Alexandra Singer

by Tea at the Grand Tazi

  When Armand came to fetch her, she could hardly look at him. She slept as he drove back to the city and it was already dark when they entered the walls, driving slowly through the shifting crowd of onlookers. Out of the window, Maia watched a young man whose tooth was being pulled out. She was horrified. He was sitting nervously on a stool waiting. The tooth puller was standing down looking at him, grinning sadistically. Maia heard the scream pierce the air and she shuddered and turned away.

  Armand watched her. “It may seem crude to you Maia, but it is all most people can afford.”

  “Why did you give me that stuff and not take any yourself?”

  “Why, didn’t you like it?”

  Only to herself would she admit that she did. “You forced me. And I don’t need to depend on it.”

  He turned and stroked her face. “But you are so unhappy, Maia, you already do.”

  “No!”

  “You have no choice.” His voice was harsh. “You need it now. We made you need it.”

  So many times he had heard this conversation. The formula was always the same. This reaction he elicited in women had begun to be unutterably boring. He wanted to laugh at Maia, but her innocence chilled him. She clung to him, and it made him more determined to hurt her. There are women who one has an irresistible desire to worship, and others who demand to be abused. At one time, he had been an empathetic being, but now he was a man who preyed on others.

  In Maia’s head she was busy creating all sorts of stories and myths to justify his actions. He too had been a victim. This, she knew, was how the world worked. She could not believe in mere sadism, it was too farfetched. She still wanted to release him from his compulsion – as yet she gave no thought to her own. He had suffered; he was suffering still.

  They stopped at a café and he offered her a hot, spicy drink.

  “Why did you use me? What do you want from me?” she asked him.

  He watched how she projected all of her own desires on to him. The idealised view Maia had created of him increased his enjoyment in destroying it.

  “Maia,” he said evasively, “each man kills the thing he loves.”

  She looked at him, unfeeling and hard, and with horror she understood there was a deep ugliness within him, an ugliness that she had never known before in anyone.

  “But Armand, we barely know one another. You do not love me.”

  He smiled at her kindly, and stroked her arm. “All the more reason for it then.”

  Maia sat back, shocked at how horribly she had misjudged him, how a mere dalliance nearly destroyed her. In the square the Gnaoa musicians danced, they sat in silence watching them and smoking. Later on the only people still remaining in the square were a few lute players, the dealers and the gigolos, old rolling Europeans whom she recognised from her nights at the Grand Tazi.

  “I need to know why you did that to me.”

  “You really do take this all too seriously. Did you not come here to escape?”

  “Not like that. I wanted to be free, to express myself.”

  “Well, we all want that. You want to go to the Grand Tazi? Your friend might be there.”

  “What you did to me is a crime.”

  “All of it?”

  “I trusted you.”

  He smiled his canine grin, and placed his hand over hers. “I don’t share your opinion.”

  “And you think I am happy now? Are you happy, Armand?”

  “Happiness is something which does not interest me.”

  The man sitting before her cared nothing for the misery he had brought to others. Never before had Maia met somebody who was so self possessed and so utterly devoid of a conscience.

  “You don’t get past me,” he said. “You wanted excitement, wanted to do things that you could never get away with back home.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You wanted to lose yourself. And now you will. I’ll take you back.”

  “I don’t want you to. I don’t want you near me.”

  “Oh, but you do,” he said, and despising herself, she let him take her hand. Maia was wondering how she would face the Historian now, how much did he know?

  When she returned, Ina was waiting in silence. She handed her a small envelope, and turned away. When Maia reached her room, she found hundreds of crisp notes inside. Everything fell into place. She had been the pawn in a game. But what use was she to them? Her senses were too dulled to be angry, although she knew that was how she ought to feel. Here was the suggestion that she could be bought, and she resolved to return the cash to the Historian the moment they met again. But for now, she could only stand beside her bed, holding the envelope, drained of all energy. She could not shake the sense that she deserved it, through her naivety, her hope, her fascination. She had allowed herself to be drawn in, through her desire to be accepted.

  In the weeks that followed Maia frequented a café known as ‘The Chaumiere’, but the atmosphere was never the same. There was no sense of frivolity, no figures of dubious influence, no musicians or people with interesting stories to tell. There were no other foreigners with whom she could talk, and rather than being able to sketch and observe the clientele, Maia found instead that it was always her who was being observed. Maybe she had experienced the oblivion she had so longed for.

  Weeks later, she ran into Rupert in the street. He was unshaven and behaving evasively. He would not meet her eyes and told her he was leaving; when she invited him to join her for a tea he was apologetic, but he had no time to spare.

  “One last tea, Rupert.”

  “Fine. One last tea.”

  In the café, she could barely get him to speak.

  “Why are you leaving, Rupert?”

  “I might as well ask you why you are staying. You seem so... diminished.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Maia.

  “I think you know exactly what I mean. I really do like you, but I don’t think that we are cut from the same cloth.”

  “Don’t use clichés with me, Rupert,” said Maia, sharply.

  “I must leave,” he said, sighing dramatically. Then, with a sharp laugh he raised his drink to his mouth, made a vague gesture, and promptly disappeared from her life.

  Chapter 11

  As the weeks passed Maia found her cravings impossible to ignore. She had become completely engrossed with her painting again, and only ventured outside for her daily trip up and down the main rue. In the evenings Maia looked at the lights in the small windows carved into the walls as she walked down the street.

  She eventually found herself tracing a familiar route. The way to the bar was etched indelibly in her mind.

  At first, Maia had been reluctant to see Mahmoud. She was too consumed with the influence of the drug to be angry with him, too weak to feel outraged. In the event, Maia need not have worried. When she did find the courage to return to the Grand Tazi, Mahmoud was as welcoming as always.

  As she entered, Maia passed by several intricately handmade lamps in stained glass, the light shining through different shades of red. Mahmoud startled her, grabbing her arm. “You like?”

  “Very nice, Mahmoud.”

  He grinned. “I knew you would come back.”

  “This was no choice, and you know it.”

  “Of course my dear, whatever you say.”

  “This deceiving, Mahmoud. It can’t go on. It should never have happened.”

  “Why ever not?” he asked, and turned on her a wide and disarming smile, before bumbling off to lure some more tourists into spending money at the bar.

  With the passing of innumerable nights and easily forgettable personalities which faded immediately from her memory, Maia’s longing for pleasure and relief took place so quickly that she never had an opportunity to recognise it. Armand always delivered exactly what she needed in the required amounts, and he never tried to force himself on her again. He had no need to. When she lay awake in bed, showered in the cold trickle of water, or wat
ched from the roof the black clad figures of women moving slowly around under the scathing sun, she wondered about the motives of the men and the strange web of their relations. Her suspicions grew; unformulated thoughts arose in her mind, hazy in the heat.

  Although she could hardly begin to deny the pleasure into which they had introduced her, she did feel betrayed. They all knew she would never have willingly ingested the drug, that once it caught her in its warm, black void, it would never willingly relinquish its hold. They had wanted her to trial it for them. Yet they could easily have chosen someone else, another who was already inducted. They had targeted her because all three of them had taken a perverse delight in getting her hooked. She was lethargic; it was only the constant desire for release that kept her awake in the stultifying heat. Even in the shade, exhaustion took over.

  When Armand was late, and her supplies were dwindling, she became anxious. And when he did not come at all, she suffered. He gave her weeks of uncertainty.

  Looking in the mirror she was sure she could see lines on her forehead and around her eyes, which had not been there before. Her face was thinner, her cheekbones were more defined than ever, but now her ribcage was visible. She believed that all the excesses of her life were gradually becoming displayed on her face. It was horrible, the dread and anxiety suffocated her. Each day, as she got out of bed, she pulled the bandages back over her arm. Every day was the same.

  At the Grand Tazi, Mahmoud was greeting his guests enthusiastically, and advancing beween the tables, behind a pleasant, welcoming mask. Maia found Konstantin in his usual spot by the bar. Mahmoud came over to join them. He looked her over, “You do look a little gaunt.”

  “I’ve been so busy painting.”

  “Well, don’t become a recluse,” said Mahmoud, and then he laughed energetically for no reason at all.

  It was nearly a fortnight after she had returned from the Atlas before she saw the Historian again. As she sat with Konstantin, the agreeable sense of lightness slipped away from her. Then his voice was in her ears and she turned to find his face bending down over her.

  “Excuse me,” the Historian said, “I must introduce you to somebody important.”

  “I have been waiting to speak to you. You thought you could buy me. I want to speak to you alone.”

  He bent down towards her. “Not now, Maia, I beg you. You will embarrass yourself. Don’t you think you have done quite enough to damage your reputation?” He smiled and stood up, placing his hand on her hair, he ruffled it. “This girl is like my daughter now!” he announced to no-one in particular. His grip on her scalp was firm.

  He pulled her up onto her feet and began to fuss over her, calling to Tariq for drinks and asking her about her paintings. Maia had been prepared to speak to him with as much coldness as she could muster, but now she was trapped, confused by his sudden interest.

  The Historian sat down, bringing with him a man she had never seen before. She wanted to ask him so many questions, but she knew that this was not the time.

  The Historian’s friend was carrying an aloof air for one who was so short of stature. His hair was curly and black, and the informal way in which he wore his luxurious fabrics with a crimson silk scarf bestowed a charming appearance of eccentricity. Maia had become suspicious of the Historian’s friends. She thought the man had the air of a faded screen star, who had once been handsome and still hoped to be found so. He extended his hand to her, “Dr Mathias de Farcas.”

  Maia knew who he was. “A medical doctor?”

  “No!” said Mathias de Farcas defensively, confirming her doubts. “I am actually a Professor of Islamic art.”

  She felt that he looked upon her as a bird of prey looks upon its next victim.

  “Can I get you a little drink?” asked the Professor.

  “I am feeling a little sleepy,” said Maia, “it must be the sun.”

  “I insist. Mihai tells me you have been a great help to him, and that you are an artist?”

  “I love the light here. There’s beauty in the mosaics, the sculptures, all the jewellery.”

  “Maia is here to do some work for me first and foremost. But she is interested in painting. Painting women in particular.” The hint of contempt in his low voice was unmistakable.

  “Don’t we all,” laughed the Professor, signalling to Tariq for more drinks. “And what is your style? What materials do you use? Where has your work been shown?”

  Maia saw the type of man he was. He wanted her to justify her every move, to render herself acceptable in his eyes. The truth, was that she didn’t have her own style. She was still only developing it.

  “I paint in symbols,” said Maia, although this was a lie.

  “Ah ha, a surrealist is what you are. You are very cryptic. Never fear, my dear, I shall find you out sooner than later,” said de Farcas, a sly smile playing upon his lips.

  His threat disturbed her. She felt his eyes exploring the contours of her neck and shoulders, lazily roaming down the rest of her body.

  Looking away, Maia noticed Cassandra enter the room. She hadn’t seen her since that disastrous dinner at Yasser’s. Both she and the Bambage’s seemed to have faded into the ether. She was unrecognisable from the woman she had watched crouching on the floor in pain. She had drawn on her mask; gold and black makeup smeared heavily across her eyes, lending her the appearance of an Egyptian queen. Several men came over to the bar to talk to her, but she looked at them with disdain and turned them away. Cassandra was pure glamour; she was both hard and available at the same time, inciting her male onlookers and provoking the female ones to compare. Maia could only stare and wonder how she had achieved that self possession.

  For the first time that evening, Maia saw Armand. She watched as he went over to speak to Cassandra. She knew she could do nothing about it.

  Konstantin noticed the look on Maia’s face, “I beg you, pay no attention to him. I’ve seen him at it with so many women over the years.”

  “Thank you Konstantin. That makes me feel so very special.”

  “I’m afraid that is the truth.” He peered down at her through his spectacles and cocked his tiny bald head.

  Before the first word was uttered, the agenda was already decided. Cassandra and Armand looked at one another. Cassandra pushed back her hair, did something with her lips, and fluttered her eyes at him. Armand smiled debonairly. Maia already knew how this game would end. Armand was certain that he could not be resisted, and it could not be more obvious that Cassandra was willing to surrender to him.

  “I prefer to paint the female in all situations.” Maia said to the Professor. “Fully clothed, surrounded by realism, so that the reaction of the intruding male is not necessarily erotic but merely mundane.”

  “I see. You wish your paintings to be mundane?”

  “My women... ”

  “Listen to her! My women!” said the Professor.

  Ignoring the interruption, Maia continued. “I wouldn’t exactly label my paintings mundane, just because they are not pornographic.”

  “What do you think of the niqab? The veil that some of the women wear.”

  “It is not often their choice, and it must be unbearably hot. Men want to cover them up, but then they get upset when they cannot see a woman’s face. I find that mindset interesting. The women can see but they cannot be seen. It encourages a completely irrational notion of exotic sensuality and mystery. A woman ought to have the right to cover her face.”

  “You do take yourself very seriously, my dear,” smiled the Professor, “but you do go on and on about the female body. In the West, do you not think that society is so rigidly sexualised? Men don’t stare at you in the street, but they stare at other women in magazines and newspapers instead. You have exposed, naked women everywhere. I bet you find it strange that the men there bother only with unattainable women.”

  “At least the men there never bother me.”

  “But you must admit that the relationship between the man and the wo
man has lost all of its playfulness, all of the energy of seduction? It simply does not exist for you anymore. I would be willing to wager that sometimes you wish it would.”

  Maia thought about this. She saw the men here as inadequate, loitering indolently in the cafés and on the street corners, unable to control their urges. But perhaps he was right; in her own country, almost everything had become sexualised. Men did not stare at her in the streets, but on the television, and in the clubs and the bars, in all the confined spaces the heavy charge of sexual expression was unavoidable. Romance had been replaced by freedom of expression, and Maia wondered if her way was any better.

  Eventually the Historian spoke, and when he did, Maia noticed a smile playing around the edge of his lips, “But the Mona Lisa looks out at us, with that knowing smile upon her face.” He taunted her, learing. “I bet you too wish that you were viewed so sexually. This perverse desire of yours... this perverse desire of all women.”

  Maia shrugged. “Perhaps you are right. There is no freedom from the eyes of men or women. But it is the asymmetrical gaze I am talking about, the exhibition of a totally unequal power relationship. Then, it is only women who fit the ideal of feminine beauty who enjoy this gaze. I think that men are upset about the veil because a woman can look at you, but you cannot see her.”

  “Upset me? How does it upset me?”

  “The man is superior in society. He does not like to be watched.”

  “I do!” said Konstantin, in an attempt to lighten the conversation.

  Maia laughed, and patted his arm. “I know you do.”

  The Historian was smoking a long, thin cigarette as he watched their exchange. “But still it persists, this notion that the male looking at a painting is the intruder. Ridiculous. Women look too, do they not?”

  “They do, but I don’t feel it’s in the same predatory way.”

  “Are all the women in your paintings beautiful?” asked the Professor.

  “Certainly not. Sometimes unattractive women have the greatest character. They have had to learn to be interesting, to earn the right merely to be noticed.”

  The Professor laughed. “All cats are black in the dark, I suppose.”