He bought a couple of crispy briwats, no idea what was in them. Shredded chicken and cinnamon, it turned out. A water seller ambled past, bent-backed beneath his plastic drum, brass cups clinking on the bandolier across his chest. Sam stopped him, and after a few long swallows of water, he began to feel better, more cheerful than he had for days.
An idea was forming. He’d write to his parents again; write to them properly this time, not scrawled on airmail paper, or dashed out on the Hermes. He would sit and put pen to paper and try to make them understand what he couldn’t fully explain, even to himself: that he couldn’t come home, not yet.
At a stationer’s shop he bought a bottle of ink, and asked the owner – in mangled Spanish and worse French – about a new nib for the ink pen. The man seemed surprised, but after a few minutes of rooting through drawers, he produced a box of nibs. They tried them out in the pen until they found one that fit.
Armed, Sam made his way to the Gran Café de Paris and chose a quiet table in the corner. He took out the ink, the new nib, and centred the leather case before him.
When his coffee arrived, he leafed through the paper to find the least yellowed sheet, and set it on the top. His hands were trembling slightly as he dipped the pen into the ink and held it poised. It felt egotistical to stain one of those old pages with his writing, but at the same time, the case had sat idle for fifty years, hadn’t it? Surely it was time for it to break its silence? He smiled, touched the nib to the paper, and began to write.
1928. That’s what the calendar in the lid said. The clink and chatter of the café faded around him. If only he held the pen tightly enough, wrote fast enough, he might look up and find himself back there, when living was wild and Tangier was filled to the seams with people like him; people who didn’t fit anywhere else, who had chased themselves across Europe to this city in order to turn themselves inside out with drugs and glamour and mistakes …
‘Monsieur?’
A waiter stood above him, looking expectant. Sam blinked hard. For an absurd moment, he thought an old-fashioned motorcar might drift past the window, thought he’d hear jazz on the radio and see people in the clothes of half a century before.
‘Yes?’ he asked, rubbing at his forehead, trying to pull his mind back into the present.
‘Another?’ the waiter asked, pointing at the long-emptied coffee cup.
‘Yes, yes, thanks,’ Sam mumbled. He didn’t really want another one, but neither did he want to leave the cocoon he’d created around himself. It reminded him of the few times he’d written something good; when whole hours had been lost to the act of creating a world, spinning it into existence using nothing but the words inside his head. It had been like that, before the waiter interrupted.
He sighed and sat back. Before him, two sheets of the thick letter paper were covered with writing, awkward and scratchy at first, but growing more fluid as he got used to the pen. He picked up the first sheet, to read it back from the beginning.
Dear A,
He stared, feeling odd. He’d intended to write to his mother, his father, but that wasn’t what had happened.
Dear A,
I have your case.
What followed was almost a confession, about how he came to buy the case at the expense of his Hermes, about his failure as a writer, a traveller, a son, as anything really. He felt the heat rising to his face, alarmed by his own honesty. He’d written about Tangier as it was now and how he imagined it then. He’d written to A. L. wondering whether they were similar people, wishing he could post the letter back through time and space, and receive a reply from the past.
The letter broke off mid-sentence. He stared at the pages, thrilled and uneasy. As a piece of writing it was next to useless; it wasn’t a plea to his parents, or even a story he could sell to a magazine to make some money. And yet, it felt like a start, the beginning of something new.
It was as he was reading the letter for a second time that his neck began to prickle, as if he was being watched. He looked up into the mirror that reflected back the café: a few tables away, someone was staring straight at him.
It was an old man, his eyes concealed by semi-opaque spectacles, and by a fedora hat that would have been stylish in another decade. Slowly, the man’s mouth twitched and he nodded.
Sam turned in surprise, only to catch sight of his own face. There was a huge dark smear across his forehead; he’d managed to cover himself with ink.
What an idiot. No wonder the old man was staring. Too embarrassed to look up again, Sam pushed himself from the table and headed for the bathroom. In the dim light, he scrubbed the ink from his skin, staring critically at his half-open shirt, his straggling, sun-licked hair and dirty tan. If he’d lived fifty years before, he would have been dressed smartly, elegantly.
Lost in thought, he made his way back to the table. He’d bring the letter to a close; sign it off with his name. A first chapter, maybe …
He sat down and reached for the pen, only to stop. Everything was just as he had left it, except for the letter.
The letter was gone.
Alabazam
Take one teaspoonful of Angostura bitters and half a pony of orange Curaçao. Add to it one teaspoonful of white sugar and one teaspoonful of lemon juice. Then pour in half a wine glass of brandy. Shake up well and strain in a claret glass. Brief, dark and bitter.
We once had a conjurer visit the inn during the feria. He was a shabby-looking man with drooping moustaches and a threadbare velvet cloak. I wasn’t very impressed; no one was, until we saw his trick. He took a duck from a cage, and wrenched its head clean from its neck. The girls shrieked to see it, and flinched as he paraded around the courtyard, the body in one hand, the little feathered head in the other. Then, he put his hands beneath a red silk handkerchief, said a word and whisk! the duck was back, whole and quacking and pedalling its legs in protest.
That’s how I felt as I stood in the doorway, looking at the Señor as the life flowed out of him. I kept expecting someone to say a word and wave a cloth, for him to stop his empty gulping, open his bloodstained mouth and grin. But no one said anything. Neither of us moved until the soft, wet gasping sounds finally ceased.
Then, Elena staggered. The broken bottle fell from her hand, the bowl of ice from mine as I stepped forward to catch her.
‘I didn’t,’ she gasped, clinging to my apron, her eyes bulging and frantic. ‘I didn’t …’
She looked down at the Señor, his blank eyes fixed upon the ceiling. ‘Ramón!’ she screamed and dropped to her knees beside him.
She was gripping his face, trying to lift his head, but he was gone, the wound at his neck bleeding sluggishly. That’s when I heard footsteps on the stairs, and the echo of voices. I turned to meet Morales’ gaze.
I didn’t know that a life could change so drastically in the space between one heartbeat and another. For one trembling breath everything hung suspended, like alcohol in water: Elena holding the Señor’s head, me with blood on my apron, the dropped ice, the broken bottle. Morales’ eyes flicked to her daughter, before settling on me.
‘Murder,’ she said softly.
I started to cry out, to explain, but my voice was lost in hers as she shouted the word. The doorway behind her was filling with the reddened, sweating faces of the Señor’s friends, on their way to the parlour. I saw their redness curdle, their mouths fall open, and still I stood paralysed. Then Elena looked up. Her pretty face was tear-streaked, her fingers slippery with blood as she pointed at me.
It was enough. The world descended into hands grabbing, clawing, wrenching my arms behind my back as Morales shouted murder. I struggled and threw myself sideways, trying to see Elena. We locked eyes and I knew, in that moment, what she and her mother had agreed, without words.
I screamed at her, spittle flying from my mouth as I called her a lying bitch. It didn’t help my cause. One of the gentlemen hit me with his fist, a blow that folded me over in shock, made my eyes flood. A few drops of blood spla
ttered from my nose on to my smock as they hauled me towards the stairs.
Morales was calling for help, calling for someone to fetch the guardia, to find Capitán Davila and tell him there had been a murder at the inn, tell him to bring men and a car to arrest the murderess.
Her voice slapped me into wakefulness. Capitán Davila – who came to the inn every month to inspect the premises and claim his ‘commission’. Capitán Davila who had known Morales for years, who at her word would throw me into a cell and shrug and call it a night’s work.
‘Elena,’ I choked, as they pulled me down the stairs. ‘It was her, he promised to take her away from here, he promised and she found out the lie—’
One of the gentlemen beside me faltered and glanced at the others. I recognized him from the night in the parlour. He was the one who had offered the Turkish Delight. ‘Please!’ I begged him. ‘Please, you know it’s true! Tell them!’
He flinched away, and I saw something in his eyes, a shred of belief. The Señor must have bragged of his nights with Elena, must have laughed over how he could make her do anything, for a handful of promises.
But the man was shaking his head, his grip weak. ‘I can’t have my name in this,’ he said breathlessly, ‘if my customers discovered, my wife—’
‘Does she know our names?’ Another man was interrupting, shaking me. ‘What if she talks?’
He was addressing Morales, who stood at the foot of the stairs. She looked at me, her eyes hard.
‘If she talks, who will listen?’
My strength faded when she said that. She was right. No one would listen. Bad blood, they would say, rotten whore, and they would be believed. The girls would be silent. Antonio the groom would be silent. Only Morales would speak out, to send me to be garrotted for murder in Elena’s place.
The thought made my head cloud, and I half fainted. They lifted me underneath each arm. My feet dragged uselessly, my hands brushing at my apron.
That was when I felt the weight of the knife.
We’d reached the bottom of the stairs. Through burning eyes, I could see the courtyard to my left, with its press of guests and tables. To my right, the open gate and the street, crowded with people, all drinking, shouting, making their way towards the river.
One chance.
I collapsed again with as much force as I could. This time I made it to the floor, slipping from the grip of one of the men. It was the one with the blinking eyes, the one who might have spoken for me. Doubled over, I managed to work my hand into the apron’s pocket before he renewed his grip beneath my armpit and hauled me to my feet.
I didn’t wait, I didn’t even breathe. I flailed out with the knife, stabbing at him. He let me go and I whirled, slashing at the other man. Blood spurted, a voice yelled in pain and for a split second, no one held me.
I threw myself towards the gate. Someone made a grab for my legs, and had I been wearing a skirt rather than Ifrahim’s old work trousers they would have brought me down. But their fingers slipped from the fabric, and whoever it was hit the ground. I darted into the street, barging my way through the crowd.
There were shouts behind me and booted feet and Morales’ yelling for someone to stop me, but there were horns too, and tambourines and bells and I ran like a wild thing from the Plaza del Potro.
Get to the river. That was my only thought: the river where it was dark and where there were tents teeming with people. As I reached the far side of the square, I glanced back and saw one of the gentlemen staring through the crowd, conspicuous in his fine, black jacket. I ducked down, pulled off the stained apron and bundled it in my arms, wiping the blood from my nose. Keeping my head down, I slipped into a large group of people who were jostling, hootingly drunk, towards the river, and vanished.
At least, that is what the newspapers said. According to them I disappeared into thin air, evading capture by calling upon a network of gitano thieves and bandits, who smuggled me past the tireless guardia.
They said other things: that Señor Ramón Vélez del Olmo was a great man, a philanthropist who had donated thousands to the Church and its reformatory. They said that I had tried to extort money from him, and had become enraged when he refused. They said he had only been at the inn to seek out a friend, in order to dissuade him from sinning. About Elena, they said nothing. Why should they? Men just like the Señor ran the newspapers, and they all had Elenas of their own. So, Señor Vélez del Olmo was a great man, and I was the venal whore who murdered him. That was the story they told themselves at their card tables and racing parties.
The truth is always less glamorous.
The truth is that I passed the hours following the Señor’s murder in terror, trying to lose myself in amongst the feria. I had no one, nothing but a knife and the clothes I stood up in – old trousers and a blouse and stained apron – unsuited to the world. My nose throbbed like the devil. When I explored it with my fingers, it felt hot and swollen but thankfully unbroken. Behind some of the tents were barrels of water for the mules where I rinsed the dried blood from my face.
In the light of the fireworks, I saw myself reflected; hair wild and straggling from the scarf, nose swollen, face gaunt with shock. By the time the second shower of light came, I had pulled the scarf from my hair and wet it so that it lay neater, I had turned the apron back to front and tied it around my waist, so that it looked almost like a skirt. While people were still distracted by the lights, I stole into the back of a tent and swiped an embroidered shawl that had been abandoned on a chair.
I crept through the people clutching drinks, staring upwards, their eyes and teeth reflecting red and orange. I sought out the most boisterous crowds, at the end of the river where the rich folk did not go. I tried to blend in by pasting a smile on to my face and clapping my hands to the music like a toy monkey.
But all the while, my mind was racing. I had to get out of Córdoba, I thought as I grinned and clapped, I had to get out before morning. It seemed impossible. I had never left the city before. My only knowledge of the world came from Ifrahim’s stories, of French jails and Portuguese shipyards, English enclaves and African souks, and they were just that: stories. Even if I did know where to go, I had no money for a bus or train ticket, no papers, no proper clothes even.
Only the knife.
Tangier
July 1978
‘I’m telling you, it just vanished.’
From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Norton shake his head.
‘Are you sure you didn’t imagine the whole thing? Maybe you never even wrote a letter, just sat there daydreaming after a bit too much –’ Norton mimed smoking a joint.
‘Of course I didn’t imagine it,’ Sam snapped. ‘I wrote the damn letter. How else did I get ink on my face?’
Even so, he felt a prickle of uncertainty. It was true, he’d lost himself in the act of writing, had scrawled out a confession to an unknown person without meaning to. But he had written. Hadn’t he? ‘Anyway,’ he said, rubbing his neck. ‘I didn’t smoke much this morning.’
‘But you did afterwards?’
‘Sure. I was freaked out.’
Norton sighed. He looked more relaxed today, in chinos and a shirt and some sort of cravat, a jacket slung over his shoulder despite the temperature. The sun had set but the streets still held their late orange heat. ‘This letter,’ he said, ‘did it have anything important in it? About you?’
Yes, Sam wanted to say. But he knew what Norton meant: name, address, social security number. He shook his head.
‘Then why are you worrying?’ Norton stopped. ‘Look, it was probably nicked by someone who thought they could pull one over on you, extortion or whatnot. I’d put my money on one of the waiters.’
‘There was this old man. I thought he was watching me but …’ There was every possibility he’d imagined that too.
‘Well there you go,’ Norton said. ‘I’ll bet he was just some loony who liked the look of you. And he didn’t take that.’ Norton poked the writing
case under Sam’s arm. ‘So no harm done.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Good. Let’s get a drink and forget about it.’
They set off down a narrow street that led towards the beach. Sam took the roll-up from behind his ear and lit it, before offering it over to Norton. He watched the Englishman’s face crease at the taste of the kif.
‘Too much of this stuff will make you paranoid,’ Norton said, smacking it away from his tongue.
‘You know what they say, “A pipe of kif in the evening is worth a dozen camels in the courtyard.”’
‘Who says that?’
Sam laughed at Norton’s expression, feeling his shoulders ease for the first time since the morning.
The Hold was open. Sam could tell, because the dark rectangle in the white, salt-damp wall was slightly darker than usual, and music was spilling out, the scratchy, warbly jazz the old-timers liked to play. At the threshold, Norton faltered and glanced at the peeling, hand-painted sign.
‘Hackett. Where are we?’
Sam smiled. ‘We can’t drink at the El Minzah every day, old chum,’ he said, mimicking Norton. ‘And anyway, you said you wanted to meet other ex-pats.’
‘I meant Peruvian oil barons and Russian heiresses,’ Norton muttered, ‘not ex-cons.’
‘What’s the difference?’
A shallow set of stairs led down to the bar, where it was cooler, away from the fierce heat. As Sam stood blinking, with Norton at his back and the bright streets in his eyes, he heard someone exclaim:
‘I’ll be damned. Is that Samuel Hackett?’
Squinting, he took a few steps across the uneven floor. Slowly, the bar resolved itself from the gloom. A padded bench ran around the edge of the cellar, low tables before it. A record player sat at the end of the bar, next to a crate of records, where Roger, the owner, could keep a watchful eye. Leaning next to it was a woman. She was smiling at Sam, her blue eyes startlingly bright against skin that was as tanned and creased as hide. There was a cigar in her hand, unlit.
An Echo of Scandal Page 6
