Alexandra Singer

by Tea at the Grand Tazi

  “No, Tariq. For free. Always for free. Mahmoud promised.”

  She went and watched the other guests from the foyer at the foot of the stairs, which went spiralling up into the enclaves of the old hotel, where Mahmoud kept his rooms free for other transients, and who knew what else. It was whispered that every night drug fiends stretched out upon the ragged rugs in the upstairs halls and undemanding women looked for effortless work in the long passageways.

  For a long time she sat alone looking at the chattering crowd through a dim haze of boredom, as people came towards her and sat down and went away again, filtering out as the sun came up. There were days when Maia did not even trouble herself to return to the Historian’s riad. At the Grand Tazi there was always a party. She wanted to lose herself in the sun and fleeting moments of pleasure she thought she could glean. One afternoon she had not meant to fall asleep in the sun, she awoke to the sharp sounds of jabbering; Maia’s head hurt terribly as waves of nausea came upon her. A sense of utter shame, of near nakedness before the hotel guests as their eyes rested upon her. She managed to gather up her clothes, heading blindly into the hotel and up the staircase to the room Mahmoud allowed her to use before anybody might notice. She went to shower, then came back into the room and pulled down the shutters.

  Several hours later she woke, refreshed, and studied herself in the bathroom mirror, before heading down to reception.

  The two men at the door only allowed people in on the advice of Mahmoud, but now it appeared that they were letting in their local friends. Maia knew that Mahmoud was attempting to cater for a more cultured clientele, but from the people here it seemed that this was policy was failing. Maia was sitting quietly, smoking and listening to the lone guitarist playing, when there was shouting and a commotion.

  “Salloum allaykoum,” a young man was shouting as he charged bullishly towards the pool area.

  Now Mahmoud appeared, his face red and bulging. He was hurling abuse at the two men who were supposed to be guarding the entrance. “How did this cretin get in here? Get him out!”

  The young man dived straight into the empty pool, and came up spluttering a few moments later. The two guards grabbed the intruder by each arm, lifting him out of the water he squealed in pain as his arms were stretched. As they kicked him, so viciously that each rib made a grotesque cracking sound, he curled himself smaller and smaller into a ball until he lay huddled upon the ground whimpering to himself.

  “You will leave now,” Mahmoud told him.

  But the man still had spirit, even as Mahmoud’s bulk shadowed over him. “I am from this place too. I have right to be here. I can enter.”

  “Huh. Wa qul bravo.” Mahmoud changed to English, so that he could properly display his linguistic skills before his guests. “This is my hotel. I say who enter. You want to mix with foreigners? Now I tell you not try to come in here. Go away now. You make big, big fool of yourself.”

  “No,” came a small voice.

  “Do not argue with me,” Mahmoud said, and he kicked the man in the stomach. “You are in real harira this time little man. I know your type.”

  A tussle ensued; ending with Mahmoud sitting proudly astride the man as his men held down the man’s flailing arms.

  “Je suis moi le patron,” bellowed Mahmoud, elbowing his way through the gathered crowd. “Now, is all above board, above board,” he repeated loudly; it was evidently a phrase he had once learned well.

  Security took the man, who by now was completely wilted, his fight having deserted him, and dragged him outside.

  To her revulsion, Mahmoud came towards her and stroked her hair. “You be safe now here. Do not worry. Never worry.”

  Chapter 7

  On the afternoon that Konstantin decided to introduce Maia to his rather intimidating female friend, the sweltering air stifled Maia, pulling tightly around her neck like a steaming vice. As Konstantin took her arm and led her across the room, she was finding it difficult to breathe. At first, Maia saw only a slim back wrapped in a navy dress, and dark, bare feet. The woman threw back her head and laughed.

  “Konstantin,” gasped Maia in surprise, “she looks like a cat.” The woman was sleek and angular. She was just on holiday, he insisted, an extended break. The two had known one another for years.

  “I think you get on very, very well,” said Konstantin.

  “How did you meet?”

  “In Roma. I met him through work.” The tall Roman woman took Maia’s hand with a light, practiced touch. Her name was Cassandra Magliozzi, and she was the former fashion editor of a well-known Italian gossip magazine. Maia was surprised when she revealed how she had met Konstantin.

  “I had no idea that Konstantin modelled.”

  “He doesn’t generally. I was directing a fashion shoot set in a Catholic Church. Some of the girls were wearing cassocks and sitting with the priests. It was a little naughty.” Cassandra gave a sharp laugh.

  “But I thought he was Greek Orthodox.” Maia was somewhat affronted, and Konstantin looked embarrassed.

  “Oh, never mind about that. It is the concept that is important.”

  Her voice erupted in short, staccato bursts. Delicate attention had been paid to the moulding of Cassandra; she was dark and slim, with hair that caught the sun as she moved.

  Cassandra attached herself to Maia all afternoon. She felt flattered by Cassandra’s attention, but when she confessed to Cassandra her recent liaison with Armand, the Italian was unsympathetic. As soon as she opened her mouth, she knew that her revelations were a mistake, but after the long days alone she was lured by the prospect of feminine companionship. Maia’s obsession with this man was obvious to Cassandra, who promptly decided that she would like to see him for herself. Cassandra knew without seeing Armand that he was not the irresistible prize Maia spoke of; he was just a man, like any other.

  “This uncertainty, my dear, it is the vital element of all seduction.”

  Maia’s face fell, but Cassandra commented disparagingly, “This attachment you talk of, it is false. You know nothing yet. Why do you come here?”

  Maia shrugged. Already she regretted confiding in this woman. The truth was Mahmoud’s bar offered company, and an opportunity to be taken outside herself, into the intrigues of his guests. But she would never reveal this to Cassandra, and as she wiped the sweat from her brow, she noticed that Cassandra’s own brow was cool.

  She did not know where Armand was, and she was not sure she cared. Abroad, away from her life in London, nothing much seemed to matter anymore. Maia was now able to admit to herself that she simply wanted to feel nothing at all. The prospect of becoming a recluse was becoming more appealing the more time she spent abroad. Anxiety was caused by other people, and she did not want to form attachments; she wanted to have nothing to do with them.

  Sitting under the ragged curtain that Mahmoud had hung so unevenly over the bar, Maia watched Cassandra emerge from the pool, glistening and sleek. She wore her face with a nonchalance that belied the exquisite attention she paid to it. The Grand Tazi was a haunt for those who could afford its secrecy, giving the opportunity for men who practiced their businesses under the façade of respectability and those who did not, come together without fear of retribution from the authorities. Some tourists seemed to imagine that this dilapidated version of chic was the latest place to be, as Mahmoud reaped the benefits from them. Maia returned to the poolside, but beside Cassandra with her enviable body, she felt mediocre. The woman was a marvel of beauty, an advertisement for conspicuous consumption and leisure. Armand entered and he saw Maia, but immediately turned to talk to someone. While she watched Armand, he knew all the while that she was looking at him. Beside her she heard Cassandra continuing her languid monologue, her soul given to a shallow cause. Maia fixed a smile on her face; the perpetual, unchanging smile of the doll like woman. She went over to the pool, and sank under the water where she felt a transformation take place. Above the surface, dark figures were moving about, but they were fig
ures from another world.

  But she could not stay submerged beneath the surface, and when she came up for air, she saw Armand standing nearby. He did not approach or acknowledge her, and so Maia lounged beside Cassandra in a secluded alcove, which was set back from the pool. She watched with interest as all afternoon his eyes sought out those of Cassandra.

  Maia noticed Cassandra watching her rather strangely and she realised that she must have been laughing to herself.

  “You know, Maia, you do look quite ugly when you laugh like that.”

  “I can’t help it, I have a highly developed sense of the ridiculous.”

  Cassandra possessed the sort of personality that might be classified as borderline. When they first encountered one another, Maia was immediately impressed by Cassandra’s charm and warmth. Only after they had spent more time together, when Cassandra simply refused to go away, did it dawn on Maia that Cassandra had a unique talent for sensing the vulnerabilities in every person that she met. She quickly became aware of how Maia might be flattered, and how easily she could be hurt. An extraordinarily skilled manipulator, she managed to do this with both force and subtlety. Whilst Cassandra was skilled at emitting a golden, seductive glow, she liked to drop little barbs into the conversation, intensely personal ones, which she made just to remind Maia about her weaknesses.

  Luxuriously, Cassandra stretched on the sun lounger beside Maia and the oil on her body glinted in the bright sunlight. She was studying an old French magazine, her legs the colour of dark mahogany, and the ease of her life reflected in the softness of her flesh. “We are the real seducers, Maia. Not the men. We are superior. Don’t allow them to usurp you. Men should worship us. They must prostrate themselves before us.”

  Looking at her, Maia imagined that men prostrated themselves before Cassandra rather too easily.

  Maia lay back, exhausted. In the orange trees above her the birds sang to each other, and the light made circles before her eyes. The perfumes of the oils mixed with the blue of the tiles in the pool made waves inside her head, and in the advancing heat she dozed.

  When Maia awoke, she was unbearably hot. She looked to her left, Cassandra had left and was now on the far side of the room with Rupert and the Bambages. Maia turned and smiled at Armand, who was talking animatedly to Rupert, but he didn’t notice her. Cassandra was standing in the centre of the group, with all eyes on her. These were the people who weeks earlier had unanimously rejected Maia. Seeing her new acquaintance accepted with such ease, she suffered a sharp thrill of envy that struck her like a blow to the chest.

  Cassandra crossed the room, back to where Maia was standing, “We are going for dinner tonight. You can come too.” A casual invite, somewhat instructed upon Maia.

  The entire evening might have turned out quite differently had they all not agreed to accompany Rupert to meet a man he had met that same evening. Konstantin said he was busy; he didn’t reveal his reasons.

  “Armand knows his way around,” he said, smiling at Maia ingenuously. Lucy Bambage was openly resentful, but they appeared to have negotiated a new deal, and a key element of that deal appeared to be Rupert’s temporary freedom. Martin was the provider of the finances, and Maia was coming along for the ride. The day was ending, it was an unusually dull, overcast evening as Maia watched the others in their disparate group moving slowly along the streets.

  “I found a fabulous place this afternoon, but it will only be opening now,” said Cassandra. Maia looked around at all her associates. Armand looked impenetrable, and the rest were quiet, as if already they had run out of conversation for the evening.

  “So, Cassandra, why don’t you show us this place?” Maia said, in a vain attempt to be civil.

  “This place you’re taking us, Cassandra,” Rupert interrupted. “I can’t stay for too long. I’m busy later.”

  “Well you can go on later then. But you’ll see that for now, this place is perfect.” Already she was assuming an unearned authority.

  They arrived outside the city walls, on a wide road that was teeming with people and taxis. Maia was feeling out of her depth; these people would abandon her without a second thought. She planned to spend some time alone, to explore the city and regain her independence, the independence she had so enjoyed before she had come to rely on Armand and his support.

  Maia feigned interest whenever Martin opened his mouth, but still she suffered a longing to disparage him. The man invited it, but from pity she remained quiet. They were surrounded by cafés into which streamed hordes of young men. Maia could not help glancing at Rupert, who appeared to be in his element. Maia had to admit that she found the place exciting, promising herself to come back again.

  “This is the place. It’s secret,” said Cassandra, with her curving, sly smile.

  “Cassandra, if it is so secret, how do you know about it?” asked Rupert.

  “I – ”

  “I know!” said Rupert, “You read it in some magazine.”

  Maia laughed quietly, but Cassandra seemed smug. All of the signs of complacency were apparent in her features.

  An old sign read ‘The Continental Palace,’ and on the steps of the building sat a very large woman guarding her oversize luggage. They were standing beside an iron staircase leading underground. A squat, bulky doorman was standing outside beneath a hanging lantern. He squared up to them in an attempt to appear threatening.

  “Very exclusive.” Rupert muttered under his breath.

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” retorted Cassandra.

  They were one of the few customers in the dimly lit restaurant. Several miserable couples were dining at tables spread far away from one another, as a miniature casino at its far end was blinking incessantly. Tucked away in the corner was a stage where an elderly, sad looking Elvis was working his way through a decrepit version of ‘Roll out the Barrel’. The room was decorated in dark maroon velvet, which Maia found fondly reminiscent of a Parisian brothel she had once visited, purely out of curiosity. Then, she had found the place amusing. Now, she was furious.

  “What is this dreadful place you’ve brought us to?” Maia asked. “It’s empty. This is so exclusive, there is no-one here!”

  “Don’t you think it’s atmospheric?”

  “Oh, you mean it’s supposed to be ironic!”

  “Ironic?” Cassandra repeated stupidly. She was not stupid, but it suited her for the others to think so. “Anyway, I am so hungry.”

  Maia was appalled to hear the murmurs of agreement, and they all sat down and buried their heads in the red leather bound menus.

  “I really don’t understand this at all,” Maia proclaimed.

  “But you speak French?” asked Cassandra.

  “I do – but this is a mess. The language is totally confused and the food is in no particular order. It’s also overpriced.”

  “That’s no problem for us,” said Martin proudly, and Maia glared at him. Martin was not malicious, merely oblivious.

  The place was squalid and dull. The uniformed waiters brought a series of starters and placed them on the table, managing to glance at Cassandra’s chest as they did so.

  “Don’t they all have remarkably large teeth?” Cassandra remarked while the men were within listening range. Maia flung what she hoped he might perceive as a conciliatory gaze.

  The meal began with lamb tagine and Maia watched in horror as Martin launched himself upon it. He tediously explained how the dish was cooked carefully in Moroccan earthenware, and laughing in inappropriate places. This insufferable laughter punctuated every other word so that she was barely able to catch the gist of what he was saying.

  “The process keeps the meat unusually moist and tender,” he said. Vacantly, Lucy Bambage placed something in her vast mouth and gobbled.

  “So Martin, does the cooking of the tagine take quite as long as your explanation of it?” asked Rupert, and as Maia watched Martin’s flabby face fall she immediately felt dreadful. Now that she was eating the tagine, she felt
quite nauseous, and then noticed that Martin had chosen an entirely different dish.

  The roasted peas with cumin reminded Maia of English skin under the sun. With uncontrollable pleasure, she recalled Armand’s olive skin, the grooves around his mouth, and the dark stubble he scraped across her neck. She looked at Armand but he did not return her glance. He was only too aware of how fatally Maia was compelled by him. Cassandra was of a different calibre. To add to her discomfort, Maia was forced to watch Cassandra and Armand sitting opposite, whispering to one another as they shared a rich stew. Maia sat stony faced, steadily downing one drink after another.

  “Watch her go at it!” bellowed Lucy Bambage, drawing the group’s attention to Maia’s drinking, but Maia barely registered her; she was too far gone to be ashamed. A delicious blur ensued. She was discovering how she might lose herself, a habit she had never before explored. Every so often, Cassandra threw her a conceited glance. Rupert, who had long finished his food, was sat there chain smoking, surveying the room disdainfully. Martin was gobbling down something meaty, his breath heaving noisily as the fork dived in and out of the mess he had created upon his plate. So eager was he to force the next mouthful down that he didn’t bother to chew, but stuck out his tongue and plunged the next morsel down as the sauces splattered across his shirt.

  “Just melts into the mouth,” he gurgled.

  Rupert looked at him. “Delightful. An authentic feast. But then you think all food is delicious.”

  The others laughed at him. Martin lacked the wit to respond. He was tolerated for the luxuries he offered and was so grateful for their company that he never noticed he was being taken advantage of.

  In her drunkenness, Maia lost control, lunging at Cassandra, who was sitting there passively across the table. The other men were too transfixed to attempt to stop her. Tears glinted in Cassandra’s eyes and with a sinking heart Maia realised that she had played straight into her hands. With this sudden revelation, she fell back into the chair.

  “That’s enough!” Armand sat back, and put his arm around Cassandra. He was silent, alternately gazing at Maia, and examining his fingernails. It infuriated Maia that she couldn’t elicit more of a response from him. He was utterly immovable. Not for the first time, she wondered if Armand was totally devoid of the ability to feel emotion. He was cold, ruthless and uncaring. At the moment, however, he was infatuated with Cassandra. Finally, he spoke, “You’re being hysterical.”