Tangier
July 1978
Sam hurried along the Rue Dar-el Baroud, his throat raw from running. A wind had picked up, scudding across the city, bearing its load of grit and sand towards the Mediterranean. The night sky was tinged pink, bloody at the edges and in his sudden fever he felt as though some djinn was whirling around him. A night for wild schemes, he thought.
He’d passed the Hotel Continental many times but, like the El Minzah, had never been in. It stood at the very edge of the casbah, past the Grand Mosque, built out of the old city walls, staring seaward like a grand dame decked in jewels, her face turned away from the shabby city at her heel.
Sam stopped on the steps that led up to the terrace, beer thudding in his head, the writing case stuck to his hand. If this place was anything like the El Minzah he couldn’t just fling himself in to the reception, crumpled and breathless, and present them with a fifty-year-old cloakroom tag. They’d look at him as if he was mad.
I am mad, he thought. Whatever item the tag belonged to was probably long gone. A shiver ran across his skin as he pulled the scrap of leather from his pocket and stared at it in the green and red light of the hotel’s illuminated sign. What did he expect to find here, except disappointment? He turned it in his fingers. Perhaps finding wasn’t the point …
Swallowing some moisture back into his throat, he tucked the writing case beneath his arm, and walked up the steps, trying to look dignified.
But the Hotel Continental was not like the El Minzah. Instead of dark wood and stern marble, he found himself among a riot of coloured tiles, kaleidoscopic from floor to ceiling. For a moment, it was dazzling. Then he blinked and saw that many of the tiles were cracked or missing, the velvet drapes threadbare and sun-stained, the brocade sofas worn bald with use.
The empty reception smelled of ancient rose petals and hot dust. There was no one at the desk. He rang a bell and the noise wandered away into the hotel’s interior, in search of a reply that never came.
Hesitantly, he walked into a hallway hung with portraits, darkness creeping from their corners. There were grand stairs, the gilded banisters chipped and flaking. He followed them up, towards a clinking sound, and found himself at the entrance of a long gallery, with huge arched windows that overlooked the bay. For a moment, he thought the clinking would be nothing but a curtain tie, stirring in the breeze, but then he heard voices, and a figure materialized from the gloom: a young man in an old-fashioned green uniform.
‘Bonsoir, monsieur,’ he said softly. ‘A table?’
He looked so hopeful that Sam almost considered saying yes, taking a strange, quiet meal alone there in the glittering carcass of the hotel.
‘No,’ he forced himself to say, ‘no, I’m sorry. I was looking for someone at reception. I wanted to ask about … I wanted to ask a question.’
The young man’s eyes were wide. ‘Please, wait, I will fetch the manager.’
‘No, don’t disturb—’
But the young man was already gone, his footsteps echoing away. Sam had no choice but to wait, surrounded by the quiet murmurings of the few diners at the far end of the room. He allowed his eyes to blur, his imagination to run. Had A. L., the owner of the case, once sat here in solitary splendour, penning a letter before departing Tangier, never to return? Perhaps the dining room had been full of guests back then, champagne and brandy and music from a piano, chatter in French, English, Arabic, cigar smoke swirling like secret code.
‘Monsieur?’ He looked up. A middle-aged man was standing before him. ‘I am Farouk, the manager here,’ he smiled. ‘How may I help? You are interested in a room? I am sorry for your wait, we do not have many staff tonight.’
‘That’s, ah, OK.’ Sam shifted in his espadrilles. ‘I’m not here about a room. I wanted to ask about your … cloakroom. It sounds crazy, but I have this.’ He pulled the tag from his pocket. ‘I think it came from here?’
The manager frowned, holding out his hand. In the dim light, the leather tag looked older than ever.
‘Oui,’ he said at last. ‘Oui, oui, this belonged to the Continental.’ He looked at Sam over his spectacles. ‘How did you come by it, monsieur?’
‘I found it,’ Sam said, before immediately regretting the words. He needed some reason to explain his being there, to make it less strange. I’m trying to write a book wouldn’t cut it. ‘That is, I found it among my late uncle’s possessions. This was his too,’ he said quickly, showing them the case.
The manager looked no less confused. ‘Your uncle was a guest with us?’ He held up the tag. ‘But this is very old. I have never seen one like it, and I have worked here for twenty years.’
‘Yes, I think he was a guest.’ Sam could feel himself turning red. ‘Perhaps some time around nineteen twenty-eight?’
‘That is fifty years ago, monsieur!’
‘I know, I know, I just—’ He groped for some rational argument, but there wasn’t one. ‘I just wondered why he kept it,’ he muttered. ‘Whether he left any belongings here, unclaimed, for some reason. I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea.’
The manager was smiling now, polite but pitying. ‘It is true we sometimes store items for guests, but for this long?’ He handed back the tag. ‘I do not know.’
‘Store? Then you do have a storage room?’
‘Of course, monsieur.’
‘Could …’ His curiosity was too much. What might be lurking in the storeroom of a hotel like this? ‘Could I perhaps have a look?’
The manager’s eyebrows rose. ‘We do not allow guests to enter the storeroom. It is untidy. Too many old things.’
‘But I’m not a guest. I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about this place,’ he bluffed, hoping to sound convincing. ‘About this hotel, about the past in Tangier. That’s why I’ve been going through my uncle’s things. It would be great to have a quick look. Even if my uncle’s belongings aren’t there.’
The manager gave a little sigh. Sam scrabbled in the pocket of his jeans.
‘Please,’ he said again, reaching for the manager’s hand. ‘It’s important to me. I’d be very grateful.’
The ten-dirham note felt crumpled against his fingers, and for a moment, he thought the manager might drop it in disgust. But then the man was straightening his jacket, and the money was gone, as if it had never been there at all.
‘Very well, monsieur. I do not see the harm. I will send Mohamed with you. He will assist.’ Keep an eye on you, in other words.
The storeroom was low down in the hotel, a semi-subterranean room that looked as if it had once been carved from the coastal rock itself. When the metal door swung open, it released a waft of air, cool with stone-must. Perhaps this cave had once been used to house barrels of wine, crates of tobacco and contraband rowed in from creaking ships. Perhaps Bet had even used it, back in her smuggling days, bribing the manager with charm and French cigarettes, stowing boxes and suitcases in the dead of night, conducting shady business from the hotel terrace.
An overhead bulb flickered on, sickly yellow, illuminating the space.
The manager was right. There was no romance of the past here, no buccaneer’s hoard, only the detritus of decades, washed up against the sides of the room. A broken hat stand listed from a vast pile of newspapers and periodicals, a lidless toilet yawned mournfully. There were empty metal drums that had once held oil, rusted gas canisters, a mattress from another era, sporting the stains of its many occupants. Nevertheless, junk could hide treasure …
‘You see, monsieur,’ Mohamed said, ‘there is nothing—’
‘It’s great,’ Sam interrupted. ‘It’s perfect. The mess doesn’t matter.’ He squinted upwards. ‘Is that the only light?’
‘I am afraid so.’
‘Do you have a torch or something?’
He saw the young man hesitate, no doubt worrying what the manager would say if he found out that the strange foreigner had been left alone in the storeroom, to lay his hands on god knows what.
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�I’ll stay right here until you’re back,’ Sam said. ‘I wouldn’t want to trip over anything.’
That seemed to do the trick. Mohamed nodded. ‘I will get a torch. But please, do not touch.’
Sam stood completely still, letting the fusty air of the storeroom surround him. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to be alone, but now that he was, he could feel anticipation prickling beneath his skin, like the surface of water just before it boils.
He took one step forward, then another. The smell of salt-damp and rust grew stronger. His eyes traced the forms of shelves crammed with objects; frayed electric cords, glass seltzer dispensers clouded by time, miscellaneous fabrics long-folded, stiffened into parchment. There was something thrilling about all those things, left to decay. He felt like an archaeologist, unravelling the secrets of lost decades, of countless lives, one ordinary object at a time. Was it a lie, to say he was writing a book about Tangier, about the past? For all he knew he was: that’s what the letter had been. An arrow, shot back through the centuries.
The space grew cramped, shelves closing in. He had to turn sideways to squeeze between them. One was stacked high with squarish objects. The light from the bulb barely stroked the darkness here, and Sam wished Mohamed would hurry back with the torch, while simultaneously hoping he would not. Against one wall, a broken mirror was propped, shards of glass clinging to a frame. Carefully, he worked one of them loose and crouched down. Sure enough, when he angled it this way and that, a few inches of light flashed across the shelves, illuminating leather, rusted metal, paper.
Luggage. He was looking at a huge shelf full of luggage; suitcases and valises, trunks and hatboxes. He stared, opening his eyes wide, trying to see more in the gloom. What if A. L. had left his belongings, all those years ago, through absentmindedness or misadventure?
He began to move the beam of light back and forth across the shelves. He tried to be methodical, but there were so many cases, stacked floor to ceiling, and he didn’t even know what he was looking for.
Gold flashed in the darkness and he stopped. Hardly daring to breathe, he inched the beam of light back across a shelf until it caught on something. There, on the front of a leather suitcase, two gold initials were glinting, half obscured by grime:
A. L.
Continental Sour
Take a bar glass and fill with shaved ice. Into this add a teaspoon of sugar dissolved in water and the juice of half a lemon. Add a jigger of whisky, shake and strain into a sour glass. Dash with claret. A marriage of two worlds.
When I awoke on that beach, I became aware of three things, above all others. First was the smell: baked seaweed and tarred rope and sun-scorched wood. Second was the feel of sand, in my hair, clinging to the sweat on my skin. And third was hunger, like I had never felt before.
No matter how bad things were at the inn, I rarely went hungry. Perhaps that was why I didn’t entertain thoughts of leaving, until there was no other choice. Ifrahim and I would often keep back the best for ourselves, sneaking slivers of the choicest cuts of meat, corners of fresh cheese, glasses of wine. When the rest of the inn was replete, we would take our cook’s reward in the kitchen. It was a habit I continued after Ifrahim died. Sometimes, I’d even use one of the best crystal glasses for my stolen wine, and recline by the stove, pretending there was someone to wait on me, to turn down my bed at the ring of a bell.
Full belly, happy heart, the saying goes. Mine had never been so empty as that evening on the beach, the end of my first day as a fugitive. My belly wrung itself out, and my guts lay leaden, unable to stir themselves to help my heart.
I staggered to my feet, thinking only of food. From along the beach came the sound of shouting and the smell of cigarette smoke. I made my way across the sand towards it. There, I saw a small boat rolling in the shallows, men swarming around it. They had formed a chain, over a dozen of them, and were passing goods from the boat to the beach, to a wagon that stood, half-loaded.
Before another minute was up they were done, pushing the boat back out to sea. In a daze, I drifted forwards. Hunger and thirst drove the fear of being recognized as a wanted woman right out of my mind.
By now, the men were crowding about someone, exclaiming and stretching out their hands. In the middle of the group, a huge man was paying the workers, counting coins into their palms. Beside him stood a man in a black hat, wearing a starched collar despite the heat. Money – the thought crossed my brain, slug-like – that was what I needed. Money for food and drink and a safe place to spend the night.
Finally, the last men were paid. They dispersed, laughing together, weighing their wages in their hands. One of them caught me staring.
‘Hola chica,’ he said, rolling a coin.
I ignored him, watching the man in the black hat instead, the one who was undoubtedly in charge. But he was already walking away, the leather bag held tight. Abruptly the beach looked deserted.
‘Wait!’ I heard myself calling. The worker who had spoken to me turned back.
‘Changed your mind?’ he leered.
‘Please. Can you spare a céntimo? I haven’t eaten for days.’
He laughed at that, showing the dark gaps of missing teeth. ‘You and me both, sister.’
His friends were catcalling, telling him to hurry up and not to bother talking to a perra.
‘Please,’ I said, following him as he walked. ‘I’ll pay you back when I find work. I’m a good cook, I just need to eat. Please.’
The man’s smile sank into irritation. ‘You want work, go do it on the Calle Mirimar, like all the other whores.’
I watched him go, biting back tears of shame and anger. Except for the Señor, it had been a long time since any man had spoken to me like that. They didn’t dare; even the truly insolent ones usually held their tongues when they realized that I was in charge of the kitchen, and could easily drop something foul into their food, or worse.
But that world was gone. Out here, I was nothing. These people didn’t know that I could take offcuts of meat and stew them into spiced softness or make a man sick to the guts with a few pinches of powder in his soup; that I could mix a drink to empty a purse or cook a rabo de toro that could lead a girl to murder. All they saw was a woman in stained clothes with a bruised, sunburned face. I truly understood then, for the first time, how the girls at the inn must have felt. Long hair and a skirt and a pair of open legs, that was all men saw of them. It was all men would see of me now. I had wanted to disappear into a wash of humanity, but not like that. Never like that.
My wandering steps took me into a town; La Atunara, I saw it was called. It began as a stretch of shanties beyond the beach, makeshift structures of wood and tin, tar-smeared cloth and whatever else could be found to plug the holes. Children played naked in the dust, dogs roamed, vines and small trees sprang in yards, where chickens scratched hopefully. Amongst it all, I went entirely unnoticed.
Eventually, the street widened and the houses became bars, gaudy with tacked-up advertisements. On one corner, a woman was cooking fish over a brazier. Sardines, whole, skewered four to a stick, grilled in nothing but salt and their skin. The scent of food made me stagger with longing, and I reeled out of the thoroughfare to lean against a wall.
It can’t have been more than a minute or two before I heard someone addressing me. I opened my eyes. It was a girl, her lips rouged, her blouse worn sheer, showing the frayed lace of her chemise.
‘What?’ I murmured.
‘I said that’s Concetta’s spot. She’ll beat you if you stay there.’
I blinked at her, but the street seemed to be lurching forwards and backwards. All I could do was steady myself on the wooden wall, and close my eyes again.
She swore and walked away. I willed myself not to faint. If I collapsed, no one would lift me up, and if they did, it would not be in kindness.
‘Here,’ I heard the girl’s voice again, up close now. ‘These are mine but you can have a few.’
She was holding out a newspaper bundle
. The smell hit me, fish oil, chargrilled flesh, warm paper. It was filled with scraps of sardines, the bits that had fallen off into the brazier.
‘She lets us have these for cheap,’ the girl said, jerking her head at the fish-woman. ‘Knows we don’t have time to eat a whole stick. I tried once. Made me sick, eating them that fast.’ She picked out a chunk of blackened fish, and ate it. ‘Well?’ she asked, chewing.
I reached towards the paper, took a piece and put the whole thing in my mouth. It was glorious, burnt salt, sweet flesh that tasted just how the sea had smelled. We never had fish that fresh at the inn. Often I had to spice it with a heavy hand, redden it with paprika and pepper to disguise the fact it was bad. But this … I reached for another piece.
We ate like that, chewing and spitting out the sharp bones, until the fish was all gone, and only the oily paper remained.
‘Thank you,’ I told her, my mouth tingling with salt. ‘I was about to die of hunger.’
She dropped the paper to the ground. ‘You just get here?’
I nodded. ‘From inland. Looking for work.’
She laughed and looked me over, her eyes flicking from my bruised nose to the dirt beneath my nails. ‘No offence but you might have to wait till it gets late, there’s that many girls working here. Most of us got regulars.’
‘I didn’t mean—’ I stopped.
She looked at me, her lips twisted. ‘You mean you didn’t come here to whore? None of us did, chica. Most of us came looking to be domestics, over there.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the rock. ‘Course no one tells you before you leave home that there isn’t any work, that the Brits bring their own lot in.’
‘What about the men on the shore?’ I asked. ‘They had work, carrying cargo from a boat. There was a man who paid them. In a black hat.’
An Echo of Scandal Page 8