The view from the roof let Maia peer into the ordinary lives of women engaged in their daily chores. She began to photograph them, and then having gathered the shots she needed, she could paint them as she had wanted to from the start. She depicted the light at all times of the day, the varying shades, the sunset over the city, the women who are hidden behind its walls. She enjoyed the noise she could hear rising up from the streets, the occasional shrieking of children, the playing of a strange, dirge like music, with wailing voices that stirred in her a vague, distant longing. It was a very different city from the one in which she had arrived. In those days she rarely wanted to go down into the crowded lanes, dreading the attention, the suffocating heat and the stench of the bodies in the crowds. But now, curiosity took her in its firm grip and she went down into the pink city streets.
For a time she believed she was content. She worked hard; and when she saw the Historian he sighed, “Well, I suppose you’ll get it all done eventually. Good work with the library.”
Armand appeared with three drinks and placed them on a round table, which he pulled up to the pool. The evening was still early, when the sun had just gone down and the courtyard lamps were being lit. The fig trees were stretching up to the darkening sky, their fruit, soft and bruised lay discarded around the tree trunks. He smiled at her, and Maia wondered what the Historian knew about him.
Maia resolved not to give the Historian any further information; he could think what he liked of her. She told them that she had been exploring in the streets when Armand had found her, but the Historian seemed disinterested and he got up and went into the hotel. Maia was curious to know what Armand’s business was in Morocco, She reasoned that what he did was really no concern of hers. Instead they discussed the Historian, and his eccentric behaviour.
“He is so secretive. I have no idea where he goes or what he does. We haven’t even had a decent conversation, apart from the time when he showed me briefly around his riad. And I do admire his work. That’s also why I’m here.”
“Really? It has nothing to do with living rent free in the centre of the medina?”
“I do all the work he asks me to do.”
Armand leaned towards her. “Don’t concern yourself with his business, Maia.”
She ought to have been irritated by his patronising tone, but somehow she didn’t mind at all. She was unreasonably delighted to hear her name on the tip of his tongue.
“I see.” Maia stared at his lips. She looked at him, recalling her past innocence, and the strong belief she had held that love was for once only. She had never before been open to other possibilities of pleasure.
“How is your painting going?”
“Slow. I’ve been painting city scenes, that sort of thing.”
“No women then?” He was laughing at her.
“Not yet.” She was lying to him and continued talking to cover up her unease.
“There is a painting I saw a copy of in a book. I thought of you. It’s a close up of the genitals and abdomen of a naked woman, lying on a bed and spreading her legs.”
She laughed. “That is a little obscene. I’m not sure why you thought of me. But I do know the one you mean. It is L’origine du Monde. Courbet, oil-on-canvas. I think it is beautiful.”
“It is quite obscene. So tell me, do you believe that the world originates from women?”
“In a way the world does originate from women. I don’t know why so many religions worship a male god. Who knows what changed. But I can tell you that during the nineteenth century, art changed the way the nude body was displayed, and Courbet was one of those painters. He rejected academic painting and its smooth, idealised nudes. I like that.”
“Why do you admire his work so much?”
“He was a realist. He pushed the limits of what was considered presentable. And he didn’t depict the woman’s face; he had a certain admiration for women.”
“So you believe that the women are the origin of the world?” said the Historian, who had returned from the bar and, stood hovering over them with a drink and a smile playing upon his lips. Armand nudged the Historian and to Maia’s surprise the Historian did not seem hostile to his overt friendliness. In fact he seemed almost pleased.
“So, you do indeed believe that women are the origin of the world?” said the Historian. “Was it the chicken, or the egg?”
He laughed slyly at what he imagined was his own witticism and Maia wondered which question she was supposed to answer first.
“What is your style of painting?” asked Armand.
“I’m not quite sure. I haven’t tried to define it. Perhaps it is most similar to Fauvism.”
“Surely that is an excuse for laziness,” said the Historian.
“You are entitled to your opinions,” she said.
“I’d like to see your paintings,” said Armand.
“I haven’t shown them to anybody since I’ve been here.”
“Then perhaps you will show them to me.”
Her whole body screamed against this. At that moment, there in the bar she experienced a terrible dislocation; an insight into the relationship between them. An awareness that despite his hold over her, not only were they wholly incompatible, but neither did she trust him.
The bar was beginning to get busier now, and brass lanterns were lit around the edge of the pool. The Historian reappeared by the table; he was swaying slightly. Maia was surprised, originally he had seemed so controlled.
“Stop bothering with the past Maia. It won’t do you any good. It hasn’t to me,” he said.
Maia was surprised, judging by the world in which he now consumed himself. “But you are the Historian!”
The Historian eyed Maia, and finally he said coldly, “I really don’t think you know what sacrifice is.” He turned his back on her, and Maia went cold. The snub was obvious; his true feelings towards her were becoming impossible to ignore.
Every so often the Historian stretched his long neck back and laughed at something. Konstantin was nodding his small head approvingly as the Historian was exclaiming, “There are so many lives to be lived, if only one doesn’t care about the opinion of mankind, money and material success.” He turned challengingly to Maia and his eyes were sharp. “Don’t you agree?”
“I don’t know,” said Maia. “Doesn’t the opinion of others matter at all? It keeps many of us on the right path.”
The Historian glared at her. “What is the right path? Please, tell me. For I think I may have diverged from it long ago.” He held up his glass, and Konstantin smiled in adulation.
The way that Konstantin looked at the Historian, Maia could not help but assume that he was the Historian’s very own acolyte.
“Don’t we have something to discuss?” Konstantin said to the Historian.
But the Historian brushed him off with annoyance, and he left with Armand to find Mahmoud.
Konstantin smiled. “Excuse me,” he said quietly. Slowly he moved off in the direction of a group of leather jacketed Arabs.
Since spending the night with Armand, Maia had not showed her face at the Grand Tazi. She had preferred to stay away for a while, concentrating on the use of perspective in her art and doing the work that had been set for her by the Historian. She was not particularly keen to see Armand, despite not hearing from him. She felt that during their last night together she had suffered an embarrassing loss of control. She was suffering from that most dreadful of afflictions: hope. Hope that he might begin to feel something for her too.
Eventually she found that she could not keep away from the Grand Tazi, and she was pleased that for a while, at least, she didn’t see Armand. Instead, she passed her evenings with Konstantin.
On one of these evenings, Konstantin made a comment about the Historian in French – too fast, its meaning obscured. He said something about suicide, and she tried hard not to think about it. They came to know one another well, and Maia felt protected in the face of Mahmoud’s disturbing enthusiasm.
/> Mahmoud had a fondness for both Moroccan and European pastries. He kept them stocked behind the bar, and he licked his fingers incessantly. “Try these! They’re called rghaif.” He pushed a dozen, smeared with honey and jam towards Maia and Konstantin, who looked at the plate with disgust.
“Try one!” urged Mahmoud. Maia tried one, and she retched at the taste of the sweaty, uncooked dough.
“You shall have to get used to them here!” boomed Mahmoud, and he went over to the next table to amuse some Czech tourists with his false bonhomie. Mahmoud’s sycophancy disgusted her. He laughed immoderately at everyone and everything. She suspected that the warm façade concealed a definitive nihilism.
That evening, on her way to the Grand Tazi Maia stopped at the Place of the Dead. By day, the square was an ordinary, large and quiet place, but as evening fell it teemed with shifting crowds of onlookers. It was enchanted. There were snakes, lizards and other wild creatures of the desert. A group of blind beggars were singing for their suppers in rows of ten at a time. Kerosene and spices hung in the air and blended unpleasantly with the dust and exhaust of the battered cars.
Just as she was leaving the square she passed a tiny stall where a herbalist sat on the ground. Odd-looking potions in unlabelled jars set out before him. In the backdrop, the Koutoubia Minaret glowed and she watched the shifting circle of onlookers and fruit sellers shouting their wares. Apes were being led on chains, musicians and a troupe of young dancing boys. She was cut off from her past life; all this had now become her world. Her life was contained within these streets; her painting, the guests at the bar. No news from outside could permeate. She passed the days in an indolent state.
On that particular evening, Maia was unsurprised to find Konstantin lolling at the bar by the pool, wholly immersed in the possibility of his next drink. It was a little early, even for Konstantin.
“Another whisky, Tariq,” he slurred in the vague direction of the barman. “Where have you been today?” lisped Konstantin. His breath was heavy and stale in her face.
“Painting. It is very interesting what you can see from the rooftops.”
“Pigeons? They make pastries out of those pigeons. A flaky cinnamon sprinkled pie stuffed with pigeon livers and eggs.” Gleefully he rubbed his hands together. “Delicious, makes for a lovely meal.”
“Konstantin, you would be surprised.”
His loss of interest was visible. Five small whisky glasses were lined up before him on the bar. Konstantin was a fastidious man, and Maia had become used to the long pauses before he spoke.
“I have trouble,” he pronounced slowly.
“That’s nothing new, Konstantin.” Everyone she had met in this twilight quarter were evaders of one sort or another, ill-fated sidesteppers of life, drawn to the life where very little can go a long way. He was evidently drunk and for a moment Maia was of a mind to warn him that he must watch his wallet. But Konstantin must be used to their ways by now. He was a peculiar mix of cynicism and naiveté. As she grew to know Konstantin, Maia became fond of him.
Konstantin slumped down on his stool, pushing back the wire-rimmed spectacles that were always on the verge of falling from his head. He possessed a certain innocence, which endeared him to those who knew him.
Outside the hotel, Maia heard as if muffled in the distance the call to prayer. She watched the twitching of Konstantin’s small features and the round head perched atop the unusually tall neck. He spoke again, more slowly than ever: “No, it is not new.” He showed Maia a letter, which he snatched back immediately. “I can’t show you. But it is very bad. I shall probably have to stay here a while longer.”
Maia asked Konstantin nothing. This was the unspoken rule at the Grand Tazi. One did not ask questions, and accepted the half-truths and fabrications of the regulars as if they were the most delightful revelations one could ever hope to hear.
“I wait,” he said. “I wait and I wait, for a final answer from Athens.” Rather sorrowfully, he banged his whisky glass down on the bar. A fat tear rolled down his perfect moon face, as cold and as white as marble. His hair was almost all gone and his clothes parodied the long black gowns of a priest’s tunic.
Poor man, thought Maia. The cloister was all that Konstantin had ever known, and now he was stuck here, with the rest of them. So he could only wait, spend his time drinking, and perhaps maybe find more of the same trouble, which had sent him scuttling here in the first place. When Maia thought of this, she was unable to muster any sympathy for him. He clasped and unclasped his fingers, gnawing at his bloodless lips. Beyond them, the city was nonchalant, unaware and unconcerned by the offences of its foreign inhabitants. Konstantin was holding his head in his hands and whining, “Oh, Jesus, everybody is against me, I had the urges, you see.” He was sobbing violently, his face white and puffy. “I am so ashamed. It is so brutal. Brutal. Wrong.”
“Yet still you do it.”
Even in his size he exhibited a lanky innocence. He was after all, Maia told herself, merely a victim of his own desires.
Konstantin looked at her stupidly, as if he might have expected some other reaction, some indulgence from her. “I can’t stop myself.”
“You do not want to stop yourself. You believe you can get away with it. Did you imagine that you might find refuge here, Konstantin? You thought he would protect you, didn’t you?”
For a moment Konstantin looked at her appraisingly, with an unusual coolness. “I thought he cared for me. But you should not trust him. No-one should trust him.”
“I haven’t seen the Historian for a while,” she said.
“I wouldn’t expect to The Historian suits himself. He comes and goes.”
“I don’t know why he stays here,” she continued thoughtfully. “He could teach and write anywhere.”
“Not now, he would have to do some work.” He looked at her face, and seemed to catch himself. “I mean... listen.”
Maia made no reply, thinking of the crumpled up papers that filled the drawers of his study.
“I wish someone would tell me what was going on here,” said Maia.
Konstantin gave a short laugh, tinged palpably with bitterness. “Oh yes, Maia, so do I.”
She sighed, and went to leave.
“Wait,” Konstantin had his bony hand on her arm. “The Historian is not all bad. He was experimenting... research.”
“Historical experiments? What sort are those?”
“He studies everything. Not only history. Behavioural. He needed funds. His department was unhelpful. He had to get it from somewhere. He owed everybody.”
“Fraud?” said Maia. “That’s almost too banal for him.”
“That is the truth.”
“Why tell me this? You seem to hate him.”
“I do not hate him, I love him!” His mouth gaped; he looked aghast, and he dissolved again into tears. The lines of his face took on the significance of his suffering, of the deepest dejection. The Historian did not love him; he rejected him and Konstantin was humiliated.
“He doesn’t want people to know his situation. But he is in trouble now. That is his problem.”
“Maybe you care for him more than he cares for you, Konstantin.”
“You are right. He should be nothing to me. But he is everything,” he said with a melodramatic flourish.
His endless self-pity was beginning to bore Maia and she looked around for a distraction. She imagined the parties once held here, which had filtered through from the hall into the dried up old courtyard where the fountain had tinkled alongside the voices of ladies, where now lay two men, smoking away the days.
The bar was starting to fill now, although Maia doubted that the clientele were all of the kind that Mahmoud was so desperately hoping to attract. Amongst the foreigners living out their sterile expatriate lives, there were a few Berber looking men in cheap leather jackets, men with sufficient means and attractive business interest to mix with the bar’s clientele, swarthy men with jaded imaginations and evil in
tentions. There was corruption here, and it was palpable.
Maia attempted to change the subject, now that she saw that Konstantin was completely unwilling to discuss her own interests. He was utterly self-obsessed, yet in so many ways he was charming. “I can’t stand those two apes down at the entrance. They are always staring at me. I hate having to pass them. They are intimidating.”
Konstantin looked at her and laughed, as if humouring some petulant child. “You know why they are here.” He tried to sound soothing, but failed.
“Yes. Security, apparently. Well, Mahmoud needs to do something about them. I really cannot stand them.”
Maia did not feel that she was a woman to be intimidated by men, especially here, where she suffered the constant calls in the street. Even in the haven of the Grand Tazi she felt their greedy eyes looking her over.
An Arab man, who Maia had noticed watching her lasciviously at the door earlier, came over to them and gripped Konstantin’s slender arm. The man’s eyes were blank. He ignored Maia and she found that Konstantin had suddenly turned his back on her. Maia had seen several men like that all over the city; they were evidently a sign of punishment. Being outwardly gay looked like trouble amidst the shifting sands of Moroccan sexuality, a very delicate balance. With public space universally gender segregated, the city was a place of seductive contradictions. All Konstantin’s attention was now focused solely on the man, and Maia watched the pair’s interactions.
Eventually, Konstantin left to complete his exchange, and Maia was alone at the bar. The Grand Tazi was about the only place she felt she could sit unaccompanied and have a drink. She never stopped being captivated by a city where so much of the population secreted the overpowering scent of being on the make.
Tariq the barman was suddenly in front of Maia, gazing at her intensely with his peculiar stare.
“What will you be doing now you have been left all alone? I suppose you might want to paint me?”
Maia went to leave.
“Wait, you pay.”
Alexandra Singer Page 9
