Live Fast Die Hot

by Jenny Mollen

  “Hey, hello! Excuse me.”

  Ignoring him, I kept walking.

  “It’s me, Ussama! Remember? From the hotel? I just helped you check in,” he said in a tone that implied I was a racist for not picking him out of the crowd.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t recognize you for a minute because I’m jet-lagged,” I lied.

  “I’m also in my street clothes now.” He smiled, looking down at his tight-fitting jeans and inappropriately warm Patagonia puffy vest. “I’m heading into the main square to meet my wife and twin daughters.”

  Before he finished sounding out the word “daughters,” I had my phone out and was showing him pictures of Sid.

  “I have a son. He’s one. This is him at the park and this is him trying to press his penis back inside his body. He loves buttons.”

  Ussama ignored me like a bad actor too attached to the script.

  “So, you going shopping in the souks? You looking to buy a rug?”

  “No, I actually already have one. I’m going to the mountains to meet the women that made it. Today I’m just looking around.” I started to sense where the conversation was heading.

  “Mountains is a dangerous place for a delicate flower like yourself.”

  Satisfied that I’d been mistaken for a delicate flower but annoyed that another man was telling me I couldn’t handle myself, I started to lose patience.

  “I think I can go it alone from here; thanks for your help.” I started to move away, but he pressed on.

  “You are lucky. Today is the last day of the Berber market. Real Berber rugs. Tomorrow? You won’t be able to find them. You have good luck. Come, I’ll show you.” Ussama led me through the Koutoubia Gardens with a phony grin on his face. I studied his eyes, convinced now that he didn’t work at my hotel or any other.

  I’d learned on a trip to Istanbul that when someone tells you they are taking you to a special market, they are probably taking you to an alley to rape you. Not that I was ever actually raped. I had been with Jason and cornered by a menacing local when a group of shoeless children playing soccer with an empty soda can distracted our would-be assailant by spitting on his Members Only jacket, and we narrowly escaped. Maybe the guy was just planning on robbing us, or maybe he was planning on decapitating Jason and fucking me with his dismembered head. I’ll never really know. The point is, I knew there was no Berber market.

  As he grabbed my arm, towing me unwillingly past horse-drawn carriages and kids on motorbikes, I was furious with myself. I’d been outside the gates of my hotel for only a few minutes and already I’d allowed myself to be Taken. I’d just confirmed every fear about my own incompetence that I’d come to Morocco to disprove. That was it. There was no way in fuck I was gonna let Ussama scam me or rob me or take me.

  Ussama dragged me across five lanes of traffic toward a large steel unmarked door.

  “Go inside, have a look,” he said eagerly.

  “NO,” I barked, the way my mom taught me to do if a stranger ever asked to touch my vagina.

  Ussama was taken aback by my sudden shift toward bluntness. I, too, was rattled by my surge of self-possession. I wasn’t normally the girl who asserted herself at the expense of someone else’s feelings. I was the girl who would French-kiss a guy I never planned on seeing again just to extricate myself from a date faster. Proud of myself for taking a stand, I hustled off in the opposite direction.

  When I was out of sight, my phone rang. It was Joan Arthur.

  “HONNNNNNNNEEEEEEY! I just went to Joan’s on Third for a fifteen-dollar juice and, honey? Joan got fat.”

  “Honey? I almost just got Taken in Morocco. But I’m in the clear now.”

  “What? Oh, shit, girl. Where are you? Do you know?”

  “Not really.” I looked around, trying to get my bearings. “I’m surrounded by lamps. Lots of brass lamps. And I think I just saw the hind legs of a donkey get pushed by in a wheelbarrow.”

  “Hold on, girl, I’m pulling you up on Google Earth.” I waited. “Are you in the medina?”

  “Yes,” I said confidently. I was Carrie Mathison on the phone with Saul Berenson.

  “Turn right,” she demanded. “What do you see?”

  “I’m in the middle of a market.” I looked around and realized I was standing at the center of Jemaa el-Fnaa, the heart of the medina. The open arena was filled with oversize orange-juice stands, men selling teeth, monkey tamers, snake charmers, henna-tattoo artists, and child laborers. I was safe. Before I could tell Joan, a European woman asked if I’d mind posing for a picture with her daughter. I hung up on Joan and agreed, thrilled to be recognized so far from home.

  “Thanks, Princess Jasmine,” the little girl gushed.

  Rattled by the encounter with Ussama and the fact that my ensemble got me mistaken for a Disney princess, I hurried back to my hotel, stifling tears. By the time I got there, my fear had turned to anger. I walked up to the concierge with conviction.

  “Hi, I’m here for two more days and I’m gonna need a full-time guide. In fact, I should probably have eyes on me at all times.”

  “Yes, madame, I find you guide. You looking for rug? He get best price,” the concierge said in a scheming tone.

  “I already have one!” I fumed.

  I tried to stay strong, but I couldn’t help feeling defeated. I was a stranger in a strange land where even the good guys wanted to overcharge me for a rug.

  “By the way, does a guy named Ussama work here?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so,” I said defiantly, sweeping my scarves off my face and storming off.

  Instead of heading up to my room, I decided to stop by the garden to caffeinate and devise a new plan of attack. Three German teenage boys sat with their parents to my right, and I eavesdropped as they tried to translate the menu for their mother.

  “Nein, chevre chaud bedeutet heiss! Heisse Käse.”

  Behind me sat a glamorous older Frenchwoman in white linen pants and a navy blazer. She ate a plate of smoked salmon with crème fraîche and toast points as a small terrier peeked out beneath her feet. I ordered a coffee and stared at her terrier.

  “Bonjour,” the woman said, and nodded.

  “Bonjour. Your dog is so cute. I didn’t know the hotel allowed pets.” I didn’t even try to speak to her in French. My outfit was humiliating enough.

  “Oh, umm…” She paused to translate her thoughts into English. “Fifi is not mine. She is a VIP. She belongs to a friend of mine. I’m just watching her for a few hours.”

  Charlotte was from Paris, I learned. She was seventy-five and still sexy, with long, lean legs and a short gray shag. Her face wasn’t pulled or peeled in any attempt to fight gravity. She wore her wrinkles proudly. I had a fantasy of one day doing the same, immediately followed by a fantasy of doing the exact opposite. Charlotte was discreet about the nature of her trip but did mention she had friends in the city and traveled there often. I told her about my experience with Ussama in the medina and she was empathetic but also unsurprised.

  “The thing you must remember about Moroccans is that everyone is lying to you at all times.” She shook her head in disappointment. Charlotte implored me to give the city another chance and offered to take me on a tour after I finished my lunch. I eagerly accepted.

  When I’d paid my check, I found Charlotte outside with Fifi and two older Frenchmen. Jean Georges was elegant and tan in a crisp white button-down and black trousers. His lover, Florent, was more portly and flamboyant, donning coral-colored culottes and pointy Moroccan slippers. The men didn’t speak English, forcing me to butcher a language I’d spent seven school years trying to master. As the afternoon sun began to set over a clear desert sky, we walked leisurely through the park I’d felt intimidated in hours earlier. The weather was warm, ideal for someone dressed like Lawrence of Arabia. Water sellers in bright red costumes with large Berber hats stood by the entrance, clanking copper cups and asking for spare change.

  Charlotte was explai
ning to me that her friends lived in Paris but spent a good portion of their time at a small riad they owned in the souks, near the markets of Marrakech. For Parisians, Marrakech was just a three-hour plane ride and an ideal place to own property. It was sunny and spacious, and offered all the luxury you’d find in the South of France for half the price. At first it seemed a strange choice, two openly gay men wanting a vacation home in a predominantly Muslim country. But as I looked around, I saw gay men everywhere. On a scale of one to gay, I would say Marrakech ranked just above Palm Springs and just below Mykonos. It was only my second time outside the hotel and already the city took on a different persona. Young lovers laughed and frolicked in the streets. Children hung off their mothers’ legs, begging for crescent-shaped cookies filled with almond paste. It was as if my first impression was a test. Now that I’d passed, the city shed its ominous veneer and was willing to show me its splendor.

  We arrived at Jean Georges and Florent’s riad deep in the souks. A labyrinth of passageways on either side led to vendors selling plastic jugs of argan oil, piles of vividly colored spices, cheap metals, lamb innards, dried fruits, silk fabrics, and everything you’ve seen in the jewelry section at Cost Plus World Market. We made our way up to the roof of their narrow four-story compound and looked out on the sprawling maze below. Charlotte pointed to different buildings and told me their origins. She explained to me why Morocco was such a safe place.

  “Everyone here is a spy. They are all informants for the king. Nothing bad is allowed to happen to tourists. They want the tourists to stay and spend money. You understand?”

  I didn’t even know Morocco had a king, but I nodded as if I understood completely. Fifi could tell I was lying.

  Jean Georges offered me an espresso, which I gladly accepted. Florent held out a bowl of bonbons.

  “Oh, no, merci. I’m from L.A.,” I said, certain he’d understand.

  Charlotte’s phone rang and she answered it. After exchanging a few quick words, she hung up and told me that a chauffeur was on his way to the riad to pick up the terrier.

  “If you prefer, you can ride avec Fifi back to the hotel,” she offered.

  Fifi looked at me, then back at Charlotte. She either didn’t like the plan or was offended she hadn’t yet been offered a bonbon. Florent let out a laugh.

  “Royal doggy,” he said, and snickered.

  Charlotte shrugged. “You see, Fifi belongs to the king’s grandmother. That is my friend. We are all friends of the royal palace. You understand?”

  “Completely.” I nodded knowingly. I didn’t understand at all.

  When Fifi’s chauffeur arrived, she jumped in the front seat and I was relegated to the back. I could see Charlotte and the boys on the rooftop, waving.

  “You are fine! Nobody is going to rape you!” she called out. “The king knows you’re here!” Her words reverberated off the narrow alley walls as the car reversed down the cobbled street and into the sunset.

  That night, I googled the king of Morocco. He seemed chill. And I felt safer having met Charlotte. I was grateful for her hospitality. When you’re traveling with another person, you’re inevitably cut off from certain experiences. People don’t invite you to coffee at their riads or notify the king of your presence. They assume you and your companion want to be left alone, even though you’re screaming at him because he can’t take a single picture of you without making you look like your dad in a wig. On your own, the possibilities are limitless and only the most flattering pics get uploaded to your iCloud.

  Before bed, I sent Dan another e-mail confirming that we were still seeing each other in the morning. He responded and told me he’d meet me in my lobby at eleven. I gave him the address and notified him that Randolph and Brandon would be getting in around the same time. Once we were all together, the plan was to get in a car immediately and drive out to the Atlas Mountains. I hoped Dan understood that “immediately” meant “immediately after stopping for coffee and snacks.” His demeanor made it hard to tell if he was someone who, like me, needs to eat every couple hours, or if he was a robot.

  I woke up early the next morning, buzzing with excitement. Knowing Randolph would crucify me if I walked into the lobby looking like Jesus of Nazareth, I toned down the scarves and tried for a subtler look. I still had my army-green pants that I’d worn on the plane. They were dirty, but I figured where we were heading was dirtier. I paired the pants with a suede leather jacket I brought in case it got cold and a large brimmed hat. Now instead of looking like I’d dreamed of Jeannie I looked like Crocodile Dundee. Downstairs, I wandered around the foyer, admiring the tapestries and waiting for Dan and my gays.

  “Jenny?”

  I turned to find a lanky white guy and a young Moroccan girl walking toward me.

  “Daaaaaaan!”

  He was exactly how I’d pictured him: athletic, aloof, low-maintenance. He seemed like the type of guy who eats that sugar-gel shit they sell at the checkout counter in outdoor adventure stores. I’d bet my house he owned a pair of web-footed running shoes and a Dave Matthews Live at Red Rocks CD.

  “Hey, happy you made it,” he said in a tone that suggested he still had zero interest in falling madly in love with me.

  Before I had a chance to meet his companion, Brandon and Randolph appeared. Brandon looked disoriented and dizzy, like a runner-up on The Amazing Race, but Randolph was unruffled in his seersucker shorts, silk shirt, and Hermès ascot.

  “Ugh, I have the worst service in here.” Randolph tore off his cat’s-eye sunglasses and whisked his bangs from his face. “We were trying to call.” He banged on his phone, then looked up at me quizzically.

  “Why are you dressed like John Wayne?”

  “Am I?” I feigned ignorance and changed the subject. “Hi, I’m Jenny,” I said, extending my hand to the young Moroccan who’d accompanied Dan.

  “I’m Dan’s partner, Tifa. I think we spoke on the phone.” She blushed, making it impossible to tell if “partner” meant business or romantic. If Dan and Tifa were having sex, I pictured it to be the way fish do, where they just circle each other, chest-bumping.

  With introductions out of the way, our group was assembled and ready to go. We took our bags outside and waited for our car to arrive.

  I pointed out the park to Randolph. Sitting on a bench was Ussama. He saw me and I waved.

  “That’s Ussama. He tried to Take me on my first day, but now I think we’re cool. Apparently, Marrakech is totally safe. Also, I think the king knows I’m here. It’s a whole thing.”

  Randolph tried to focus, but he couldn’t get past my outfit.

  “I just don’t understand—” he said, shielding his eyes from the sun with an arm wrapped in Cartier love bracelets.

  “Me neither. It might just be a figure of speech.”

  Capitalizing on the few extra minutes, Brandon sneaked back inside to the restroom to wash his face and apply a cucumber eye gel. Dan and Tifa stood in the road and waved down a Mercedes adorned in vintage stickers that looked like it just rolled off the set of a Wes Anderson film.

  The car stopped in front of us and I waited for Bill Murray to pop out. Instead, a man named Doud appeared. He was built like a bouncer, with a black turban and a large bristly mustache that covered the majority of his face. He didn’t speak English, just grunted and scowled.

  “Everybody ready?” Dan said cheerily.

  I could already tell Dan was on a different planet when it came to simple comforts. He and Tifa hopped in the front seat with Doud, while Brandon, Randolph, and I squeezed into the back. When all the doors were shut and the car started moving, I turned into the person I turn into on airplanes: a ravenous trapped animal.

  “Did anyone bring snacks? I just got hungry.”

  Brandon, the only other Jew in the car, shared my concern. He revealed a small packet of Marcona almonds.

  “I brought these from London, if you want some.”

  “YES.” I reached over Randolph and took a handful.
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br />   “We’re gonna stop at, like, a deli or something, right?” Brandon inquired nervously.

  There’s nothing more disconcerting than not knowing when you’re going to eat again.

  Like sometimes even just going to bed at night stresses me out. I stared out the window, on the lookout for a modest but authentic kebab place.

  Dan looked back at us, then said something I couldn’t hear over the blaring Berber folk music blasting from Doud’s crushed velvet speakers.

  “Apparently, dinner is going to be waiting for us when we arrive,” Brandon relayed giddily.

  We drove for five hours straight. At one point I asked if we could stop the car to pee, but Dan wasn’t receptive. Doud mumbled a few words in Tamazight, his native tongue, then shook his head no. Dan explained that stopping to pee in rural Morocco was never a good idea. You might feel like you’re alone. You might not have seen a single soul for miles. But the minute you walk behind a bush to relieve yourself, there is almost always somebody standing behind you, watching.

  “That’s what makes these mountains so safe. They are actually swarming with people. You just can’t see them.” The way Dan described it, it sounded like there were families of Berbers living under every rock. I couldn’t decide if these new insights made me feel safer, but out of respect, I held my bladder.

  At last, Doud stopped the car on the side of a cliff near a sign that said GITE AZOUL. I looked around, confused. There was nothing but a vast red canyon with a single minaret far in the distance and a creepy expressionless man holding a sickle standing behind a bush watching us. I tried not to make eye contact as I looked out at the green valley flanked on all sides by picturesque alpine peaks. The air was crisp and clean and confusing to my Angeleno lungs.

  “We’re here,” Tifa said.

  “We are?” I could tell Brandon was already on hold with American Express in his mind.

  “It’s just a small hike down,” Dan said, smiling and waving at the creepy man with the sickle.