Now I have you, that look seemed to say.
A few minutes later, I escaped to the kitchen, leaving Bouzid to deal with the drinks, and the guests. I’d watched them with interest, trying to gauge their relationships with Langham. There was a man with watering eyes, who spoke no English, only French in a thick German accent. A tall, black American woman in a shimmering satin dress who sang a snatch of Italian opera. A florid Englishman in a striped waistcoat that broke every rule in The Gentleman’s Guide.
I was lingering by the kitchen door, waiting for the signal that they had gone into dinner when I heard footsteps and Langham’s hushed voice in the hall. I leaned closer.
‘Any word from Cabrera?’ he murmured.
‘Not yet.’ That was Bouzid.
Langham swore.
‘Call down and see if there’s trouble.’
‘Of course.’
I ducked into the kitchen, and was back at the stove by the time Bouzid put his head around the door.
‘They are going in to dine,’ he told me, and hurried away. To call Cabrera, I supposed.
Trouble, Langham had said … I began to arrange the plates, my heart skipping a little. What did he mean? I’d never heard him sound agitated, never heard him swear in frustration like that. I tried to forget about it. It was probably just business, and I had my own to concentrate on, the heady, eccentric meal that had swallowed my day. First came the starter: poached artichoke hearts, each of them holding a single oyster, surrounded by its liquor and a sauce made from champagne. It smelled earthy, of flesh and salt, like alcohol spilled on sea-wet limbs. I helped Bouzid carry in the plates, but I could not look at their faces, least of all Langham’s.
Make them think of you as a kitchen-thing, a duende, a stove-spirit, then they will want you for your usefulness, and will leave you be. That wasn’t what I was doing. I wasn’t hiding behind a kitchen apron, or keeping to my place at the stove any more. I was out in the open, I was brazen. I watched through a crack in the door as Langham spooned up the oyster and tipped it whole into his mouth.
The next course was different. First, I sent out bowls of water scented with rose and orange blossom, to awaken their senses. Next came chicken, burnished with saffron and lemon, cinnamon, ginger and chilli. It was a dish to revive throats that had been burned by too many spirits, to quicken lips numbed by luxury, to entice them to eat and drink and talk and never stop talking.
During the meal I paced the kitchen like a cat locked in a room waiting for … I didn’t know what. Something had to happen after a dinner like that, after the glances that Langham had given me. When Bouzid came in I almost grabbed him by the arm.
‘Señor Cabrera has arrived,’ he told me. How could he be so cool? ‘Please make him up a plate. He is in the study with monsieur. The other guests will take their dessert on the veranda.’
I nodded. Had I not been so distracted, I might have proceeded with more caution. I might have tried to eavesdrop before approaching the study. As it was, I simply knocked and stepped through the door, thinking only of Langham’s face.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I have brought a plate for Señor—’
I froze. The goat-eyed man, Bautista’s contact, was standing before me.
Look away, I screamed at myself, turn your head. But I couldn’t and he met my gaze, his yellow eyes flat in the lamplight. For one, desperate moment, I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me. Then his eyebrows were twitching into a frown, and I knew it was too late.
‘Gracias,’ he said, staring hard. ‘How kind.’
I had to step past him to put the tray on a side table. He watched me do it. I could feel his eyes on the nape of my neck and thought wildly of the Señor.
‘Will there be anything else?’ I murmured to the rug, wanting to run from the room, wanting to vomit up the crushing fear in my stomach. I didn’t want to look at Langham, not with Cabrera watching me, but when there was no answer, I had to raise my eyes.
Langham’s face was unreadable as stone.
‘No,’ he said coldly, ‘now leave us.’
I had to lock myself in the bathroom after that, and tell Bouzid through the door that the heat had made me sick. I was terrified, and furious with myself for being so. I never wanted to feel that way again, as I had been at the inn, voiceless, exposed …
I forced myself to think. So what if Cabrera knew me? I had done one job for him, that was all. He could only know what Bautista might have told him: I was a young man who had arrived in La Atunara with no papers and had paid for some new ones. He knew nothing that could hurt me, I told myself.
But Langham had seen the recognition pass between Cabrera and me. He was no fool, and would have guessed in that second that my past was murkier than I had let on. It went the other way too. Langham knew Cabrera. Knew him well enough to telephone him, to be concerned with ‘trouble’. What was Langham’s business?
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I knew what I would find. Bouzid was waiting in the kitchen, his face as calm as ever. He had served the dessert of iced apricots and candied rose petals without me.
‘Monsieur Langham,’ he said, ‘is in the lounge.’
I nodded. Silently, I shed the apron and pulled on my jacket. Words and excuses crowded to the front of my mind, ready to come spilling out. They would do me no good; Langham had asked for loyalty and now he had found out that I had given him less than the truth.
I opened the door of the lounge without knocking. It was dark in there, as always, lit only by candles and the lamplight that crept from the veranda. I could hear the guests out there, Lady Bailey and the other woman laughing softly, could smell their bitter smoke and kif.
‘Monsieur?’ My voice was barely audible.
Langham was standing at the piano, turned away, his hands clasped behind his back. He was twisting the ring on his little finger around and around. I had never seen him do that before.
‘Why are you here?’ His voice drifted to me, like the smoke.
‘To be your cook, monsieur.’
He didn’t turn around.
‘Are you working for someone? I will find out if you are lying.’
Any excuses dried on my lips. We had been spinning such brilliant, unspoken truths between us, he would know a lie in an instant. I clenched my hands behind my back.
‘I don’t work for Cabrera, if that’s what you’re asking.’
He turned his head a fraction. ‘But you admit that you know him?’
A bloodstained jacket. And you? I wanted to ask.
‘I don’t know him. I only met him once.’ I took a step forwards. ‘I carried a bag here for a man in La Atunara, named Bautista, in exchange for new papers. Cabrera was the man I delivered it to. I haven’t seen him since and I’ve no wish to again.’
Let that be enough. I stared at the edge of Langham’s cheek, at his sharp jawline, at the shadow of stubble beginning to show. Be satisfied. I did it to get to you.
‘Why would you tell me that?’ His voice was soft.
‘Because you asked me to,’ I said. Langham’s face was half hidden in shadow, but his eyes found mine. ‘Because I promised you loyalty. Because I want—’ My words ran out, replaced by smoke-filled air. Because I want to crack you open and see what’s inside. Because I want to know you.
‘Because you want what?’ He stepped towards me, raising a hand to touch my chin.
A knock on the door, as loud as thunder and I stumbled away, tripping on the edge of the rug. Langham moved back too. His face was tight, as if we’d been caught in the act. Nothing had happened, but my whole body was buzzing as if it had.
‘What is it?’ Langham called impatiently.
The door creaked open. Was it a trick of the shadows, or did Bouzid’s eyes flick to where I stood trembling, for one brief second? ‘A telegram, monsieur. It is marked urgent. I thought you should know.’
‘Fine, I’ll be there shortly.’
Bouzid shut the door. For one uncertain moment, Langham loo
ked at me, his lips parted.
‘Alejandro—’ he began, but the rest was lost in a tumult of voices and laughter as the guests called Langham’s name from the veranda, demanding more music, more drinks.
I turned and fled, the danger of it all burning on my lips.
Tangier
July 1978
There have been many rumours about the people who live at Dar Nglîz, but Mouad is right. Whoever you spoke to, he must have been a ghost.
Abdelhamid’s words were in Sam’s head as he hurried back towards the Interpress building. The late afternoon light was playing tricks, throwing angled shadows everywhere. In their depths, he thought he felt someone watching, a figure whose eyes were moonlight on water and whose breath held the rank, mineral sweetness of the sea as she called his name …
He shook his head. It was idle café chatter, the gossip of radio medina, passing from one tea glass to another, that was all. A story told around the sebsi, a tale for dark nights in the casbah, a warning that even foreigners weren’t immune to the hidden magic of the city.
He strode across the busy Place de France, the sun in his eyes, not caring about the taxis that blared their horns at him. Mouad and Abdelhamid were wrong, he told himself; Langham was alive and well and living in Dar Portuna, as he had been for years. He was just private, that was all, intensely private.
Still, it was obvious that Abdelhamid knew more than he was letting on. When Sam had tried to press him about the ‘rumours’ that surrounded Dar Nglîz, Abdel had become strangely vague, before quickly taking his leave. Why didn’t he want to talk? Sam’s neck kept prickling as if someone was breathing on it, thoughts of drowned men and old crimes filling his head as he ran up the steps of the Interpress building. Before, he’d been praying that Norton would find something. But now …
‘Sam Hackett,’ he gasped to the woman on reception. ‘Here to see Ellis Norton, please.’
She put down her pen. ‘He was here a little while ago waiting for you. I’ll ring up and tell him you’re here.’
He’d sat with Mouad and Abdelhamid for longer than he thought. He only had half an hour to get up to the Bab al-Bahr, to be at the gate just as the afternoon call to prayer ended. It felt like an age before the lift doors opened and Norton appeared.
‘Sorry,’ Sam rushed, stepping towards him. ‘Sorry, I lost track of time, and now I’ve got to run—’ He stopped. Norton was wearing a strange expression, his face flushed. Under his arm was a huge, leather-bound folder. Sam’s stomach tightened. ‘What is it? You didn’t find something?’
‘I did,’ Norton said breathlessly. ‘I bloody did, I hit the jackpot.’ He heaved the binder open, balancing it on one arm. ‘Look.’
He was pointing at the front page of an old newspaper, one of the dozens sewn into the binder. Sam had to blink hard in order to focus on the close-set type, his eyes still full of dust and sun and smoke.
THE TANGIER GAZETTE
Tuesday, 31 July 1928
31 July … Just three days after the mysterious letter. He skimmed over the tight columns, past news of the Summer Olympics in Amsterdam and communists arrested in Paris, to a short article below the fold. A column headed by four, impossible words:
ENGLISHMAN DROWNS IN STRAIT
Spanish police recovered a body yesterday from the western end of Plage Merkala. The body has been identified by personal effects as that of a Mr Arthur Langham, late of Dar Portuna, Tangier. Langham was last seen late on Saturday night, when he is believed to have sailed his yacht, Spindrift, out on to the strait while under the influence of alcohol. The yacht itself was discovered capsized and abandoned shortly after the discovery of the body on Monday afternoon. Investigations are ongoing.
‘No.’ Sam pushed the article away. ‘No, it’s a mistake. Or a misunderstanding. I’ve seen Langham. I’ve talked to him. I was with him last night.’
They say the man could see the lights of his house as he drowned.
‘Don’t you get it?’ Norton was saying. ‘Whoever you’ve been talking to isn’t Langham.’
‘What?’
‘Look, “Investigations are ongoing”.’ Norton jabbed at the article. ‘It means the death was suspicious.’ He leaned closer, his voice low. ‘Why would someone take a yacht out when they were drunk in the middle of the night? What if Langham did himself in? Or was done away with, for his money?’
Sam’s mind was racing. At Dar Portuna, hadn’t there been that trophy on the shelf, proclaiming Langham the winner of a sailing race, an experienced yachtsman? Why would he capsize on a summer’s night in familiar waters? He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. I’ve been talking to … Who the hell is it if it isn’t Langham?’
The minute he said it, a face came to mind, sullen, beneath a pale hat, and a name: Alejandro del Potro.
‘That’s what I’d like to know.’ Norton’s face was alive with interest. ‘I think you might have stumbled across something here, Hackett. And someone wants to keep their identity quiet, hence the notes, the secrecy.’
Sam couldn’t answer. The writing case had come from the police station, taken as evidence, or from a person who had committed a crime.
A, I am sorry. One day, I hope you’ll understand.
‘My god,’ he heard himself murmuring.
‘My god indeed.’ Norton’s eyes were bright. ‘OK, here’s what we do. You go back there tonight and act like nothing’s happened. Plumb the old man for information, when he came there, what he does for money, all of that. Ask about the yacht if you can manage it in a roundabout way. Keep an ear out for anything suspicious, and don’t let your guard down. I’m going to talk to editorial, phone around, see if I can find anything else about this Langham or his death—’
‘No!’ Sam stepped away from Norton. ‘No, don’t do anything, please. Just let me …’ He tried to think. This was his story, and it was running away from him in Norton’s hands. He had to get it back under control. ‘Let me talk to the man first. We might be jumping to conclusions. There might be a simple explanation for all of this.’
Norton didn’t answer.
‘Ellis, please.’ Sam took his shoulder. ‘This is my discovery, after all.’
For a moment, he thought Norton would refuse but finally, he sighed. ‘Fine. I won’t mention it to anyone yet. I’m going to keep looking though, and I want to hear what happens as soon as you’re out of there.’ He checked his watch. ‘Speaking of which, shouldn’t you get going?’
Sam glanced at the clock. It was quarter to five. ‘Damn!’ He wheeled towards the door, only to stop. ‘The suitcase! I need it!’
Norton was hurrying towards the reception. ‘Jan,’ he called to the receptionist, ‘give Mr Hackett some petty cash for a taxi, will you?’
The receptionist frowned as Norton disappeared into the room behind her. A moment later she was taking a lockbox from under the desk and counting out a handful of coins. Sam checked the clock again. He felt sick. If he was late, would Zahrah be there to open the door? Or would he have missed his chance?
‘There you go,’ the receptionist said, pushing the money towards him.
‘Taxis can get through as far as the Bab al-Bahr, can’t they?’ he babbled, fumbling the cash into his pocket.
‘I think so,’ she said, bewildered.
Then Norton was back, swinging the suitcase over the reception desk.
‘Thanks.’ Sam grabbed it. ‘I don’t know if I can pay—’
‘Don’t worry, call it an advance. Now go!’
Sam barrelled out of the Interpress doors, almost knocking down a man on the other side. He made for the line of grand taxis that waited by the kerb at the edge of the Place de France. Unlike the cheap, petit taxis that zipped about, crammed with people on different journeys, these cars were almost always empty, reserved for rich people, for long trips. He’d never had the cash to take one before.
‘Bab al-Bahr,’ he gasped to the first man in the line. ‘Please, quickly!’
The taxi
driver waved his hand. ‘Not far enough,’ he said, flicking ash from his cigarette. ‘Take a petit.’
‘Here.’ Sam shoved the pocketful of dirhams at him. ‘I’ll pay you that, just get me there as fast as you can.’
The man’s eyes widened in surprise. A moment later, he threw away his cigarette and was climbing into the car, motioning for Sam to get in. Then, they were speeding into the traffic, almost blindsiding a motorbike.
‘When’s the call to prayer?’ Sam yelled over the man’s radio, blaring out a French rock song.
‘For Asr?’ The man checked his watch. ‘Soon.’
‘How soon? I need to be there before it ends!’
‘Vale!’ The driver put his foot down, cutting off another taxi.
As they turned on to the Rue d’Italie, Sam heard the first crackle of static. The muezzin’s voice began to echo from somewhere above them, competing with the noise of the traffic. Come on, Sam begged silently.
The driver slammed his palm to the car’s horn, trying to ram his way through the crowds of people spilling from the medina on to the street. They ignored him, for the most part. Finally a gap opened, and he sped forwards. Sam was thrown back in the seat as they raced up the steep road, the taxi’s engine whirring and struggling. The call followed them, taken up by one loudspeaker after another until Sam felt as if they were racing it to the top.
With a final rev, the taxi screeched around a corner, beneath an archway and into a ramshackle square. Ahead, the Bab al-Bahr loomed. It was as far as they could go; the streets of the casbah were too winding, too narrow for cars. The taxi driver stomped on the brake just as the muezzin’s voice began to fade.
Shoving his way out of the car, Sam gasped a few words of thanks before setting off at a run, the suitcase clutched in his arms, towards the old sea gate.
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