Alexandra Singer

by Tea at the Grand Tazi

  Lucy Bambage sat with her arms around Cassandra, who was now sobbing into her shoulder. Maia looked on with a detached disgust, as she sobered up. Armand stood.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For some space.” He grabbed Cassandra who obediently followed him out.

  “I think I’ll go with them.” said Martin, and he began to cough uncontrollably.

  Rupert laughed. “Has all this excitement been too much for you, Martin? Have some water.”

  Martin was struggling to get up, and by the time he did, Cassandra and Armand had left without him.

  “I’m meeting a man soon.” Rupert smiled, chuckling to himself as Maia realised he was drunk. Lucy Bambage looked deflated.

  “In the medina, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Quick, cheap and easy to meet. Lovely. Just lovely.”

  “What exactly do you know about him?” said Maia.

  Rupert took a drag on his cigarette, and blew a large lungful of foul smelling smoke directly into her face.

  She tried not to reveal her amusement. “Don’t be rude, Rupert.”

  “He’s an architect called Yasser. I’ve seen his photo. He’s gorgeous.”

  “His real photo?”

  “We’ll see,” winked Rupert. “Aren’t you going with your boyfriend? Or are you just going to leave him to Cassandra’s clutches?”

  “I just don’t have the energy,” said Maia, slumping on the table.

  “Of course you do. Don’t be pathetic. Run along.”

  They settled the bill and caught up with Armand and Cassandra who were strolling along with the glutinous Martin, who followed like their lumbering manservant.

  Cassandra threw them a spiteful glance as Armand gave Maia a rueful grin, hoping to recapture her affection. Maia felt that she couldn’t harden herself towards him.

  Maia found herself walking next to Martin. She tried to be kind, “What are you thinking about?”

  “My wife... ”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  They walked on in silence. She wanted to be away from him, from all of them. Maia felt a tap on her shoulder, and she turned around to see a young man clinging on to Rupert’s arm. Or perhaps it was the other way round. They were so tightly entwined it was difficult to tell. He pushed the boy forward. Yasser was tall and slim, and by the looks of it, had only just passed puberty.

  “This is Yasser,” beamed Rupert. Then he noticed the gloomy look upon Maia’s face. Over her shoulder, he could see Armand and Cassandra wrap themselves around one another. “Oh darling, whatever did you expect?”

  Maia took Yasser’s hand. “Hello.”

  Martin stood watching with a strange grin pressed firmly upon his face. Armand and Cassandra suddenly pushed themselves forward, eager to meet the new arrival.

  “Yasser is studying to be an architect,” Rupert said as he took the young man’s hand. Maia was sceptical.

  “And where did you meet this charming young man?” asked Martin, with all the sleaze he could muster.

  “An architect?” said Cassandra. “What do you design?”

  “Buildings.” As contempt flittered across Yasser’s face, Maia was pleased to see that he had taken an instant dislike to Cassandra. “My family adore English people. Why not come to us for a drink and something to eat?”

  His English was surprisingly fluent. But Rupert looked dejected. “I thought you might show me some good places to go?” It was uncomfortable viewing, but Yasser was determined.

  “Of course, we would love to meet your family.” Armand was strangely polite.

  Cassandra was excited and she began to squeal. “Just think of all the wonderful photographs I can take.”

  Yasser looked at her with thoughtful disapproval, his head cocked to one side. His home was in the suburbs, south of the city. In the taxi there, Maia sat beside Rupert.

  “What do you think of him?”

  “Polite. Interesting.”

  Armand caught her eye. She looked at him, wondering what he was thinking about her, but he was unreadable.

  They left the taxi, deep in the slums. Rupert looked about him with undisguised disgust. “I am afraid, Yasser, that this is not quite the atmosphere I was led to expect.” He had gone very cold, his frostiness was tangible. He made a move to get back into the taxi before it drove off. For the first time since they had met that evening, Yasser rushed towards Rupert and squeezed his hand.

  “Please come. My family are expecting you. They love to meet foreigners.”

  Despite Maia’s doubts, she followed the others deeper into the slum, where rivers of dirt flowed between lazy mountains of old rubbish and rotten vegetables.

  Lucy Bambage was muttering pitifully to herself. “Help me, Martin.”

  To Maia’s delight, Martin was leaving her to struggle as her ludicrously sandaled feet sank deeper into the dirt.

  Yasser’s home was at the centre of this desolate, rusting suburb, in a block four floors high. A group of boys were kicking around a tired looking football and they stared at the tourists with unfazed curiosity as Yasser led them through the maze of grey tenement blocks and up the crumbling stairs to his flat.

  An unsmiling woman opened the door and eyed the group. Yasser spoke to her in Arabic. He smiled broadly at the group. “My sister.”

  Maia watched Rupert to see his reaction. He seemed a little taken aback, if not wholly unsurprised. But the others were undaunted. Maia stood on the doorstep. She was unwilling to take part yet something made her stay. It was the interplay between these characters that made them all so intriguing.

  The woman escorted the guests into the main room, as Lucy Bambage came stumbling up the rear, exhausted from the steps.

  “This is our living room.” Yasser told them proudly. Filled with low tables and violet floor cushions, the room was decidedly eastern, if the quality of the furnishings was far from luxurious. For one moment Maia was thrilled in having managed to see the other Morocco, the one unseen by hordes of tourists.

  Yasser uncorked a bottle of red wine. He was evidently not religious. Maia sensed a strange atmosphere; something was amiss. She stood up. “Yasser, may I help your wife in the kitchen?”

  “His sister,” corrected Martin.

  “Of course, my mistake.” They were all smirking and she felt ever more uncomfortable. She disappeared into the kitchen, where the woman glowered at her and refused her offer of assistance. Back in the living room, she found that the party was getting underway. Another bottle of wine had been opened.

  “I thought Muslims didn’t drink, but Moroccan wine is really quite excellent,” Martin slurred.

  “But this is a free society,” said Yasser excitedly. Rupert slipped his arm around the young man and a beautiful young woman appeared. She was around fifteen-years-old, with long black hair and a sullen expression. Maia was amused to notice Armand staring at the girl with lust in his eyes and Cassandra watching her carefully.

  “Meet Mariam. She lives close by. She is an expert in giving tattoos. Henna and normal, if you are no coward! Very special.”

  Maia smiled at the girl. “No, thank you so much.” The idea was ludicrous. Who knew exactly what was in that dye and she was certainly not going to allow a teenager in a desolate suburb to experiment upon her. The situation seemed to become more surreal by the minute.

  “You are all my brothers and sisters now!” said Yasser. He grabbed Cassandra’s hand and gazed intently into her eyes. “Henna?” he shouted into her face. Cassandra’s eyes widened. “You want henna. Is beautiful!”

  Without Cassandra saying anything, Mariam grabbed her hand and began to draw in dark ink. It didn’t look beautiful at all; it was repulsive. Cassandra’s face was pure terror as she squealed at Mariam’s strong grip. Maia noted Cassandra’s puerile vanity, but then realised that Mariam was using a needle. Maia thought for a moment to intervene; but then she sat back. Cassandra had caused her enough trouble. The tattoo would look faded and dull in the morning, like smeare
d mascara at the end of a party.

  Mariam began binding both of Cassandra’s hands, swathing them in filthy bandages. Everybody else was too drunk to protest or even to notice. Armand was now sitting on a cushion and ignoring Cassandra, staring straight at Mariam. Cassandra was evidently miserable, now also completely drunk and hunched over with a pain she could not hide. For a brief moment, Maia felt sorry for her. Maia was pleased to see the exquisite Cassandra looking vulnerable, yet at the same time she despised herself for the pleasure she took.

  The guests sipped more wine as a circus began to materialise. Strong, broad, dark men began wandering in and out of the small flat as Maia began to feel even more uneasy. Even the rest of the group; the besotted Rupert, the bulbous Martin, the unusually subdued Lucy, Armand and Cassandra, all began to look uncomfortable, as the hostility brewing in the room begin to rise.

  “I don’t think we should be here. I don’t feel comfortable with all these people.”

  Armand shrugged Maia off, irritated by her presence. He was beginning to despise this woman; so willing to be at his side. Maia sensed his irritation, and it chilled her. She had caught a wisp of the personality he hid deep down.

  “Always a nasty little wasp in my ear, aren’t you,” he sneered, his fine features twisting horribly. “But now I can sting you!” He was laughing almost hysterically.

  “I’d never have imagined you to be such a sloppy drunk, Armand.” He was acting out of character. He was usually so controlled, and she began to wonder if the wine had been drugged. She realised that Yasser had not taken so much as a sip, and she had only drunk a little herself.

  Yasser opened another bottle. He threw caution aside and began to drink from the bottle, abandoning any concerns for the appearance of civility before his guests. He even forgot that he had introduced the fat woman as his sister and began to pat her on the bottom as she emerged from the kitchen.

  “Yes, I did wonder why he was kissing her on the lips,” Martin smirked.

  Rupert looked dejected. Mariam was going round the room, holding out her hands for money. Maia saw that Mariam’s own hands were free of tattoos. At first, Maia took out a few coins from her wallet, which Mariam seized without thanks. It seemed reasonable to her to pay a small amount. They had drunk Yasser’s wine, they had been offered food and experienced the local hospitality, although she had not enjoyed one moment of it. But as the group gave more money, the mood of the room shifted further as more men began to appear.

  Mariam noticed the change, and she took the opportunity to take her leave. She stopped in front of Maia, spitting out the only two English words she seemed to know. “More money.” Now Maia shook her head. She was damned if she was going to donate any more of her money.

  Yasser came to life and shouted, “Sixty dollars!” He slithered towards Maia, and his manner changed. “Henna is not free.”

  Armand surprised her by placing his hand reluctantly in his pocket and shoving the notes into Mariam’s palm.

  “What did you just pay her?” demanded Rupert.

  “About sixty dollars.”

  “But that’s more than a month’s wages here.” said Martin.

  “Who cares? Let’s just get out of here!” said Rupert.

  “You brought us here!” screamed Cassandra, now in obvious pain.

  At that moment, the fat wife brought in a huge pile of couscous. Yasser was growing more drunk, and shoving Rupert aside, he placed himself on the cushion next to Maia. For such a wiry man, he was surprisingly strong. He presented her with a crude leather necklace, which he attempted to tie around her neck, stroking the soft nape. “This will protect her against evil,” he slurred.

  “The only thing she needs protecting from is you,” said Rupert, who was evidently affronted that his potential lover had turned out to be blatantly heterosexual.

  “Don’t be jealous. Just look what a lovely young girl she is. Nice skin, she has such lovely pale skin.” Yasser slumped clumsily forward in a vain attempt to pat Rupert’s knee. But he suddenly fell forward as Rupert moved away and they all laughed as Yasser clutched at thin air. Even as he was falling, Maia found Yasser’s hands fingering the front of her shirt. She glanced up and saw Cassandra watching her, a strange smile upon her face. Maia’s pity evaporated.

  There now seemed to have been an unspoken, unanimous decision to eat their food as fast as they were able, to avoid further offending Yasser and his friends, and his wife or sister, whichever one she might be.

  Cassandra plucked a few vegetables from the platter. Yasser noticed, and beamed over her monstrously. “You don’t like? But you are so beautiful; you must not worry about your weight.” He turned to Armand. “And they are both yours? Such beautiful girls. Congratulations.”

  Despite their desperate situation, Armand sat on the cushion looking indescribably smug.

  Yasser grabbed Maia around the waist and this time she violently threw him off. Her impulsive reaction and the total passivity of the others left the prospect of finishing their food, in ruins. Maia was enraged. Martin was staring vacantly at the plate, her selfish lover was engrossed in Mariam’s chest, and Cassandra was sitting on the floor looking bedraggled, and significantly less sophisticated. Maia stood up, scrambling to put on her shoes when the entire household exploded into panic.

  There was a struggle, but between whom exactly, Maia was unable to see. Her view was blocked by two large men who had come rushing through from the kitchen.

  Yasser was shouting. “How can you go from here? I am too drunk to drive. And the buses have all stopped now. No more, no more. You must all stay the night here.” Mariam and the fat wife both stood at the door to the kitchen, watching the scenario unfold with unabashed delight.

  Maia ran for the door and opened it, as each member of the group filtered out.

  Now Yasser was pleading with them. “Please, my friends do not leave.”

  Stumbling down the collapsing staircase they found themselves staring at one another in the empty street. For a moment they waited, but by some miracle, they were not being chased. Maia spoke first. She was furious and could not contain her anger a moment longer. “So Rupert, do you think he is interested in you?”

  “Shut up, you bitch,” he said, and began to giggle. The street was empty, but like an apparition, a taxi appeared and they managed to persuade the driver to take them back to the medina.

  As the taxi began to move, they were all quiet. Looking back, Maia could see two men standing in the road, watching them go.

  Chapter 8

  It was a clear morning when Maia awoke to find the Historian still gone. She steadily rose from the bed, wrapping a shawl about her shoulders. She passed Ina in the hallway, “Has the Historian telephoned to let us know when he may be returning?”

  Ina merely grunted at her and turned away.

  “As helpful as always, Ina.” said Maia.

  Ina turned and stared, her eyes flashing, but she remained silent.

  Maia executed the Historian’s tasks, and spent more and more of her free time painting, convinced that the images she was portraying were bland, with none of the vivacity that she had originally sought. She worried that the mediocre paintings she produced were replicating her state of mind. Maia was convinced that the images that she so studiously portrayed of the city and its inhabitants were featureless, useless and interchangeable works which would never be appreciated. She found corners in which she was able to sit for hours and observe the people who passed by, sketching the expressions upon the faces of young children, of merchants, and of the slippery entrails of slaughtered animals which lay sprawled across the ground, but still she felt that she lacked a true insight into the lives of the people around her. She became convinced that life here was too impenetrable for an outsider to portray it as it genuinely was. She spent whole nights painting, attempting to catch the vibrancy of colours and atmosphere.

  In this way, her obsession with portraying the lives and position of women in the city grew, and
she began to take photographs from a distance, but she was never able to get close enough to see their faces. The Historian had been right. These women were devoted to the creation of spectacles, and she was finding it impossible to penetrate their façades. They were hard, and when she looked at them, their bodies refused to offer themselves up for speculation. When she spoke to them, she found they kept their softer selves hidden.

  Frustrated by her attempts to reach these women, Maia concentrated her efforts on the study of the inhabitant’s backgrounds. The glowing bright and earthy tones, the quartz pink and vivid red pigments of natural earth, all the varying colours of the iron and wood stirred her. Against the mud coloured buildings, she used varying hues; the way the sun danced upon people and buildings seemed to turn them blue and flashes of cobalt lit up the sky.

  The sunlight was so strong that it cast dark shadows, but she did not want to use black. Black was too harsh; instead she found that indigo could make the scene take on a sinister effect. Sometimes the effect was to make her subjects look as if they were hovering in the sunlight. In her art Maia sought to capture all the tension and ambiguity that she saw everywhere in the streets, in the fraught relations between men and women. She painted absorbedly, trying to depict shapes and colours from varying viewpoints, with different degrees of clarity.

  Starved of company, Maia found that the heat began to carve away all the self-consciousness that she had carried with her from London. She drifted from day to day, no longer striving to improve nor monitoring her progress, losing herself in paint and sleep. In the evenings she returned to the bar at the Grand Tazi, but she did not wish to see those people again. She wanted to force all thoughts of Armand from her mind, and after a while she believed that they had all left. She drank at the bar whilst Tariq prepared her more concoctions, and she wondered what Mahmoud desired from her company, until one evening he told her.