‘You look very fine,’ he said. I opened my mouth to respond, but stopped, for he had stepped forwards until he was only a hand’s breadth away. ‘Though I’m afraid your tie is a little crooked.’
It was a lie: my tie was perfect. It was an excuse, a reason to come close.
‘Here.’ He pulled at the knot of the tie, to loosen the fabric. My heart was thundering and I knew he would see the pulse in my neck, feel my quickened breath on his skin. He smiled.
‘The red suits you,’ he murmured, hands still on my collar. ‘Though I think you would look better in green.’
I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even swallow. In any other moment, that comment might have been a coincidence. Not then. He knew that I had been in his rooms, he knew what I found there …
‘Where did you get those clothes?’ Lady Bailey asked, her voice breaking the taut silence between us.
Langham stepped away. ‘From a tailor, in the medina, madame,’ I managed to say.
‘And how did you pay for it?’
There was no pretence of politeness in her voice. She was suspicious.
Time to play my dangerous hand: ‘Monsieur Langham was kind enough to pay for a new suit.’ I glanced towards him. ‘He said I should look more gentlemanly.’
Langham just watched me, with that half-smile, and didn’t say a word.
‘Go and fetch another glass,’ Lady Bailey snapped. ‘And ice. What you’ve brought is half melted already.’
I nodded and made my escape, staring at the paving stones so as not to see Langham’s face. I should’ve gone straight to the kitchen, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. My whole body was trembling. Instead, I ducked beneath the fig tree’s old branches and leaned my head against the trunk, trying to breathe, trying to slap out the heat that was threatening to burn me up.
The secrets we both held, they were like electric currents, charging us full of potential. What would happen if one of us was revealed? I squeezed my eyes tight. I had to be more careful.
‘What are you doing?’
Lady Bailey’s voice broke the quiet, and my eyes flew open. But she wasn’t talking to me. Her voice was coming from the terrace. I stayed perfectly still, out of sight, listening.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Langham’s tone was light.
‘You know exactly what I mean.’ I heard the sound of Pernod being poured. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, almost pleading. ‘We know nothing about the boy, Arthur. How do you know someone didn’t send him here?’
‘Oh Hilde.’
‘And why not? For all we know someone picked him up in Gibraltar after the accident. And how did he even get to Tangiers? Don’t you think it’s odd?’
Silence. My heart felt as though it was trying to punch through the brassiere. Hilde was nearer the truth than I liked. Finally, Langham spoke.
‘I left del Potro some money in Gibraltar. Along with the hat.’
‘You did? Why on earth?’
The silence stretched. Ten seconds, twenty.
‘I can’t stop you,’ Hilde murmured. ‘But please, Arthur, be careful. He isn’t who he says he is, I know it.’
Tangier
July 1978
Outside the Interpress building the day felt lazy; an after-school, honey-slow heat that was at odds with the fluttering in Sam’s stomach. As he walked, he imagined Norton descending into the basement, pulling out files full of old newspapers, turning their thin, yellowed pages to find …
Norton would probably find nothing; he had to be prepared for that. Still, even the vague possibility of seeing Langham’s name in fifty-year-old print made his fingers itch.
For the first time in days, his hands were empty. He’d left the writing case in his bedroom and the suitcase was safely lodged behind the reception desk at Interpress. Without it, he felt unanchored, like a piece of litter that might be whirled away on an air current at any moment.
There were a couple of hours to kill before he met Norton again. In the Grand Socco, the streets were filling up with people returning from early afternoon prayers, with boys standing on plastic crates, yelling out their stashes of contraband – sunglasses, radios, batteries, lipstick – with kids in the white uniforms of the French Catholic School, buying glasses of buttermilk.
He found Abdelhamid at the Café Tanger, amongst a group of men who were glued to a fuzzy black and white TV that was showing the football.
‘Monsieur Hackett.’ Abdel removed himself from the group to clasp Sam’s hand. ‘Where have you been? Writing your great book?’
Sam smiled back. ‘I don’t know about great, but yeah, I’ve been writing.’
Several of the men shifted their chairs to make room for him, without taking their eyes from the game.
‘It’s good you have come by today,’ Abdel said over the noise. ‘Mouad is here to visit.’ He nodded towards a large man, hovering in his chair as a player approached the goal. ‘We can ask him about the writing case, if you are still interested?’
‘Yes.’ Sam glanced over at Mouad. ‘Yes, very interested.’
Abdel took out his sebsi pipe. Eventually a waiter came by, walking crab-wise, trying not to look away from the television. He nodded vaguely when Sam ordered coffee.
‘I – have to tell you something,’ Sam murmured, once the waiter had sidled away, ‘about the case, and about those things I found, the tag and the key.’ Abdelhamid nodded, working at the sebsi. ‘I figured out what they were,’ Sam said in a rush, feeling himself turn red. ‘It was a tag for the cloakroom, at the Hotel Continental. So I went there and I asked them if they had any old luggage, and I found—’
The waiter returned, setting down two glasses of nus-nus. Sam stared into the soft, milky coffee. He didn’t know how to go on, how to explain that his everyday reality had been altered, ever since he opened the writing case. How he felt possessed by the story; how writing about it was the best and most nerve-wracking thing he had ever done. How afraid he was that it would all amount to nothing.
Around him, the café let out a wail of frustration at a missed goal.
‘You found a suitcase,’ Abdelhamid said, when the hubbub died down. He lit his pipe, and drew on it a few times before looking at Sam, smiling. ‘My friend’s boy, Mohamed works there. He told me about a visit from a mad American, who said he was a writer.’
Sam grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.’
Abdelhamid waved his words away. ‘I said to myself, if Hackett finds anything worth selling, he will bring it to me. If he does not …’ He shrugged.
‘Still, I should’ve told you.’
‘You have told me now,’ Abdel said, and drank his coffee.
Sam did the same. He began to feel at ease for the first time in days, the genial noise of the match, the kif and the coffee melting his tension like glue. He glanced over at Abdelhamid. The man was a bit of a crook, no doubt, but he was straightforward about it; he’d never tried to fleece Sam, always charged fair prices for kif. If anyone knew Tangier – as it was now – Abdelhamid did. Which meant he might know of Dar Portuna. Sam scraped the spoon through the coffee residue. Could he trust him? That whole world seemed so secretive; Dar Portuna, Langham, even the woman, Zahrah. He looked up to find Abdelhamid watching him, and swallowed. He had to be careful.
‘Have you …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you ever heard of a house called Dar Portuna?’
Abdelhamid rubbed a hand across his greying stubble. ‘Dar Portuna,’ he repeated. ‘No, I do not think so. Where is it? In the city?’
‘Yes, up in the casbah, by the old walls. Near the Bab al-Bahr.’ Abdel’s face changed, recognition replacing thoughtfulness. ‘You know it?’ Sam asked.
‘A big house, white walls all around?’
Sam nodded.
‘I know the house.’ Abdelhamid frowned. ‘But not this name, Portuna. We have always called it Dar Nglîz. The English House.’
‘Yes.’ Sam gripped the coffee glass. ‘It belongs to
an Englishman. A man called Langham?’
‘Langham.’ Abdel shook his head. ‘I don’t know that name.’ He cleared his throat. ‘People always said Dar Nglîz was cursed. It’s a good story.’
‘Cursed?’ In the noisy, sweat-thick café, the word seemed ridiculous. ‘What do you mean?’
Abdel leaned forwards. ‘Cursed by Aicha Kandicha. People say you can hear her voice, by the Bab al-Bahr. It is the sea gate, and the sea is hers.’
‘Who’s Aicha Kandicha?’
One of the other men turned around when he heard that, looked at Sam, and said something in Darija.
‘He said,’ Abdelhamid translated, ‘that you should not say her name so loud, and never after dark, not anywhere in Tangier. Even Americans are not safe from her.’ He smiled. ‘Aicha is a djinn, a spirit. She will call your name in the night and if you turn around, you will see the most beautiful woman in the world. She likes to drive men mad. So, if someone calls your name near the Bab al-Bahr, do not turn.’
Sam tried to smile. ‘I won’t.’
‘Ah.’ Abdelhamid sat back, his voice matter-of-fact. ‘The game is finished. Now we can ask Mouad.’
Mouad was an older, broader version of Abdelhamid, in his late sixties but still bulky with muscle, dressed in a sports jacket despite the heat. He had the same quick eyes as his brother, the same easy, mocking smile that widened when Abdel asked him about the writing case.
‘You think I remember one bag?’ he said. ‘We had fifty, at the shop, a hundred!’
‘But we had this one for a long time,’ Abdel insisted, speaking English for Sam’s benefit. ‘A small case, with gold letters. We had it twenty years, perhaps. You brought it in, I am sure.’
‘It belonged to an Englishman,’ Sam added hopefully.
‘English.’ The crease between Mouad’s eyebrows deepened. ‘Maybe it came from the English police, then. When the station closed, we took many things from there.’
‘What things?’ The word police rang in Sam’s ears.
Mouad shrugged. ‘Just things. They had a lot. Bags, coats, shoes. Perhaps taken from a person who did a crime, or as evidence. I am not sure. But when the English police left in … the fifties?’ He looked to Abdel for confirmation. ‘They sold all these small things, cheap. I bought some. Maybe that is where the case came from.’
‘Was that legal?’ The minute Sam asked it, he felt stupid. The brothers laughed.
‘They were not going to pay to send it back to England,’ Mouad smiled. ‘And anyway, no one cared. The crimes were old. The things didn’t matter any more.’
Sam frowned. If the writing case had been taken as evidence, what did that mean for the suitcase, abandoned at the hotel, as if someone had just disappeared? What did it mean for Alejandro del Potro? He tried to pull his mind back to the café.
‘And have you ever heard of a place called Dar Portuna?’ he asked. ‘Dar Nglîz, Abdel said it’s sometimes called. An Englishman lives there.’
‘Dar Nglîz.’ Mouad nodded. ‘Up by the wall, yes. You think the case came from there?’ He glanced rapidly at Abdelhamid. Sam turned, trying to see the other man’s face, only to find Abdel looking pointedly in the other direction. ‘No Englishman has lived at Dar Nglîz for a long time,’ Mouad continued slowly, still looking at his brother. ‘Some others, maybe, but not an Englishman.’
‘That’s not true.’ The words were out of Sam’s mouth before he could stop them. ‘His name is Langham, Arthur Langham.’
Mouad was shaking his head. ‘There was an Englishman who lived there, many years ago. I was only a boy, but I remember the story. Shall I tell you?’ Although the question was directed at Sam, he couldn’t help but feel that Mouad was asking for permission. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Abdelhamid give an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Yes,’ Sam said, watching both men. ‘Please.’
‘OK.’ Mouad shifted, looking a little uncertain. ‘They say that, one night, the Englishman heard Aicha Kandicha call his name from the strait. He took a boat out to look for her.’ Mouad lowered his voice. ‘Of course, the boat sank. They say there was a party that night, up at Dar Nglîz. They say the man could see the lights of his house as he drowned.’
A shudder went down Sam’s spine.
‘That must have happened to someone else,’ he heard himself saying. ‘Not to Langham. I saw him. I spoke to him, just yesterday.’
He looked between the two brothers. This time, it was Abdelhamid who shook his head.
‘There have been many rumours about the people who live at Dar Nglîz, but Mouad is right. There has not been an Englishman at the house since that day.’ He looked at Sam over his coffee, a hint of a smile twitching the corner of his mouth. ‘Whoever you spoke to, he must have been a ghost.’
Temptation
Take a piece of orange peel and a piece of lemon peel and twist them together. Soak them in two dashes of Dubonnet Rouge, two dashes of absinthe and two dashes of Curaçao. Pour in a jigger of Canadian Club whisky and stir until inextricably mixed.
He isn’t who he says he is.
Identity can be a slippery thing. It is easy to see a fine suit and a hat and say gentleman when you should be saying stranger or thief or liar. And yet, we are drawn to those in who we see ourselves, for better or for worse.
I was drawn to Langham, though I couldn’t begin to untangle what my attraction consisted of. So I did as I had been brought up to do at the inn: to watch, to listen, to needle out the information I needed to ensure my safety. I began to linger in corridors and doorways obsessively, hoping to catch a fragment of conversation. I dropped whatever I was doing when the telephone rang, hoping to beat Bouzid to it and hear who was calling. I never did. He was too conscientious for that. It did not stop me from trying to wrangle information from him, especially when I found out that he – for all his stoicism – had a sweet tooth. After that, I bought the best sweet pastries from the medina in an attempt to win his trust.
Much good it did me. He told me some things, true; where to find the best olives, and who Lady Bailey paid for opium, which diplomats brought their mistresses to dinner rather than their wives and who could be relied upon to cause trouble at parties. But on the subject of Langham, he was resolutely and frustratingly silent. What was it, that made him dust the sugar from his hands and leave the kitchen, whenever I asked a question about the man we worked for? Had Langham also made him swear loyalty? Perhaps Bouzid had sworn and meant it, unlike me. I still did not know whether I was capable of loyalty.
Perhaps Lady Bailey’s words had some impact on Langham after all, for I saw even less of him, and began to wonder if he was avoiding me. His absence affected me almost more than his presence. The heat from our encounter by the pool hadn’t yet left my body, and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t ignore it.
Too dangerous, I thought, in an attempt to silence it. Langham thought I was a boy. If I went too far, if he found out the truth, what then? Every night, I found myself reliving the encounter on the terrace in my mind, until I had to open my eyes and read a chapter of The Gentleman’s Guide to distract myself.
Finally, I couldn’t stand it, and one day, having heard the gate close behind Langham, I crept up the stairs into his room. Even before I pulled the wardrobe door open, I knew what I would find. The bloodstained suit was gone. In its place, coiled like a snake, was the green silk tie. A taunt? An invitation? I took it up with shaking hands, and returned to the kitchen.
The days were beginning to turn hotter, as June wore on. That day was the hottest yet, a strange sea fret hanging over the city, turning the sun into a gelatinous orb behind the clouds, making the air cling like gum. Beneath my shirt, the tightly laced brassiere was soon soaked through with sweat, and I longed to rip it off and dive naked into the pool.
Sweat beaded my forehead and upper lip as I worked in the kitchen. It ran down my neck and collected in the hollow of my throat, beneath the collar, where Langham’s hand had brushed my skin. I tried to co
ncentrate. I couldn’t.
That thick heat sent me into a sort of delirium. When Bouzid came at eleven to inform me there would be seven guests for dinner and to ask what I would need from the market, I gave him a list that might have come from a deranged person. Oysters, with the cool water of the port still in their shells, and honey and champagne, saffron and artichokes. Bouzid seemed on the verge of asking me if I was well, but he knew my ways by then, and only nodded, mopping his own brow. Perhaps he thought it didn’t matter that I had lost my mind in the heat; everyone else was likely to be in the same state.
Later, when I looked down at that strange collection of ingredients, I felt the old kitchen-duende shiver rising in me. I had always tried to cook what I thought other people wanted, and yet, here were my own desires, laid out before me. I wanted the colour of the sea and the ochre sunsets seen from the best room in Dar Portuna. I wanted the sting of cold champagne on my tongue and the sear of spice from the medina street vendors. I wanted the perfume of dawn flowers and the must of unswept streets, the pungency of kif and the bitterness of hot coffee, served in a silver pot. I wanted to own the streets. I wanted to stride the world as Langham did. I wanted to be inside his skin.
My hand slipped on the oyster I was shucking, sending the knife slicing into my thumb. Blood welled, a droplet falling into the dish that held the liquor. I watched it disappear.
I cooked for so long that day, I barely had time to run to my room, scrub the sweat from my neck and change into a fresh shirt. In the mirror I caught a glimpse of myself; it showed a black-haired young man, red high on his cheeks, perspiration shimmering at his temples. Slowly, I drew the green silk tie from my pocket and put it on. Was I making a wrong move? No way to tell, until I saw Langham’s face.
I made my way to the lounge, tying the long, white serving apron about my waist. I already knew the drink that I wanted to mix that night. I had found it in The Gentleman’s Guide. Temptation, it was called; orange and lemon skin entwined, both of them in fine spirits. When Langham stepped into the lounge with his first guest, I already had the drink waiting, and handed it to him before he could ask. His eyes travelled over my face and down to that green tie. Did I imagine it, or did he smile?
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