though it were not a great thing, but thinking, even as I said it, of my nearly depleted account.
Youssef nodded, though his face was twisted, as if insulted by my words—even though they were the ones he had wished me to speak. I thought that I understood his disgust, his hatred. And I was willing to forgive him, in light of his situation, willing to overlook the fact that he had just attempted this con on me, his sole supporter and defender. After all, I understood desperation, understood what it could do to you, what it could force you to do in return. We were, Youssef and I, not so dissimilar from each other. But then I thought of the money. I clasped my hands together tightly, feeling the pain as my nails dug into flesh. I ignored it, ignored the bright red blood that rose from my skin. One payment would not be enough. No amount of money would ever be enough, I suspected.
No—I needed a way out.
And then I remembered. The first time we had met, all those days ago now, outside of Cinema Rif. Youssef thought my name was Alice.
It hadn’t been a conscious decision, when I had first arrived in Tangier and given him her name instead of my own. It had only been a hesitation, an uncertainty about the man before me. He was someone used to wearing masks, and so I had, as I had done many times before, adopted my own. There had been nothing beyond that initial instinct. But now, now I could see the advantages. I hated to do it, felt my whole body rebel at the thought. But then, I reminded myself, there was nothing else to be done. I had been trapped, backed into a corner, and the only thing that mattered any longer was survival—my own survival. They had, Alice and Youssef both, left me no other choice.
Thirteen
Alice
AFTER THE TELEPHONE CALL WITH AUNT MAUDE, I FELT relieved, buoyed even, knowing that she would soon be in Tangier, that she would set things right. And yet as I stood in the living room, as I took in each and every little item that belonged to John, I felt consumed by guilt for the thoughts that I had entertained only hours before, wondering whether I wanted to remain in Tangier, remain with him. It felt like a betrayal, and one far more dangerous than anything he had committed. I left the flat then, desperate to be away from the tight enclosure that was filled with him, walking down one street and then another, passing by the market that we had once gone to together, ignoring the overpowering smell of leather, of meat, though it threatened to turn my stomach. I passed by a café I recognized from our early days, where we had sat and laughed together. As I increased my pace, tripping over my own feet as I hurried, with no real direction, no real purpose, I realized that each and every corner of this city was marked by my memories of John. It did not matter where I went, there was no escaping them.
At some point, I became aware of being watched.
He was smart, kept himself well hidden, so that I saw him first only out of the corner of my eye, the wide brim of his hat obscuring his face. I had shaken my head, had told myself, sternly, to stop imagining things, but then—there he was again, the same man from earlier that morning. The one with the scar. He was just to the side of me, first to the right, then to the left, sometimes a few paces ahead. Careful never to let me see him—not entirely. He was smart, but then, I reminded myself, if he worked with John, for the government, I supposed he had to be. I felt my heart begin to beat faster, wondering what it was that he wanted, what answers he could possibly think I held. I increased my speed, turned down one alley and then another, but it did not matter.
I could not manage to lose him.
By the time I returned to the flat, I was out of breath, my heart beating hard and fast, my hands shaking as I fumbled with the lock. At some point my hair had fallen from its clasp, and I could feel the strands as I made my way to the sitting room, tickling around the edges of my face, so that I brushed them away, quickly, intently, trying to free myself from their maddening touch.
I came to a sudden stop.
Lucy was there, sitting on the sofa—but she was not alone. Two policemen stood, one on either
side of her, clothed in the familiar tan uniform and peculiar hat, the one that sat on top of, rather than on, their heads. Their rifles, I noticed, were balanced against one of the bookshelves. I blinked, wondering if they were truly there, wondering whether I had only imagined them.
“Alice,” Lucy began, her voice filled with concern. “The police have come to ask about John, about his disappearance. They wanted to speak with you, but I told them I wasn’t sure where you were. At the market, I supposed.”
I must look mad, I realized, clutching at the bookcase beside me, desperate, in that moment, to feel something real beneath my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, not knowing to whom I had even addressed the apology.
One of the policemen stood. “Est-ce que tout va bien, madame?”
“Oui,” I struggled to answer. My breath, I noticed, was short and raspy.
“Elle a l’air malade,” the other policeman observed.
He made as if to start toward me, but I held up my hand. “Non,” I declared firmly. “I’m not ill.”
There was a silence, during which the policemen both eyed me with something that was not quite concern. “We received your telephone call, Madame Shipley,” one of them eventually said.
“Telephone call?” I looked around the room, at the expectant faces watching me. “But I didn’t ring anyone.”
The same officer frowned, consulting the notebook he held between his hands. “We were informed, earlier this morning, by a Madame Alice Shipley, that her husband was missing.” He paused. “That is not you?”
“No,” I said, my gaze sliding over to where Lucy sat, wondering how long the policemen had been there, and just what she might have said to them in the interval. My thoughts flickered to the man with the scar then, and his insistence that the local police not be contacted.
“So your husband isn’t missing?”
“What?” I asked, turning my attention back to the officer. “No—I mean, yes, yes, he is.”
“Your husband is missing, but you didn’t call to report him?”
I nodded, cheeks blushing. “Yes, yes, that’s right.”
There was a silence as both the officers frowned, and then Lucy said, “I was thinking,” sounding as though she were resuming a conversation that I had interrupted with my entrance. Her eyes scanned the room, resting, eventually, on me. It was only for a fraction of a second—one, two, three—I didn’t know how long exactly, but I could see, already, what it was that she was doing. I knew her as well as I knew myself—knew the way her mouth curved into an O when she was embarrassed, knew the sound she made when startled, or the way her pupils dilated when she was pleased. I knew her. And I knew in that instance that whatever thoughts were turning in her mind, they had arrived upon some sort of conclusion when she had glanced my way.
“There was a man,” she said. “Youssef.”
I frowned, feeling something begin to prickle at the back of my neck.
“Youssef?” The policeman paused, scrolling through his notepad. “Who is this?”
Lucy shrugged. “He’s just a local. A grifter, really. He also goes by the name of Joseph.” She shook her head, as if to clear her thoughts. “I don’t even know why I mentioned him.”
It was a lie, I thought.
She turned to me. “I think Alice knew him. I seem to remember her mentioning him when I first moved here. I always thought it was strange, that she would know someone like him, but now, I realize that Tangier is a small city. It’s quite easy to know everyone.” She stopped, and then added: “He wears a fedora, with a purple ribbon. That’s how most people know him—he never goes anywhere without it.”
There was no accusation in her voice. She was smarter than that. But the policeman—I could see the light behind his eyes flash, just dimly, but enough such that I knew his interest had been piqued. I could see it in the way his body seemed to expand, to fill the room.
I could also see what she had done—made a connection, a link, between Youssef and me. A trail, scattering the bread crumbs.
“Merci beaucoup,” the officer said, making a slight nod with his head. “We will look into this and let you know whether anything more has been found. Chances are, he is where most Tangerines end up—drunk somewhere, sleeping it off, or . . .” He let his words trail.
“Or what?” I asked, my voice not quite the challenge I intended.
He only shrugged. “In the meantime, madame, let us know if you hear from your husband.”
I nodded, ignoring the way the words sounded like a reprimand, as if I were the one to blame for John’s disappearance. I tried to think of the other reasons he had left unspoken. A fight with a local gambler gone wrong, a stabbing perhaps. A disagreement at one of the nightclubs, with one of the men in charge of the women there. I shook my head; they were wrong. But before I could tell them, they were gone, a jostling of thick fabric and heavy boots.
“Where have you been?” Lucy asked, her voice cutting through the silence.
I watched as she stood from the sofa, as she moved to perch on the ledge of the window. She was dressed in dark trousers and a plain light blouse and I was struck with the thought: this is her, watching as she brought a lit cigarette to her mouth. The long, elegant lines, the absence of frills and bows. She was still the most beautiful woman that I had ever met—but in a way that made me shiver with fear.
“It’s so dark,” I observed, realizing that the sun had begun to set, that the room had fallen into darkness since the departure of the police. I moved toward one of the lamps, desperate, suddenly, for the light.
“Don’t,” she instructed, her voice firm, resolute. “I want to watch the sun set.”
There was a challenge there, and I fought the urge to disregard her words, to flip the switch anyway, so that it would send us both, momentarily blind, into the light. I thought of Aunt Maude, now on her way to Tangier, and my fingers twitched again, eager for the moment she arrived.
“It’s unlike anything at home, isn’t it?” she asked then, not bothering to turn her head toward me.
I looked out of the window, the sky awash with stripes of pink and white and blue. Yes, it was different, I thought. Maybe even beautiful. But at that moment, I saw only something ominous and warning, a threat that I could never quite manage to elude. I had promised my aunt that I would not involve the police, and yet somehow they had turned up on my doorstep. And even though I was certain that I had not called them, that I had not been the one to summon them, my mind sought and failed to remember those moments after I had hung up the telephone with Maude with any sort of precision. I had been overwrought, surrounded by this place that was entirely John’s, the apartment and the city belonging to him in a way that I could not understand. I would have given anything, in that moment, to return to the dark, rainy skies of my childhood.
She turned to me. “You never go out.”
There was no accusation in her voice. She spoke as one did when reciting facts—and it was a fact, I thought. Once, I had never gone out. Once, I had been so afraid of what might lurk in the corners of the alleyways, in the back rooms of bars and cafés. But that was before, I wanted to tell her. Before she had arrived, before John had disappeared, before everything had changed and I had begun to suspect, begun to remember, that the true danger did not lie entirely within my own mind.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
I watched the plume of her cigarette smoke as it crowded her features, and I wondered whether she might know and whether it was possible that she was asking only in order to see if I would be truthful. “To the market,” I lied.
She looked around the flat. “And what did you buy?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged, although I was unable to determine whether she could see the gesture in the darkness that shrouded us. “I only wanted to look.”
“It’s quite late for the market.”
My voice was too insistent as I replied, “I went there first, and then out for a walk.”
She nodd
ed, and then said, her eyes boring into my own, “I was surprised that you didn’t tell me. About John’s disappearance, I mean.”
I held her gaze, and though my voice trembled, I asked, “Did I need to?”
The question, the implication, hung between us, unanswered.
She turned to the window and said, “We could still leave, you know. The two of us, together. We could go to Spain. To Paris.” She paused, turning to look at me slowly, so that I could hear the rustle of her trousers as she moved. “It’s not too late. This doesn’t have to be the end.”
I could see it—the desperation glinting in her eyes. And part of me, though I knew it was absurd, that it was wrong, wanted to say yes. It would be easier to close my eyes and give in, to close the distance between us and leave this nightmare behind. And perhaps she sensed it too, this relenting, for she reached out, as if to touch me. But then I thought of Tom, of John, of what she had most likely—No, I whispered fiercely to myself, had absolutely done—and I felt myself pale. I knocked her hand away with a force that surprised us both. I could see it—the shock, the disappointment, and yes, the anger. “You can’t blackmail me into loving you, Lucy,” I spat, unable to stop myself. “It doesn’t work like that.”
Her face froze, so that it seemed as though her features were contracting, shrinking. And then, through the darkness, I saw the start of a smile beginning at one corner of her mouth. It seemed like her lips were tilted, jerked upward. The look of a cat toying with a mouse.
My skin began to itch, knowing that something was about to happen, sensing, already, the danger in her next words.
“When will you tell the police?” she asked.
I grew still.
“About what you know.”
“What do I know?” I whispered, trying to ignore the trembling of my body.
Tangerine Page 20
