by Caitlin Macy
“You have bad experience in Maroc, Madame?”
“No.” Self-consciously, she lightened her tone. She was being too serious, setting herself up for ridicule. “Everything’s been great.”
“Then why not talk?”
“I’m waiting for my husband,” she said and was shocked to hear the essential falseness in her voice. It was like when she bought vodka at the package store and felt her face go sheepish and guilty when she went up to the counter to pay, knowing the man would card her.
“It is no problem—I am guide for you. You and your husband,” he added. Where is your husband?”
“He’s back at the restaurant.”
“What restaurant?”
“The—it doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”
“The Café Florent?”
“Maybe,” she said reluctantly. “Yes, that might have been it.”
“We can go right now. Then I show you beautiful mosque—very close Djemaa el Fna. After we buy rings.” He introduced himself then—Ahmed. Would he expect her to introduce herself as well? She glanced quickly sideways at him. It surprised her to see that her solicitor was a good head shorter than she and heavy-set, a big torso barreling out over truncated legs. His hair was shaved on both sides in some ingenuous attempt to look contemporary. Then she saw that he was not alone. A second man hung back, letting the other fellow do the talking.
She had been composing in her head a long, surprisingly elaborate narrative to the effect that the second pair of eyes—for she must have sensed the other presence some time ago—belonged to Will; that he had caught up with her but was following at a discreet distance, indulging her in her little adventure. The disappointment that it was not Will was crushing. She gasped for air, unable to stop herself though she knew it gave her away.
“You all right, Madame?”
“I’m fine—fine.” She looked at him. “I’m after some hash, not rugs, that’s all.”
The request did not seem to go down well. As Ahmed hesitated, pursing his lips, the other man spoke to him sharply in Arabic. A feeling of desperation filled her when she contemplated the possibility of failure; the empty-handed, inglorious return to the hotel.
“I mean, if it’s a problem—”
“Of course, it’s no problem!” He seized Lydia’s forearm. “You come with me—I show you.”
“Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry,” and struggled to remove her arm.
“I don’t bother you!” the man—Ahmed—said dismissively, reaffirming his grip. Oh, well, she thought. It isn’t a big deal.
Surreptitiously, as he led her away, she tried to keep track of the minaret. The lack of all other architectural points of reference was worrying; she had no context for the haphazardness of an urban space not formed by its flanking buildings.
At the entrance to the souks, Lydia hesitated, casting her eye down the long, covered thoroughfare. “Very close—very close,” Ahmed said testily. The second man had vanished.
“Oh, I know,” she said. “It’s just, I don’t want my husband to worry. I said I’d only be five minutes. He doesn’t like me to go off alone, you know?”
They passed two large gift shops, an array of silver, pottery, carpets in the window, both dark—closed, she realized belatedly, for the evening. He took the passageway on the right, relinquishing Lydia’s arm. But now the gesture alarmed rather than comforted her. She had grown used to its nervous peremptory demand. They walked on a little farther, turned down another alley and then into a small, run-down square. An older, graying American couple appeared from the far side, following their guide back out—laughing on cue at something the man had said, their swollen midriffs protruding between polo shirts and khakis.
Lydia glanced up at the woman as they passed. “Is it down here then?” she said loudly to Ahmed. She thought the woman might at least take note of her, and then, should anything happen … but then she met her compatriot’s eyes. It wasn’t concern she saw in the puffy yet pinched face, but avidity; she blinked furiously at Lydia as they went by—hoping, Lydia realized, to see something alarming.
Across the square the paths were narrower, the layout more arbitrary. The souks were jammed in one on top of another; carpets, then leather goods. “So, soon we’ll be at the hashish district, right?” she joked.
Ahmed shook his head. “You don’t talk to everyone,” he said heatedly. “Very dangerous. Many people try to trick you here.”
She dared again to look at him, surprised he was taking such a personal interest in her situation. He seemed pointedly to avoid looking at her, as if he might have liked to but had to keep up the act, staring straight ahead, his face so adamantly solemn she wanted to laugh.
They stopped outside some kind of herbal apothecary. Sacks of herbs and spices sat in rows before a wooden counter. The interior was painted sky blue, like the sides of an old cement swimming pool, lit by a bare bulb. At the back of the small room, three men sat playing cards, watched over by a fourth who was standing, commenting on the play. When Lydia came in with Ahmed, they looked at her and as a group looked away.
The man who was standing came up to the counter, speaking to Ahmed; he was tall, and moved languidly, a tight little smile on his lips. After a minute Lydia recognized the man who had been beside them before—transformed, on his home turf, from the impatient hanger-on to a stance that was altogether proprietary.
Ahmed seemed to warn him with a dismissive gesture against doing something, but it was clear who took orders from whom. “You want—?” he asked her urgently, adding a word she could not understand.
“Vous avez besoin?” interrupted the tall one dismissively. “Vous avez besoin?”
“J’ai besoin de quoi?” Lydia said, matching his tone. She found herself siding, mentally, with Ahmed against the man, feeling protective toward the former: no doubt a delusional position. “I’m sorry.” She shrugged. “I don’t understand.”
Ahmed smoothed his shaved temples in exasperation. “You need—? You need—?” The two of them, short and tall, were shouting the word at her now.
“I need?” Lydia looked at them. “A ‘peep’? What? Oh, a pipe! A pipe! Yes. We need a pipe. Nous avons besoin du pipe.”
They all laughed then, Lydia with the two men. Ahmed’s sounded spontaneous but the taller man seemed to be insinuating something with the laugh. She suddenly was aware that he was going to rip her off.
There was a brief heated exchange between the two of them, and a price was named by the latter.
“Well, it’s more than I expected!” she said noncommittally.
Both men’s faces went flat with disapproval. “Good price, good price. No bargain here,” Ahmed said.
“The pipe—free,” said the tall one, his eyes salesman-smooth. Smart, she could see—and more polished than Ahmed—but like most salesmen, not as smart as he thought he was. “For you.”
Lydia looked down, stalling for time. Not bargaining was shameful—bargaining was worse. She went to open her purse and her stomach turned over: The bag was already unzipped. Feverishly she fumbled inside it, not raising her eyes, knowing her search would be fruitless. “My wallet’s been stolen!” she announced finally, appalled to hear the quaver in her voice. And she really did think that it had been stolen. It was only later that she remembered she had left it in the hotel safe—she never bothered to bring cash when she was with Will.
They didn’t seem to have understood: “I don’t have any money,” she said, and tears came to her eyes. At once Ahmed began to argue, his voice raised, with the other fellow.
Now outside the shop there was some commotion—a group of men were shouting, shoving, in some kind of fight; there was a scuffle on the ground. The men playing cards deserted the back of the shop and pushed by Lydia to see what was going on; one of them, she saw, was no more than a teenager.
“They drink,” Ahmed shouted to her, gesturing to the mêlée. “It is against Allah.”
“My God, they’ve got knives!�
� Lydia cried, pressing herself back against the storefront.
The fight bulged toward them like a living thing. The tall shop owner materialized at Lydia’s side shouting, a blade in his hand. The crowd circled close again—closer. Her protest caught in her throat—she was trapped; there was nowhere to go. She covered her face with her hands, leaning away from the shouting, writhing bodies. She was screaming now but she couldn’t hear her own voice in the throng. When she looked up, Ahmed had been thrown backward against the wall. She put out her hand to help him and was knocked to the ground. “Ahmed!” she cried, going down. “Ahmed!”
“Lyd! Lyd! Lydia!” Will was beside her, on top of her in his pink oxford shirt and loafers. He dragged her up to her feet as a sharp whistle sounded in the distance. The fight seemed to pause; the men scattered, shouting. Emerging from the dregs of it came the shop owner, putting his knife back into his pocket.
“Vous n’avez pas payé.”
“But—I mean—I never got the hash,” Lydia said, confused.
“Don’t fucking reason with the guy, keep walking.”
“Vous n’avez pas payé, madame.”
“You don’t understand, Will! There was something—you interrupted a business transaction!”
“I don’t give a shit, keep walking.” But then he stopped and turned, pinning her to his side. “Another day, guys,” he said. Another of the men from the shop came running up to join them—the teenager, keyed up, deprived of a fight, perhaps—looking for action. “Sorry, guys—it’s not going to happen.” The voice, Lydia recognized, Will used for real estate brokers, car salesmen—the lack of conciliation never failed to impress her. But was it smart?
“Where’s Ahmed?” she said, alarmed, as Will yanked her forward again. She tried to turn around in his grip. “Was he all right? He’s not hurt, is he?”
“Keep walking, Lydia.”
“You king?” The proprietor had spoken, addressing Will, the question phrased cordially, as if he were simply making conversation. And now Will, the big man, for whom to turn and run would be beneath him, stopped and answered the challenge: “Look, we’re not interested, okay? Sorry about that. Whatever it is you’re selling, we don’t want any.”
“I did, though—it’s not fair, Will!” Lydia cried, scuffing her feet as Will dragged her along. Her fear had been replaced with a bristling petulance. She thought she might throw a tantrum if he didn’t stop and listen to her.
“What kind of rugs you like, sir?” the young one tried.
“Look, I’m sorry.” Will stopped again. “Not tonight.”
“You think you big shot, eh?” The shop owner continued to walk companionably alongside them.
“No, no.” Will was fed up.
“You have camera?” the young one said suddenly. “You pay us for photograph.”
“No. No, we actually do not have a camera,” Lydia said. “What terrible tourists we are!” The situation had suddenly struck her as ridiculous in the extreme. “Let’s just pay them, Will, and get out of here.”
“Yes, you listen to your wife—pay me—hundred dirhams.”
“Pay them hundred dirhams, Will.” She was biting her lip so as not to laugh, hysteria threatening.
“Ri-ight.” Will stopped to confront them. The shop man raised his hand to him—Will faltered, he stumbled.
“You big shot? You think you big shot?”
Paralyzed, Lydia could not speak. The young one began to yell insults, directly at her. The whistle sounded again, in the distance. The two men ran down the way, turning to shout at Lydia and Will, and were gone. Will was bleeding, bent over, holding his temple.
“Oh, God, oh, my God!” Lydia knelt and embraced him uselessly. A few men had come out of the souks to witness the commotion. Her eyes flashed accusingly up at them. “Get a doctor! For Christ’s sake, a doctor! The police! Where the fuck are the police?”
Will straightened up, his hand pressed to the side of his face. “What did he hit me with? What the fuck was that?” A flicker of something crossed Will’s face as he felt in his pockets.
“What? What’s wrong?”
He looked over her head into the depths of the bazaar to where their assailants had vanished. “Fucker got my wallet, too.”
“No!” Lydia cried out, hearing the admiration in his voice. She grabbed wildly at his arm, whacking at it with the flat of her hand. “It isn’t fair!” she cried, and she burst into tears.
WILL HAD BEEN gone more than an hour at the hotel infirmary, Lydia deprived of even the option of waiting it out with him, shuttled off to the room by the bevy of agitated staff who met the police car.
She was sitting now on the edge of the enormous bed, sipping the complimentary wine. From time to time she shifted her position ever so slightly. She had tried turning on the television but it wouldn’t do. Nor would getting into her nightgown. So she waited in her dress, trying not to slouch, listening for his footsteps or some other message the night would yet yield. But as the minutes went by it was as if she were back up at the gas station on top of the mountain, straining to hear what was being said a thousand feet below.
She had lost track of time when she heard the gate open outside. Self-consciously she got to her feet. Will came through the sliding doors in his bedraggled shirt and trousers, his head wrapped in a bandage. He did not speak to her when he came in. She watched him kick off his shoes, begin to unbutton his shirt.
“You caved, huh?” he said when he saw the open bottle on the bedside table.
“I wasn’t really going to save it till the last night.”
“Uh-huh.”
He took the glass she held out and swallowed half of it. She refilled it and placed it on the bedside table: an offering. He took off his shirt, made a ball of it, and threw it to the floor.
“Oh, Will—on the floor? Must you? I mean, you’re a grown man, aren’t you? Do you have to throw your clothes on the floor? I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, I won’t say anything. I’ll just sit here—” He emptied out his pockets, tossing cell phone, coins, matches onto the bureau. He looked briefly out the glass doors before coming to stand before her at the foot of the bed.
“Are you really, really mad at me?” Her eyes, pleased and troubled, sought his. “What can I do?” She crawled down the bed to be closer to him, sitting contritely at the end of it. He looked at her. “I’m really, really, genuinely, horribly sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that. I had no right—” She hesitated. “Were they annoyed we left early? Did they say anything at all when you paid the check?”
Will frowned, watching her. “I never paid it.”
“You mean, we skipped out on the bill?” When he didn’t deny it, Lydia gasped. “But—we’ll have to go back tomorrow and pay it. Thank God I found my wallet. But we’ll have to go and apologize. My God—they’re probably tracking us down as we speak, Will!” She leaned over and snatched the phone off the bedside table. “Do you know what—we should call right now. How do you dial out on this thing?”
Will walked around to the side of the bed. He stood before her now in his boxers. “I’m sorry! I said I was sorry.” She looked up at him. “Your bandage is coming off, you know. You look ridiculous. You look like an extra in ER. A head trauma victim.” He pried the phone from her hands and tossed it to the floor. “Oh, my God, you’ve got to be kidding me.” His hands under her armpits, he thrust her up the gigantic bed. “You’re scaring me,” Lydia said sarcastically. She struggled onto her stomach, the dress bunching and knotting around her waist. “It’s not funny,” she said as Will pinned her there, pinned her hands easily to the small of her back with one of his. “It’s not funny, Will.” The side of her face pressed into the silk coverlet, she felt her underwear removed from the crack of her buttocks, yanked down to her ankles, where it caught, briefly, on her sandals. “Will!” She struggled under his hold. “For God’s sake, they were expensive!”
She writhed, further tangling the dress. The night air whistled up h
er bare skin. “I can’t see,” she began to protest, trying pathetically to raise herself on her elbows. A warm, impervious arm went around her midriff. “You’re not listening to me! I—” The quickness of his entry made her gasp. She clenched the coverlet as he jackknifed her into position and held her there.
Grunting—outraged—he worked her roughly till he came, not for her pleasure, it was clear, but for something to do with his hand.
Afterward, wearing one of the hotel robes, Lydia sat on the patio outside, her feet dangling in the wading pool. She would straighten her legs so her toes broke the surface of the water, then plunge her feet back down to the bottom. She had pooh-poohed the wading pool, but it was proving a luxury, after all. No doubt she would get used to the hotel and not want to leave. She heard Will moving inside the room and listened to see if he was coming out. Instead of Will, she might have married someone like Ahmed: That thought struck her idly. One always thought of oneself as the stupider, the more desperate, the handicapped—but perhaps it was all a matter of comparison. She could have been happy with someone short, freakish, penniless … Even tonight: She might have brought her own money to the restaurant. She might have been the one to come through. Instead he had tossed a packet of hash on the bed just now. “Got it off the hotel doctor—can you imagine? Must be one of the ‘amenities.’” But still, she might have been, of the two of them, the reliable one, the one to be counted on. That she was not no longer seemed the objective state of affairs, just a circumstantial event, like traveling—the way it cast you into roles. It seemed very important all at once to keep putting herself in situations where she would be reminded of this, viscerally reminded. But there was less than a week left in their honeymoon and she could feel the indolence overtaking her, the tourist’s satiety; she’d had enough of authentic experience. She doubted she would leave the grounds of the hotel.
WHEN WILL JOINED her he had reaffixed his bandage. It had a triumphant, jaunty look, like a clever costume.
He lit a cigarette, cupping his hand over the flame—and took an exultant drag. “This is the last one,” he warned her. “We’ll have to get a pipe for the other stuff.” Lydia let this pass. He walked over to where she was sitting and handed the cigarette to her. “Let’s get massages tomorrow,” he said.
