Alexandra Singer

by Tea at the Grand Tazi

  “Will you paint for me? I hear you’re very good.”

  Mahmoud was a jovial man, laughing immoderately at everyone and everything around him. It was impossible not to warm to him, and she enjoyed his presence.

  “What would you like me to paint for you, Mahmoud?”

  “I want paintings of all this!” He exulted in his empire; the hotel was his pride and joy.

  “Of the hotel, you mean?”

  “You are my guest; you would be doing a great favour for me. With your help, Maia, the hotel will be everywhere! It will feature in all the guidebooks. Tourists will flock here!”

  “Like sheep?” Maia was unable to resist a slight laugh at his expense; his plans were so unrealistic. She knew that foreigners would never throng the long and dark, dusty corridors of the Grand Tazi.

  “No, no, not like sheep! Why do you say like sheep! My clients are not sheep!”

  Maia was amused at Mahmoud’s use of English; he often spoke as if he were repeating some loved phrases he remembered from an old English textbook.

  “What do you want me to paint?”

  “I tell you what I like,” he said, leaning forward. “I like you to paint my clientele. Especially the women. Pretty, pretty women for the walls of the bar.”

  “I don’t think that is going to lure in the foreigners you are hoping for, Mahmoud.”

  Mahmoud slapped his thigh and laughed heartily. “Ah, you think they see too much female flesh at home, do you? Well, they haven’t seen our women, have they? You watch, they will love it!” He lowered his voice and leaned even closer towards her, so that his lips were almost brushing her cheek. “I think you are too negative, Maia. I think you will not give things a chance. You will not let things happen naturally. And this is the ethos of my hotel. To let things happen naturally!” he said, and sat back in triumph. “It is very popular now, this country, no?”

  “Very popular, Mahmoud. But perhaps the tourists will be expecting a different experience from the one they will find here.”

  “What do you mean? This is very good experience.”

  “I don’t know, Mahmoud.”

  Suddenly he became very serious, “Your job is to paint, my job is to please my guests.” She saw then that Mahmoud did indeed care about his guests, for his hotel, for its very reputation as the focal point for a certain sector of the city’s nightlife. Quietly he masked his true character. He was a sly man hiding behind a jovial façade. But he did care. Not for money, but something else.

  “Please, Maia. Everything is starting to fade away. There is competition now. Things are not the same, I need to keep them coming back. Will you help me?”

  “Of course, Mahmoud. I will paint you something,” she relented under the pressure.

  “I pay you!” he said. “I can give you only a little, but still I pay you. I am very honest.” Mahmoud stretched out his arms, to show her the extent of his sincerity.

  Maia laughed at him.

  “Do you not trust me?”

  “I don’t trust anyone.”

  “Oh, you are too harsh to your old friend!” said Mahmoud.

  “We are not old friends.”

  “But I am old!” shouted Mahmoud, and heartily he slapped her thigh.

  Maia sighed, and smiled at him, but as he revealed to her the extent of his financial difficulties and the huge debts that he owed, as he complained to her about the extortionate cost of the renovations and she observed his laziness in the sun, she became aware that his ambitions for the Grand Tazi would never come to fruition. But still, in the empty afternoons and evenings, the atmosphere, the drinks, the people of the Grand Tazi drew her in.

  Now when Maia visited, she often went directly upstairs to sit in the rooftop terrace café, where she had first come to meet the Historian. Up here, she relished her afternoons. She was able to observe the Moroccan people rather than the familiar expatriates and tourists she met by the bar at the pool.

  “My artist in residence!” Mahmoud would shout. When he came to watch her work, he stood behind her, clasping her shoulder, and his huge presence loomed and made her nervous. Maia watched out for the crying woman who had smashed the glass on her first meeting with the Historian, but she never saw her again. Deprived of women to paint outside the hotel, Maia went back again and again to the Grand Tazi.

  “You know I want portraits! Real portraits,” Mahmoud boomed at her. “Who are you painting now? Paint her! No, paint her! You are too cut off, Maia. Your imagination is indeed very vivid, but I want you to understand that you must paint my customers as they are.”

  “You do not understand, Mahmoud. I am painting them exactly as they are. I can only paint them as I see them. Do you see the tired eyes, the pain, the laughter lines, the age spots? I cannot paint people perfectly.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully. “You are too honest, I think! People do not want to see those things.” But for once, he gave in. “Well I suppose that we must see something different in them.”

  Mahmoud wanted Maia to paint everyone as beautiful, the surroundings as glamorous. But Maia saw the dirt, the cracks in the walls, the mismatching colours and the character in the faces. And still she found the women she painted in the café too open, too provocative. They were too self-aware. Instead she wanted to attempt to reach below the veneer of Marrakech and reveal the skin of the women who lived underneath it.

  She was becoming desperate to paint not just women but also the naked form of women. A woman’s body was constantly changing, dependent on the unremitting rhythms of nature. So she began to paint herself, using the cracked mirror in the bathroom. At first she was nervous and tentative, but then as she felt her curves she relaxed. She mixed the colours of flesh tone for her skin; she factored in the shades where the rays of sunlight fell in through the shuttered windows against the afternoon heat and made her skin translucent. Faithfully she illustrated the shadows, the curve of her stomach and the shape of her thighs.

  Only one particular painting that took her weeks to complete managed to please her. She left the face blank because she felt that the faceless woman gazed back at her, turning her back on the male viewer. She thought that by not painting her features, she might be able to escape the eyes of men.

  As the Historian stayed away from the house, the apprehension she felt at his presence dissolved. But her comfort did not last long. By now, painting had totally consumed her. She became used to living alone, attempting to develop her own understanding of life, and resenting any intrusions upon her solitude. She was unable to sleep at night, suffering flashes of nocturnal brilliance that lasted for hours. When she tried to sleep she suffered a now familiar, terrible groaning before dawn. When she would reawaken in the afternoons she was unable to see what had so inspired her in the night. Maia considered when she looked at her nude self in the mirror that perhaps by depicting her naked body, she was only further imprisoning herself. Surely viewers of this painting would be viewing her only through the lascivious eyes of men?

  Maia did not want to reveal the facial features of the painted woman; it was a feeling she could not articulate but she wanted to leave the faces of all her women blank. A man would always project his own fantasies onto the feminine, regardless of the woman’s identity. She had the idea that this technique would be somehow less voyeuristic. However, when she painted Mahmoud’s customers, she did not shy from the faithful representation of their faces.

  In the late afternoons, when a cool breeze was beginning to take the edge off the heat, Maia wandered the streets. One evening, at the end of an alley on the edge of the medina, she stepped into a jewellery shop. It was a dark place selling religious artefacts, and it was swathed from floor to ceiling in cedar and thuya wood, cartouches and symbols smothering the walls. It was a cavernous bazaar, filled with antiques of obvious falsity, with battered copper pots and sabres encrusted with semi-precious stones hanging along the back wall. The old man at the counter watched her, sitting silently upon his stool. He was a tall, t
hin man with a short beard and a mournful face, dressed in a sharply cut suit of olive tweed which had become somewhat shabby with age; the elbows were patched up but his shirt beneath was starched and white. The entire outfit lent him the reassuring air of a European intellectual. His only flaw was his cracked, beige teeth. He had evidently profited from the fascination foreigners had with the town. She looked around, admiring the beauty of the craftwork. He followed her around the shop.

  “They are all antiques, my dear.”

  “I doubt it,” Maia smiled drily. She looked around the shop. A necklace caught her attention. The silver chain led down to a carved eye.

  Immediately the owner appeared at her side. “The Hand of Fatima,” he whispered, fastening it around her neck. “I am happy you didn’t choose gold.”

  “Why, what does it matter?”

  “Because we Berbers believe gold to be the source of all evil.”

  “I am not a Berber.” Maia laughed as she handed him the money for the necklace.

  “Why are you laughing, girl?”

  “Because you say that you don’t like gold, and yet you are happy to take mine.”

  The old man looked her straight in the eye. “I believe, daughter, that you already have al’ayn upon you.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Maia.

  Here, people seemed to be convinced in the power of the evil eye. At the entrance to houses Maia spotted the hand of Fatima; that very day she had seen a doorknocker sculpted in the shape of the hand. In this way, the home was presumed to be protected from evil.

  “You know the story of Fatima?”

  “No.”

  He stopped her from taking her purchase. “You can’t buy it without knowing the story.”

  She decided to humour him, and remained silent.

  “Then I will tell you. The khamsa is the five-fingered hand that in Arabic we can use to arrest the evil eye. Fatima was the compassionate daughter of the Prophet Mohammed and several miracles are attributed to her. When she prayed in the desert, it began to rain. Watch out for jealousy.”

  It seemed absurdly superstitious. But she agreed with him anyway. “There are plenty of those people around,” said Maia, thinking of the jealousy that Cassandra provoked in her, and the feelings she suffered over Armand.

  When she left the shop, the streets were emptying as the call to prayer was sounding. As she reached the Grand Tazi, Maia was surprised to find the Historian.

  He greeted her abruptly. “How has my work been going?”

  “I have finished it.”

  “I know you have finished it.” He smiled. “Did you imagine that I wouldn’t check up on you?”

  “I am sure you will find it is all in order.” She thought about the crumpled letters and criticisms, and wondered for how long he intended to maintain the charade.

  “I have no idea. I’m leaving again tomorrow for Europe. I don’t know how long I will be gone for, but I trust you will carry these out,” he said, handing her another list of tasks.

  “Of course.” When Maia was around him, she felt that her very presence was an irritant, and she wondered why he wanted her there, in his home. Even as she tried to stop it, her hostility and resentment towards him grew.

  As she left, Mahmoud and the Historian were murmuring together at the doorway and then together they looked at her.

  She continued her visits, but a lull had settled over the Grand Tazi. She laid her head on the cool surface of the table. Maia had felt her energy levels dropping, and she became incredibly morose.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Mahmoud.

  She lifted her head up off the table. “About Paris, about my last experience of it.”

  “Ah ha.”

  She smiled. Something about Mahmoud made her desperate to impress him.

  “Mihai told me that he forgot to say he will not be back in Marrakech for a long time.”

  “What is a long time?”

  Mahmoud shrugged. “Whatever Mihai deems it to be.” He beamed at her with delight.

  The days passed while Maia painted, interspersed with her nightly visits to the Grand Tazi. One evening, on her way to the bar, she took a different route, and made her way to the Bab Agnou gate.

  ‘Enter with blessing, serene people’, announced the gate that for centuries welcomed the black people who arrived in the city from beyond the Sahara, whilst the fair skinned aristocrats had their own gate to pass through. Maia wandered the streets before she decided to return to the Historian’s empty riad. She resolved to eventually return to the Grand Tazi, for in the next few hours before delirium and inebriation took over, she would at least not be alone. Maia found that all the afternoons she passed were stifled and depressed. A life alone in a massive mausoleum, would lead anyone desperate for a drink.

  Chapter 9

  For days, Maia felt defeated at her lack of direction and purpose. Now she began to miss the rain and the abundant greenery of England, the oak forests that travelled for miles and its comforting redbrick buildings. She forgot about the coldness of the land, of the people, of having felt that it was simply just another place to which she would never belong. She continued with the tasks the Historian had set her, and sitting on the roof, she painted and smoked incessantly, distractedly lighting another cigarette before she had even finished the last, as she watched the dust swirl up the street.

  The city seemed to be closing in upon her. She lay in her room, drowsy in the shadows, listening to the faint voices outside. Some days she felt so listless, she could hardly get out of bed. One morning, when Maia was emerging from a vague and elusive dream, a rapping was being played upon the door to her room. Walking wearily over to the door, she opened it to find an unusually dishevelled Armand.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I was in the house already,” he said.

  “And how did you get in?”

  He held a key up to her face. “I keep one for myself. The Historian trusts me to take care of some business for him.”

  “I see,” said Maia, hesitating. “I never knew you had it.”

  “Why would you?” he said, and Maia wanted to ask him if he had been in the house without her knowing.

  Armand came towards her. “I know what you are wondering, and the answer is yes,” he brushed past her into the flat.

  It seemed to Maia that he had not washed for several days. He was carrying a small, leather brown bag and as he kissed her, his breath smelled of alcohol, stale cigarettes and other women.

  Half reluctantly Maia returned his kiss and as she did his stubble brushed harshly upon her chin. It took only a moment for her to forget her resentment towards him and Cassandra. When he pushed her down onto her unmade bed she was too overwhelmed to stop him. She wanted to forget all her boredom and failure, and from the window outside she watched the sky darkening.

  Several hours later she awoke to the clattering from her tiny kitchen. In an alcove with two hobs, the Historian had left her with a few necessary kitchen utensils, pans, knives. In the kitchen she found Armand, barefoot and dressed only in his jeans. Maia resented that in such a short time, he had succeeded in making her the victim of an insatiable lust.

  Maia tried hard not to be disappointed. She often had the distinct feeling that the only person that Armand desired was himself. As she looked at him, she was pathetically grateful for the small attentions he paid her. She placed her hand upon his arm, as if searching for some reassurance that he really was still there.

  “I want to escape, Armand.”

  “Have you ever tried majoun, Maia?” He was searching her cupboards, opening and slamming the doors until he found whatever it was he had been searching for. Suddenly he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her, she was delighted, but just as quickly he backed away and began muttering to himself. Blending nuts and oil in the frying pan, he poured in all the spices he had found with an entire jar of her honey. Taking a plastic bag from the back pocket of his jeans, he added murky-look
ing herbs to the mixture, blending and churning until it was a huge brown mess. As he added butter, Maia hoped he would not force her to eat this mixture. It revolted her.

  He directed her to the roof where he rolled a cigarette with the mixture he had cooked, and sat there smoking rings into the city. Despite it being close to midnight, the air was dry and hot. Maia watched him smoke with an adoration, close to hatred. She wanted to ask him why he was here with her, why he sought her company but then rejected it, why he payed her so much attention if he didn’t want her. At the same time, she felt an irrational appreciation for any glimpse of affection from him. When he did deign to look at her, he gave a frisson of delight, which in all the years they had been together, George had never succeeded in eliciting from her.

  “Is this where you view your women to paint them?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Are they ever naked?”

  “No!”

  Armand saw her watching him and handed her the roll up. She took it from him and breathed in deeply, before retching. The sweetness of it sickened her. Armand laughed, taking her hand. “The Historian holds a certain fascination for you, doesn’t he?”

  A silence stretched out between them.

  “He is plausible in his explanations,” said Maia eventually.

  “He is very clever.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that.”

  “I’ve had enough of this city. How would you like to get out for a while?”

  Maia did not hesitate. “Didn’t you hear what I told you before?”

  Armand didn’t bother replying. He had already assumed she would follow him. For a moment she thought about leaving her paintings and the responsibility she had with the Historian. The majoun had made her feel remarkably free and lightheaded.

  She was decided, “Of course I do. Do you really want me to come?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked you, if I didn’t mean it.” Replied Armand, looking bored.