Tangerine

by Christine Mangan

  I tried to move away from the hawkers, a map held firmly between my hands—as if to prove my determination. A shake of the head, then a murmur of first French, non, merci, followed by Spanish, no, gracias, and then, out of frustration, the minuscule Arabic that I had learned prior to my journey—la, choukran. Nothing helped. I pushed on, determined to make my way out of the port and into the medina. Most dropped back, but a few still persisted, following me from the water’s edge and up onto the hilly path that led into the old city. “You are lost? You need help?” Finally, there was just one solitary man who refused to leave. He was unobtrusive at first, insisting on following me slowly, relaxing his gait so that he mirrored my own. His command of English was better than the rest, and he put it to good use, rattling on about all the places that he would take me—places that no other tourists would ever see.

  I tried to ignore him, to shrug off the crushing heat that already caused my cheeks to flush red and hot, to look away from the swarm of flies that seemed to lurk in every corner as I made my way into the city’s twisting labyrinth. But then, after several minutes, he moved in front of me, cutting me off so that I stopped in confusion, grasping at my single bag. I tried to push past, but he stood, insistent.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling, “I am a mosquito, I know.” He leaned in closer and I could feel his breath, hot and moist, against my face. “Lady, listen. It is better to have one mosquito with you, do you know why?” He paused, as if waiting for a response. “One mosquito will keep all the other mosquitoes at bay.” He smiled, threw back his head, and laughed, the sharp, unexpected noise echoing off the walls that now surrounded us, so that I started, stumbled, my bag landing heavily beside me as my knee connected with the hard, dusty road beneath.

  I let out a sharp exclamation, moving to assess the damage while recoiling from the outstretched hand of the Mosquito. My new taupe stockings—which I had paid a dear one dollar and fifty cents for after the shopgirl’s insistence they were top-of-the-line—were ruined. There was a tear just above my knee, with a run trailing downward, and I noticed with increasing dismay an angry-looking red spot that threatened to bleed. “Of all the rotten luck,” I murmured.

  The Mosquito, as if sensing my discomfort, my unease, moved closer still. “You look lost,” he whispered, his voice suddenly low, insistent. As if my newly subjected stance required such theatrics. “Do you know what you are looking for, mademoiselle?”

  At his words I paused for a moment—just a moment—wondering what it was that I was actually doing in this strange foreign land that I had dreamed of so often that it had begun to take on a shiny, unreal quality each and every time I conjured it in my mind. So that even now, as I rested on the hard truth of its existence, it still failed to be real. My breath caught in my throat—but then, there it was: a hazy image of her, just before me.

  That was all it took, and then I was myself again.

  “Yes,” I told him, the Mosquito, my voice now hardened with determination, with purpose. I stood, abruptly pushing past him so that our shoulders collided, so that he felt the weight of the impact, felt the weight of my body thrust against his own. I saw the shock on his face. “Yes, I know exactly what I’m looking for.”

  The Mosquito gave a quick shrug and began, at last, to amble away.

  AFFINITY. I HAD LOOKED UP THE WORD in a dictionary during my first year at Bennington College—that strange little cluster of buildings that sat, hidden, or so it seemed, in the heart of Vermont’s Green Mountains. A spontaneous or natural like or sympathy for something. A similarity of characteristics suggesting a relationship. I began to search for other similar words. Similitude. Inclination. I wrote them all down in my notebook, carrying it with me as I moved between the library and class and back again. I clutched its fraying blue leather to my chest, careful to guard it, to remember it, so that it would never be left behind: my treasury of found and cherished words. I took them out to read often—in the morning before class, at night before I fell asleep. I whispered them to myself, as if the memorization of these words were something I would later be tested on—as if they were integral to my education, to my survival at the college.

  I had stumbled across that particular word—affinity—a few weeks after I had first met Alice. The moment had seemed poignant—a description for something I had not yet known I was looking to describe. The relationship that Alice and I had formed after only a few short weeks, the partiality that we felt for each other—it went beyond any rational description. Affinity, I decided, was a good enough start.

  We had met on our first day at college. Alice was standing in the hallway of our assigned clapboard house—each one consisting of two floors with nearly a dozen or so rooms per level, a common living space replete with fireplace on the bottom floor—searching for our room, arms clutched around a stack of books, looking as if there was nothing more she wanted in all the world than to disappear. And she almost did—her upper body and face nearly vanishing behind the books that were obviously too heavy a burden. I knew already that she was my roommate—we had earlier arranged to meet, a flurry of letters sent back and forth before we arrived at school, a picture included so that we would recognize each other—and yet, I couldn’t help waiting, stalling, drawing out the moment for as long as possible. I didn’t want to go up and help her, to introduce myself—not yet.

  And so I waited. And watched.

  Her ankles and wrists were the most delicate things I had ever seen. It was still summer, and her ballerina-style skirt, which floated against her calves, and her thin short-sleeved camisole revealed them in startling clarity. Her hair was long and blond, with curls that looked like they had been created rather than organically grown. When she finally approached, I saw that her nail varnish was a soft pink, almost too subtle to be noticed. The same could be said about her makeup. For a moment I wondered whether or not she even had any on, but it was there, I decided, nearly invisible, but still there all the same. She was put together nicely, with the intention of others not noticing. There was nothing about her that clamored for attention, nothing that demanded to be seen, and yet, everything was done exactly in anticipation of such notice.

  That was how I knew she was used to people looking at her, used to having to present herself in front of others. And it was the way she chose to do so that told me she had never had to scrape together money for rent, had never worried about what was in the cupboards and whether it could be made to last a week rather than a day or two. And yet, I didn’t resent her the way I did some of the other girls I had already met. There was nothing gloating or spoiled about this girl, nothing that reeked of superiority. The other girls at college were always so keen to prove themselves better than one another, boasting about family holidays or dropping names they knew would inspire fear and awe in others. Alice, I would soon learn, wasn’t like that at all. While the other girls stuck up their noses at the shippers—their word for the scholarship girls—Alice had treated me, a shipper from the next town over, the same. Watching her that day, before we had exchanged so much as a greeting, I thought she seemed kind, lonely even.

  I moved back into the room then, pretending to observe the barren white walls, all the while holding my breath, waiting for her to approach, frightened, in that instant, that I might lose her to someone else if I stalled too long, if I waited for just one moment more. At last, she appeared in the doorway, and I smiled and began. “I’m Lucy Mason,” I said, holding out my hand as I walked toward her, feeling as if each and every word I wanted to say were twisted and tangled into that one small gesture, so that everything—the very future—depended on it. I waited for what seemed an infinite amount of time, though it was likely only a hairbreadth, wondering whether she would accept my outstretched hand, wondering where it would lead us, how our journey together would unfold.

  She shifted her books to one side and an instant smile broke across her face. “I was worried you’d forgotten,” she said, blushing at the words, her accent British, clipped a
nd polished. “I’m Alice. Alice Shipley.”

  Her hand was warm. “It’s nice to meet you, Alice Shipley.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, I dressed carefully.

  I gathered up all my belongings from the riad that I had rented for the night—wanting after the journey a chance to change, to refresh myself, not wanting to appear at Alice’s doorstep with my stockings torn, my hair a mess. I checked the room once, twice, until satisfied that I had left nothing, before closing the door behind me.

  In the medina, I waited in line at one of the stands and ordered breakfast—a braided bread I did not recognize, sprinkled with sesame seeds and stuffed with a paste that tasted of dates. Standing against a wall, feeling the strange stale texture of the dough pressing against my tongue, my cheek, and pausing every now and then to take a sip of the café au lait I had also ordered, I let my eyes roam the street.

  I watched the tourists sipping mint tea at the cafés, watched a group of locals as they unloaded goods, transporting them from donkey to person to store, before finally, my gaze met his.

  He was several feet away, seated at one of the numerous cafés that lined the square. Tall, dark, although not as handsome as some, a local, I guessed, though I couldn’t be entirely certain. He wore a fedora tipped low over his face, the base of the crown encircled with a vibrant purple ribbon. I stood a moment or two longer, feeling his eyes on me, wondering what it was that he saw, what had caught his attention. It was true that I had taken extra care that morning, selecting the one decent dress that I had purchased before my voyage across the ocean, the price tag depleting the small savings I had left. I smoothed the skirt with my left hand, finished my coffee, and moved away from the medina, from the man’s inquisitive stare.

  After nearly an hour of walking and retracing my steps, ignoring the smirks of waiters—dressed formally in suits and small cravats, despite the blistering heat—as I passed by the same restaurant, once, twice, three times, believing for one mad moment that all roads literally led back to the Petit Socco, I had found it. Past the medina and west of the Kasbah, Alice’s flat sat just outside of the chaos that I had first descended into. The Quartier du Marshan, my guidebook told me. I sensed the strange shift long before I became aware of any actual change. It was greener, with trees lining the streets, although they were still scarce and entirely unfamiliar to my eye. And there was a general feeling of lightness, as if all the tension that existed in my shoulders, or no, rather, just there, between my shoulder blades, began to dissipate the closer I got. Perhaps it was simply that I was nearer to her, I thought, stopping then to set my bag down, to take a breath.

  The building itself was unremarkable, blending in easily among the rest: it would not have looked out of place in Paris, I thought, a pale stone block that had been embellished with wrought iron balconies and generous windows. Its familiarity was to be expected, of course, but I still could not stop myself from feeling a bit of disappointment. It had taken me so long to get to this point—months of planning and saving, hours spent traveling on boat, train, and across the ocean once again. My clothes were covered in dirt, my mind tired and frayed in exploration of this new land. I had come to expect something more at the end of my long journey—a glittering door, a magnificent palace, something that said dramatically and definitively: here is your reward—you have found your way at last. I pressed my finger against the buzzer.

  For several moments, nothing happened. I felt my heart begin to quicken—perhaps she had gone back to the Continent? Or perhaps I had the wrong address? I looked at the piece of paper between my fingers, the inky scrawl faded from so much folding and unfolding. I imagined having to turn around and head back to the port. I saw myself buying another ferry ticket, ignoring the derision of the workers who had only just ferried me across, laughing as I made my way, once again, across the ocean—this time in defeat. I shook my head. It was impossible. The thought of New York, of yet another dull gray winter looming ahead, of the tiny rooms I had rented in various boardinghouses spread across the city, of the sound of dozens and dozens of females, their heels trotting up and down the halls. And the smell. I shivered, even in the afternoon heat. That strange, heavily perfumed smell that seemed to trail each and every one of them, and which hung thickest within the walls of the shared toilet. There was always an overly sweet quality to the pungent odor, like something on the verge of being rotten. I grimaced. No. I would not go back, no matter what happened.

  “Yes?”

  I heard the word before I saw her. I tilted my head upward, but the sun blinded my view. Raising my hand, I managed to partially shut it out, so that her form eventually came to me, severed by bright strips of white.

  “Alice,” I said, not raising my voice, reveling, just for a moment, in the sound of her name. “It’s me.”

  She was far enough away that I couldn’t be certain, but I thought I heard a sharp intake of breath, and I struggled then to contain my delight, pleased to find that I had managed to surprise her. “Well?” I finally asked, raising my voice just a bit. “Do I have to scale the wall?”

  A nervous-looking smile broke across her face. “No, no, of course not.” She stood behind an iron railing, its dips and curves made to resemble some sort of ivy, that ended just below her waist. Her hands flew to her throat, the way they always did when she was nervous. “Hold on just a moment. I’ll be right down.”

  As I waited, I became aware of a slight fluttering in my ear. As a child, I’d suffered from terrible earaches, and as I grew, there was always a season where I would feel that same pain return, and which would send me rushing to the doctor. But no matter how often I visited, they would always smile and shake their heads, assuring me absolutely nothing is wrong, as they ushered me toward the exit. One physician had paused long enough to instruct me how to lay my finger just above my earlobe and pull gently. If you feel pain now, he said, that means there is an infection. Otherwise, it’s just . . . He had let his words trail, unfinished. Later, he suggested that he had seen similar symptoms among a specific set of patients, a nervous condition that seemed to affect only his more intelligent clientele—though I suspected that the comment was made more to flatter himself, a testament to the practice he had created, rather than from any great desire to help. Still, standing there, waiting for Alice to make her way down the stairs, I repeated this movement, checking for any source of pain, any indication that an infection had managed to take hold. There was nothing, and yet still, the fluttering persisted.

  WHEN ALICE APPEARED IN THE DOORWAY, she was slightly out of breath, two bright pink spots on her cheeks, a small heat rash creeping below her throat. She had always been prone to rubbing that same spot—set just between where the two clavicles met—whenever she was anxious. I wondered if she had done that before or after my arrival, or if, in fact, the pink spot was simply from the heat of midday, which pulsed around us.

  She looked exactly as I remembered. True, it had been just over a year, but enough had passed between us since then that it seemed almost as though it were a different life entirely. She was still so small—she hated the word petite, I knew—but there was no other way to describe her. Short and blond, she still held the shape of a young girl, a fact that Alice had once frequently lamented. A string of pearls hung, hitting her just above her collarbone, and I was struck by how out of place they seemed, somehow incongruous with the scenery around us. I resisted the strange sudden urge to reach out and touch them, to tear them from her neck and watch the beads as they clattered to the ground, spilling out into the crooks and crannies of the street.

  “You look wonderful,” I said, leaning in and kissing her on either side of her cheeks. “It’s been too long.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, her eyes bright, but distant. “Yes, of course.”

  I felt the sharpness of her bones underneath my hands. She stepped back into the doorframe, behind the threshold, her movements betraying an anxiety that I suspected she would rather not have revealed. Alice motioned for me to f
ollow her, and I did, watching as she led me up a narrow staircase, listening to her warning about what steps to take gingerly, her instructions quickly followed by an apology for the decay of the building, a rambling that she was always prone to when nervous. “It’s absolutely gorgeous, of course, but in desperate need of some repairs. I’ve told John several times, but he doesn’t seem to listen. I actually think he likes it. It’s where all the artists live, he says. Writers, apparently. He’s told me the names a million times, but I can never manage to remember them. But then, I suppose that’s more up your alley. We’ll have to ask him when he gets home from work.”

  John. The man that Alice had met after leaving Bennington, the man who was, I had only recently learned, responsible for her move to Morocco.

  “Is he home?” I asked.

  “Who?” Alice frowned. “Oh, John. No, no. He’s at work.”

  “And how is he?” I asked, as if we were all old friends, though the words sounded hollow, and I hastened to cover them. “And you, how are you?”

  “Good. We’re both doing quite well.” She said the words quickly, burying them underneath her breath. “And you?”

  “I’m happy to be in Tangier.” I smiled. With you.

  I did not say these last words aloud, though I could feel them, beating steadily within my chest. In fact, half of me was convinced that she had heard them too—or if not heard, perhaps felt.

  I became aware that by this time we had moved into her flat, were, in fact, standing in the foyer, the wooden floor covered with an intricately designed rug, my suitcase still hanging heavily from my hands. I wondered at her not reaching for it and showing me to the spare room, so that we could sit and relax and begin to trade stories, like we had done in the old days. It was perhaps too much to hope for, I knew, that things would simply revert back to how they had once been, before that terrible night. And yet still, I couldn’t help myself. Hope still lived, however buried in the hollowed-out cavity of my chest. And yet, there was something in her stance, something in the way she moved—as though a caged and frightened bird, I thought—that led me to wonder whether the problem was not, in fact, the secrets that we held between us but something altogether different.