by Primula Bond
‘Well, how about that?’ someone says. ‘Of all the souqs in all the world.’
Standing in front of me, grinning and running his fingers through his overgrown blonde curls in a faux Hugh Grant-like gesture is Pierre’s American friend Tomas. The guy who Pierre and Margot thought might be the one to wreck me and Gustav.
‘Sorry, I can’t deal with you right now. Every time we come face to face there’s trouble. Just leave me alone! I’ve got to get to the travel agents!’ I struggle to get free, peering down the tiny path where I thought she disappeared and calling frantically. ‘Polly! Where are you?’
My voice sinks into the pitted stone walls and worn steps. There’s a sharp bend at the far end where she must have gone.
‘Polly’s here too? This is such a stroke of luck. We’ve so much to talk about.’ Tomas still blocks my path. He pushes his mirrored sunglasses up on to his head casually, as if we have just collided doing the weekly shop. ‘You could tell us where Pierre’s got to, for a start. We were hanging out at The Standard Hotel back in February and he was badgering me to get him membership of the Club Crème – remember that bucks’ night at the club? He would have moved heaven and earth to get in, once he heard what we got up to!’
‘Don’t remind me.’ I glare at his wide, blue, blank eyes. ‘Pierre told you to do that to me, didn’t he? Lick me in front of all your mates. You think it was a bit of fun, but it was part of a plot with Gustav’s ex-wife to split us up.’
‘The heat’s getting to you, girl. Have you any idea how crazy that sounds?’ Tomas takes my arms in a firm grip. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. I told you, I haven’t seen Pierre for months! He left the Big Apple without a word. Back up a second. Don’t tell me he’s here in Marrakesh as well?’
I waggle my mobile in his face. ‘That was him on the phone. But I don’t know where he is at this precise moment. He was working in LA, then he came over to Paris, then they were meeting their lawyers in London—’
I rush down the alleyway to look for Polly. Tomas follows me, even pushing ahead to peer round the corner. He shakes his head.
‘So you’re with Pierre now? This is giving me motion sickness! Your life sounds a little out of control.’
‘I’m not with Pierre. My life is fine. Everything’s fine.’
‘Not from where I’m standing! Sounds like your engagement to Levi Senior got called off?’
‘Oh, please. Wouldn’t you just love that? Nothing’s been called off. It’s all good. Everything was lovely. I was in the ashram, all chilled, and now just – I’m in a state because I can’t get hold of my fiancé and he’s leaving strange texts and I’m lost in the middle of Marrakech and my cousin has disappeared. Oh, God, where is she?’
I retrace my steps to the main market street, back to the carpet shop and the spices. Tomas tries to take my arm again.
‘Calm down – Serena, wasn’t it? You’ll only get more lost if you start to panic.’
‘Look, I can’t talk right now. I need to find Polly, and then I need to find a travel agent to change my flight!’ Tears are rising up and blocking my throat. ‘And I need to get a bloody signal!’
This part of the souq is suddenly crowded with people and donkeys and bikes, children with school satchels on their backs, gangly youths huddling round to light cigarettes. Two tall Berber women in black djellabas glide by. From the shadow of their pointed hoods, the only part of them visible beneath pretty yashmaks is a pair of huge amber eyes, outlined with thick black kohl pencil.
‘Polly will be fine. We’ll sort this out. Look, give me your phone. They’ll have a connection at my place.’ He takes it from me and grabs my arm. ‘I’m staying in this fantastic riad. It’s just a few blocks away. Well, you know what I mean. Not blocks. Corners.’
I push him away, run up and down this stretch of alley, people jostling past me, the bags and carpets and lamps all bashing at my head as I search frantically for my cousin.
But Polly’s nowhere to be seen.
CHAPTER TEN
The devil or the deep blue sea? It has to be the devil.
After wandering in circles for what seems like hours, after searching every overstuffed stall in this warren of streets, after following Tomas as he gives a description of my cousin to anyone who will listen and peers down every dingy alleyway, our shouts for Polly are drowned. The racket of the market clangs and rushes in my ears.
‘She must be on her way back to the ashram.’ I adjust my camera and bag, which are digging into my shoulder. I’m drenched in sweat and I half lean, half fall into a rail of T-shirts. ‘I need to get a taxi, Tomas.’
‘It’s a bit of a walk from here, but I can take you to the edge of the Medina.’ He stares at a sign in flowing Arabic script. ‘Where do you want to go?’
Dots are sparking in front of my eyes. Every time I try to focus on him, bits of him are missing, like his shoulder, or one lens of his sunglasses.
‘Home. Or maybe I should go to the ashram.’ Pierre’s strange words on the phone come back to me, urging me to return there, but I push them aside. ‘Actually, scrub that, it’s better if I go straight to the airport.’
‘You have your passport with you? No? Didn’t think so.’ He starts walking under the road sign. ‘So we’ll do this the sensible way. You come with me first, charge up your phone and get a clear signal. Then you can call Polly and check exactly where she is. Make a proper plan. Meanwhile, if you’ll just let me—’
He stretches out his hand gingerly, and places it on my forehead.
‘As I thought. You’re burning up.’
‘What are you now, a doctor?’ But even as he says it I realise how hot I am, panting for breath like a dog. ‘It’s May in Morocco, for heaven’s sake. Of course I’m hot!’
‘Actually, we’re into June now.’
And that’s when I burst into tears.
So I give in, and Tomas, keeping his hand on my arm, leads me away from the busy touristy streets and into a warren of ever-narrowing alleyways. I have no idea where we are. Just a faint instinct that we are walking north, away from the central square of Jemaa El Fna. We must be on the edge of the Medina because we pass the odd gateway to the outside world, glimpse cars rushing by, or happen upon a sudden opening of space and light as a mosque or shrine shimmers into view. And then we turn into more apparent dead ends.
Marrakesh is like a North African version of Venice. My camera bounces on its strap against my hip as Tomas picks up his pace. If my head wasn’t pounding, my mind racing with a muddle of questions, I would want to dawdle and capture the tantalising glimpses of life behind the carved mushrabiyya screens. We pass what is basically a cave where an ancient-looking man is hunched over an open fire, beating holes into metal sheets to fashion lanterns. Another alley is lined with pastry kitchens, where young boys are tossing lacy pancake wafers in the air, or standing in pools of blood hacking chunks of halal meat off the bone.
When we pass what looks like the window to a store room and I see several rows of neatly brushed and combed schoolchildren chanting the ABC at their plump teacher, I can’t resist snatching my camera out of its bag and taking several shots as the teacher draws an apple, a ball, a cat on the tiny blackboard nailed to the rough teal-blue wall.
The call to prayer winds up from a nearby mosque, the muffled holy voice wavering skywards like a snake charmer’s rope. Tomas turns down the shortest, darkest alleyway yet, and just as I think there’s nowhere to go but the thick stone wall forming a dead end, he stops in front of a low, splintered wooden door set into a crumbling pink wall, which looks as if it simply opens into a coal shed.
‘You must be thirsty, Serena. We’ll get you a nice cold glass of something,’ he says, rapping on the door. ‘Just take off your shoes.’
The door creaks open on big iron hinges and I nearly fall down several steps. Tomas bolts the door and locks it, and then walks ahead of me into a large square courtyard, open to the sky, surrounded on all sides by tiered galle
ries twined with roses, jacaranda, bougainvillea, orange blossom and the tiny white petals of jasmine. The mingled floral scents are so heavy and powerful that my head throbs even more.
The walls, arches, ceilings and floor are all tiled in a kind of silvery finish, inlaid with occasional flashes of ruby red and cobalt blue.
‘That’s tadelakt tiling,’ Tomas remarks as I stand and stare round me. Everything is far too bright. ‘My excuse for staying here for so long. I’m supposed to be studying Moroccan plastering and tiling techniques to export to my interior design business back home in the US.’
‘How far away that seems right now.’
I leave my sandals by the door as instructed and follow him along one side of the courtyard, which is formed into a row of alcoves each furnished with low bench seats upholstered in striped silver and white cushions. Lounging on these benches are couples or groups who mostly look like hippy travellers, wearing thin cotton shorts or vests or flowery dresses with long dreadlocked hair. All the girls wear thick silver anklets round their bare feet, and have pretty sequinned veils over their faces, which have the incredibly sexy effect of making their features tantalising, and their eyes huge and inviting.
Tomas points to the bare female legs. ‘Those anklets are called khuul khaal. They represent purity and the binding of marriage, which is ironic considering what goes on here. The female guests wear them to show that they intend to go along with the ideology of the riad.’
‘To keep tabs on them, more like. They look like electronic tags,’ I mutter.
The girls blink sleepily at me and drape their legs over the nearest male.
It occurs to me that these slackers ought to be out sightseeing, or trekking in the mountains, but they are mostly asleep or drowsily sucking on hookah pipes. Some are sketching or reading. In the furthest alcove a guy wearing a ripped vest over a gold sarong stands on his own, playing a beautiful, swooping melody on a flute. The acoustics of the riad are perfect, like the choir stalls of a church, and the music is pure and clear.
‘So how long have you been staying here, Tomas?’ I glance up at the various arches and screens around the courtyard. ‘It looks more like someone’s home than a hotel.’
‘Oh, long enough. I’m practically a native. You’ll be all right here while I go to the study?’ He takes the phone out of his pocket. ‘I’ll go plug this in.’
He shows me to a low wooden couch beside the little oblong pool and then disappears through one of the arches. A couple of dark, thorny trees with closed white flowers stand in terracotta pots. I reach out and touch one of the leaves. The sap prickles on my finger and a strong, intoxicating wave is released. There’s something peachy in the scent, something else, sweet, nutty. Almonds. I breathe it in and my aching head starts to swim even more. Isn’t that the smell of Agatha Christie’s poison of choice – arsenic?
The silvery courtyard, lit by the matt infusion of white light coming through a veil draped above the roof space like a sail, starts to dip as if we’re on a ship. I sit down hastily before I fall.
Tomas has reappeared by my side. He takes my camera before it clatters to the floor and puts it on the carved wooden table beside me. He sits down very close, stretching out his long legs in white jeans. I try to focus on him. He’s the same preppy, slightly pasty New Yorker he ever was. This sunburned bum look doesn’t suit him.
‘My phone charged yet?’ I ask. My voice sounds faint, as if I’m talking in my sleep.
‘Give it a good twenty minutes.’ His arm rests on the back of my seat and I find myself staring at the gold hairs on his skin. Now that we’ve stopped rushing about, and we’re inside this quiet, luxurious haven within the pink city’s walls, my mind stops flapping about like a caged bird and settles on one excruciating memory.
This man and I were together in a private room a few months ago, in the Club Crème in Manhattan. We were cavorting in front of a smirking, appreciative audience of men at their bachelor party. I had been taking photographs, as commissioned, and was high on the attention and the sleazy atmosphere of the club. I was up for anything. This guy’s hand, with the golden hairs, was gripping my legs to open them. This head, with its slightly sweaty curls, was buried between my thighs. His tongue was on me, licking. If Pierre told Tomas to target me like that, I played straight into his hands. Not only was I allowing it, I was cajoling him to do it, in front of all his mates, until Gustav walked into the room and the dirtiness of what I was doing hit me. I pushed Tomas off me but still went ahead and fingered myself in front of them all!
A tall slim girl with sheets of long blonde hair, wearing a tiny pair of bright-orange sequinned shorts and a belly dancer’s tasselled brassiere, appears from nowhere. She balances a round tray on her fingertips, and presents two glasses edged with lapis lazuli filigree and filled with some kind of clear liquid. Tomas runs his hand up her leg and points at one of the glasses. Without thinking, I knock the liquid back, thinking it’ll be lemon juice or iced mint tea. At first I taste nothing, and then I realise I’ve swallowed some kind of strong, spice-infused vodka.
‘Thanks, gorgeous. Meet Serena Folkes. She’s the hot English photographer making waves in Manhattan and oh, my goodness, I see the rock on her finger now. So it’s really true. Meet the fiancée of Gustav Levi!’
The girl sinks down and drapes one long leg over his, swaying her head to some music on her iPod. Although she doesn’t respond or even register that I’m here at all, I recognise her immediately. It’s the long, rangy limbs and neck, and those huge cartoon eyes above her powdery veil, but without the stage make-up and spiky false eyelashes her eyes look blank. She looks blank.
‘Chloe? It’s me. Serena! From the Serenissima gallery? We were at the Sapphix Bar together just a few weeks ago!’
But still she doesn’t answer. My voice has become thick and rough, and her name sticks like a fur ball in my mouth. In fact, neither of them seems to hear me. Tomas strokes her idly, fingertips sliding inside her tiny shorts. I remember Pierre Levi touching my cousin Polly like that, sprawled across the suede sofa in our apartment on New Year’s Eve, just like Tomas is sprawled across this sofa now. Chloe starts to move against his fingers, but still her eyes stare blankly into the shifting blues and greens of the pool. Just like Polly seemed that night, this girl looks as if she’s been drugged.
Tomas tops up the glasses and continues his monologue. ‘So the plan is still on, that you’ll marry Gustav Levi and you’ll be lucky old Pierre’s sister-in-law? My God, how’s he going to cope with that? He’ll go out of his mind! I’ve never seen a guy so hopelessly in love with someone he can’t have.’
I sit up straighter and try to focus on Tomas, but he’s splitting into two. I don’t feel sick exactly, but my head feels as if it’s about to fly off my neck. Tomas looks as if his blonde hair has suddenly turned black and oily, like a gangster. And Chloe’s legs and arms have become rubbery and see-through, like a glass octopus.
‘Just give me back my phone so I can call Polly to meet me here, or you can take me to the nearest taxi rank.’
‘Sure, in a minute. It’s still charging.’ Tomas glances at my camera. ‘So, where were we? Oh, yes. Pierre. Well, poor guy didn’t get to first base with you, did he, though he said he was determined to try. Obviously he didn’t try hard enough, because, oh, my, if he’d seen you doing that sexy stripper dance in the Club Crème he’d have known you’re just an easy little slapper, like all the others.’
‘So much for the good Samaritan. Why are you being so offensive?’ I tug at my blouse, which is sticking to my skin. I feel hotter than ever, despite the cool courtyard and the drink. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t very grateful of me. It’s just – Pierre and I understand each other now.’
Chloe uncurls her leg from his and stands up. I want to call her back. I don’t want to be on my own with Tomas. But my jaw feels locked. She steps away across the courtyard towards a curved staircase, picking up her feet like a show pony, and water seems to be lapping all over the
floor now, like the acqua alta that rises from the lagoon in winter and floods all over Venice.
‘No need to be touchy, Serena. I’m just remembering the good times. I mean, how could I forget your performance that night at the club, now that you’re sitting here in front of me again? I think an action replay might be called for, don’t you? It was easy enough for me to get a taste of you at the club, wasn’t it? I was so close to making you come with my tongue, remember that?’
‘I just – that was a wild phase I was going through. I don’t want to be reminded.’
Tomas crosses one leg over the other and runs his finger over his lips. He has apparently just sprouted a full, piratical beard. He’s turning into Pierre. I rub my hand over my eyes and realise my eyelashes are wet with tears.
‘So what’s Pierre’s problem? Horny devil like him didn’t even succeed in feeling up his own sister when she was there for the taking? Sorry, that was a Freudian slip, eh? I should say sister-in-law.’
‘Please, Tomas. I just need to make that call. I need to get a ticket. I need Polly. You know Polly? She’s your friend? She’d love to see you. Just give me my phone!’
‘All in good time. Don’t get so worked up,’ Tomas murmurs, leaning forward to stare at me. ‘We’re just so pleased we got you here at last.’
It must be later than I thought, because dusk is falling, dropping right into the middle of this courtyard, and all I can see of him, like the Cheshire Cat, is his grin.
My eyelids feel as if they are weighed down with stones and someone is sewing them closed, and then everything goes dark.
It’s not just my eyes that are weighted and my head that is banging like a drum. When I wake up, or think I’m waking up, my ankle bone grates against something hard and cold, as if I’m shackled, too. I struggle up on to my elbows and force my eyes open. The darkness around me is hot, close and still, but there are pinpricks of light around me, flickering.
For a moment I lie still. I’m obviously seriously ill. Or something’s come adrift in my eyes or in my brain, like a cataract or a slipped retina. But it’s OK. Gustav’s here. He’s got me tied with the silver chain, that’s all. Just like old times. Any minute now he’ll lean over me, push me back against the bank of pillows or cushions I’ve been lying on, he’ll make sure I’m totally naked, then he’ll run his mouth over me, and then his hands, and then he won’t be able to stop himself because the sight of me lying so still beneath him will make him rock hard with wanting.
