Tangerine

by Christine Mangan

  “No, I don’t know him,” I said, wanting, and failing, to say the other as well.

  “That is not what my men reported to me.” Ayoub’s eyes narrowed. “They say that you were well acquainted.”

  “No, that isn’t true,” I protested, worried that it had already progressed to this—from knowing him to well acquainted. There was a difference, I was well aware. “I knew of him, but not him personally. John—” I stopped, my voice halting for a moment, stumbling over his name. “He warned me about him.”

  “Warned you—why?” Ayoub asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. To watch out for him, I suppose. To be careful if I ever ran into him, while I was on my own.”

  The officer seemed to consider this. “Your husband had met him, then?”

  I shook my head. “No.” But then I thought of Sabine, of the other life that he had lived apart from me. “I don’t know,” I found myself admitting. “I mean, I don’t think so. Not that he ever mentioned.” I reached for the glass of water again.

  The officer watched me, his face still, revealing nothing. “I’m confused, madame. If you had never met Youssef, and your husband had never met him, then why were you both scared of him?”

  “We were never scared,” I replied, quickly.

  “No?” He frowned.

  “No,” I repeated, frustrated now. “I don’t know. John had told me stories, about Youssef, about how he had conned some tourists out of money.”

  “And you were afraid he would do this to you as well—con you out of money?”

  Again, I shook my head. “No, not really. It’s just—”

  “Just what, Madame Shipley?” he snapped.

  I felt a flush, could tell that it had broken out across my chest, its redness most likely unmistakable even in the grim, darkened setting of the room. I cleared my throat, but before I could speak, Aunt Maude stirred. Leaning forward, she placed a hand on the officer’s desk. “What is this about, please?”

  Ayoub tilted his head, clearly unsettled by the interruption but doing his best to hide it. “Nothing at all, madame,” he finally said, with what seemed a reluctant smile. “We are only trying to establish a link between this young woman, her husband, and the perpetrator.” He turned back to me. “So you never met Youssef?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve told you this already. I have never met him.”

  “That is interesting.” He sat back in his chair, a smile emerging on his previously blank face. “You see, we’ve spoken to the suspect and he claims to be very well acquainted with you, Madame Shipley.”

  I stilled at his words. “What do you mean?”

  “He says that you know each other, that you met a few weeks back, in a café, outside Cinema Rif.”

  “But I’ve never been to Cinema Rif,” I protested, but even as I said the words, I realized—it was Lucy. She was the one he was describing. She was the one who had somehow planted this idea, this trap, so that I had ended up here, in this particular office. “Lucy,” I breathed.

  A frown stole over Ayoub’s face. “Pardon, madame?”

  “It’s Lucy,” I said again, only louder this time.

  “I don’t understand,” Ayoub said, glancing toward Aunt Maude.

  I hesitated, feeling my aunt’s icy stare, her disapproval, but I brushed them aside, pushing ahead. I could remain quiet no longer, not when everything had become twisted and jumbled. They would need my help to sort through it, so that it made sense at last. Maude didn’t see yet, she couldn’t—but she would, eventually.

  “Lucy Mason,” I said, though my voice trembled. “She’s my old college roommate.”

  The frown remained. “And how does this relate to what has happened here?”

  “Lucy only just recently arrived in Tangier,” I began, “and I believe that she might be involved.”

  Ayoub shook his head. “Perhaps I am not understanding. Involved with what, exactly?”

  “With all of it,” I said, leaning toward the officer. “With John’s death, with this silly idea that I somehow know Youssef, that I might somehow have something to do with it myself.”

  Ayoub was quiet for a moment, but then he smiled and said, “It’s interesting that you mention this—the idea that you might be involved. Yes, you see, Youssef has also claimed that someone else is responsible. A Tangerine, a woman.” He paused. “His good friend, Madame Alice Shipley.”

  “What do you mean?” I demanded.

  “I mean, that the man claims he is innocent.” Ayoub shrugged. “He says that you, Madame Shipley, came to him, asking questions about a woman, someone your husband had been seeing on the side. And then, not shortly after that, he claims he saw this same woman attack and murder her husband. Your husband, Madame Shipley.”

  A scoff from beside me as my aunt demanded: “And you believe him?”

  Ayoub waved away the question. “We know about Youssef, we’ve been watching him now for years. Of course he’s only dabbled in petty theft before, little schemes of no real consequence.” He paused. “This was quite surprising, and yet—”

  “What?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  “I can imagine it,” he said, pointedly. “If there was perhaps, shall we say, a persuasive force,” he paused. “Did you, Madame Shipley,” he said, emphasizing the latter word, “know about your husband’s affair?”

  I froze, but before I could respond, Aunt Maude placed a hand on my shoulder. She leaned forward and whispered in a low, forceful tone, “Monsieur, are you charging my niece with something today?”

  He seemed to consider her words carefully. “Not at this moment, madame. This is only an informal chat, a chance for Madame Shipley to tell us anything she might know.”

  “But I’ve just told you,” I said. “I had nothing to do with this man. And he didn’t have anything to do with John. It’s Lucy, not him.”

  “No?” He removed several items from his pocket then and placed them onto the table between us. I saw the leather wallet that John had purchased in the souks, a wallet that smelled of the city and conjured up memories and images that I would rather leave behind. It had been purchased the same day I had lost John in the market, had grown angry and confused and scared—but then no, I realized. That hadn’t been the same day at all, those two had been separate and distinct. I shook my head, focusing my eyes, my mind, instead on the other object Ayoub had produced.

  A small silver item that I couldn’t place at first. But then I heard its familiar clatter, saw its shape and detail, and I knew what it was, knew that it could only be one thing and nothing else.

  My mother’s bracelet.

  The officer was watching me expectantly—a look of triumph already spreading across his features. “You recognize these, yes?”

  The room was hot, suffocating. “Yes,” I replied, “the bracelet belonged to my mother.” But even as I said the words, I struggled to understand how it had come into his possession, to understand what sequence of events had placed that bracelet—one my mother had once held in the palm of her hands, had once worn around the curve of her wrist—into the rough, calloused hands of a stranger, miles and miles away from where I had last seen it.

  “But it was most recently in your possession, yes?” the officer pressed. “That is, before you gave it away.”

  “Yes,” I continued, but then I shook my head. “No. I mean, it belongs to me now, but no, I did not give it away,” I said, my voice low and hoarse.

  He looked at me. “If that is true, madame, then how do you think I have happened to come into possession of it?”

  I struggled to speak. “I don’t know,” I said, turning toward my aunt at last, my words spoken more to her than the officer. “I haven’t a clue. I lost it when I was at Bennington. I thought at first Lucy had stolen it, but then she denied it. I haven’t seen it since.”

  The officer leaned back in his chair. “Shall I tell you where I found it?” His eyes narrowed. “Though, I suspect you already know.”

 
; “I don’t,” I said. “Auntie.” I reached out to take her hand. “I promise I have no idea.”

  Aunt Maude said nothing.

  “Your good friend Youssef was found in possession of this bracelet.” He paused. “Payment,” he said, the word long and drawn out.

  I started, turning back to him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Payment,” he repeated. “That’s why he claims you gave him the bracelet.” He gave a short laugh. “He seemed to have no idea that it was worthless, a piece of metal and paste.”

  Maude shifted. “Payment for what, exactly?”

  The officer turned toward her. “Papers, madame. According to Youssef, Madame Shipley suggested that the police would know what she had done, sooner or later. She wanted to make sure she was able to leave, undetected, before that happened.”

  Papers. Lucy had obtained new papers from someone recently, and Lucy was the one who had befriended Youssef, all those weeks ago. Perhaps—though I didn’t know why—Lucy had planned it all. But no, why on earth would this man ever agree to any of it when he had landed in jail? There would be no reason for pretense now. But then, perhaps he did not know that it was pretense, perhaps he believed it—believed that she was me, that she was called Alice.

  I started.

  “Madame?” The officer frowned.

  “The name,” I gasped. “What was the name on the papers?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The new passport,” I said hurriedly. “What was the name on the new passport?”

  The officer looked down at his notepad, turning a page or two calmly, carefully, leaving me to lean forward, gripping the handles of my chair until my knuckles were white.

  “Alice, what is it?” Aunt Maude asked. She looked down at my shaking fingers and I released them, quickly.

  “The papers,” I whispered, not wanting to disturb the officer. “It’s the papers, don’t you see?” She frowned and I hastened to explain. “Lucy. She had new papers made, ones with Sophie Turner as the name.”

  “Alice—” she began, the frown deepening between her brows.

  “No,” I interrupted, shaking my head. “I’m right, I know I’m right. It makes sense. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” I turned back toward the officer. “Have you found it yet? The name?”

  The officer looked up. “He did not know the name. He said madame was insistent she be put in touch with the forger personally, so as not to incriminate him further.”

  I fell back against the chair.

  “Madame,” the officer began again, though his voice was distant now. “We also went to speak with your husband’s mistress. She was, however, not to be found. It seems she left the country—fled, rather, in fear of her life. It was, it appears, with the help of your husband, the night before he went missing. And from what we understand, he had plans to eventually join her, in Europe.”

  I shook my head, feeling the words as they were absorbed, one by one, into my body. “I didn’t push her,” I whispered, knowing as I did, that it was the wrong thing to say.

  Both Ayoub and Maude leaned forward quickly, words spilling from them both, loud and rushed, though I did not hear them, did not register them. Instead I felt the blood drain from my face, felt the knowledge of it all hit me—sharp and accurate, so that it seemed my breath had been knocked out of me. I realized then, for the first time, what was happening—why this man was asking these questions. I turned to look at Aunt Maude, to see if she too had realized. Her stony demeanor told me that she had, and I found myself wondering just how long she had known—whether she had figured it out from the beginning, from the moment the officer had pointed us through the door. My skin prickled. “I need to be excused,” I said, the words dulled so that I did not recognize them as my own.

  The officer watched me with those hardened eyes, any trace of kindness long dissipated. “There is just one more thing,” he said.

  I hesitated. “Yes?”

  He peered up at me. “Why did you not go to the police, when you knew your husband was missing?” When I did not respond, he continued, “Or perhaps you did. That is also unclear. You see, my men claim that someone by the name of Alice Shipley telephoned the station, only when they paid her a visit, she denied having made the telephone call.”

  I blinked. “It wasn’t me. And I didn’t know. Not at first.”

  He frowned. “You didn’t know that your husband was missing?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head, knowing how the words sounded, that no explanation would ever suffice. Still, I hastened to explain: “He was supposed to go somewhere. With a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  I hesitated, suspecting what his next question would be. “His name is Charlie,” I responded. And then, when he did indeed follow up by asking how he could get in touch with him, I answered, shaking my head: “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know how to get in touch with your husband’s friend?” he asked, suspicion, doubt, flooding his voice.

  My heart began to pound as I admitted, “No, I’ve only ever met him a couple of times. Charlie, I mean.”

  “But that still does not explain how you knew.”

  “About Charlie?” I asked, puzzled.

  “No, madame,” he shook his head. “That your husband was missing.”

  “A man came to tell me. Someone that John works with.” I paused, knowing, once more, that his next question would demand specifics I could not provide. “I don’t know his name.”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  He grimaced. “Pardon me for saying so, but there is a lot that you don’t seem to know, madame. A lot that you don’t seem to have answers for.”

  I considered this as I began to stand, turning away from the police officer. I felt Aunt Maude rise beside me, felt her at my back as I pushed the door open and we were, at last, released into the hallway.

  “Madame?” came the officer’s voice again.

  I stopped but did not turn.

  “We have been made aware that you recently closed your account with the local bank. With this in mind, we ask that you please surrender your passport before leaving the station today.”

  I nodded stiffly and let the door close behind us.

  AUNT MAUDE INSISTED that I accompany her back to the Hotel Continental.

  One of the oldest hotels in Tangier, its expansive white facade sat higher than the rest of the buildings it surrounded, as if in recognition of its significance. I had always thought it looked like something out of a fairy tale, only instead of a moat, there was the harbor, instead of pillars, there were dozens of palm trees, and instead of royalty, there were artists and writers—all the names that were famous and meant something out there, beyond Tangier. It was strange, but I found that I could no longer imagine it: a world outside of this place, Morocco. One that existed at the same time, concurrently. It seemed as though everything, each and every strand of my life, was tied to this place, would always be tied to this place, no matter how much distance I were to put between us. I tried to remember if I had felt the same about Bennington before I left, but it seemed so far away, as if that too could no longer exist under the blazing sun of Tangier, as if the hot, dusty city held the power to wipe clean the green forests, the rolling hills, the smell of damp leaves underfoot. I was certain, in that moment, that I would never see it again.

  “Are you feeling ill?” My aunt’s voice cut through my thoughts. We sat across from each other, an elaborate tea service between us, on the patio overlooking the harbor. Up until that moment, we had remained silent, our unspoken words a divide I could not figure out how to cross.

  “No, I was only thinking,” I began, setting my teacup down with a clatter.

  She held up a hand to silence me. “It’s fine, Alice. You needn’t say anything. We will figure out a solution, just as we did before.”

  I frowned, realizing she meant Bennington. “Maude,” I started again, the soun
d of her name causing her to look up, startled. “You have to believe me, about Lucy.”

  “Alice—”

  “No,” I cut in, refusing to listen. “You have to believe me, you have to trust me when I tell you that she is the one responsible for all of this, just like before. You have to.”

  She shook her head, setting down her own teacup with an exasperated sigh. “Enough, Alice,” she commanded, though her voice was not as harsh as I believe she intended it to be. Instead she sounded sad, tired—as if she had been having this same conversation for the entirety of her life. “No more of this Lucy Mason business, I beg of you.”

  “But if you would just listen—”

  “No, Alice,” she cut in. “I can’t. I can’t go back there, not again.” She shook her head. “After all that wretched business in Vermont, all you would talk about was Lucy. It was like you were obsessed.” She paused. “There were girls who came forward, afterward. Girls who said they heard you fighting, that you said something—that night.”

  I tried to remember. “What did I say?”

  Aunt Maude looked away. “That you wished she would disappear.” She paused. “And then she did.”

  “It was—” I began to protest.

  “Alice,” she cut in again, “you must see how it all looks.”

  I shook my head, not understanding what she was saying. “Lucy did it, Lucy is the one responsible—just like before.”

  “Alice,” she began again, lowering her voice. “There is no evidence of that. There is no evidence that anyone is responsible at all. It was just an accident, something that no one can be held accountable for. It was tragic, yes, and I can see how you’re still struggling with the injustice. It’s entirely understandable. But blaming someone else, a girl who no one has seen since—” She let her voice fade.

  I frowned, struggling once more to understand her aversion to the topic, to understand why instead of choosing to listen to her niece, to what she offered as truth, she preferred instead to sweep away all mention of Lucy entirely.

  And then I remembered her words, after the accident. I will take care of everything. I inhaled sharply. That was it, then, the truth of the matter. The one that had always been there but that I had refused to see until that moment. I looked up at my aunt, made sure to catch her eye, to hold it. “Maude,” I said, my voice level, even. And then I asked the question that had been floating between us, I now realized, for the past year: “Maude, what do you think I’ve done?”