An Echo of Scandal

by Laura Madeleine

  Fedora

  Take a pony each of brandy and Curaçao. Add to this half a pony of good Jamaica rum and half a pony of Bourbon. Stir into this half a teaspoon of powdered sugar and a slice of lemon. Shake with ice and serve ornamented.

  The devil knows how I fell asleep. Perhaps it was the exhaustion or the pain, the heat of the brandy in my empty belly or the assault of so many new things upon my senses that made my mind close the shutters for a while, sending me into nothingness.

  When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was the hat. It was sitting upon the table before me, quiet and elegant, the colour of cream with a dark brown band. A piece of paper was resting beneath.

  I hoisted myself on to an elbow. Only then did I realize that the room was empty. For a moment, I stayed very still. Someone had half closed the shutters to keep out the heat. A clock ticked, a fly droned and the tock of croquet balls floated up from the hotel’s lawn.

  They were gone, the gentleman and the lady. There was nothing in the room to suggest that anyone would return, no suitcases or valises, no kicked-off shoes or robes hanging on doors. Even more worrying, I found that my trouser leg had been rolled up; the cut on my shin had been washed with livid yellow iodine and dressed with a bandage. When had that happened? Uneasy, I felt at my chest, but everything seemed the same, the bindings in place. Had they found me out? Were they keeping me here while they called for the police? I listened again, and heard nothing. For a minute or two I became convinced that if I went outside, I would find the world deserted, every motor-car abandoned, the dining room full of half-eaten plates and no one but me left to wander through it all.

  Hands a little unsteady, I took up the note, to reassure myself that this was not a dream:

  This should keep the sun from your eyes.

  With compliments,

  A

  A. Arthur. The man with the saint’s face and the cryptic smile was giving me one of his hats? It seemed too much, a strange, personal gift. I lifted it gently to touch the inside band, which must have rested against his forehead and lapped the sweat of his brow, only to stop, as another piece of paper fluttered into my lap.

  A twenty-five peseta note. I could only stare. Twenty-five pesetas … it was more money than I had ever held in my life. It would buy me a room in La Atunara for weeks, even a good one. It would buy me fifty meals, a hundred drinks. I touched the corner of the note, afraid that I would turn it over and find it one-sided and false. But it was real. What did it mean? Had the man tucked the money into his hatband and forgotten it there? Who would forget twenty-five pesetas? The man must be richer than I thought.

  I picked up the note again. With compliments.

  It was hush money, I realized, like Morales used to pay to the guardia and the city inspectors. It was a reward for my silence, a request for me to leave Gibraltar quietly and without fuss. I shoved the note into the wrappings around my chest, blinking hard. It was more than I’d anticipated getting from this encounter. Far more. So why was I disappointed?

  Carefully, I picked up the hat and pushed myself to my feet. There was a mirror on the wall near by, large and gilded. The reflection in it was still a shock. A boy, that was what I saw. A moody gitano boy who’d been in a scuffle. I placed the hat upon my head. It was bigger on me than it had been on the man, but it fitted. The cream colour suited my skin, but combined with the grubby suit, it looked absurd. I felt a pulse of envy for the man who had left it, for his wardrobe of beautiful, pristine clothes, for the way he had carried himself without a care. And at the same time, something rushed through me that I couldn’t name, something like excitement, a shiver of possibility that made me raise my chin just a fraction …

  There was a noise at the door. I swiped the hat from my head and held it tight.

  ‘Who’s there?’ I called.

  It was a hotel man in a dinner jacket, a stiff collar around his turkey neck. His mouth was tight with distaste, and I dropped my chin, not wanting him to look too closely.

  ‘I see you are awake,’ he said. ‘In that case, we will have you taken back to the border.’

  ‘To the policía?’ I backed a pace into the room. ‘I have done nothing wrong.’

  ‘You are not in trouble,’ he said, irritable. ‘But neither can you stay in Gibraltar.’ His eyes flicked to the hat in my hand, and he frowned.

  ‘Where are they?’ I asked, gripping the hat’s brim. ‘The man and the lady? I’d like to thank them.’ Really, I didn’t want to do anything of the sort. I only wanted to know who they were, whether they were still in the hotel.

  The man’s face hardened. ‘Mr Langham and Lady de Luca Bailey departed after luncheon. You are very lucky. There are not many who would have treated you so well.’

  Langham. The word caught my attention, like a thorn snagging cloth. Arthur Langham.

  ‘What do you mean “departed”?’ I asked, forgetting any pretence at manners. ‘Departed where? Will they be back?’

  The man’s face was turning sourer by the second. I saw now that he held the piece of stamped paper in his hand, the one that had been issued by the soldiers at the border.

  ‘They took the afternoon boat for Tangiers,’ he snapped. ‘Whether they will be back is their own business, and none of yours.’ He held out an arm, to funnel me towards the door. ‘Now, I must insist …’

  Thirty minutes later, I found myself ejected from Gibraltar, back into the dust of La Atunara. Thankfully, the British soldiers didn’t ask any questions, only ripped up the temporary pass, pleased to see me back where I belonged. I stared up at the great, gnarled rock from the wrong side of the checkpoint. I wanted to walk freely there, among the stiff English men and ladies, wanted to feel the power of a suit that smelled of starch and cologne, that didn’t bag and chafe, that wasn’t ingrained with dirt. I wanted to plant a cane into that ground that was neither England nor Spain and stare out to sea, the way the man – Arthur Langham – had done.

  Tangiers, the hotel man said. Tangiers. The name was familiar. Was it from one of Ifrahim’s stories? I squinted in the late afternoon sun, trying to find the dark shape of land on the horizon. The name brought an idea of hot sun, of a port full of ships from every country of the world, of money and spices and danger, where anything was possible, where a person might pull a brand-new name out of the air.

  Tangiers. Beneath the bindings, my heart began to quicken. I turned towards the town, the peseta note crinkling against my skin.

  Money can buy many things. In La Atunara it was possible to find a suit of passable quality amongst the clothes stalls of the market, a tailor to shorten the trousers, to unpick the initials of the person it had once belonged to. It was possible to find a pair of second-hand shoes, a bundle of men’s socks and linens, a roll of bandage stolen from a military hospital. It was possible to find a barber who would trim uneven clumps of hair into better shape, without commenting on a young man’s lack of stubble. It was possible for a person to transform themselves over a couple of days, all for the cost of ten pesetas.

  I bundled up the stolen clothes, the torn apron, everything that remained of my old existence. The only thing I kept was the knife, its handle worn smooth by years of use. I did not want to walk the streets of La Atunara without it, in case someone saw through my disguise.

  Langham’s hat was the final piece. Holding it before my face, I caught a wisp of his scent. Wax from rose-scented hair pomade, musk from cologne and a faint, elusive note I recognized as sweat. I settled it upon my head, and looked at myself.

  I looked young, too young, almost a boy still. The suit hung loose on my frame, the hat looming over my lean cheeks and the fading bruise. And yet, I might pass in a crowd for a semi-respectable young man. The suit, the leather shoes, and most importantly, Langham’s fine hat, would hopefully be enough to fool people. In a stuffy, locked room of a cheap hotel, I began to knot Alejandro del Potro and myself together, tooth by tooth, eyelash by eyelash.

  ‘Señor Langham,’ I murmured, dr
opping my voice a few tones lower, ‘I am delighted to see you again.’

  I put the remaining pesetas into the pocket of my jacket. There was one last thing I needed, and it would be the hardest to obtain, even in a place like this. I could declare that my name was Alejandro del Potro until I was blue in the face, but no one would believe me. What I needed was proof; a piece of paper to vouch for my existence.

  I had an idea of where to go, though it made me nervous. I waited until dusk to leave the hotel. Even so, the second I stepped from the door, I felt a surge of fear. My head was clearer now than it had been when I had slept among the beggars. People in La Atunara were sharp-eyed; what if they saw through my suit to the truth beneath? What if they could tell by the way I walked, how I held myself? I kept my head lowered beneath the hat, my hands in my pockets, and slouched along, my guts twitching, my heart squeezing itself against my ribs. A few times, people called to me, women from their corners or bartenders but I didn’t stop, not even when I became out of breath thanks to the tight bindings. From a kiosk near the beach, I bought a newspaper, and a packet of cigarettes. Props, to occupy my trembling hands.

  Sure enough, groups of men were beginning to loiter near the shore, where the smuggling boats put in, cracking their necks in preparation for the work to come. I sat on an upturned boat, a little way from the activity, and opened the newspaper.

  Of course, I didn’t read it. I kept half an eye on the beach beyond, on the milling groups of men waiting for something to happen, for a ship’s horn or a yell or a flashing light in the bay. I turned the pages mechanically, headlines washing over me until:

  BUSINESSMAN SLAIN AT CÓRDOBAN INN MURDERESS STILL AT LARGE

  The suspect, a prostitute and thief named ALEJANDRA EXPÓSITA, remains a fugitive, and should be considered dangerous. She was last seen three days ago in the region of RONDA. The Vélez del Olmo family are offering a reward of TWO HUNDRED pesetas for information leading to her capture.

  I couldn’t breathe; the air was too thick with tar and salt and panic. Alejandra Expósita. It was a surname they gave to foundlings, to orphans, to abandoned children. It wasn’t my name: I’d never truly had one. Morales must have given it to the authorities as proof of my illegitimacy, my baseless existence.

  She’s not you, I told myself, fumbling open the packet of cigarettes. Not any more. And yet, I’d chosen del Potro, named myself for the very place I was trying to escape. I could have picked anything: Moreno, Gómez, Ávila … I put one of the cigarettes in my mouth, only to realize that I didn’t have any matches. I forced myself to breathe as if I was smoking anyway, to slow the racing in my chest. No. For better or worse, the inn had shaped me. It was mine: the only thing I had ever known. I wouldn’t let them take that from me, too.

  When I looked up again, the beach was all activity. A boat had appeared and men were striding towards the waves, away from a figure in black, who stood overseeing everything. I tucked the cigarette into my jacket pocket, keeping my eyes on that man.

  I waited until the work was done. Only when all the contraband had been stacked on a wagon and hauled away, when all men had been paid and the man in black had closed his satchel did I stand and walk towards him.

  ‘Señor Bautista,’ I called. He turned. His eyes were blank as they took in my suit and my hat. I hid my trembling hands in my pockets.

  ‘Who wants him?’ the large man who dealt with the men said, stepping up beside Bautista. A brute, a boot and fist man. I’d seen his kind before.

  ‘I—’ My mouth lost all its moisture. ‘I lost my papers. I heard you might be able to help.’

  ‘Get lost,’ the brute said.

  Bautista continued to stare. I knotted my guts about my heart.

  ‘I can pay.’ I wrenched the ten-peseta note from my pocket. After all my expenses, I had fifteen left; five would be enough to survive another week or so, if I was frugal. ‘I can pay well for the papers.’

  Bautista smiled. His face was ordinary, forgettable with its donkey-grey beard, but in that moment I was afraid, for there was something about his expression that reminded me of Morales. The money fluttered in my outstretched hand.

  ‘Where are you from, chico?’ he asked, after a while.

  ‘North.’

  ‘And you have no papers?’

  ‘They were stolen.’

  ‘They were stolen,’ Bautista repeated, holding my gaze. ‘Well –’ he beckoned for the money. I let him take it, but kept hold of the other end. ‘Chico,’ he chided mockingly.

  I let go. In that moment, I truly did not know what he would do; whether he would agree to my request, or whether he would have his man beat me bloody. Had I been wearing the stolen suit, poor and stained, he might have done just that.

  After what felt like an age, he nodded. ‘Bueno,’ he said, folding the note into his pocket. ‘Let’s talk in my office.’

  The girl I had met on the street was right: Bautista ran the show in La Atunara. He could give me what I wanted, knew the people who could make it happen.

  By midnight, I was sat in his warehouse office, watching as a forger with stained fingers and beautiful handwriting inked my new self on to a blank passport.

  ‘Name?’ he asked, stilling his shaking hands with nips of liquor from a flask. In the corner, another man fiddled with a camera, setting up a pair of hissing electric lamps.

  ‘Alejandro del Potro.’

  ‘That your real name?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The man snorted. I watched as he wrote the name neatly.

  ‘Profession?’

  That made me hesitate. Cook, I wanted to tell him, but it might give me away.

  ‘We’ll put “secretary”,’ the forger said, into my silence. ‘Gives you options.’ The pen scratched softly. ‘Age?’

  The older I was, the more distance there would be between my former self and this new, suited stranger. ‘Twenty-five,’ I said. But that only made the man laugh.

  ‘You’re not more than sixteen. Look at that chin. Smooth as an egg.’

  I felt myself turning red. ‘Twenty-two?’

  ‘Twenty-one,’ he said firmly. ‘Got to be convincing.’

  ‘Stand there,’ the photographer yawned, pulling down a roll of paper on the wall.

  By mid-morning the next day, Alejandro del Potro had been born.

  ‘Scuff it up a bit,’ Bautista said, looking critically at the document in his hand. ‘Don’t want it looking too new.’

  I nodded. My mind was swimming, body buzzing with nicotine. I hadn’t slept much. I had been too nervous to stretch out on one of the wooden benches along the edge of the warehouse, in case I murmured in my sleep and blew my disguise. I had tried to leave once, saying that I would return when the papers were ready, but his brute had blocked the door. The message was clear. I could leave when Bautista told me to. Not before.

  ‘So, chico,’ Bautista said, tapping the passport on the desk. ‘Where are you going to go?’

  ‘That’s my business.’ I stood up and held out my hand for the papers, wanting out of that place. ‘Gracias, señor.’

  Bautista only laughed. ‘Sit down, del Potro. This is not a charity. I am a businessman. And business between us is not yet concluded.’

  ‘Why?’ I made my voice rougher. ‘You have your money.’

  He smiled. ‘Ten pesetas is not enough for a set of papers of this quality. Not nearly enough. Did you think it was?’

  My guts began to squeeze themselves together. What if he had seen through me? ‘What do you want?’

  He was watching me closely. ‘I want to know where you are running off to. France? Gibraltar? South America?’

  ‘Tangiers,’ I said, tense. He had control of the port. He would know if I lied.

  ‘Tangiers.’ He rubbed at his donkey beard. ‘What’s there for you?’

  ‘Nothing. A fresh start.’

  He was silent for a moment. ‘Tangiers,’ he said. ‘Bueno. You’ll wait until this evening to take the bo
at. I’ll have a little job for you by then.’

  ‘What kind of job?’ My skin was prickling. I thought about the knife, hidden deep in my jacket.

  ‘Relax. You will take something to a friend of mine, that’s all.’

  ‘What?’

  He tutted me. ‘Too many questions. Just take what I give you, deliver it and don’t peek. My friend will know if you have, and he’s not so nice as me.’ Bautista picked up the passport again. ‘If you are caught, you do not know my name. If you talk, we will find you. Otherwise, our business will be done. That’s fair, no? A small favour, compared to what I offer.’ He waved the document. ‘You can have this when you board the boat later. Not before.’

  Crime upon crime. Smuggling, forged papers. If I were to be caught …

  The hat rested on my lap, the gift from Mr Langham. I pictured him once again, at the wheel of that bright car, remembered the smell of his cologne and the way he’d glanced at the shape of land on the horizon, the way he’d commanded the respect of the hotel staff and the look on his face when I told him the sun was in my eyes. The way he’d said, mine too.

  ‘Well?’ Bautista said. ‘Are we agreed?’

  Tangier

  July 1978

  ‘Whoever it was, you shouldn’t have chased after them, old man, those kind of antics can get you into trouble here.’ Norton wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and grimaced down at the dry chicken on his plate. He’d insisted on eating in a dismal little hotel at the edge of the new town, partly, Sam suspected, because they served alcohol. ‘Too much bother to eat in these temperatures, don’t you think?’ he said, reaching for his wine glass.

  ‘I wasn’t chasing the person, I was …’ Sam pushed his plate away with a sigh. ‘I was just trying to find out who they were, where this A person lives.’

  Norton made a doubtful noise. ‘The whole business sounds shady to me. Next thing you know you’ll be waiting at a rendezvous with your passport in hand, primed and ready to be mugged.’