Exactly what she meant, I didn’t know. It took several plates of briwats and wondering aloud whether I was meant to bake it before Bouzid relented and impatiently explained how to make mahjoun – his grandmother’s recipe, he said.
That afternoon, I worked at the stove, grinding the hash, melting butter, dicing nuts and dried fruit, mixing spices and honey and rosewater until I had a sticky, delicious mass. Bouzid had gone out, so I couldn’t ask him if it was right. Only one way to find out, I thought with a smirk.
That afternoon, the whole world was as soft as cinnamon.
‘We should serve this at a party,’ Hilde said, licking mahjoun from her fingers. ‘Send the stuck-up old diplomats wild.’ She’d left off smoking her pipe so much over the past few weeks, and she looked bronze and healthy in the sun. Langham too, seemed freer than I had ever seen him, especially when Bouzid was not around.
‘A party,’ he said, leaning back on a lounger, naked except for a pair of sunglasses. ‘Yes, we should.’ I was watching the way the sun licked at his hair, bringing out its gold lights. ‘How about it, del Potro?’ he said, glancing to where I stood, mixing drinks in my shirt and underwear. ‘Shall we give the Tangerines a show?’
I tried to smile into the melting ice. I didn’t want a party. During those glorious, honeyed days, the rules of society had melted away, until all that mattered was the next moment, breath and skin and hunger, not names or rank. I didn’t want to step back into my old position. I didn’t want to see Langham flirt with young men and rich ladies and watch it all from behind a tray. I wanted to be there beside him.
I shrugged. ‘If you want.’
‘That settles it then. We’ll have one on Saturday.’ I couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses as I handed him the drink, though I knew he was looking at me. ‘Got to keep up appearances,’ he said softly.
I should have told him then that it was a bad idea. I should have argued that no good could come of a party when the whole city was broiling in the heat. I should have leaned in close and asked him who he was keeping up appearances for, when he so clearly didn’t give a damn about society.
But I forgot Ifrahim’s advice about watching and listening, and instead shut my eyes to my anxieties, and when Langham and I were alone, I kissed him all the harder.
The party would be white and red, Hilde declared, like strawberries and cream, like the St George’s cross, like fire and ice. Slumped in the shade of the lounge we went through The Gentleman’s Guide together, laughing at its tips for greeting ladies and how to tip a hat. She picked out cocktails she liked the sound of, Ruby Fizzes and Gin Rickeys, and Champagne Juleps.
‘Blood and Sand,’ she murmured when she reached the page. I had stared at it so often, it had taken to falling open on its own. ‘What a name. Let’s try.’ She thrust the book at me. ‘Can you make it?’
I knew the recipe by heart. But make it? I forced a smile. I was Alejandro del Potro now. The past, with its bloody prints, belonged to someone else.
‘Of course.’
It wasn’t hard. Orange juice from the kitchen, a search through the bar for some cherry-flavoured stuff. I poured it all into the mixing glass before reaching for the Scotch. And though I tilted my head away, and tried to shut off my nostrils, it was no use. The smell took me back; it reached up and clawed at me, mingling with the cloying sweetness of juice and cherry, like cheap perfume and blood on a pink flowered rug, and I dropped the bottle with a clatter.
‘Alejandro?’ Hilde looked up. ‘Are you all right?’
I nodded, swallowing bile. ‘It’s nothing. I just need a moment.’
I fled into the corridor, where the air was clean and scented with sandalwood and distant spices from the kitchen. There, I leaned against the whitewashed wall, wiping my streaming eyes, trying to regain control of my untrustworthy body.
‘… wise at the present time …’ I lifted my head a little. That was Bouzid’s voice, coming from Langham’s study. ‘Until we are sure that—’
‘Bouzid, it’s not without reason. A party will ensure that everyone has enough to talk about. Someone is guaranteed to do something absurd and the whole city will gossip about it for a month. It’ll distract them from other rumours.’ There was a thud, a desk drawer being closed.
‘And del Potro? If people talk?’
My face burned against the cool wall.
‘All the better.’ Langham sounded impatient. ‘Another distraction.’
‘But we still cannot be sure if—’
‘We can be sure enough. Bautista confirmed del Potro’s story and in this instance, I believe the old bastard.’ A pause. ‘Del Potro promised me loyalty, Bouzid. And more besides.’
There was silence, as if the two men were staring at each other. Finally, I heard Bouzid let out a sort of sigh. ‘Very well.’
It curdled with the Blood and Sand, that conversation, until I wasn’t certain which had affected me more. For the rest of the day, it nagged at me, alongside memories of the night at the inn, until all my muscles were filled with jumping, anxious energy. Perhaps Langham was feeling the same way, for that evening he asked Hilde to bring down her pipe – something he rarely indulged in – and the three of us sat on the lounge floor, cushioned by pillows, hiding our fears behind a veil of smoke.
Friday came, and with it a constant ringing of the bell at the gate. Barrows of fruit and vegetables from the market, baskets of nuts, sacks of sugar and flour. Bouzid was the king of operations, and between us we carried box after box through to the kitchen. None of the delivery people were allowed within the walls of Dar Portuna. Not even the woman who brought the flowers – blood-red roses and pale lilies, voluptuous hibiscus and dreaming jasmine. Even the eccentric French decorator was allowed in only on the condition he remained with Hilde at all times. Such caution would’ve seemed extreme to me, had it not been for the conversation I had overheard the night before, the fact that Langham was clearly preoccupied with something.
When the bell rang for the twelfth time, I was ready to take a hammer to it. I yanked the gate open, ready to receive whatever crate of booze or ice or frivolity had been ordered, only to find Souissa’s little boy, his eyes huge as always.
‘Hola, Daniel,’ I told him wearily. ‘Have you brought my suit?’ In truth, I had almost forgotten about it in my worry.
But the child’s arms were empty. ‘No,’ he whispered to my shoes. ‘Papa asked if you might come to the shop. He needs to check the fit on you, señor.’
I couldn’t keep down a noise of frustration. Perhaps I had been wrong to entrust an expensive suit of white flannel to Souissa, who probably did not have occasion to make many of them.
‘All right,’ I told Daniel, a little irritably, ‘tell your father I will be there in half an hour. I need the suit ready by tomorrow.’ I knew Langham would think it the perfect thing for the party.
The boy was nodding, backing away into the dusty street. I let him go, and went to struggle into the brassiere, and find my hat. Hilde was deep in conversation with the decorator, Bouzid and Langham shut up in the study. The thought of knocking on the door and hearing their voices cut off, knowing he was keeping secrets from me, was too much for my strained nerves. Instead, I scrawled a note on a piece of brown paper and left it on the kitchen table.
Gone to tailor, back soon. A.
I walked the alleyways of the casbah, moving to the side to make way for a lady with two brimming buckets of water. I tipped my hat to Hilde’s friend Mademoiselle Alisée, who sat outside the Café Central sipping Pernod with her florid gentleman. I strolled freely, just a young man about his business, without worrying for my safety, without cringing at stares or catcalls; finally, I felt the streets were mine.
With a light heart, I pushed open Souissa’s door.
‘Hola, friend,’ I called, ‘I hear you are having some trouble—’
Something smashed into the back of my head, driving the sense from me. I staggered and tried to turn but hands were seizing
my jacket, throwing me on to the dusty, pin-strewn floor.
My ears were ringing, eyes flooding, but still I heard the door being slammed and locked. Panic shot through my body. I knew I should run, should shout or scream but I was winded, my lungs like useless scraps of cloth. From the corner of my eye, I saw a boot, drawn back to strike and I closed my eyes in terror.
‘Enough,’ someone said.
One heave, two and my lungs filled at last. Gasping, I looked up.
Two eyes, yellow as a goat’s, stared back at me.
‘Hola, del Potro,’ said Cabrera.
He was sitting on the little tailor’s stool, elbows on his knees. Souissa was nowhere to be seen.
I struggled to hide my fear.
‘What do you want?’ I coughed, wiping my lips on my sleeve, trying to make my voice as gruff as possible. How much did he know?
Cabrera leaned back. ‘You were more courteous the other night. That food, by the way.’ He looked heavenward. ‘I haven’t eaten so well in years. It was like being back home, in Andalucía.’
He smiled, and a wave of fear escaped my control. If Souissa had talked … I tried to look about me for some way to defend myself, some way to escape. My knife. But I didn’t have it. Dar Portuna had made me forget the lessons I had learned so hard from Morales. I felt something trickle on to my collar and reached up to find my scalp wet with blood. It was Márquez who had hit me, I realized, looking up into the gloom, Márquez with his terrible breath.
‘Where’s the tailor?’ I demanded.
‘He is in the back.’ Cabrera was still watching me. ‘The new suit looks marvellous by the way.’
‘The bastard can keep it.’
‘Ah,’ Cabrera clucked his tongue. ‘Don’t blame Souissa for your own foolishness, chico.’ He threw a piece of paper at me. I recognized it immediately; stationery from Langham’s writing case, covered with my own writing, ordering the white flannel suit. ‘You shouldn’t entrust such letters to street rats.’
He must have been watching the house ever since he visited, I realized, waiting for an opportunity, like the one I had stupidly handed him.
‘Get on with it. What do you want?’ Despite my efforts, there was a tremor in my voice.
Cabrera shook his head at me. ‘I have to say I am impressed. Getting yourself employed by Langham like that. That took cojones.’ He looked deliberately at the crotch of my trousers. ‘Perhaps when all this is over, we can work together.’
‘I’d rather eat shit.’
A blow between my shoulder blades sent me sprawling again. This time it was Cabrera himself who pulled me to my knees.
‘Easy,’ he said to Márquez. ‘Not where it shows.’ He sat back and looked into my face. His smile was turning down at the edges. ‘Monsieur Langham and I have had a disagreement which needs to be resolved. He refuses to meet with me himself, so you are going to help me set up a little rendezvous.’
I stared at him, the blood pounding in my head.
‘No.’ I hated how my voice shook.
Cabrera leaned forwards. ‘You don’t have a choice, Alejandra.’
That name … There was nothing I could do to stop the horror that flooded across my face. How did he know?
‘It’s all right.’ Cabrera was still too close, I could smell his stale sweat, his pungent cologne. ‘Souissa’s given us all the details.’ He flicked a hand towards my chest and laughed when I recoiled. ‘I admit, I was surprised. I’d never have guessed. You make a better man than you did a whore, I’ll wager.’
He took a case of cigarettes from his pocket, and offered me one. I didn’t move. I was imagining smashing them into his face.
‘But you should’ve chosen a better name. Del Potro. Anyone from Andalucía who moves in certain circles knows the Hostería.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘It was all over the Spanish papers, you know, for a while. The Córdoban Murderess, the puta cook turned killer, vanished in the night, last seen heading south.’ He laughed out some smoke.
In that moment, I would have gladly become the murderer everyone said I was and taken a bottle to his throat.
‘All right,’ I spat. ‘Name your price.’
Cabrera smiled. ‘Good girl. Let’s talk business.’
Tangier
July 1978
Sam had heard many stories about wild times on the road during his travels; run-ins with border police in Spain and train cops in France and narcos in Italy. They were one thing. Actually waking up after a night in a Moroccan jail was quite another.
Idiot. He sat up from the thin mat, his neck cricked out of shape. Goddam idiot.
His knuckles still ached a little from the impact with Norton’s chin. Or was it from the wall he’d collided with, as the security guard shoved him down the stairs? He didn’t remember. It was all so messy. Norton had yelled about police, sure, but Sam hadn’t thought he was serious until the security guard had dumped him in front of two bored-looking Moroccan cops.
When trying to explain didn’t work, he’d handed over all the money he had on him, in the hope they’d let him go. For a minute, it looked like they would. Then, one of them had pulled the old forged passport from his pocket and their expressions had changed. They’d looked at each other, and shrugged, had hauled him off to the lock-up instead.
They’d given him one phone call, like they did in the movies. His fingers had hovered above the smeared digits. He couldn’t phone his parents, anyway, the police would never allow him an international call. Not the American embassy – that would mean expulsion from Tangier. As far as he knew Abdelhamid didn’t have a phone. So he did the only thing he could think of: dialled the operator and asked, in bad French, to be put through to Dar Portuna.
The operator paused when she heard that. A moment later she told him that there was no such place. Of course. In the end, out of options, he had asked to be put through to The Hold.
Thankfully, Roger answered. He said he’d tell Bet and the others as soon as he could, that they’d all do their best to help. And if they didn’t, or couldn’t? Sam didn’t want to think about it.
The other men in the cell were waking up now, wincing and yawning. There were four of them, all Moroccan, Sam guessed. Three had been there when he arrived, one had been shunted in during the night, a young man with long hair, wearing jeans and a ripped t-shirt. His nose was swollen and crusted with dried blood. When he saw Sam was awake, he half smiled and nodded.
‘Hola,’ he said, and pointed to himself. ‘Amir.’
‘Sam.’ He shook the man’s hand. Was he meant to do that? He had no idea about prison etiquette.
‘American?’ the young man asked.
Sam nodded, rubbing at his face. His eyes felt gritty, face caked in sweat and grime from the sweltering room.
‘¿Por qué …?’ Amir gestured around the cell, looking incredulous.
‘A fight.’ Sam held up his bruised knuckles. ‘You?’
Amir shook his head, as if he didn’t understand. One of the older Moroccan men said something, and the others laughed sourly.
The young man kept his gaze on the floor after that. Eventually, he took some tobacco out of his jeans pocket.
‘Do you have papers?’ Sam asked, feeling in his own pockets.
The kif dust he shook from the lining was negligible, but Amir’s face lit up when he saw it. Carefully, they rolled it into a cigarette. One of the other men hammered on the door. A heated negotiation went on, until finally, a guard was passed the joint to light. After taking the first few puffs for himself, he passed it back into the cell.
Amir smoked, then passed it to Sam. He took a drag, trying to figure out what he was going to do. What if he was deported, before he had a chance to go back to Dar Portuna, to see Ale and Zahrah and explain? It was unthinkable. He coughed out a little smoke, and passed the joint back to Amir, who passed it on to the next man.
He shouldn’t have let himself get so angry, he thought, watching as one of the other men accepted the joint with a nod
of thanks. And the stupid thing about it all was that Norton had been right. Crimes had been committed in the past, and in the present too, most likely, whether he ignored them or not. He had been charmed by Ale’s tale. He had wanted stories full of glamour and danger, rather than the grim reality of the present.
He was about to try and ask the men what would happen to them all next, when the door clanged again, and the guard stuck his head inside.
‘Vamos,’ he said to Sam.
Amir smiled and gestured as if to say there, you see. Sam didn’t know what it meant, whether he’d be thrown back again in five minutes; nevertheless, he leaned down and shook the young man’s hand. Then, because it seemed rude not to, he shook the hands of the other three men in the room, who looked up at him with varying degrees of amusement and confusion.
Out in the lobby, beneath the sluggish ceiling fan, a familiar figure was waiting.
‘Bet!’ He rushed forwards to hug her, though he knew he must have smelled terrible. ‘Thank god, thank you so much for coming.’
She pushed him back a little, patting his arm. He hardly recognized her. She was dressed in a prim tweed skirt suit, a scarf tied around her head, like a little British grandmother. Holding on to his arm, she turned and asked the officer at the desk something in Darija. The policeman began to root around beneath the counter. Finally, he came up with the passport.
‘That’s—’ Sam started to say, but Bet cut him off, taking the document with a tight smile and tucking it into her handbag. Then she was steering Sam towards the door, her grip like iron.
‘Wait,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder. There had been no paperwork, no release forms, nothing. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Shut up and walk.’
He’d never been so glad to smell the traffic fumes outside, to feel the morning sun prickle across his scalp. Bet kept marching him along the road until they turned the corner and emerged on to the Place de France. Only then did she loosen her grip, and look up at him.
‘Brawling, Samuel?’ she said with a sigh. ‘I thought you were smarter than that.’
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