Tangerine

by Christine Mangan

  I PUSHED THROUGH THE DOOR, into Dean’s. It was Tangier. That was my first thought upon entering, the bar a strange mix of anyone and everyone. Locals, foreigners—French, Moroccan, and beyond—suits and ties, their more casual counterparts. It seemed that everyone flocked to this small, dingy bar, no matter who they were or where they were from. The noise was overwhelming. A loud sonic boom of voices shouting over one another, a cacophony of raucous laughter, the kind that grated and thrilled. I watched a man fall onto the ground, his face red with laughter and drink. His companion, a woman in a sleek black dress and large, glittering diamond earrings, threw back her head and let out what I could only think of as a barking noise, though I realized soon enough that it was meant to be a laugh. We moved farther into the belly of the place, and I felt the stickiness of one too many spilled drinks underneath my feet.

  “I’ll get us some drinks,” John shouted, heading to the bar without bothering to ask what we wanted first.

  There were few stools left at that late hour, at least placed together, though after several minutes of searching we managed to find a space toward the back, hidden away in the corner. When John appeared moments later, drinks in hand, he stared down, frowning. “Did you want to sit somewhere else?” I asked, suspecting—no, knowing—that John would want to be more in the center of it all. It was one of many things I had learned about him during our time together in Tangier: his enduring need to be in the spotlight, to be noticed by those around him. Or no, perhaps not need, perhaps that was too cruel, too calculating a word. It was simply what happened. Wherever John went, heads seemed to turn, gazes seemed to linger. It was the natural order of things, so that he began to expect it, so that even I considered it to be part of everyday life. And I had felt it too once, that strange pull toward him, the one that had led me to Tangier, to Dean’s, to this particular moment in time, my past and present flanking me on either side as I sipped on a lukewarm gin.

  In that moment, I wanted to rebel. To punish him for the way he was so obviously trying to punish me. John had resented my decision to come out—for the simple reason that it had not been his own, I suspected—grumbling about the long hours he had worked that day. “But who is she, even?” he had pressed, his eyes searching mine in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. “I’m quite sure I’ve never even heard you mention her name before today.” By the time he had done a quick toilette, layering his hair carefully with cream—the powerful scent causing my stomach to turn—and we had left the apartment at last, his mood had shifted, the alcohol turning him sullen and petulant, though he attempted to hide it behind a large grin.

  And throughout it all, I could feel her. Lucy. Sitting beside me, eyes peering through the darkness, watching John, watching everything, just as she always did. She had only been in Tangier for the space of a few hours, but I could already feel that same effect she always had over me: strengthening and emboldening me, her presence serving as an armor I could somehow never manage to affix on my own.

  John grabbed one of the stools. “This is fine,” he said, his voice a bit harder than before. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, its scent like smoke and dust and something ancient. “Well, what do you think?” he asked, turning to Lucy, sweeping his hand around him. “It’s not much, but it attracts quite the crowd.”

  Lucy nodded but made no response. I did my best to smile, a sour taste on the edge of my tongue. There was silence, and I could feel the tension—thick, like the Moroccan air—huddling around us.

  “So, Lucy Mason from America.” John smiled. “What is it that you do exactly, out there in the real world, I mean?”

  “I type manuscripts,” she answered. “For a publishing company.”

  He nodded, though his expression was dull, as though he wasn’t listening, not really, so that I suspected the real reason he had asked was only so that she would do the same. For while John had never been entirely forthcoming about his work to others, not even to me, he seemed to take pleasure in throwing around vague allusions, referencing the government, the insinuation that being in Tangier, at this particular moment, was affording him the chance to prove himself to his superiors. The opportunity, he had said to me, and various others, on more than one occasion, though he never actually bothered to explain what it was actually an opportunity for, and I, in turn, had never bothered to inquire.

  I could see him now, waiting for Lucy to ask, for the chance to begin his monologue, but she only smiled and hastened to continue: “Yes, though it isn’t the only job that I have.” She took a gulp of her drink. “I’m also a writer.”

  His eyebrows raised in surprise, and I could see him casting aside his feigned interest. “Really?”

  “Of sorts,” she replied.

  John looked at her with curiosity. “‘A writer, of sorts,’” he repeated. “And what does that mean exactly?”

  She hesitated, and I wondered then whether her initial declaration was as grand as she had made it seem, both hoping and dreading that it was. I knew it was wrong, that it only made me small and petty, but I felt sad, slightly resentful even, at the idea that she might have fulfilled the promises we had once made to each other, while I had—what?—become the opposite of the idea I had envisioned.

  “I write obituaries for a local newspaper,” she replied. I saw a flicker in John’s eyes, a note of disappointment, and I saw Lucy stiffen in response. Her voice was tight as she continued: “There’s a good deal of research involved, actually. A number of interviews have to be conducted, for background information, for quotes. It’s no different from any other story that’s printed in the newspaper.” I could hear the defensiveness in her tone, could see that John had noted it as well. Lucy turned to me and smiled. “But what about you, Alice?” she asked. “Are you still working on your photographs?”

  John frowned. “Photographs?”

  I felt myself blush. I had never told John much about Bennington, about the accident—only what any of the newspapers had reported. Instead I had pushed away everything to do with my former life, including Lucy, and the camera that I had once considered my most prized possession and now sat, unused, the shutter release most likely rusted from disuse. Still, it had been among the few possessions that I had brought along with me to Tangier—a great what if rattling somewhere at the back of my mind. And while I hadn’t yet released it from the depths of my suitcase, in the back of our bedroom’s wardrobe, I sometimes thought I could feel its presence as I walked past, so that more than once I had hurried my footsteps in response.

  “Yes,” Lucy said. “Alice was quite the photographer at Bennington. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Is that right?” He gave a soft laugh. “Well. My Alice is full of surprises tonight.”

  There was an edge to his voice. He was being cruel, I knew, most likely annoyed that this new piece of information, about his wife, his Alice, was being relayed by a complete stranger. I felt the knowledge of it pressing in, assaulting me from all sides, so that in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to have it out with him—something, a confrontation, perhaps—to complete what the two of us had started earlier in the night, with his jokes about my lack of friends, lack of fertility, a sparring that had seemed to blossom, to thrive during our first few months in Tangier so that now, at times, it felt as though it was all that was between us. I could feel the need, the desire for it starting to spill out of my pores. I wiped the sweat from my brow, trying to cool myself. It was suddenly too warm in the bar, too stifling, so that when I took a deep breath my lungs seemed to stop short, give way, refusing me that last refreshing, comforting breath. I could feel my cheeks start to warm and hoped that it was not visible.

  “So why bother with a place like Bennington?” John asked, turning back to Lucy, his voice light, deceptively casual. “Surely you didn’t need to in order to write a few snippets for a rag? That’s an expensive school, from what I understand.”

  “I was on scholarship,” Lucy replied.


  As she said the words, I realized that was what he had wanted to know all along, what he had been digging for in the first place, with his questions about her profession, about her love life—the origins of this American girl that he had never heard of before. He had been wondering, I realized, whether Lucy Mason was worth knowing.

  And now, it seemed, he had his answer.

  He shrugged. “Still, even with the money.”

  Lucy fixed him with a smile. “Actually,” she said, “I have always loved literature. That’s why I decided to go to Bennington.” She finished her gin in one final gulp and leaned close to him. “Have you ever read the Brontës, John?”

  I stopped, glancing up from my drink, hearing the shift before I saw it, written just there, on her face. A quick look at John told me that he had not noticed it—but then, he did not know her as I did. Did not know that this was her, the Lucy that I remembered. Not the polite, perfect houseguest who had sat on our sofa trading banter over cocktails. This was the Lucy who spoke her mind, who knew what she wanted and took it.

  John, still unaware, shook his head—though he was, I could see, unsettled by the question, the unexpected turn in the conversation. “No, I haven’t.”

  She affected surprise. “What, never?”

  He gave her a tense smile. “Never.”

  I became aware, in that moment, of my silence, of the fact that the conversation between them seemed to exclude me entirely. And yet I did not stir. Instead I only sat, watching them both: the narrowing of the eyes, the tilting of the head, the mistrust, no, distrust, that was already growing between them. I thought I could hear it. In my mind I saw them circling each other, slowly, testing out the boundaries that separated them.

  “Not even a little of Jane?” Lucy was laughing, though the sound was sharp, jagged. “Heathcliff and Cathy, I can understand. They can be difficult even for the most ardent of admirers. Perhaps that’s why Emily only ever published one novel?” She swallowed her gin. “Do you know, I once had a teacher in secondary school who absolutely hated Wuthering Heights. Called it the worst book in British literature, in fact. So I can understand the aversion, the hesitation. But Jane? Sweet, orphaned Jane? You really haven’t read it at all? Not even a sentence?”

  His smile grew wider, the expression stretched tightly against his face, so that it fitted as though some sort of grotesque mask. “Not even one goddamn word.”

  She knew about the books, I realized then. Somehow, in the way that she always did, she knew that they were only for show, that they were only part of the carefully curated image John worked to display—nothing more. I supposed that I should be mad, that I should feel resentment for her then, for baiting the man that I had promised to stand by for all the rest of my days, for the way she had so carelessly stepped back into my life, as if Vermont and what had happened there were of no real consequence. I could feel it—the anger that should have been mine, hovering in the air around us, snapping questions and demanding answers, and yet, I could not reach for it, could not manage to claim it as my own. Instead I focused only on the bend that they, John and Lucy, were driving toward, dangerously, recklessly. I knew that were they to take the curve, there would be no turning back. I leaned in and said anxiously, longing for the comfort of the apartment and the safety it promised: “John has never been much of a reader.”

  It was, I quickly realized, the wrong thing to say.

  “You both make it sound as though I’m illiterate.” John frowned. “Just because I don’t fawn over these Brontës,” he said, pronouncing it Bron-tay.

  “Brontë,” I corrected him, without thinking.

  John was silent, quickly finishing the rest of his drink and setting his glass onto the table with more force than necessary. I gave a little jump, though Lucy, I noticed, managed to remain still. “I’ve just seen Charlie at the bar,” he said, abruptly. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Before I could respond, he had grabbed his empty glass and disappeared.

  A few minutes of silence passed. “He struggled in school,” I finally offered.

  Lucy nodded, her face closed. “I’m just off to the toilets.” She slid from her seat. “I won’t be long.”

  She smiled, moving, for one moment, as if to touch me. But then she stopped and, turning, her eyes averted from mine, disappeared into the swelling crowd that surrounded us.

  In their absence, I felt unmoored, untethered, so that my hands grasped the wooden table beneath me in a desperate attempt to find an anchor. I felt something brush against my leg then and I jumped, though looking down I could see that it was only one of the city’s many stray dogs, wandered in off the streets. During my first days in Tangier, John had cautioned me that I could not be afraid, that I could not display my fear to the poor beasts, that it would only incite them further. I remembered walking with him along the port early one morning, passing by one dog after another as they lay, stretched out on the hot, unforgiving pavement beneath them. At the sound of our footsteps, they had raised their heads, their bodies braced, and I had retreated farther into John, despite his rebuke, fearing that one of the dogs would lunge, would bite, and I’d be stricken with rabies. In that moment, I had been petrified, but John had only pushed me away, whispering that it was for my own good.

  Now, the dog sank to its haunches, finding comfort against the warmth of my legs. And I let him, grateful to no longer be alone.

  I HAD MET LUCY MASON on my first day at Bennington.

  She was standing in our room, her single suitcase already situated at the bottom of the bed closest to the window, her eyes taking in the barren walls that surrounded her. I had paused in the doorway, quietly observing the girl I would be living with for the next year. And yet, girl, I thought, standing there, examining her, struck me as somehow wrong. I watched as she reached into the pocket of her jacket, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. I had never smoked before, not even once, and I watched, fascinated, as plumes of smoke enveloped her, spreading throughout our room, as if hungry to mark the corners of it, to claim it.

  Although we were both just seventeen, there was something about the stranger standing before me that seemed infinitely older—wiser perhaps—than myself. The difference was evident even in our clothing. I looked down at my dress, suddenly embarrassed by what seemed a childish frock, covered as it was with a pattern of flowers and ivy and reaching to the floor in a ballerina-inspired cut. In contrast, my new roommate wore a dark, emerald-green jacket with a peplum waistline, accentuating her enviable hourglass figure, paired with a slim black skirt. And while neither the jacket nor the skirt looked particularly new—there was a strange weariness about both of them, I thought, as if the owner had worn them once too often—she emitted a sophistication that I had only before seen in the pages of magazines.

  I entered slowly, sounding a soft knock against the door. She looked up, fixing me with a thoughtful gaze that I could not read, but that caused me to turn away and blush.

  “Hello,” I murmured, placing a timid smile on my face.

  She stared back, blinking.

  “I’m Alice,” I said, realizing too late that it looked as though I was waiting for an invitation to enter. I quickly closed the distance between us. “I was afraid you might have forgotten,” I said, extending my free hand.

  She accepted it, with a slight tilt of her head. “I’m Lucy.”

  There were no gloves on her own hands, I noticed, silently chiding myself for selecting the lacy ones that my aunt had purchased in anticipation of my matriculation to Bennington. They seemed somehow wrong, in the bareness of the room and against the plainness of my roommate. She wore no makeup, so that I felt foolish with my pink lips and wing tip eyes, like a little girl caught playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.

  Lucy glanced behind me, in the direction of the door. “Are your parents with you?”

  I looked down. “No, they’re not,” I said, taking a deep breath. It was a line that I had rehearsed in the bathroom mirror of
my aunt’s house countless times over the summer. I knew the question would eventually be broached, it always was, though I had since schooled myself on how to make the answer appear casual—or as casual as it could ever be. I was tired of the typical reaction: the scrunching of the nose, the furrowing of the brow, that expression that conveyed pity and yet something more as well. A fear. As if my parents’ death was something that was catching and I, the sole survivor, a contaminant that threatened them. I had seen it happen, had experienced it firsthand. At school, they had all huddled around me at first, their bodies pressed against my own, conveying regret and sadness, hugging me tight with assurances that it would all be fine, that we would survive this together. But then a week passed, and then two, and one girl was gone and then another. Soon, their closeness was replaced with small, tight smiles as we passed by one another in the hallway, or a brief wave from across the grounds. By the time that school let out, their relief was palpable, surging underneath every interaction. I was not surprised when the phone calls and visits died away. By the time my bags were packed for college, not a single one of them was to be found. And so, I said the words again, bracing for the worst, expecting it. I imagined the reaction I would receive—a downward tug of the lips, a brief yet awkward hug, and then my roommate would move on, searching among the countless other girls, looking for one that was not already damaged, tainted, marred by tragedy.

  But then she only looked at me from beneath her heavy-lidded eyes and said: “Mine have passed away as well.”

  I blinked, startled, unprepared for such a possibility. And though I supposed it should have pained me, in that moment, I felt nothing but joy. Sheer and utter relief flooded through me, and it was all I could do to keep from smiling. I told her this, later, hours after we had known one another and had already marked each other as fast friends. She had produced a stolen bottle of sherry—“My aunt will never notice,” she had assured me, referring to the relatives she had stayed with over the summer—and together we had set off to explore, passing the bottle of strange, burning liquid between us as we walked. I listened as our feet crunched against fallen leaves and branches, the sound seeming to stretch out and across to the trees that encroached upon us on either side. It was already mid-September. Bennington had a later start date than most colleges, and as we made our way across campus, the night already setting in, fast and dark, a cool breeze stole across so that we moved toward each other, instinctively, as if we were already a pair. As we walked I could feel my tongue loosening, could feel my stomach sound in hunger—most of the other girls would be at dinner, I knew, but I didn’t mind, the newness of the relationship between us more important than a hot meal. The wall that had been erected upon my parents’ death, like some great impenetrable perimeter, at last began to yield, tempered by the alcohol, by Lucy’s presence.