“I always wanted to escape somewhere.”
“And have you got what you came for?”
His eyes met hers, and she knew in that moment that she was a mere amusement for him. Despite all this, Maia was unable to walk away from him.
Armand stayed on the roof and smoked while Maia collected her things together. He appeared at the bedroom door, his leather bag in his hand. He was impatient, “Let’s go.” He grabbed her arm. “The car is parked near the square... ” He held up her face and gripped her chin. “You need a change of scenery. I’ve been looking at your paintings. They’re... merde.”
Maia was crestfallen. She was hurt by his abrupt condemnation of her work.
He went to stand beside her. “These women are very ugly.”
“I did not paint to please you. I see character in their faces.”
“Where did you see them?”
“In the souk.”
“You paint like a child.”
The blues and yellows merged on the canvas, so that just in looking at them she relived the excitement and urgency she had experienced when she had painted it. She looked at the shadows in contrast to the pure sunlight and wondered at how rapidly she had managed to improve her technical ability. Radiating energy and light danced across the canvas, but when she stood back from the canvas, she wondered if he was right.
“You need to retouch this area,” Armand told her, and he touched a corner of the painting with the tip of his finger, seeing how it pained her. At first, her growing attentions had flattered him. Her passivity had excited him. But as he looked at her, he saw that the more he demeaned her, the more eager she was to please him.
“I don’t feel that it is necessary to retouch.”
“Feel, feel – you always concentrate on how you are feeling! You take yourself far too seriously. It is not the most attractive state, you know, for a woman.”
“I know someone,” she said, giving a laugh she did not feel, “who takes himself far too seriously.”
“Do not laugh at me, Maia,” he said, coldly.
Maia stared back at him, “I have nothing to hide.”
“All you women have something to hide.”
They stood there for a moment, looking at the painting. The female collective fascinated Maia; all the love and the subjugation, the mistreatment, exploitation and neglect, but Armand’s face was twisted in disgust. She waited uneasy, suspended. The only reaction that she had elicited from him was disgust, and Maia realised this was another man who wanted women to wear masks. But still she accompanied him; and on the staircase they passed Ina, who barely acknowledged them. Maia left the Historian a note on the kitchen table and she went out with Armand into the empty street. As they drove together, the city fading behind them, Maia glanced at his shadowed profile. She knew she was mad to leave with Armand, but she was past caring. It was inexplicable, but something was propelling her forward.
She must have slept for most of the drive, and when she awoke, the sun was just rising. Here, the roads were treacherous and they stretched out before her under a clear sky. On one side, a jagged mountain rose up, whilst on the other, a huge ravine fell down steeply.
Armand’s window was open and a cigarette was dangling from between his lips. He looked at her, as though for the first time, but said nothing.
The road was slow going, eternally twisting. A roof of soft sky stretched out endlessly. Between rock and sky, the air was held motionless and below them there was only the rough, bare ground and the starkness of the ravines, and then, far below them, the odd tree clinging precariously to the mountainside. As Maia stared down into the valleys, she saw the neglect of this part of the country. The view of the dirty scrub road soon became monotonous, and the parched landscape was cool and eerily quiet as the sun went down. She must have fallen asleep again because next time she awoke they were at a police road block. Maia was horrified to see that the driver’s door was open, and Armand was no longer there.
Ahead of her, she saw him talking with an official. As Maia stepped out of the car she watched the two men shake hands. Armand marched back to where she was standing confused, one hand placed on the burning roof. A swarm of people came out of nowhere and they began to surround the car, pestering her, asking if they wanted hashish. Armand took out a pistol and two shots blasted sharply into the air. The noise resounded around the valley and the crowd dispersed.
“Get in,” he snapped, and ushered her back into the car.
Moments later, Maia couldn’t hold her tongue any longer, “Do you want to tell me what all that was about?”
“Not at all,” Armand replied.
She looked at him and another intense rush of desire claimed her as she settled back down into her seat. The balance of power between them was all wrong, and again she felt a fool. It occurred to her that she may have simply exchanged one master for another. He made her so passive, to the extent that she felt far removed from whatever it was that he might be dragging her down into.
She opened the window and felt the cool, clear air. They were high up into the mountains, and as Maia looked down, she saw the red tiled roofs of tall, bright blue buildings, all converging upon a square. The car was descending steeply through the rust coloured hills, and Maia’s sense of unease was blurring into excitement.
Armand booked them into a small hotel, called ‘Pension Etoile’, where the windows were high up in the mud brick walls, guarded by old cedar screens.
At the desk sat a bored, haggard old woman who spoke to Armand, before leading them upstairs. She was taken aback to find that Armand had arranged for two separate rooms. Too surprised to respond, she stood looking at him.
“I’ll see you downstairs in two hours.” he said, and promptly closed the door on her.
Alone in her single room, Maia used the tiny bathroom to wash before lying down on the narrow bed. She could hear Armand on the phone in the next room, talking abruptly in French. His voice rose and fell, alternately angry and threateningly calm; she fell, undisturbed, into a deep sleep. She dreamt she was back in London, amongst the tall grey buildings and the scurrying people underground when she awoke with a jolt, filled with a vague longing.
Later, while preparing to meet Armand downstairs, he burst through the door, “Ready? We’re going.”
“I haven’t even unpacked.” She thought they would be away for a few days at least.
“We’re only here for the day. I want to show you the area.” Armand pushed her out of the door. The shove he gave her was light but insistent.
Back in the car, Maia looked down as they drove above the desolate valley. These villages were timeless, with mud brick houses, which clung to the mountainside, and ribbons of smoke rising from their chimneys. The road twisted until Maia caught sight of a desert ksaar, which rose up against a higher rocky cliff. Armand stopped the car suddenly and took her hand. The desert sky was an intense, clear blue and a man with buck teeth opened the gate of the ksaar for them.
Inside, there were narrow whitewashed buildings with high shutters and staunch, iron grilled windows. The man led them through a shady cobbled square, to a house with a huge brass door. From the outside, there was nothing to be seen, but as they walked through a long corridor Maia realised the building’s vastness.
They were permitted to sit in a peaceful garden area, with a citrus tree in the centre. A lean faced young woman came from within the house and poured mint tea into small glasses. Armand ignored them both, and looked towards the entrance into the house.
Chapter 10
Two men holding rifles against their chests came in and stood by the door. They stared at Maia, and gradually it dawned on her that Armand was not objecting to their leering.
“What is going on, Armand?”
He ignored her, and leaned back in his chair. Something was wrong. It dawned on her that she knew nothing of Armand’s business. She wanted to be angry with him for bringing her here, but then he was opening up a whole new world, and part o
f her felt strangely privileged. Two older men then came into the garden. The first was dark and rotund, and the second was pale and angular. Standing before her was the Historian and Mahmoud. As Maia’s heart began to race, she tried to calm herself; after all, these men were familiar. The Historian stood with his hands clasped in front of him, and Mahmoud beamed at them.
“Welcome to my house,” he said cheerfully.
“Yes,” said the Historian. “We often come to the Atlas to escape the summer heat.”
Maia had no chance to speak, for Armand said abruptly, “Who are those idiots you employ? I had some moron try to stop me on the road. If you want to do business with me Mahmoud, those are not the sort of people I will deal with.”
So that, thought Maia, was what had happened with the road block and the policemen. What a shame she had been asleep and missed such excitement.
“They tried to force me off the road.”
Mahmoud was strangely apologetic, obsequious even. Maia was embarrassed to see him that way. She saw him only as an authority, always in charge as the host of The Grand Tazi, the owner of all that he surveyed.
Armand was outraged. Maia wished that he would not be so angry with the men; she was just now beginning to be comfortable with the Historian, although there was always the intangible awkwardness, a stiffness that remained. She sensed a power struggle, and Mahmoud was at the bottom of the league.
The men continued to converse, only now in Arabic. Servants came out to set the food on the table; fresh goat’s cheese, which they ate with flat bread, oranges, apricots, cactus fruit and olives.
Sweet black coffee was served, and Maia was beginning enjoy herself when she noticed the conversation switch English.
“The girl must leave. We have some important matters to discuss,” said Mahmoud.
“You can take a wander through the town, Maia. Someone will find you. It is very small here.” The Historian was quiet and courteous.
“I read your guidebook. You never mention the Grand Tazi, why is this?”
“It was not yet open at the time.”
“But it was!” erupted Mahmoud.
“My mistake. But please, we have something to discuss, before I drive back to the city. I will see you soon.” He impatiently tapped his long fingers on the wooden table, but his voice was perfectly controlled; still and calm.
Maia was aware she was being pushed out. It was not the business of women, perhaps. Mahmoud and the Historian surprised her with their demeanour. The possibility that they were all involved together intrigued her.
Maia walked slowly through the town, although it seemed more of a stronghold. She wondered who was in charge here. Surely it could not be the Historian. He was a foreigner, but he had lived here long enough. It couldn’t be Mahmoud.
Maia was certain that she knew why they were here. This was kif country, and high in the mountains they would be safe from the scrutinising eye of the authorities. She didn’t care about the illegality; wondering at the ingenuity of the criminal mind. As she walked through the streets, she saw that the inhabitants of the town appeared to be Berbers rather than Arabs.
The small town was cooking under the sun, and Maia worked up the courage to enter a café. The place was filthy, the rot of idleness having sunk into the cracks long ago. She was the only woman in the place, and the men looked up at her with evident interest. While seated at a round table, she found herself surrounded, and decided to buy them all mint tea.
Her benevolence endeared her to them, and they resumed their normal conversation: discussing their dislike for the foreign tour groups who had begun to enter in the areas this deep into the mountains. They took offence to their unreachable wealth, the men who wandered around in their shorts, and their uncovered, untouchable women with their patronising behaviour, taking photographs without permission with their expensive electrical equipment.
Their broken English became a rabble of disagreement.
“These motherfuckers!” shouted one man. “We can’t even speak to them, offer anything.”
Maia was amused. They were disgruntled at not having the opportunity to rip them off. The tourists had plenty of money to spare. For a man here it might mean a week of food for his family. She slipped away, leaving the men squabbling amongst themselves.
At a dead end, Armand appeared before her.
“I’ve been wondering where you might pop up,” she said.
Maia was delighted to see him. Her jaded nerves craved the excitement he gave, and the fear he instilled in her. She wanted to tell him about the men she had met in the café.
Armand placed his finger over her lips. “Not just now. Come here.” He enveloped her in a kiss.
“Are we going to eat dessert?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
The day had grown dark, and leaden clouds were settling low over the mountains. Armand took her back to the house. For a moment he left and she heard him talking about her as she stood at the door. From the little she was able to gather, the very man who had attempted to stop them on the road was to help organise the smuggling for a kamikaze run to Spain, so close that a speedboat could make the shore in fifteen minutes.
Armand went out past her and then back in again, carrying something. Mahmoud was sitting at the table in the courtyard. The two men with rifles were leaning lazily against the gate. Inside she heard voices, the conversation continued.
“Don’t worry; she’ll go along with it.”
When she entered, she noticed one person missing. “Where has the Historian got to?”
“He has already left, my dear. He sends his regards,” said Mahmoud.
Maia felt a niggling doubt creep in. “What’s going on?”
“We are not eating,” said Mahmoud. Maia was sure a smile was playing upon his lips. There was a shift in the atmosphere. Maia was stricken, and she reached over to Armand, but he pulled away from her.
He was now bending down over her, and she felt his lips brush her ear. “I find this is the best way to end every meal. We just need your help with something very important.” He took her arm and began rolling up the sleeve.
“What the hell are you doing Armand?” She tried to snatch back her arm, but he was too strong. She saw his face was grim, and she felt ashamed as he uncovered her before these men. She could barely believe it. She had never been tempted to touch the stuff and she had promised herself that she never would. Now she found herself being injected with it.
Armand opened the intricately carved box before them. Maia tried to lean forward to look inside it. Armand was furious.
“Get back!” he shouted, grabbing her arm he began to whisper nonsense in her ear. He stroked her hair, gently pushing back her head and kissed her neck. “I’m going to give you something now. You’ll be doing us a favour.”
Armand was gripping her arm tightly and Mahmoud was sat staring. The ritual that Armand was performing intensified Maia’s sense of anticipation. He took a spoon from the table where the fruit still lay, mosquitoes beginning to hum around in the evening air. He took a silver lighter from his shirt pocket and cooked the brown drug over the lighter. The viscous liquid dripped onto the table, and he took out a syringe. Maia flinched, but Armand kept his grip. She wondered if she really understood his intentions, here in this remote mountain village; a forcible experience from a man she barely knew. The acknowledgment of her own stupidity came crashing down upon her and as she looked at Armand’s face, for the first time she did not admire the ruthlessness in his smile.
He pulled the belt tightly, drew the mixture up into the needle, and plunged it into a vein that throbbed in her arm. There was a painful shock before bliss took over. She turned over her hands and saw the blue veins pulsating wildly. Paralysed with terror, she put her hands before her eyes but they fluttered like butterflies. The sensation was like a feather filled pillow pleasantly smothering her. “What a beautiful nightmare this is,” she murmured.
Armand said nothing. He was taking delici
ous pleasure in her trembling fear, thrilled with his power to dispense both life, and, if he willed it, death to whom he chose.
She was aware of the men watching her, aware of the emotions that must be flitting across her face. She heard their voices in the background, but she no longer cared. A chasm had opened up and sucked her in; inside it was pleasurable and warm.
Looking at her peaceful face, Armand suffered no remorse.
“Look at her, she’s oblivious now,” said a voice that Maia did not recognise.
Time slowed down, warmth spread through her body, she was cocooned in an inner temple of delights that left her breathless with pleasure, her mouth was incredibly dry and her limbs became heavy. She awoke, and saw that she was lying on a low bed in the centre of a white room, with a thin blanket placed over her. The room was bare, and cockroaches scurried across the floor. She felt drowsy and wakeful, warm and content. Here, as at the Historian’s house, there were carpets and hanging silks. She spent those days in a drug induced haze as the curtains grazed her ankles in the breeze coming off the mountains. Sunlight streamed dustily through the ragged curtains. Maia fell in and out of sleep, and when she awoke she found that Armand was watching her.
Then he was in her, but now she saw that something about her disgusted him. She tried to stop him. “You hypocrite!” she tried to shout, but no words came. His hatred and fury was bursting out towards her. Why had it taken her until this point to understand the extent of Armand’s cruelty? Maia watched his detached expression as he pushed himself into her. He gazed off into the distance above her head; the same blank gaze of the dog copulating in the souk until all control shuddered away from him and the expression slid from his face.
They stayed at the ksaar for several more days. She barely saw Armand at all, and he came only to give her what she now so desperately required. In the narrow bed she stirred, moaning fretfully. Later on, all that she could recall of that time were the voices and splinters of light that emerged through the high grilled windows at certain times of the day.
Alexandra Singer Page 13
