Tangerine

by Christine Mangan

  She paled. I waited for her to deny it, to tell me that I was being absurd, hysterical even, but then she broke my gaze, looking out to the port, to the sea just beyond and whispered, “I don’t know, Alice.” She turned back to look at me. “And what’s more, I don’t know if you do either.”

  I could feel them then—the shadows—threatening. I remembered those days, after my parents died, how everything had seemed heightened but also dull and distant at the same time. Time had passed strangely. Hours had felt like days, and days had felt like hours. Most of that I had spent in bed, my mind exhausted and racing, the lack of sleep causing me to blink rapidly, my dry and tired eyes struggling to determine what was real, what was tangible, and what had only been imagined by my fervent mind.

  This could not be how it all ended.

  I pushed the thought of my parents, of their death, from my mind. I ignored those dark spaces at the edges of my vision, the ones that seemed to grow, minute by minute.

  There had to be something left that I could do, something that might help to right the horrible, wretched mess that Lucy had once again created.

  I stood, knocking over my teacup as I did so, the light brown liquid running down the sides of the table, onto the ground. “I’m so sorry,” I murmured. “Please excuse me, Auntie.”

  As I walked away from the Hotel Continental, leaving behind Maude—who looked stricken and confused at my hasty exit—I thought about what the police officer had said back at the station. Yes, there was a lot that I did not have answers for, that much was true.

  But I also knew the one person who did.

  Eighteen

  Lucy

  I PEELED OFF MY DRESS, THE IMPOSING BELTED BLACK ONE I had worn on my first day in Tangier and again, recently, for the sake of Maude. I did not imagine a girl like Sophie Turner wore trousers. The dress clung to my back, slick with sweat, as if reluctant to leave my body. A few minutes passed and I wrestled, furiously, until I heard a slight rip, a slight give of the fabric and then it was off and I was free, the defeated dress lying in a heap on the ground. I sighed. Part of me wanted to leave it there, to toss it out the window and into a trash heap, but I stuffed it into the bottom of my suitcase, hoping, as I did so, that the need for such pretense would soon be over.

  It was almost time to leave now.

  There was a part of me that had hesitated, earlier that day, that had felt guilty even as I moved inside Youssef’s empty studio. He had waited his entire life to see Tangier free and he was so close to it—it was only a matter of weeks now, until that moment when Tangier would be entirely its own. I was aware of the injustice, even as I had placed John’s bloodstained wallet onto the ground, behind one of Youssef’s paintings, the bracelet already there somewhere, a down payment of my gratitude. It was not fair, I knew. He would spend the rest of his life in prison and simply because he had done what I had always done myself—scratched and clawed, fought as hard as possible, in order to get his own in a world that refused to give it to him. Once again I was struck by how similar we were, Youssef and I. Oppressed by the same forces, by men like John. And while we should have been allies, while this defeat of John should have made us partners, coconspirators, we would be nothing but enemies now.

  My hand had paused at the sight of the painting resting on the easel. I had not asked to see it, had not bothered to look at it, the last time I had been in his studio. A part of me, later, had wondered whether he had even been painting at all, whether it had truly been my portrait his brushstrokes had created. But about this, at least, he had been honest.

  A strange mix of blues, the shades of which I could not name, the painting displayed my features in startling clarity. It betrayed, I thought, just how closely he had been observing me these past weeks—for surely he had not seen all this in just the few moments that I had sat for him. There was something intimate, something that suggested a relationship existed between the artist and the subject. I knew little about art, but I had the sense that it was something that should make one feel, should make one think.

  It was already approaching evening, and I struggled in that moment, watching as the fading light cast its beams across the painting, caught between the desperate need to get away, from the studio, from Tangier, and yet hesitant to leave. It seemed all too sudden, as if I hadn’t had time to prepare, to allow myself to mourn. Part of me wanted to leave it there, as a reminder, proof that I was once there, that I had loved Tangier, had loved Alice, in that moment. That it had all meant something. But then I thought of the painting remaining there for Youssef to look at, believing he had bested me—even if the illusion would last only for a moment or two longer. The idea unsettled me. I thought too of the police, who would find it, who might pause long enough, particularly if Youssef decided to point in my direction, when he realized his Alice was not the Alice. It would not do, I realized.

  I had reached out and taken the painting.

  I now paused before lowering the blouse over my head, my eyes flickering to the mirror, to what I saw reflected there. A young woman, handsome enough, but nothing that clamored for attention. I thought of Youssef’s painting—of the shrewdness that he had captured. I relaxed my face, watching, working to soften my features, to rearrange myself into a girl called Sophie Turner, though I had already begun to suspect that she would not fit for much longer—her worth, her purpose diminishing with each and every step that I took.

  I reached for my suitcase, taking one last look around the apartment.

  We could have been happy here, I thought sadly.

  I closed the door and exited onto the streets below.

  I INHALED, TAKING IN THE SCENTS of Tangier, reminding myself, even as I did so, that it might be the last time I found myself on her shores again. As I moved through the markets, my eyes trailed over the tall mounds of spices, from the brilliant shades of squash-colored turmeric, to the crushed rose petals and overflowing baskets of whole peppercorns. If I were a painter, an artist, this is where I would spend all my time, I decided. There was no better place to observe Tangier.

  And then, though I knew it was silly, that it was entirely too sentimental, dangerous even, I made my way toward the Kasbah, toward the tombs and the cliff and the water beyond, one last time. In the end, I could not stop myself.

  Standing atop the cliff, determined to take in one last view of Tangier, I was struck by her beauty, by her mystery. I thought of the tale that Youssef had told me. The one about the beautiful woman luring men to their death. Perhaps it wasn’t some mysterious woman at all, I thought now, perhaps it was simply Tangier, Tingis. For in a way I too had experienced a sort of death upon her shores. I had come to her as one thing and was now leaving as another. This metamorphosis, it seemed, was dependent on rebirth, and so death must also be a part of it, the two inherently linked.

  I removed the painting from under my arm, gave a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, and released it into the water below.

  Lucy Mason had outlived her usefulness at last—though she had never been particularly useful to begin with, I thought with disdain. Born poor, uneducated, to a family that couldn’t be bothered to care, in the end her survival past the age of ten was a miracle in itself. That she had found a way to survive, in that garage, alone with her father, with the other men, that she had picked up one book and then another, teaching herself to read, to write, to earn a scholarship that promised her something more, something better—it should never have happened. She should have died long ago, just like her mother, another forgotten life, another forgotten death. With no one left to mourn, to remember. I stood for a moment or two longer, imagining the waves as flames of a fire, watching as they lapped, as they drowned and devoured the last and final traces of Lucy Mason.

  I moved away from the cliffs, realizing that time had been slipping away from me, that the ferry would soon be arriving. Heading toward the port, I kept my eyes focused, kept my gaze averted as I walked, avoiding those very same spots where on
ly moments before I had walked, eagerly, greedily, hungry for a reminder, a souvenir, of Tangier. I thought of that first day, of the sellers that had greeted me, called out to me, trying and failing to get me to part with my money. I saw them again as I moved toward the port and then—yes, I knew it was him—that very same Mosquito who had pursued me through the streets as I had sought to find Alice’s flat that first day, who had slipped away only moments before I had stood beneath her balcony, watching her from a distance.

  He moved toward me now, a smile emerging on his face. “Madame needs a tour guide?” he asked eagerly.

  I shook my head and indicated the boat, just beyond.

  He nodded in response and opened his jacket, revealing a hidden layer of cheap, shiny bracelets and rings, the kind that would no doubt stain one’s skin green within a few days. “A trinket, madame,” he offered. “To remember your journey.”

  I nodded, reaching for my last few francs. “Here,” I said, handing over the coins.

  He rewarded me with one of the bracelets.

  “A reminder, madame,” he said, smiling. “Of your time in Tangier.”

  I thanked him and headed toward the port. As I boarded, I let the trinket drop from my hand into the Mediterranean, though I did not bother to watch as it sank. Letting out a small laugh, I thought of what I had wanted to say to the Mosquito. That the bracelet, or any other of his treasures, was unnecessary. That I didn’t need anything to remind me of Tangier, of her.

  After all, I was a Tangerine.

  I would never forget.

  Nineteen

  Alice

  IN SOME WAYS, MALABATA PRISON WAS NOT SO GRIM AS I HAD anticipated.

  Sitting on the eastern outskirts of the city, it stood, a vast grand building rising up in front of me so that I was immediately reminded of the Hotel Continental. I felt a chill run through me. The two structures could not have been more different, and yet there was something in them that felt strangely familiar, a sense of the imposing stature that radiated from both.

  Inside I was conducted through a series of hallways before passing at last into what appeared to be some sort of makeshift cell, held apart from the rest of the prison.

  Youssef stood when I entered. “I am so famous now they decided I must have my own room,” he said by way of greeting, indicating his surroundings. He smiled, watching as I assessed the tiny enclosure, the prison within a prison that they had created for him.

  I smiled weakly in response, though I suspected he knew the truth. For while Tangier could most certainly be a dangerous place, I had learned from John that most of the criminals within the walls of Malabata were thieves and pimps, the most common offense the smuggling of kif from the mountains and into the city. A dangerous criminal like Youssef would not sit well with either the prisoners or the guards. And so they had cordoned him off, creating a room that held him apart from the rest of the populace, with only one solitary window for company.

  I cleared my throat. “I wanted to speak with you, about Lucy Mason.”

  Youssef, who occupied the room’s only chair, tipped the frame of it against the wall in what seemed a dangerous balancing act. “You are not the first person to mention that name to me,” he observed, shaking his head with a short laugh. He let the chair fall back onto the ground with a clatter. “I am sorry to disappoint you, madame, but I do not know anyone by that name.”

  “She was the woman whom you met, several weeks ago, in the Grand Socco,” I said. He inclined his head, an indication, I thought, that was meant to let me know that he was listening, that I should continue. “You see, monsieur, I am Alice Shipley.”

  His eyes widened at this, his eyebrows raising just an inch or two. He remained silent, though his eyes sought, appraised. Finally, he said, “I see.”

  “The woman you met,” I continued, eager now to have it all out in the open, “used my name, though I’m not sure why. But I think it was for this reason, because she planned this, all of it, somehow, from the very beginning.” I waited for a response, and when there was none, I said, “So you see, you have to tell them.”

  He smiled. “Tell what to whom, madame?”

  “The police,” I replied, confused that he did not understand, that he did not see. “You have to tell them what I’ve just told you.”

  “That a Tangerine lied to me? Gave me a false name?” He shrugged. “That is hardly news.”

  I shook my head. “You must tell them that I am not Alice, or rather, not the Alice that you know. That I am not the one you saw that night—that night when John was killed.”

  “Yes, I could tell them this.” He paused. “But why would they believe me?”

  I sputtered, confused. How could he not see it? I wondered, that this was not only my way out but his as well, his one chance to clear his name and be free of the shackles that her lies had imposed upon him. “They have to,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Madame, let me tell you what the police will say. That you came here to convince me to lie. After all, why would you visit a man in prison you did not know? For what other reason than to ask him to save your life, since his own is already lost?”

  I stood, speechless.

  “They will twist everything,” he continued. “Your words, your intentions, until they fit their own. This is their way. Nothing will change that. So you see, it is an impossible situation.”

  “But, it’s not right,” I said, though the words came out soft, meek. “She can’t get away with it. Surely this place won’t let her get away with it.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “This place?”

  “I didn’t mean,” I began hastily, anxious to explain. But then I fell silent, wondering if I hadn’t meant exactly that. Tangier. This place. This strange, lawless city that belonged to everyone and no one.

  Youssef settled back into his chair. “Let me tell you something a friend once told me. He works at the Hotel Continental—do you know it?”

  “Yes,” I replied, a blush starting on my cheeks at the mention of it. Looking at the man in front of me, I wondered how often he had sat down to tea there or passed through its doors at all. It struck me as odd, the idea that he belonged to this city, and it to him, and yet the places, the spaces of the city, did not. “Yes,” I repeated. “I know it.”

  He nodded. “My friend there is the manager of the hotel. He told me once about a group of tourists that had come to stay, Americans, he said. Upon departing the ferry, one of the first things they asked him was if Tangier was safe.”

  Youssef paused then, affixing me with a gaze that made me grow uneasy. For at his words, all I could think of was John, of his body on the metal table of the coroner. No, I wanted to say, to shout. No, Tangier was not safe. Nothing I knew about it suggested otherwise, and nothing Youssef, a son of Tangier, could say would change that. But then I looked at him, sitting there before me, imprisoned for a crime he did not commit, and I felt I could not say the words aloud. “I don’t know,” I offered instead.

  “Well,” Youssef said, shifting in his seat. “He asked them this—when at home, if a strange man was to approach you, one with a jagged scar on his face,” he began, indicating his own visage, as if the deformity could be viewed there, “would you stop to see what he wanted?” He leaned forward. “Would you?” he demanded, the last words spoken more harshly.

  “No,” I answered quickly.

  “No,” he repeated. “No, of course not. So why would you stop to talk to such a man here, only to be surprised when something bad happens later?” He shook his head ruefully. “If you are not smart at home,” he said, tapping his head, “you will not be smart here. If you run into trouble at home, do not be surprised to run into trouble here. You are still the same person. Tangier can be magic, but even she is not a miracle worker.”

  I nodded, refusing, in that moment, to consider the implications of his words, of the truth I suspected that they held, of what they might mean for me—no, about me.

  “But what will you do?”
I asked, realizing that all other questions were lost to me.

  “I will survive.” He shrugged. “Nothing is forever, Alice Shipley.”

  THE TAXI BACK TO THE FLAT could have dropped me outside the front door, but I found myself restless to be outside—to be walking in the fresh air, though it felt thick and languorous already. Still, it was nothing compared to the temperature in the backseat of the taxi, the windows shut tightly, as if the driver feared the air itself.

  I puzzled over Youssef’s words, could not help but feel the sharp sting of them, as if they had been a rebuke intended solely for me. After all, he was right—how could I blame this place, Tangier, when I had brought the problems myself? They had not manifested out of the cracks and corners of the sidewalks around me; no, they had been born and bred somewhere else, had followed me here because I had ignored them, had allowed the fog to hide what I already knew.

  It was my fault. What had happened with Tom, with John—all of it. There was no one else to blame. Only myself and Lucy. She had taken everything from me—but I had let her.

  The realization stirred something, so that as I made my way back to the flat, I increased my pace, desperate to confront her on my own at last. Feeling, in that moment, as though this is where we had been headed for some time now, the two of us, standing before each other, all our secrets and lies exposed. I walked faster, turning one corner and then another, stumbling against locals, against the vibrant blues, pinks, and yellows of doorways, stopping and starting several times over in confusion. I realized soon enough, my heart hammering in my chest, that I was lost.

  And that there was someone following me.