Alexandra Singer

by Tea at the Grand Tazi

  “As you wish,” said Maia. She allowed him a gesture of submission.

  He relented, and smiled gently. “If you insist you may photograph what you wish. But please be discrete as you go about it. As you may imagine, it is not pleasant for the locals when foreigners follow them going about their business, incessantly click click clicking without even bothering to ask for their permission. Remember, you may never photograph here, at the Grand Tazi.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because, my dear, this is a refuge, a paradise. The last remnant of exclusivity. It must be preserved.”

  “A paradise? It is a restaurant. A lovely restaurant, but nevertheless, a restaurant. I’m afraid it doesn’t resemble paradise to me.”

  The Historian’s condescending manner made her both desire his approval and urge her to question him.

  The Historian sighed. “So young, so naive, so very ignorant. For those who continue to live here, it is indeed a paradise of sorts. It is a refuge for people who require one. You will have to realise that you must not be so direct here. The Grand Tazi has become my second home, and Mahmoud is a great friend of mine. He has always been loyal to me. I will not have him insulted.”

  “I wasn’t insulting him.”

  The Historian held up his hand in a gesture of finality.

  “I’m very sorry,” said Maia, although she was not at all sorry, but only even more intrigued.

  “In the afternoons and evenings you will have your own time, free to paint, sleep, whatever you wish. Yes, I do not spend a great deal of time here. I have often to be away. But, it is an excellent arrangement, don’t you agree?”

  Maia nodded. She was hardly in a position to complain, the arrangement was perfect. But now that she had met him, she wondered what lay behind his generosity. What might he expect, or even demand, in return? The Historian struck her as a little strange, but she dismissed it as his eccentricity. She did not have to pay rent, the job itself was not arduous, and it would be complete freedom from all those London acquaintances who had such high, exhausting expectations of her. It could, as it had been for the Historian, be a refuge for her. After all, her acquaintances believed that she was still travelling in North Africa.

  “Who else lives in the house? I have already met Ina. She is not very talkative.”

  “She has had a difficult life. There is only us. And my brother, when he is at home. Tell me,” said the Historian, in an attempt to feign interest, “why do you like painting so much?”

  “Because sometimes I like to paint the red city blue, and the sea yellow. Simply because.” She knew this was not an answer that the Historian would accept. He required an analytical reply to everything.

  “You like to observe.”

  “That is why I am here. When I paint, I observe. I see empty space and light. For most people, empty space is just that, empty.”

  “But you, I suppose, do not see that. You are special.”

  “Of course not!” she snapped a little too hastily. Maia was unsure if his lips were curving at the sides. He wanted to elicit some reaction from her. She tried to explain. “Here, the blue sea is black at night, turquoise at midday. Painting makes one observe everything carefully. All the colours are intensified. Life can be intensified. You can observe the land as it stretches, curved onto the horizon. Look at the bright colours, the whitewashed houses. I like Islamic art, the intricate patterns. Look at the urban landscape or a remote village. Sometimes it dominates the people, makes them invisible. Especially the women. They are the ones I want to paint.”

  “Islam does not permit representation of the human form.”

  “And I, Professor, am not a Muslim.”

  “Even so, perhaps you will find it difficult to find a woman who is willing to sit for you. What makes you think that you will succeed, where so many have failed?”

  She bridled at his doubt, trying to detect bemusement in his voice but finding none. She wondered why he was so hostile to her desire to paint women. “Have you become a Muslim, Professor?”

  “Certainly not. It has appealed, but it conflicts with certain aspects of my life. But could it be, do you suppose, that there is a profusion of messages in the West? Messages that diminish the value of everything and erode them deliberately? Here they understand that to represent a woman would be to devalue her. There is a lack of dignity and privacy in the West. That is why I left England – that lack.”

  Without realising it, this was the moment Maia made an instinctive and important decision. She had found that life could often throw up some interesting opportunities, if one was able to remain sufficiently open to them. In that moment, Maia resolved not to block anyone or anything out. She would remain utterly open to all people, all experiences. She imagined herself as a sort of creative sieve, with the world passing through. The thought pleased her. In her imagination she saw vivid colours intermingling; azo yellow, earth green, purples and violets, crimson, ochre, and cadmium red.

  The Historian was watching her as she looked around, taking in the scene around her. “You do have a passion for it. I see that.”

  “Art affects us just as light does. I found no light in London. I am interested in the light and air, the colours, and women, in particular the women in a closed society.”

  “Just like Matisse. How very original you are.”

  Maia discerned boredom, and for a moment she felt resentful. But the feeling passed quickly. She was unable to understand it, but there was something about the Historian that made her want to impress him.

  “Matisse managed to change how we see the female figure in art. From depicting women as primitive, sexual beings in a supposedly enlightened society, he saw them first as individual characters, full of personality. You must admit, that given the attitude to non-western cultures at the time, that could be considered quite exceptional.”

  “I have never liked Matisse. And I admit nothing. But what sort of women are you really interested in painting? Matisse had contact only with prostitutes. I think that even now you may encounter similar problems. Access is not so easy.”

  “I thought as a woman, it may be easier.”

  “On the contrary, it will be harder.”

  “Then I will photograph them first, if I must. It seems that here even a covered woman may not walk down the street without being hassled. I want to paint all women. Veiled women, dark women, white women, upper class women, poor women, beautiful women, ugly women. Particularly ugly women. The character in their faces is fascinating. Beautiful women can be so symmetrical, and... ”

  “Boring?”

  “Exactly,” said Maia, distinctly. She would not be cowed by this man. She might quaver on many subjects, but never on this. “The modest woman and the whore do interest me, I admit. That dichotomy never disappears. I think that must be very confusing for men.”

  “And, you, Maia, are you the Madonna, or the Whore?” A sleaziness lay behind his gentlemanly manners, and she was taken aback by his capacity for vulgarity. “Yes, I have seen your work. But why this obsession with women? You do not prefer them?” He asked her this with a barely indiscernible smile, the lip slightly curled. Maia had no doubt which sex it was which he preferred.

  “I really do not. But I do often think that if I could somehow change, it might make my life easier.” She said, laughing.

  The Historian scowled.

  “Believe me, Maia, it does not.”

  “I don’t know why I like to paint women so much. But it is even more intriguing to explore here, where women try to be invisible, and the men stare so much. Sometimes, it seems as if men here hate us.”

  “Ah, a feminist is what you are. I sensed it in you immediately. Now I warn you, don’t try to fight things here. You will never succeed. And I have friends here. I really would not appreciate attention to be drawn to myself by a troublesome assistant. Do you not consider that by depicting women so obsessively in your paintings, you will actually be submitting them even further to the gluttonou
s eyes of men that so worry you?”

  “I have considered that. But the pictures are not only for men. It is a fact that women are enthralled by other women. We cannot deny it. We compare ourselves, all the time. And perhaps if men see women as people, living, doing things, not sitting for the pleasure of men, they will not be so scared of us.”

  “Ha! You imagine that men are scared of you?”

  “Yes. I can’t understand any other reason for their behaviour.”

  “It is not simply the religion, you know. It is complicated.”

  “Do you find it difficult here?”

  He peered at her. “How do you mean?”

  “I meant as a Jew?”

  “Yes. I do not practice, of course. But the history is fascinating.” Then he slapped his thigh and raised his voice, as he peered down at her in an attempt at self parody. “A Jew? Of course I am! A Jewish intellectual, whatever did you expect? I know how they see me. But I abandoned all attempts to acquiesce to all those archaic expectations of me many years ago.” He noticed her smiling. “Why are you laughing, girl? It is not a laughing matter. I might have left a long time ago. But I was never religious. Other things were always far more important to me.”

  Maia had an inkling of what those might have been.

  “Can painting be learned, do you suppose?”

  Maia considered this. “I think that technique can be learned, if somebody is willing to teach. One can learn how to see. But not talent. Never talent.”

  “I hope you are correct, Maia... ” abruptly he stood up. “Enjoy the city. I have much to do this evening. And now I must give you a chance to finish your breakfast. I have some people to meet. Look around the house at your leisure. Perhaps if I am at home sometime I may show you.”

  As the Historian stood up to leave, the woman they had both been watching furiously threw her glass of tea and it smashed as it hit the floor. Shards of glass fell by Maia’s feet, and the entire restaurant turned in shock, watching as the voices of the woman and her younger companion rose until the woman’s voice was a high pitched shriek that filled the room. The man stood up and the shouting stopped for a moment, while the other patrons fell back into murmurs. As the man left and the woman was alone, Maia watched as plump tears slowly rolled their way down the woman’s moonface and smudged the black kohl onto her cheeks. Maia wanted to reach out to her, but the look on the Historian’s face made her stop herself.

  “You do understand she smashed the glass because it is exactly how she would want to be treated.”

  “How do you explain that? Just a moment ago they were laughing together. Why would a women wish to be treated like that?”

  “Oh you would be surprised.” Then he coldly looked her over. “Or, perhaps you would not.”

  “I don’t agree.” Maia was infuriated. “If the man had smashed his glass, you would not have commented like this. You might have imagined him to simply have been angry.”

  “True. This is how it works. But I am sorry to say that I really do find hysterical women very irritating.”

  “Surely you do not find a woman irritating because she dares to express her anger? Perhaps the man she is with has done something? I suppose women should be seen, and not heard. And sometimes it might be better for them if they were not seen at all.”

  “Maia, we must not argue. You have not spent much time here. Your arguments are indeed pertinent, but I fear that our views may be irreconcilable. Surely, you of all people must realise how others are so visual. Men look at women and how they behave before deciding how to treat them. You should know that. You, after all, are the artist. Now, I really must leave. I will try to find some time to show you around the house, but I may have to go away for a while. When I do, make sure you complete all the typing I need. My publishers are always pushing me.”

  Yes, thought Maia. It was evidently dreadful to be so respected and in demand. Yet the conciliatory tone of the Historian’s voice made Maia suspect that she had misjudged him. His superior knowledge intrigued her. The Historian represented the closed off and exclusive world of academia, of intellectuals and art. He knew people who might be able to help her, and she found that she longed to be accepted by him. He belonged to that world, and she was desperate to be part of it.

  Yet Maia now saw his prejudices far clearer than he saw them himself, and she experienced a dangerous flash of superiority.

  “And,” he went on kindly, “you can still do your painting.”

  He made it sound like a pleasant pastime for her. The unfairness of his judgement stung her. The presence of the man was harmless, dependent only upon the promise of power which he embodied. It was physical, or sexual, or economic. But the presence of the loud woman was entirely different, her promise was expressed in her own attitude to herself, expressing what may or may not be done to her. But then, perhaps the gesture had been handed to the woman? She tried to consider it from another angle. The woman’s presence was manifested in her voice, her gestures, and her expressions. Instantly she had been scrutinised and condemned by both Maia and the Historian. Maia knew very well how a woman, any woman, was constantly accompanied by the image of herself. From her earliest years every woman is taught to survey herself.

  In the streets below, the light was diminishing. Sitting alone on the rooftop of the Grand Tazi hotel, listening to the sound of Arabic catching in the back of the throats, and the background whispering of various European languages, Maia felt again all the uncertainty of a girl alone in a foreign country. This was no longer Europe, she was in Africa. From the way both men and women regarded her, from the café waiters to the man selling cigarettes on the street, to the woman at the next table eyeing her with unchecked, unabashed curiosity, to the resentment she sensed directed towards her as a westerner, everything she encountered here was alien. She had the strange feeling that this unspoken antipathy was the product of a strange relationship. Greedily they eyed her, and at the same time they hated her for it.

  Chapter 3

  Maia dutifully executed the tasks set for her by the Historian. She grew aware of the displeasure of his editors in Paris and London at the work that he had produced for them in recent years. Maia began to wonder what had changed. She took out the letters and read them. ‘Not your usual style,’ they read, ‘Not sufficiently thorough.’ She raced through more letters complaining of his lack of focus, the lack of research, and then more recently the recriminations crouched in vague, diplomatic language, until she found, crumpled at the back of a drawer, the demands for the return of the advances he had already received. She could not confront him, and simply left the letter where she had found it. The administrative tasks numbed her mind and required such a huge amount of time that she barely reflected upon her past anymore. Her curiosity grew as she became aware of how the Historian was slowly destroying his academic reputation. He had no interest in hiding it; that was clear. She was here to organise his affairs, and that was the alleged reason for her presence. But now it appeared that he had not been performing his writing and research, the basis of his work as a historian.

  Passing the hours trawling through his documents, her life was becoming one of isolation. The Historian was exceptionally secretive about his movements, and Maia felt she didn’t know him enough to enquire. She knew when he was in the house, because she could feel his presence there, quiet yet imposing and not completely benign. On his part, he settled himself in his rooms and left her instructions in notes. She grew accustomed to their situation. Rarely did she venture out into the streets, dreading the persistent attention and the suffocating heat, and instead went up on the roof to sit in the sun as it rose higher in the sky and then sank down in the evenings over the city. She painted the mountains, the rooftops at sundown, and for a while she believed she was content.

  Almost daily Ina crossed Maia’s path, but the housekeeper barely acknowledged the Historian’s assistant. The two women barely spoke. As the days passed, Maia was determined to force recognition from Ina.
One morning as they passed, Maia blocked her way, “Good morning, Ina.”

  The woman barely looked at her, emitting only a noise that sounded more like a grunt, and neatly sidestepped Maia. She had worked for the Historian for many years, and lived close by with her elderly husband. Maia wondered at the unspoken animosity towards her, unable to understand. On a simmering afternoon, Maia retired to her room on the third storey, exhausted in the heat. After a few moments of peace, the Historian burst suddenly into her room. “My dear, I must give you a tour of the house!”

  “Now?”

  “I know, I know, it really is rather impromptu. But I’m afraid I simply haven’t had the time.”

  Maia was unsure about the truth of this. The correspondence she completed for him never requested his presence in Europe. She could only guess at his movements, and now she wondered what he wanted from her.

  “I must show you around. I have been so rude.”

  Maia was shocked by his sudden enthusiasm.

  Suddenly his face fell; and he looked around him with distaste. “Disgusting,” he muttered, “disgusting,” and then he appeared to remember her presence and smiled. “I have collected these… things,” he said, waving his hand disparagingly over the assorted furniture, eclectic and mismatched, “from every corner of the country, and further still.” Hand painted and carved, the cedar tables and cabinets and the Moorish benches were gathered around, stacked up in corners and gathering dust. “This,” said the Historian, stroking a small round table, “is a Nedhima Table. Very rare. It cost me little, but I shall sell it on for thousands. Those gullible tourists, flocking here for their taste of exoticism,” he gave a short, grunting laugh of contempt. He recollected himself, and came towards her. “Now for the tour!”

  “Are you sure? I am quite tired; you have given me so much to do. And I have the impression that Ina would not approve. She doesn’t like me.”

  The Historian’s presence unsettled her, and she wasn’t sure to believe his friendliness. But even her sobriety did not quell his enthusiasm.