An Echo of Scandal

by Laura Madeleine

  ‘But A thought I was trying to blackmail him! As soon as I mentioned the case—’ Sam stopped himself abruptly. Through sheer frustration, he’d told Norton about the notes, sent back and forth between himself and A, but the rest? He glanced over at the Englishman, to find him emptying the rest of the bottle into his glass.

  ‘He what?’ Norton asked.

  ‘He clammed up. I got a two-line response.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. He’s probably worried you’re on to whatever scam he’s trying to run.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s a scam,’ Sam said. He groped for an explanation, when of course, there wasn’t one. He didn’t know what A was up to; he didn’t even know who the man was. A character, inexplicably come to life, a mystery to be pursued on the page, but in reality … ‘Do you know,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘I’ve written more in the past three days than I have in six months? Pages of it. I’ve lost count. I think I’m on to something. A story about Tangier.’ He drained his glass. ‘Of course it had to happen now, when I’m counting how many days I might have left here.’

  ‘Say it isn’t so!’ Norton put down his glass. ‘Why would you leave? Visa? Money troubles?’

  ‘Trouble’s the word. Another week and I’ll be out on my ass.’

  ‘Well, if you smoked less kif …’

  Sam laughed, a little. ‘I haven’t been. At least not as much as usual.’ Running out of kif would mean a visit to Abdelhamid, which would mean telling him about the Hotel Continental, and the suitcase. He didn’t feel ready to share the whole truth with anyone yet, not with Abdelhamid, not with Norton, not even with Bet and Roger. It felt private, like something that might disappear if he talked about it too much, that might wither in the hard light of reality.

  ‘Well, if this chap’s serious about getting his old writing case back, doesn’t that solve your problem?’ Norton said. ‘Flog it back to him for a princely sum and stay as long as you like.’

  ‘True.’

  Norton was right; it would solve a problem. And he did want to stay. But he also wanted to keep writing. Something told him that if he handed over the case and took the money with no questions asked, A would vanish into the streets of Tangier, taking the story, and all Sam’s inspiration, with him.

  ‘Tell you what.’ Norton slapped the table, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. ‘If you do find anything interesting about this old guy, let me know. A sordid past, sob story, whatever. The city editor might be interested in it, nice bit of local colour for the mid-section. I could write it up for you, and we’ll split the commission. That’d keep you in kif for another week, wouldn’t it?’

  Sam nodded, irritated by the offer for some reason. ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  Norton checked his watch. ‘Must get back. I’m working on a juicy piece right now. Paris papers will definitely want it, mark my words.’

  The heat and colour and brightness of the streets was a relief after the drab hotel dining room. Sam said goodbye to Norton and wandered towards the old town. Here, he could lose himself; he could be just another tourist, another nameless drifter with a few dirhams in his pocket. In the old town, he didn’t have to think about his past. He didn’t have to have a future beyond tomorrow.

  He found himself at the edge of the Grand Socco, where he’d lost the mystery letter carrier. Norton was right, he shouldn’t have run after the person, whoever it was. It seemed absurd, thinking of it now, made his guts squirm a little in their bath of lunchtime wine. He didn’t even know for sure that they had collected the letter. But there was something in the way they had looked back, as if they knew him, and had considered speaking to him, just for a moment.

  A truck sped past, its tyres flinging up grit. He stepped out of the way. Behind him was a flower stall, where blooms were beginning to wilt in their plastic buckets. The woman who sold them was tiny and old and wrinkled beneath a wide straw hat of the country farmers. How long had she been coming to Tangier, to sell her flowers by the road? Twenty years? Thirty? Had she been here as a girl, when A strode through the streets? Had he once stopped to buy a bloom for his lapel? Before Sam was fully aware of what he was doing, he was pulling some coins from his pocket and pointing to a bucket of wild-looking pink roses and to another of tiny star-white flowers. The woman told him a price in Darija. He wasn’t entirely sure how much it was, but he didn’t bother to haggle, just gave her a handful of small coins. She nodded, picked out a few, and handed the rest back.

  He set off, taking the road that led towards the beach. In the writing case beneath his arm was an address for Lillian Simcox, the woman Roger said had been in Tangier in the old days, and who might talk.

  The address was for a private hospital, located in one of the tall modern buildings that overlooked the bay. Tangier had begun to stretch itself along the coast, and everywhere Sam looked there was steel and scaffolding, concrete and tinted glass. By the time he reached the building, the wine was wearing off; his reflection in the glass doors of the hospital looked scrubby and tired.

  He sighed and rubbed his face on his sleeve. He shouldn’t be disturbing an old woman just to ask questions, but still, her memories could be invaluable. She could bring the city of the past to life for him; help him turn the Tangier of now into the Tangiers of then, from black and white to Technicolor. Was that selfish? He stared down at the bouquet in his hand. Probably. But then, perhaps she’d be pleased to have a visitor.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Sam murmured to the man at the front desk of the hospital. ‘I’m here to see Lillian Simcox.’

  ‘Your name?’ The receptionist didn’t seem too interested.

  ‘Samuel Hackett.’

  ‘She is expecting you?’

  ‘No. Well, sort of. Someone telephoned to say I might be coming.’

  The man just gave a listless nod. Perhaps he was used to eccentric foreigners visiting unannounced. ‘Take the elevator to the third floor,’ he said, lifting the telephone. ‘Wait there. Someone will come.’

  In the closed space of the elevator, the scent of the flowers was suddenly overwhelming. The roses smelled drunk with the sun, the tiny white flowers heady and unruly in that disinfected place, carrying the dust of the medina on their petals. He felt the same, with the wine growing stale on his breath and his sunburned cheeks and the grime of the markets on his shoes. He shouldn’t be here, dragging the city in with him. The elevator bounced to a stop on the third floor. He was about to turn around and press the down button when the doors slid open. A nurse in a white uniform and blue headscarf was waiting.

  ‘Monsieur Hackett?’ she asked.

  He had no choice but to nod and step out of the elevator, trailing the feral scent of flowers behind him.

  ‘You are a relative?’ she asked, in near perfect English.

  ‘No, I’m, ah, an acquaintance. A friend of a friend. I’ve never actually met Ms Simcox before.’ He half hoped she’d tell him to leave.

  But the nurse only smiled. ‘Madame does not receive many visitors. She will be pleased to see you.’ They stopped outside a door. ‘You know of her condition?’

  He nodded. Roger had mentioned it.

  ‘Don’t worry if she seems confused. I will stay.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he murmured.

  The room was bright and somehow cooler than the rest of the hospital. Two big windows were open, a breeze from the sea blowing the net curtains. He couldn’t see the street below, with its traffic and construction, only the dazzling blue water of the strait, and the dark shadow of Spain on the horizon.

  ‘Madame,’ the nurse said clearly, stepping towards a high-backed chair by the window, ‘this is Monsieur Hackett. He has come to visit you.’

  Lillian Simcox was frail, a fine cloud of white hair about her face, one of her eyes milky. The other was blue, as bright as the sea outside the window. The deep tan of her skin spoke of a life spent outdoors, beneath Morocco’s fierce sun.

  ‘Hello ma’am,’ he said, sitting opposite her, holding the flowers and the writi
ng case awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. Roger gave me your address.’

  She frowned slightly, her bright eye fixed on him. ‘Roger?’

  ‘Roger Jones, who runs The Hold, down near the beach.’

  She just looked at him. He felt his cheeks begin to turn as pink as the roses.

  ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Dear Roger. He telephoned. He said something about an American.’

  Her voice was soft, impeccably British. It was the kind of voice Sam had only ever heard in old black and white films.

  ‘That’s me,’ he said, feeling scruffier than ever. ‘I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about Tangier, in the old days, the nineteen twenties. Trying to, at least. Roger thought you might be able to remember what it was like back then.’

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to unsay them. Remember, what a stupid thing to say to an elderly lady in her condition. But she was smiling, her eyes half-closed.

  ‘Dear Roger,’ she murmured, as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘The number of times I fell out of that place three sheets to the wind.’ Her eyes drifted open again. ‘Are those for me?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Sam stuttered. In the cool, sterile room, the flowers looked even more ragged than before.

  ‘How lovely.’ Her thin hands gathered up the stems and raised the bouquet to her face. Abruptly, her expression changed, the vague smile fading. ‘Jasmine,’ she said, ‘jasmine in the dark, and wet roses.’ Her good eye found his. ‘How did you know?’

  His neck prickled. ‘Know what?’

  ‘Lost,’ she said, her voice thick, her hands among the petals. ‘Lost souls, all of them.’

  ‘Who?’ He leaned forwards. ‘Who do you mean?’

  She didn’t answer. After a long moment, the nurse appeared at his elbow.

  ‘I’m sorry, monsieur,’ she whispered, ‘this doesn’t seem to be a good time for her. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’ He was ashamed of himself, causing an old lady distress, purely for the sake of his writing. ‘Of course, it doesn’t matter.’

  He rose, tucking the case under his arm. Opposite Lillian he felt as huge and clumsy as an ox. ‘Thanks for your time, ma’am. I’ll be going now.’

  She didn’t answer him, only stared ahead.

  He was almost at the door when she spoke again, her voice barely audible over the sound of the curtains flapping.

  ‘July, nineteen twenty-eight.’

  Sam stopped. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Roger, on the telephone, said something about July nineteen twenty-eight. Did he mean that night at Dar Portuna? But he was never there.’

  Sam stopped, his mouth half open. D Portuna – Dar Portuna. Of course, dar meant house in Darija, he’d seen it written on signs all over the casbah. How could he have been so stupid? D Portuna was a place, not a person. A place where something had obviously happened …

  Before the nurse could stop him, he took a step back towards Lillian.

  ‘Dar Portuna,’ he asked, ‘where is it? Do you remember?’

  Her eyes creased. ‘I remember such nights there. We drank until dawn, watched the sun rise through the old sea gate. Half of Tangiers was sick with love for him.’

  ‘Who?’ Sam knelt beside her chair. ‘Who are you talking about?’

  She didn’t reply, only stared into the distance, a smile trembling on her lips, as if she was back at that party once more.

  ‘Who?’ he pressed.

  The smile fell from her face. ‘Arthur. Poor man.’

  ‘Why poor man? Did something happen?’

  Slowly, she nodded. ‘I was there the night it happened. I saw him.’ She met Sam’s eyes. ‘I saw them both.’

  BARBARY COAST

  Take a pony of gin, a pony of Scotch whisky and a pony of Crème de Cacao. Add to this a pony of fresh cream. Shake together with cracked ice and strain into a chilled glass. Strange, sweet and dangerous in quantity.

  I’ll never forget the moment I saw Tangiers.

  From the deck of the ship, the white walls of the city gleamed, like a milky eye in the darkness. The bay was a phosphorescence of boats and lights, red and purple and green stars. I willed them closer. The moment I reached that shore, I would be a step further away from the murder charge that waited back in Spain; a step closer to freedom.

  I watched the dock approach, my palm slick with sweat on the handle of the suitcase. It was surprisingly light. I didn’t know what was inside, and neither did I want to. I just wanted to hand it over and be done.

  A small price to pay for freedom. On the darkened docks, I could see the shapes of men, catching ropes, waiting to unload cargo. I swallowed dryly. Somewhere down there, Bautista’s ‘friend’ was waiting for me.

  The French official didn’t give the suitcase or my papers a second glance, just stamped them and motioned me on with an impatient flick. My blood seemed to stall and waver and flow again in the other direction as I took my first step on to African soil.

  Voices, voices, breath, tar, pungent smoke and men all around trying to take the suitcase, assuring me that they knew the best guesthouse, the best girls, the best hashish, trying words in French, Spanish, English. I held the case to my chest and didn’t say a word, just walked, following the crowd. How was I supposed to find anyone, here? I didn’t even know what the man I was to meet looked like. He’ll know you, was the only instruction I’d been given.

  Finally, I broke free of the pack of hustlers and stopped, staring up at the city. On the hill above the port was a huge building, sparkling with lights, red and green bulbs surrounding a sign that declared HOTEL CONTINENTAL.

  A shadow loomed and I flinched as a man stepped close to me. I couldn’t make out a face beneath his hat, only the glint of small spectacles.

  ‘Del Potro?’ he asked, voice low.

  ‘Sí.’ I gripped the suitcase. ‘Are you …?’

  ‘Márquez.’ A false name if ever there was one. He glanced towards the ship, towards the officials who were lounging, exchanging gossip. ‘Let’s go.’

  He began to walk purposefully. I hurried after him, holding out the case. ‘Wait! Here, take it.’

  The man snorted. ‘It’s not me you need to give it to.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Stop talking, will you?’

  He moved like a stray cat, head lowered and watchful, snaking along. We passed the edge of a huge beach, on to a promenade lined with bars, shack-like things strung with feeble lights, tables scattered before them. Motorcars were rolling to and fro, spitting dust. I tried not to stare at it all, smelling hot rubber and grilling fish, a wave of perfume as a well-dressed woman fell laughing from a car. Maybe we were heading to one of the bars, I thought hopefully, watching the man in front.

  But he stalked past it all into the alleyways beyond, which were darker and smelled of excrement, rotting vegetable matter and singed butter from kitchens. My hands were trembling as I followed him into a sort of courtyard, a tight chimney of space between buildings. Something scuttled over my shoe and I let out a noise of disgust.

  ‘Quiet,’ he barked. Before us was a rusted metal door. The man tapped on it in a distinctive rhythm. Then a bolt was grating and light was spilling out, sending the creatures on the ground fleeing.

  ‘Inside,’ he said.

  In hindsight, I know I was a fool to do it. A silly, trusting fool. If I could go back, I would grab myself by the lapels and shake myself. But at the time, I thought I was tough enough, with my forged papers and my knife. I stepped inside.

  Immediately, Márquez slammed the door behind me. We were in a sort of storage room, long and low and dim, stacked with crates and boxes. A table was pushed against one wall, a creased tide map hidden beneath papers. Before it sat a man. He was younger than Bautista, his cheeks and chin covered in a dark stubble that merged with the rest of his close-cropped hair.

  ‘Any problems?’ he asked Márquez, without looking at me.

  In the cor
ner, two Moroccan men were slouched, smoking and watching closely.

  ‘No problems, señor,’ Márquez answered. ‘But this one’s green all right.’

  The boss man looked at me then. He had odd, tawny eyes, like a goat or a cat; eyes that saw too much.

  All at once, the room felt stifling. The bindings made it hard to breathe. I ran a finger beneath my collar, releasing the sweat trapped there, sending it trickling down my chest. If these men found out what I was … The strange man’s eyes went to the suitcase.

  ‘Did you look inside?’

  He was well-spoken, more refined than his surroundings.

  ‘No.’ I kept my voice gruff. The less I said, the better.

  The boss man barked something in a language I didn’t know. One of the Moroccan men clambered to his feet and came to take the suitcase from me. The moment it left my grip, I realized I shouldn’t have let it go, that empty-handed was a bad thing to be, in that place.

  ‘Give me your papers,’ the boss said.

  My heart gave a sick thud. ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t ask questions,’ Márquez snapped. His breath stank of old garlic. When I took the passport from my pocket, he snatched it and handed it over.

  The goat-eyed man began to look through the document, peering at it beneath the lamp. ‘Decent work,’ he murmured. ‘What happened to your real ones?’

  ‘They were stolen,’ I said. The side of my face was prickling. One of the Moroccan men was staring at me, as the other jimmied a knife back and forth in the lock of the suitcase.

  The boss scratched at the ink with a fingernail. ‘Why’ve you come over here?’ he demanded. ‘Got an offer of work? Trouble back home?’

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘Just a fresh start.’

  In that grim, seedy room it sounded ridiculous, and the man laughed.

  From the corner, there came a clicking sound. The Moroccan man called something, and pushed the lid of the case open. He shoved aside a bundle of old clothes to reveal what looked like cardboard, dull green files stamped with red. Márquez lifted one out, riffling through the papers. A moment later, he nodded over his shoulder.