An Echo of Scandal

by Laura Madeleine

  He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he awoke it was with ink-stained fingers and a page beneath his face, every inch covered with writing.

  He didn’t read it – worried it wouldn’t make sense in daylight – only stacked it with the others. The pile was growing now. He laid a hand on top of them. As long as he could keep going, he was sure those pages could become something. A new start, perhaps.

  There was now only one sheet of paper that remained almost blank. He lifted out the strange pencil-written note. Why hadn’t he mentioned it to Langham?

  A,

  I am sorry.

  One day, I hope you’ll understand.

  He sat back, uneasy. What did it mean, and why had it never been sent? Why had it remained, hidden in the writing case, when it was obviously so important?

  I was there, the night it happened. I saw him. I saw them both.

  Could he believe Lillian, old and ill as she was? Something had happened at the grand house, back in 1928, Sam was certain of that. His skin prickled. Alejandro del Potro’s fate was still unknown. All Sam knew was that he had left a passport behind. What if Alejandro was A, and Langham had done something terrible?

  Sighing, he slid the letter back into the writing case and closed the lid. He felt as if he was chasing phantoms around the city; A. L. had become Arthur Langham, the strange figure he had pursued through the medina had become a young woman. When would Alejandro del Potro reveal himself, step from the passport photograph into life?

  He itched to get back to Dar Portuna. By two o’clock in the afternoon, he couldn’t stand waiting any more, and headed towards the medina.

  His feet took their usual route, past the pigeon-haunted wreck of the Cinema Rif, up towards the Place de France and the Gran Café. Outside the El Minzah, he stopped. Norton usually took a nap at his hotel before returning to work after lunch. Sam had hours yet to kill, and a cool drink in the bar wouldn’t go amiss. Maybe he could even borrow a tie …

  ‘Hack!’ Norton exclaimed, striding from the elevators. ‘What a nice surprise.’ His face was puffy from sleep, eyes a little reddened. They widened at the sight of the suitcase in Sam’s hand. ‘Don’t tell me you’re leaving?’

  Sam smiled. ‘No. I’m just …’ He hesitated. He hadn’t told Norton about the suitcase yet, or what it contained.

  ‘Does that belong to your old man?’ Norton asked.

  ‘Yeah. How’d you know?’

  ‘Same leather, same initials.’ Norton pointed at the top of the case. ‘Obviously part of a set. You pick that up from your kif broker, too?’

  Sam nodded slowly, unsure about why he was lying. It seemed easier than trying to explain the bizarre series of events at the Hotel Continental. That was his story, part of what he was writing, still private.

  ‘Anything good inside?’

  ‘Just clothes.’ He tried to sound casual.

  ‘And your old man wants them back?’

  ‘It’s sentimental, I think,’ Sam said, turning away. ‘Time for a quick drink?’

  ‘’Fraid not.’ Norton looked towards the bar mournfully. ‘But walk me to the office?’

  They crossed the busy street and went along in silence for a while.

  ‘This old chap,’ Norton said. ‘You met him then?’

  Sam nodded. ‘I worked out where he lived. A huge old place in the casbah called Dar Portuna. It looks abandoned, but it isn’t.’

  ‘And you’re going to take that back to him?’

  ‘Yes. This evening.’ He walked on, thinking about it all again. Langham had talked for hours yesterday, but he hadn’t actually answered anything. Was he hiding something? Was there another way to find out?

  ‘You all right?’ Norton said, when they arrived outside a modern-looking building near the American Embassy. ‘You’ve hardly said a word.’

  Sam nodded vaguely. ‘I was just thinking … how long has there been an Interpress office here in Tangier? Do you know?’

  Norton chucked the end of his cigarette into the gutter. ‘I do, in fact. We’ve been here since nineteen twenty-one, venerable establishment that we are. They told me that at orientation last week. Don’t say I never listen.’

  1921. Sam tried to keep the excitement from his voice, but it was no good. ‘Do you have archives, in there? You must, right?’

  ‘Of course, in the basement.’ Norton narrowed his eyes. ‘Why, what are you after?’

  Sam felt as if his skin was fizzing. If something had happened at Dar Portuna back in July 1928, there was every chance it might have made the papers, especially in a town like Tangier.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve been writing about the twenties, right? Nineteen twenty-eight. Is there any way I could look through your archives?’

  ‘They’re off-limits to civilians, staff members only, I’m afraid.’ Norton paused. ‘I mean, I could look for you, if it was for something specific.’

  ‘You could? Today? That would be—’

  Norton cut him off with a snort. ‘Not today. I do actually have to work sometimes. It’d take me an age to trawl through a whole year’s worth of papers.’ Sam’s disappointment must have shown, because Norton sighed. ‘Look, if you could narrow it down to a particular week, it would be easier. And if I knew what to keep an eye out for …’

  Sam was barely listening. His mind was flying back to his room at Madame Sarah’s, where he’d left the writing case and the strange, undelivered letter.

  I am sorry.

  ‘What about a date? An exact date?’

  Norton raised his eyebrows.

  ‘28th July 1928,’ Sam said quickly, the date escaping his lips before he could stop it. He felt as if he was spilling a secret, but he wasn’t, was he? He hadn’t really said anything.

  ‘I’m guessing you want me to look now,’ Norton said, ‘before you see your old man?’

  Sam swallowed. ‘If you could. I’m due there at five.’

  ‘All right, I’ll do my best.’ Norton looked down at the suitcase. ‘Want to leave that here for a few hours, rather than dragging it around? I can ask them to keep it behind reception, if you like. Don’t want it getting nicked.’

  Sam followed Norton through the glass doors, his mind jumping, trying to ignore a vague sense of guilt.

  28th July. The date at the top of that desperate letter; perhaps the date when everything changed.

  One day, I hope you’ll understand.

  Corpse Reviver No. 1

  Take a pony of Italian vermouth and a pony of Calvados. Add a jigger of Cognac. Shake well with lump ice and strain into a cocktail glass. Drink before eleven a.m. to awake the dead.

  Back then, it was impossible to tell what was real. We all of us had our masks, servant and lord, demimonde and diplomat. No matter that some of the masks were made from silk and diamonds, and others from sack and tailor’s chalk. They all worked the same. They all hid as much as they revealed.

  The crowd at Dar Portuna was no exception. Lady Bailey’s mask was made from thin clouds of opium smoke, Bouzid’s from calm and stony silence. As for Langham … I couldn’t see his so clearly. After the gift of the book, I thought he might have sought me out for another conference. But one day became two, became three, and I barely saw him.

  Often he was gone very early, where I didn’t know. Sometimes, he would appear on the landing upstairs when I could have sworn he was out. At other times, I would hear the gramophone playing in his study and peer through the window to find the room deserted.

  There was no one I could question. Apart from Bouzid and me – and the women who came early in the mornings to clean – Langham kept no other staff. It seemed strange: according to The Gentleman’s Guide wealthy men were supposed to employ a household. There were whole chapters on how to get the best out of one’s valet, but Langham didn’t employ one of those either.

  At the inn, people gave themselves away by their actions, by their words, by their tongues soaked in sangria. I saw none of that from Langham. And so, although I
tried to wait and listen patiently, curiosity soon got the better of me.

  It was my fifth day at the house, and I was beginning to find my stride in the kitchen, feel some tiny glimmer of security in my little servant’s bedroom. That morning, Lady Bailey went out on a call and Bouzid left to see to some business in town for an hour. Monsieur Langham, I had been informed, would not be back until evening. Evidently, they had decided I was trustworthy enough to leave alone. For the first time, Dar Portuna was mine, and I intended to take full advantage.

  A minute after Bouzid closed the gate, I crept from the kitchen to the bottom of the stairs. My chest felt tighter than ever beneath the bindings, my ears straining for any sound of life. I hesitated, one foot raised. I had no reason to go up there; as at the inn, my room and my work were on the ground floor. Upstairs was a different realm. One that might spell trouble. The step creaked as I set my weight upon it.

  ‘Hello?’ I called, into the silence. Nothing. I took a breath and walked carefully up the stairs, until I stood, nerves twitching, on the landing. The room to the right was Lady Bailey’s; I could see a chaos of strewn clothes and stockings through the open door. And to the left …

  ‘Hello?’ I murmured again, though I had no idea what I would say if anyone answered. Silence. Before I could think about it, I walked quickly along the corridor, reached for a handle, and opened the door to what I thought must be Langham’s bedroom.

  It was the finest room in the house. Windows opened on two sides, one on to the greenness of the garden, the other on to endless blue: the Mediterranean – my first love – throwing herself into the embrace of the Atlantic. Had I been Langham I would have lain in bed all day and drowned myself in that blue. The thought gave me shivers. His bed stood against one wall, the mosquito net tied back, the cotton sheets pale and smooth. I lowered my palm to the pillow, and was overtaken by an image of my own head resting there.

  I snatched my hand away, but it was no use, an aching heat was pulsing through me, spreading through my body. I clenched my fingers, trying to will it away. I’d felt it sometimes at the inn. A few years ago, there had been a young gitano who had kissed me in the darkness of the stable, and put his hand between my legs. But I had shoved him away and run for the kitchen. It was too dangerous for me to feel anything like that, to be a woman who could be had. If I had allowed Morales, or anyone else to think of me as a woman, to remember that I was a virgin in a whorehouse, she might have weighed my value differently, and tried to sell me again, as she had done all those years ago.

  But Langham was not like the Señor; he was not like any man I had ever met, not even Ifrahim. I let my hand drop, still staring at the bed, not knowing if it was the room I was aching for, with its quiet luxury, or the man who inhabited it.

  Distracted, I went to the wardrobe and pulled it open, as if I’d find the answer there. The scent of sandalwood and musk enveloped me. Here were his suits, a dozen of them, and shelves of neatly folded shirts. Here were stacks of clean, silk underwear, finely woven, and a whole rack of ties. One in particular took my liking, a deep, secretive green; the same colour as Dar Portuna’s gate. It slid from the rack like a whisper. Slowly, I looped it around my neck, feeling its coolness against the hot skin of my throat. My hand lingered on the fabric, hanging above my bound breasts …

  A terrible jangling broke the silence, made my bones leap in my skin and my heart blunder into panic. It was the bell, I realized, the bell at the gate. People hardly ever rang it. Bouzid usually knew who was coming and when. The tie slithered through my fingers. As I stooped for it, I saw something crammed into the bottom of the wardrobe.

  Had it not been for the colour, it wouldn’t have caught my eye, but that shade of cream linen was lodged in my memory for ever. It was the suit Langham had worn the first day I saw him, in his shining car. Despite my fear, I reached down and tugged out the jacket. It was in a terrible state; it made me angry to see it so ill treated. I began to shake it, wondering if anything could be done, only to stop. One sleeve was stained, spattered cuff to elbow with something dark and rust-coloured.

  Dried blood.

  The bell jangled again, for longer this time, and I shoved the jacket back into the wardrobe, slung the tie over the rack and ran from the room, slamming the door behind me, my heart pounding down the stairs before I had reached the landing.

  What had happened to the suit? I frantically tried to smooth my face, so that whoever was at the gate would not see the guilt or the blood spatters in my eyes.

  I needn’t have bothered. It was only a small boy, perhaps seven or eight years old. He stared up at me from behind a huge, flat box.

  ‘For Señor del Potro from Señor Souissa,’ he told me gravely.

  Souissa … my mind scrambled before I recognized the name of the tailor.

  ‘Is he your papa?’ I asked.

  The boy nodded with such wide eyes that I wondered whether his papa had spilled my secret.

  As soon as I got the package inside, I forgot all about the tailor’s son. In the safety of my locked room, I loosened the string around the box, my hands clammy with anticipation. I’d requested a British-style suit – Langham was British after all – and for a moment, I was afraid that the tailor might not have been up to the job. But as soon as I lifted the tissue paper, I knew I had chosen well, for here it was: a suit of pale tan flannel, as unobtrusive as fine leather. A jacket with notched lapels, a single-breast waistcoat, wider cut trousers that hugged the waist. Three ties, deep red, pale gold and cocoa brown, and shirts, gloriously smooth and unstained. Underwear too, and socks in black and tan. I didn’t want to think about how much it would all cost. When the bill arrived, perhaps Langham would summon me into his office to explain myself. Perhaps he would close the door, leaving the two of us alone …

  I stroked the unblemished sleeve of the new suit. Where had they come from, those bloodstains upstairs? Langham wasn’t injured, I was sure of that. And if it was simply an accident, why hadn’t he ordered the suit cleaned?

  Lifting the clothes aside, I saw something else in the bottom of the box. It was individually wrapped, with a note pinned to the paper.

  I have listed this on your bill under ‘sundries’. I am no expert in these matters, but my daughter advises me that it should suffice. Issac Souissa.

  Inside was a garment made from heavy cotton. From the front it looked like a simple vest, apart from a wide elastic panel, and flat laces on either side to pull it in tight. I struggled out of my jacket, smiling at the memory of old Souissa’s horrified expression when I had told him my secret, why I was paying for his silence. He hadn’t been happy, but as soon as I had suggested I would take my business elsewhere, his face had changed. He’d swallowed and adjusted his glasses and said, I’m sure I can accommodate you, monsieur.

  My hands were trembling as I drew on the new clothes: the clean underthings, the brassiere that laced in tight to flatten my chest – no awkward bandages threatening to slip or unravel – the crisp shirt, the beautiful trousers.

  It all fit better than a dream, and when I looked into the mirror, I could scarcely believe what I saw. I was exactly what The Gentleman’s Guide said I should be: neat and elegant without fuss. The pale brown of the suit contrasted with my black hair, the deep red of the tie was a splash of colour, just a hint of excitement. There was a straw hat to go with the suit, trimmed with a brown band. When I put it on, I had to blink hard to stop tears from falling on that perfect cloth. No one would have recognized me as the person I was before, the scruffy, frightened kitchen girl of the Hostería del Potro. Here was my new face. Here was freedom.

  I’m afraid I grew rather vain, and forgot all about Langham, and about lunch as I tried to style my hair exactly the way he did, swept back, using a few drops of olive oil in place of pomade. I posed before the mirror, hands in my pockets, leaning as any young, handsome troublemaker might. I was so preoccupied, I didn’t even realize anyone had returned, until Bouzid came looking for me.

&nb
sp; When I opened the door, my face flushed, he paused before speaking, his eyes taking in the fine, new suit.

  ‘Lady Bailey has asked for an aperitif,’ he told me eventually. ‘She is beside the pool.’ He glanced at me a moment longer before striding away. I smiled to myself as I closed the door. It was as close to surprised as I had yet seen him.

  Pernod, with very cold water, that was Lady Bailey’s afternoon habit. Her slim figure was not a fashion statement, I knew now, but a consequence of her devotion to her pipe. Most days, I would sneak extra things on to the tray with her drink: a bowl of salted almonds, or clean, brined olives, or tiny triangles of fresh baked bread from the casbah ovens. Sometimes she would eat it. Often not. That day, I loaded up the tray with whatever I could find, my new, fine clothes making me feel generous towards her. Since my arrival she had been distinctly cool towards me. Perhaps I would finally crack her exterior. It wasn’t until I stepped on to the terrace that I saw she was not alone.

  Langham was kneeling beside her, one hand touching her arm. Where on earth had he come from? I hadn’t heard the car in the road, hadn’t heard the front gate open at all. My neck prickled. How long had he been back? Had I replaced everything properly in his wardrobe?

  I was still standing there when he looked up. For a second, I couldn’t hide anything, not my surprise at seeing him, or my guilt at discovering the bloodstained suit. Hurriedly, I looked away.

  ‘Del Potro,’ he said.

  Two words had never held so much meaning to me before. Were they a statement, a dare, a question? I said nothing. The silence bloomed between us.

  ‘Is that my drink?’ Lady Bailey’s voice was sharp.

  ‘Yes, madame,’ I murmured. Cheeks burning, I set the tray down beside her.

  She said nothing more, only stared at me with her eyes shaded and her lips tight. I knew I should turn away, knew I shouldn’t look at Langham again, but it was impossible; it was as if my eyes were being pulled on a wire towards him.