‘To the library.’ She glanced at his face. ‘It’s not on your way, but you can walk, if you like.’
They set off together. Abruptly, Sam felt more real than he had for weeks. The sun that shone into his eyes and made his headache worse was today’s sun, not yesterday’s, not the sun of five decades ago. He glanced over at Zahrah, smiling foolishly. She caught his look.
‘Now what?’ she asked, as they passed into the shade of an alleyway.
‘Nothing. I was just wondering whether you are as secretive as Ale.’
‘I’m not secretive,’ she said coolly. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Have you always lived here?’
She shook her head. ‘I was born in Melilla. You know where that is?’
‘Isn’t that a Spanish city, down the coast?’
‘An enclave, yes.’ She quickened her step as they passed a group of men who sat smoking on a doorstep. ‘My father was Spanish. He was a soldier in the Legion.’
‘And your mother?’ He had to hurry to keep up with her.
‘She was from the Rif. They were not married.’
‘Oh.’ He glanced at her, but her face was unreadable as she navigated her way out of the casbah. ‘Where are they now?’
She shrugged. ‘My father is probably back in Spain. I’m not even sure of his name. My mother couldn’t read or write. She left me at a mission when I was a baby. That’s all I know.’
He shook his head, his cheeks burning.
‘It must have been hard,’ he said, idiotically.
She let out a breath of laughter. ‘Being on my own was harder. I left the mission when I was sixteen. They found me a job as a child-minder in Tetouan. It didn’t work out.’ She looked away from him, into the bustle of the medina. ‘So I came here. I thought there’d be more work. But I didn’t know anyone, and my Darija wasn’t very good.’
The market was in full swing, not only with its fruit and spice and food, but with people at the fringes scraping money from stolen goods and scavenged items, with children who watched and hustled for cash, with women who never moved from one spot all day, too tired to lift their hands from their laps. Abruptly, he remembered what Abdelhamid had once said – that there was always more money for an American like him. He hadn’t meant physical cash, Sam realized, but the presence of safety. Even when he claimed to have nothing, there had always been that ticket back to the States, where four walls and a bed and a meal on the table would be waiting. However hard he found it at home, however much he tried to outrun it, it was safety.
‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered to Zahrah.
She only shook her head at him, knowing, as he did, that the apology was of no use.
‘So when did you meet Ale?’ he asked, trying to push away the feeling of guilt.
She smiled at that. ‘In a café in the Petit Socco, one night about five years ago. I thought I saw an old foreign man, an easy mark. Eventually I realized my mistake, but we were talking by then. Ale spoke English and Spanish and somehow, I ended up spilling everything. Then, Ale bought me a glass of tea and offered me a deal.’ She stopped at the edge of the medina. ‘I could live and work at Dar Portuna. In exchange, Ale would teach me things, help me study. I only had to promise one thing.’
‘What was that?’
She looked at him, her face serious.
‘Loyalty.’
None But the Brave
Take a jigger of brandy and half a pony of Pimento Dram. Add a dash of Jamaica ginger, a dash of fresh lemon juice and a dash of powdered sugar. Shake with ice and strain into a cocktail glass. A drink with a lasting and bitter allure.
Were we brave, back then? Hilde and I had raised our masks a little, and glimpsed each other’s real faces. There was a bravery in that, I suppose. The hours that followed our talk passed in a sort of heady gladness. For the first time since Ifrahim died, I had made the first steps towards what might be a friendship with another person. But soon, the gin wore off and I was left with reality: Langham would return, and I would have to face him, I would have to tell a truth that might mean the end of my time at Dar Portuna.
I tried to rehearse my confession, whispering to the fruit I cut for Hilde’s supper. I even tried to say it to the mirror, imagining that he was my reflection. I watched my lips part, my lungs fill with breath, but every time I tried to speak, the words turned to dust in my mouth.
‘Did Monsieur Langham say when he would be back?’ I asked Bouzid, as we drank glasses of tea by the kitchen door, trying to catch the breeze. I resisted the urge to press the hot glass to my cramping belly.
Bouzid took a slow sip. ‘No. Monsieur is often away on business.’
His manner was cooler than usual; a few times during the day I had caught his eyes on me. If Langham did check on my story while he was in Gibraltar, what would he learn? He knew Cabrera; it followed that he knew Bautista too, however dubious company the smuggler seemed for someone as fine as Langham. Bautista knew nothing about me, I reminded myself; he’d confirm my story, and I would be safe. I was a young man from nowhere, with a few pesetas in his pocket. That was all.
The next day dawned sweltering and muggy, and the hours heaved their way past. I didn’t leave Dar Portuna; I was still too nervous about the napkins hidden beneath my trousers, covered by three pairs of underwear. They were hot and uncomfortable, clinging around my sweat-damp legs. Luckily, we had no guests, so there was not too much for me to do. I made small, light meals for Hilde, to try and tempt her, despite her lack of appetite. I made more rustic dishes for Bouzid and me to eat at the kitchen table. When Hilde rang the bell on the second day of Langham’s absence, and Bouzid told me to take her some refreshment, I welcomed the distraction.
Perhaps she was bored too, for she beckoned me over to the rug where she lay. The room was dim, shuttered against the heat and I saw that she had been at her pipe, though not enough to put her in a stupor.
‘Take that away,’ she said, pushing at the pipe with her bare foot. ‘Sit and talk with me for a while, so I won’t smoke any more.’
I did so, and instead poured seltzer water with ice and mint and made her a drink. She took it, rolling the cool glass against her forehead.
‘I won’t do it for ever you know,’ she said. ‘I’ll stop, some time. I just need it now. While I’m renovating myself.’ She smiled up at me, with her lovely, sad grey eyes. ‘I’m trying to outgrow her, Mrs Francesco de Luca. You understand.’
I thought of the woman I had outgrown, hiding beneath her stained apron, looking at the world with her head lowered, like a dog expecting to be kicked.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I understand.’
That day passed, quiet and drowsy, and then another. I kept myself busy taking inventories of the bar and pantry, with polishing pans and brining olives. Although none of us said anything, it was obvious we were all anxious for Langham’s return.
Hilde was the one to break the unspoken vigil. On the fourth day she emerged at noon, looking clear-eyed and impatient. I was feeling better too, more my usual self. My course seemed to have finished, and my body no longer felt swollen, my breasts had stopped their aches and protests beneath the tight brassiere.
‘Bouzid,’ I heard Hilde calling, ‘telephone Mademoiselle Alisée, tell her that I will come this evening after all. Oh, and could you send my blue gown to be pressed? It is on the table here.’
She came into the kitchen after that, ostensibly to ask for some lunch.
‘I can’t stand this waiting,’ she whispered to me, ‘and I don’t want to be here when he gets back. I can’t lie to him, he’ll know something has changed the minute he sees me.’ She stepped away abruptly as Bouzid came in. ‘No need to make me supper, del Potro,’ she said crisply, ‘I shall be dining out this evening.’
So she did, breezing from the house in a cloud of powder and scent and tinkling jewellery as evening began to blossom in the sky above the casbah. In truth, I was pleased to see her out and about again, though the thought of facing Langham alone ma
de me more nervous than ever. Bouzid too told me that he had business in town to attend to, and would not require any supper.
‘And Monsieur Langham …?’ I asked.
‘Will be back tomorrow morning, no doubt,’ he said smoothly, before taking his leave.
Alone in the house once more. First I tried the study, but found it locked. Bouzid had taken the key with him, meticulous and mistrustful as always. But Langham’s bedroom was open, as clean and cool as it always was. At his dresser I sat and opened his pot of hair pomade, smoothed a little of it over my own short black curls. The scent lingered; wax and attar of roses. It smelled like him. I closed my eyes and breathed it in.
Sunset was orange and ochre, casting a spectacular mural of light on to the white bedroom wall. I stood, staring out at the sea and sky and boats, drifting through colour. It was as if Dar Portuna was a tower at the edge of the world. Slowly, the room turned old gold, then shadowy violet. I sat on the bed and lay my cheek on the crisp cotton pillow, thinking of how different this wide room was to my cramped, creaking cot next to the stove at the inn, with my coverlet of flea-bitten cats, and the rats running across the floor, their claws like the tapping of rain …
I opened my eyes to pitch darkness. For a second, I had no idea where I was, though I could smell roses and the earthy-salt scent of rain on the sea. I could hear wind, mouthing at the walls, sticking its tongues through the gaps in the carved shutters. I pushed myself to my elbows in horror. I was in Langham’s room, had fallen asleep, where anyone might have found me.
Eyes wide, I listened. Everything was quiet in the house, only the sound of drenching summer rain and wind, throwing a tantrum-like squall to break the endless, sticky days. I got to my feet, feeling my way in the darkness towards the window. There was a little light from a drowning moon, and I closed the shutters, hoping none of the rain had found its way inside. Out in the corridor, I tried to remember where the switch for the light was. I found it eventually, sending a sickly, yellow glow down the stairs. It flickered as the wind blew the wires and I shivered, more from unease than cold.
No one had returned. I was the sole guardian of Dar Portuna. The house had an abandoned feel to it, as if its doors had been left open to the wind and weather for years as I slept.
In the kitchen I splashed myself a tumbler of cooking wine and sat down at the table, to wait out the loneliness, and the storm. I was nearing the bottom of the glass when I saw something through the window: a flicker in the darkness of the garden, like a firefly tossed between wet leaves. I stopped, the wine halfway to my mouth, sour on my tongue. There, again, a spark, moving in a strange, weaving pattern. Despite the humid air, my body turned cold. It was torchlight. Someone was out there.
Carefully, I set down the glass, keeping my eyes fixed on the light as it swayed closer to the house. Whoever it was, they hadn’t come through the front gate: I would have heard. They had come in another way, as I once had, illicitly, like a thief.
I stood, careful not to let the chair squeak on the tiles. There was a knife on the table, the long serrated one for cutting bread, crumbs clinging to the blade. It would have to do. I crept to the back door, keeping to the shadows. The torchlight was nearer now, and I could hear footsteps, the thrash of wet leaves on fabric. When it was within spitting distance I couldn’t stand it any more. I shoved the door wide open, the knife clenched in my hand.
‘Who’s there?’ I yelled, as harshly as I could.
The torchlight stopped, not eight feet away. In the rain, I could see a shimmer of drenched fabric, a pair of dark, wet shoes. Whoever held the torch was keeping it away from their face.
‘Who’s there?’ I called again, shifting my grip on the knife. ‘If you don’t—’
Torchlight dazzled me, shining straight into my eyes; feet were rushing forwards. I yelled and struck out with the knife.
‘Del Potro, it’s me! It’s me, damn you!’
Wet fingers were gripping my wrist. I blinked hard.
‘Monsieur?’
With a rush of breath, Langham released me. ‘Who else? Put that knife away, for god’s sake.’
Stunned, I backed into the kitchen and placed it on the counter. Langham was drenched, not only with rain. As he walked across the kitchen, he left traces of wet sand on the tiles. I had never seen him so dishevelled. He leaned against the kitchen table, his jaw tight, his shining hair matted.
‘Monsieur,’ I asked, stepping closer, ‘are you all right?’
He didn’t answer. I saw then that one hand was clasped around his sleeve, blood oozing through his fingers. I made a noise and reached out, but he jerked away.
‘Is Hilde in?’ His voice was taut.
‘No. She is out with Mademoiselle Alisée.’
‘Good.’ He released a breath. ‘That’s good.’
‘Monsieur,’ I said, for he was pushing himself away from the table, walking towards the door, ‘shall I call someone? Bouzid, or a doctor?’
‘No. No doctors. And Bouzid will not be able to come, he is with the boat.’ He paused and looked to where I stood. ‘You can help me, del Potro.’
The danger had passed, so why wasn’t my heart slowing down?
‘Of course.’
‘There’s a medicine chest beneath the sink. Bring it up, with a bottle of brandy.’ His eyes flicked to the darkness outside. ‘And lock that door.’
It should have only taken me moments to grab the medicine chest, with its painted red cross, and a bottle of brandy from the pantry, but my hands seemed incapable of doing anything properly. I kept fumbling things. Finally, I made it to the top of the stairs.
Langham had switched off the electric lights. The dim glow of an oil lamp was coming from his room, along with a hissing sound that I had never heard before. I stepped inside, hoping that I had not left the shape of my cheek on his pillow.
The bedroom was empty. Langham had not stopped to sit down. Instead, his clothes were strewn in a trail across the floor, towards his private bathroom. His dark jacket, torn across the sleeve, a sodden tie, gritty shoes and the salt-stained trousers, and finally, a shirt, its cotton pink with blood.
I forgot how to do anything except walk. The bathroom door was open, the soft, flickering light reflecting back from the tiles. I stepped inside.
The hissing sound was that of the shower above the bath tub. Langham stood beneath it, his head tipped back, his eyes closed. The water cascaded over his naked body, across tanned shoulders and down his torso, across his hips, his buttocks, his slim legs, the hair bleached gold by the sun. As I stood there, he raised his arm and blood joined the flow of the water, spiralling from a long cut above his elbow.
A second later, he slicked the water from his face and looked at me.
‘Did you bring the brandy?’ His voice was low. I nodded, and held out the bottle.
He pulled the cork and drank, his throat funnelling the liquor into his belly. My eyes strayed downwards, until – face flaming – I had to turn away.
‘I’ll get some bandages.’ My voice sounded odd, echoing. I opened the chest and stared at the items. Finally, I made sense of them, and found a bottle labelled iodine. Behind me, the water was shut off with a squeak. I heard Langham sigh, and step from the tub. ‘Here,’ I said, holding up the bottle. ‘This should …’
A touch on my shoulder, and I looked up into the mirror. Langham was standing behind me, but in that misted surface, I wasn’t certain which was his face and which was my own.
‘Leave it,’ he said.
I could feel the heat of his naked body through my clothes. His hand moved from my shoulder to my chin.
‘Alejandro.’ His fingers brushed my lips. ‘Why can’t I trust you?’
‘You can.’ I hardly knew what I was saying. His other hand found the side of my leg, my thigh, moving upwards. ‘You can trust me.’
The bottle of iodine fell into the box as his fingers trailed from my lip, to loosen my tie, to release the top button of my shirt.
; I froze. A second later I was pushing myself away.
‘I can’t.’ I scrabbled for the shirt’s button. ‘You don’t know—’
‘Don’t know what?’ He came forwards, naked still, to grip my arms. ‘Tell me.’
He would hate me; he would sneer at me in disgust. He would hide his nakedness from me as if it were something shameful and tell me coldly to avert my gaze, to leave his house.
His eyes were inches from mine. They were so beautiful, golden-brown ringed with black, impatient, searching. ‘Alejandro,’ he said.
A noise broke from me, a half-strangled sob. ‘I’m not what you think.’
His expression changed, turning hard with distrust, and I had to look away.
‘I’m a woman,’ I whispered bitterly.
When I finally looked back, he was staring at me, his face unchanged. I couldn’t stand for him not to believe me, the way Hilde hadn’t, and before I knew what I was doing, I was grabbing his hand and pressing it to my chest, so he could feel the brassiere. ‘You see?’ I was desperate. ‘It’s true.’
For a long moment he didn’t move, only stood there, silent, one hand against my breast. Then, suddenly, he let out a laugh.
‘You fool,’ he said, leaning close. ‘You think I care what you are?’
His mouth met mine, urgent, hungry. My hands found his face, his shoulders, the muscles of his naked back and finally, I was dragging him to me, our bodies were crushing together, as if we wanted nothing more than to be pressed, moulded into one being.
Tangier
July 1978
Loyalty.
Sam sat on the edge of his narrow bed, staring at the writing case and the stack of pages next to it: a story half told. It was a story that had resurrected the past, that had dragged it from a forgotten basement, from beneath dusty piles of wares in a casbah junk shop out into the hot light of the present. He’d done that. He had been following this story as if he owned it, as if it was in his control.
But of course, it wasn’t. He had barged into a series of events that had begun fifty years ago, and hadn’t yet finished. And now there was a chance that someone could be hurt.
An Echo of Scandal Page 23
