Tangerine

by Christine Mangan

  I glanced back at the table. Alice remained still—like stone, I thought, impenetrable. John, sucking determinedly on the pipe, looked up and caught me staring. I tried to read what was there behind his eyes, but then he blinked and rose from his seat, asking, “Shall we go on?”

  I heard a general chorus of agreement, though I had not spoken a word. Still, we followed him, Alice and I, traipsing after him once more like schoolchildren. Neither of us asked where we were headed, we only continued to walk, silently and obediently, our heads both bowed as we concentrated on the unleveled road beneath us, careful not to misstep in the darkness.

  We had walked for some time in silence when John disappeared through a hidden doorway. It was darker than the place we had just left, so I stumbled a few times before finding a place to sit. Onstage was a group of older men, sitting in a semicircle, though the music they were playing was decidedly not jazz—even my uninitiated ear could distinguish as much. Instead a blend of Arabic and Andalusian music emerged from the instruments held by the men, their voices occasionally adding to the melody. They played often together, as a collective, and then there were moments where one of them paused and the others took over the music, each one seeming to anticipate the rhythm and flow of the other. I watched as one of the old men used this interlude to produce a kif pipe, tucked unceremoniously in his back pocket until then. The old man inhaled, a second or two stretching out into three or four.

  I noticed the look of annoyance that passed over John’s face. “Wrong night, I suppose?” I asked him, fighting to keep the smirk out of my voice.

  He ignored my comment. “So,” he proclaimed instead, looking back and forth between the two of us, as if deciding what route to travel down—whether to give in to the desperation or to cling to the illusion, the falsity, that everything was fine, that everything would continue to be fine. I looked away, not knowing which one I hoped for. Despite John’s jubilant tone, there was something hard, something rougher than there had been before. “Alice finally left the flat.”

  The words hung among the three of us, John looking back and forth between us, as if anxious to see who would respond first, who would rise to his bait.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Alice said, reaching for her drink and taking a deep gulp. “I’m not a recluse.” Her voice was low, so that I had to lean across the table in order to make out the words. She seemed dulled, harder, so different from the lively creature she had been only the night before. I struggled to understand what had changed.

  “Yes, well, I must admit I was surprised. I wondered at first whether you hadn’t just headed back to England,” John observed, his smile wide, his eyes bright. He let out a laugh. “Oh, my little Alice in Wonderland, what on earth am I going to do with you?”

  “Don’t call me that,” she whispered, though her voice was largely lost in the din of the noise.

  John turned to look at me then, his eyes moving up and down, taking in my appearance. A blouse and trousers once again, my unfashionable long, dark hair pulled back into an equally unfashionable plait. I could read the disappointment on his face. “What on earth should I do with her?” he asked, his gaze locked onto my own.

  A million responses flitted through my mind, the very first among them: let her go. I didn’t say it, though I could feel the words forming on my lips. Instead I turned, breaking his gaze, and reached for my drink, anxious to feel the warming calm of the gin.

  There was silence for a moment, and then John said, looking at me, “Say, isn’t your little holiday about over by now?” He leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice cubes in his drink. “Surely it’s nearly time to return to the real world.” He laughed, though I could see the glint in his eye.

  He meant it as a slight. I could feel it in his words, his resentment for my relationship with Alice, boiling over the dips and curves of every syllable. I saw her too—the slight flinch, the quick intake of breath. She had heard it as well, had felt it—after all, that was the point. For his words to insult—to cut, to tear, to wound. I would never really fit in, never really be one of them, that was what he was trying to say. Those girls from good families, those effortless girls. The ones who woke up with long, blond shiny hair, pale, nondescript features, an aquiline nose that spoke of wealth and good breeding. Girls who did not have to work for their supper, who only had to look first to Daddy and then to their husband. I was different, marked out. My engagement with work an enduring testament to the differences that separated and, ultimately, divided us. My friendship with Alice was something that John could not understand, but more than that, it was something he did not like. I could see that now clearly. I had tainted her, altered her—or his perception of her, at any rate. Our friendship was a detriment to her character, something that he wished to expunge.

  I had not bothered him at first—the strange woman who had turned up at his doorway, independent, alone. Those meant two different things, I knew. One could be alone but entirely dependent, like Alice. She was alone at Bennington, she was alone here. She had always been dependent on someone—her aunt, John, even Tom for a brief period of time. I was another species altogether, one that had not roamed the same circles as John McAllister. He had been intrigued at first, delighted even, by the woman sitting on his couch, drinking gin. Now he was angry, unamused by my continued presence, and perhaps most important, he was threatened.

  I smiled, my lips stretching tight against my teeth. For a moment I thought that I tasted blood. “Actually,” I said, feeling the full effects of the night, my mind loosening, my words slipping easily from my tongue, “I’ve no real world to return to, as it happens. I’ve resigned from my position at the publishing company.” I noticed how Alice frowned at this piece of information. I hadn’t meant to tell her, not until we had left Tangier, but perhaps it was best that such a secret came out beforehand. Yes, I felt like I could see this admission working to my advantage. After all, there was no longer anything tying me to the States, to New York. Together, we would be able to go anywhere.

  John nodded, sipped his drink. “So, what, you were hoping to find work here, in Tangier?” He raised his eyebrows as he spoke, as if the notion were ridiculous, as if he had never heard of such an outlandish idea. “I don’t think you’ll find many publishing companies. Besides, won’t your family miss you? So far from home?”

  I felt Alice stir. “Lucy hasn’t any family, John. I’ve told you that,” she said, a distinct edge evident in her voice.

  He nodded. “Sure, I remember now, only”—he stopped, turning to me—“only that’s not entirely true, is it?” He gave a quick laugh. “You see, I did a little digging. I know, I know,” he said, looking at Alice, who had started to protest, “I shouldn’t have, an abuse of power and all that. But I like to know who’s living under my roof.”

  I was still, waiting, wondering what it was that he had managed to unearth, what skeletons he would drag out of the closet and into the light. He paused—waiting, as well—his grin, his laugh, dragged out for full effect, as to emphasize his greatness, his perceived triumph over the woman who had threatened to best him.

  And Alice.

  Alice was watching me, I could feel it, feel her gaze, burning—hot and accusatory.

  She was the one to speak first, her voice small, trembling. “What did you find?”

  “Oh, nothing too interesting, in the end. A struggling, lower-class family. A tiny flat above a garage. An absent mother and father. Nothing too unexpected. I suppose that’s the better turn of phrase.”

  “But—” Alice began.

  “Do you know, it’s strange, I sometimes think,” John said, interrupting her.

  “What is?” I asked.

  “This whole situation. You, here in Tangier. How you showed up, uninvited.” His words were coming faster, spit starting to gather in the corners of his lips. The sight made my stomach turn, and I looked away in disgust.

  “Alice wanted me here,” I said, my voice steely, loath to answer his accusations but
anxious to defend myself nonetheless.

  “No.”

  I turned. It was Alice who had spoken. She hadn’t shouted, not exactly, but the word was loud and drawn out. It seemed to echo in the space around us, despite the presence of numerous bodies. It was as if we were, the two of us alone, as we had once been, rendering John’s presence uncanny.

  “No,” she said again, quieter this time, as if she could not quite believe in the word itself or what it stood for. “No, I didn’t. Lucy. I never invited you.” She held my gaze. “I never wanted you here,” she whispered, the last word all but lost in the noise around us, so that I was not entirely certain it had actually been spoken.

  Alice stood, sending our table off balance, so that the drinks we had ordered swayed precariously, threatening to spill. I watched, my eyes riveted to the swaying glasses. In truth, I could not bring myself to look up at her, to see what was written there after what she had said. When I finally did, it was only to see the back of her, disappearing through the front door of the bar. I snuck a quick glance at John, surprised to find that instead of the smirk I had expected to see, he only sat, his face long and drawn. I wondered whether it was confusion or something else reflected there. He did not make any movement to chase after his wife but instead pulled out his kif pipe. I waited for the space of a moment—counting under my breath, one, two, three—and then I stood and followed Alice out the door.

  THE STREETS WERE CROWDED. Hundreds of locals were singing, waving banners in the air. But this wasn’t a protest, that much was apparent. People danced and laughed, clapping one another on the back, as if in congratulations. I could feel it, the pulse of the city, pumping through them, through me. For one wild moment I wanted to crouch down onto the ground, to lay my hands on the road and to feel the murmur, the beat of it, against my skin. It was as if the city knew—things were happening, finally, after all this waiting. I could feel it, tingling in my hands. Watching as the people moved around me—locals, expats, tourists, travelers. I wanted nothing more than to follow, to be swept up in it, to move and continue moving and never stop.

  But then I remembered Alice.

  A sharp distinctive wail cut through the night—the noise, I knew, that the women in Tangier made in celebration. Ululation, I had learned, my mouth delighting in the dips and curves of it. In front of me, I saw Alice, a few paces ahead, her arms wrapped around her waist, just like the night before. And yet the temperatures had not yet abated. The heat, despite the sun’s absence, still lingered in the air around us. I could feel the sweat pooling at the base of my throat, in the small of my back.

  “What is that?” Alice asked, lips trembling as I approached.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, though I was uncertain whether she could hear me over the noise, whether she would be able to hear me regardless, the look on her face unreachable.

  I looked around for John, unsure whether he had followed me out of the bar. The voices were beginning to grow louder, and there was chanting now, though I could not make out the words. Fewer foreigners dotted the streets.

  The wail started up again, and I saw Alice shudder. “It’s horrible,” she cried. “Why won’t they stop?”

  “It’s just to do with the celebration, Alice,” I told her.

  She looked around, her eyes scanning the crowds. “It sounds like someone is dying.”

  “They’re not, I promise,” I said, reaching for her. She let me pull her forward, and together we began to move again, though her steps were heavy, as if she were walking through mud. There was no expression on her face, and yet, somehow, this absence seemed to fill her so completely, so entirely, that it crowded her features. I moved to speak, to ask her about what she had said in the bar only moments before, but something stopped me—a hand on my shoulder—and I turned, my heart racing, expecting it to be John.

  Instead Youssef stood, watching.

  I shrunk back, wondering how he had managed to find me, how, in fact, he had ever managed to find me in the continued disorder and confusion that was Tangier. I fixed him with a stare, my mind flooding with distrust, and I felt all of it then—the strangeness of the night, the uneasiness, the anger—and I hated him, for intruding, for interrupting my moment with Alice, for jeopardizing my chance to make things right. I cast a weary glance over my shoulder. Alice did not seem to notice Youssef’s presence but instead continued to stare blankly ahead—her eyes taking in the chaos that surrounded us. I felt his hand on my shoulder again and I grimaced under its pressure.

  “I worried after our last conversation,” he said, his voice low and insistent.

  I blinked. Our conversation—about John, Sabine—it seemed as though it had happened weeks ago, months even. I thought about how much had changed since then—and how much more everything was about to change again. I remembered what he had said—girl—and how I had reacted. I blushed, the anger slowly seeping from my veins, grateful that the night hid the red creeping up my cheeks. Perhaps I had acted with haste—it certainly seemed so now. And yet, the word sat badly with me still, leaving an acidic taste in my mouth.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.

  Something inside me grew still, quiet.

  He squinted through the darkness. “I cannot think why, but it is quite clear that you are,” he said, moving toward me, closing the distance between us.

  I took a step backward.

  He sneered, as if reading my thoughts. “You are all the same, in the end. Tangerines. Every Moroccan you see is for personal gain, for sale.” He stepped closer. “I wonder, mademoiselle, what exactly you are willing to pay,” he said, reaching for my wrist, his fingers clasping my skin, hard, pinching, “and what precisely it is that you are wanting to purchase.”

  I wrenched my arm away and in the process collided with Alice, so that she fell to the ground, a cry escaping her lips. In that moment, I forgot Youssef and his menacing tone. He was only a mosquito, I told myself. It was time at last to flick him away. I turned my back to him completely and helped Alice to her feet. “Are you hurt?” I asked, brushing at her skirt, her knees—both of which were now caked in grime and filth. “Alice,” I started again, but John appeared then, had already started to make his way back to us. His hair, now sweaty and limp, clung to the sides of his face, his hat nowhere to be seen.

  “I’ve got to head to the office,” he said, standing, his arms hanging limply at his sides, as if the frantic energy that had pushed him forward only moments before had drained away, leaving behind only a shell. He stopped, taking in Alice’s disheveled appearance.

  “She fell, but she’s fine,” I said.

  John hesitated, then nodded, his eyes taking in the street revelers that flanked us. “It appears Tangier is done. At least as we know it.” He wiped the sweat from his brow, and I saw, so clearly, his love for the country, for this strange little stretch of land that belonged to no one and everyone. I saw how much it pained him, the thought of it changing such that he would no longer be the one in charge but rather the outsider, perhaps for the very first time in his life. He felt powerless, trapped, unable to do anything. And though it pained me to think that we could be at all similar, that any sort of connective tissue existed between us, particularly after what he had tried to do that night, I had felt that before too, felt it, in some ways, every day of my life. I tried to take pleasure in the fact that now he would feel it as well, but the thought only hit, hollow and empty. “Has something happened?” I asked, unsettled by the change in his demeanor.

  “Everyone is getting anxious.” He shrugged, though his face conveyed his worry. “What with all the riots in the past few years. They don’t want to be around when things are made official.” He shook his head, his expression weary. Tired, I thought. “I have to go. I’ll be back later, though I’ve promised Charlie that I’ll head to Fez with him later tomorrow,” he said, speaking the words to Alice, who still did not appear to be listening. He turned back toward me. “Please get her back to the flat.” He hesitated.
“And be safe.”

  And then he was gone, lost in the crowd.

  I WOKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, gasping for air. At first, I was unsure of what it had been—a nightmare that had snapped me back to life, or a noise from somewhere within the room. My heart beat fast and I felt a sort of confusion cloud my mind as exhaustion made it impossible for me to recall where I was and what had happened. Tangier. It came flooding back to me. I was in Tangier. With Alice.

  And then I saw her, standing at the threshold of my bedroom.

  In that moment, there was nothing I wanted more than for her to cross the barrier between us. For her to walk into the room, for her to crawl into the small bed—the same one that she had made up for me and that had smelled like her and now smelled of both of us—for her to allow me to comfort her, to care for her. It was a realization that I had come to years ago, on the very first day I had met her. There was no one who would look out for her, who would love her, who would take care of her better than me.

  I had waited for her to realize this over the years we lived together in Vermont, tripping happily through the months, wrapped in a cloud of our domestic bliss. There had been picnics, eaten on the lawn and at the End of the World, on sunny spring days. There had been walks around the campus in fall, crunching leaves under our feet, spending afternoons locked away inside the library. And there had been winter. Her favorite season and mine too, because of how much it made her smile, how much it reminded her of being a child, of being a daughter. We stayed inside by the fire, sipping tea and cocoa. I would always check to make sure the wood had been delivered to our house, and if not, would place a gentle reminder. I knew how much she enjoyed watching the flickering of the flames as the snow fell outside. And that final year, when the stability of the life we had created together was threatened, I had taken care of that too. I had done all of it for her—silently and without complaint. I was happy to do it, I wanted to do it. I did it all, waiting until the day when she would notice. That she would realize.