Her lip curled. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
Anger rushed through me, adding its heat to my face, to my stinging eyes. She had no idea, this woman with her fine clothes and her idle life. She didn’t know what I’d seen, what I’d done just to be here, just to wait on her and cook her food. Furiously, I shrugged out the jacket and threw it to the floor.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.
I didn’t wait, but dragged the shirt from my waistband and hauled it up to my chin.
‘There,’ I spat. ‘Do you believe me now?’
Her eyes were fixed on the brassiere, her mouth open. Then, out of nowhere, she made a noise that was almost a laugh.
‘My god. So, in Gibraltar …’ She met my eyes. ‘Does he know?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Arthur? Does he know about you?’
I let the shirt drop, my anger receding. ‘No.’ I paused. ‘Will you tell him?’
‘I don’t know.’ She crossed the room and sank on to the bed. ‘God, I have no idea.’ When she looked up at me again, some of the hostility had left her face. ‘There’s a bottle on the bureau. Bring it here, would you? And the glass?’
It was gin, half empty. She poured out a measure, splashing her fingers as she did, and drank it down.
‘This still doesn’t explain why you followed us here,’ she said huskily, pouring another measure. ‘I need to know why you did that.’ She swallowed again, before grimacing and shoving the bottle in my direction. ‘Here, drink if you need it. But talk.’
In that cluttered bedroom, with the curtains billowing at the open windows, I told her a story. It held some of the ingredients of my own, only measured and mixed differently. In it, Elena and I became the same person. The Señor became a rich man who had made promises of love to me, only to break them and grow violent; the murder became an attack, which I had fled, in fear of my life. I became a terrified woman, alone on the streets, who had sought safety in men’s clothing.
‘I had nowhere to go, no friends, no money,’ I told her, the gin stinging my dry throat. ‘You and Monsieur Langham were so kind to me that day. I thought, perhaps, you would be kind to me again. And I couldn’t stay in Spain. I was too afraid that he … that the man I mentioned would find me, and drag me back. I couldn’t let that happen.’
I risked a glance at her. She was staring at her hands, at the faint stripe where a wedding ring had once been.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘But you could have told us this. And there are ladies who wear men’s suits, you know – I wear trousers, quite often. If you did nothing wrong, why keep pretending to be someone you’re not?’
I couldn’t keep down a laugh at that. ‘They’re rich aren’t they, your ladies who wear men’s clothes?’
‘Well,’ Hilde said, ‘I suppose they are.’
‘Then they have a choice.’ I met her eyes. ‘Would Monsieur Langham have listened to me, that night of the party, if I had come here as a woman? Would he have given me a job, a room, safety? Would you? Or would you have seen me as trouble, as a foolish girl who had gotten herself into a mess, and turned me away, told me to go and find my work on the streets?’
Her face was red. ‘It is not that simple.’
I shook my head at her. ‘I thought you of all people would understand.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Her voice was sharp again, but unsteady.
I hesitated. I had to win her trust, if I was to stay in the house. I pointed to her ring finger. ‘You’re running from something. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here, in Tangiers, with a man who isn’t your husband. You wouldn’t be smoking as much as you do, and drinking, if you weren’t trying to forget.’
On the floor near by was her tray, with its opium pipe and lamp, its little tweezers and pots. For a moment, her face was pinched and I thought she would be angry. Then, she sagged and reached for the bottle again.
‘Am I that obvious?’ she asked, and there were tears in her voice, like the air before it rains.
Over the next hour she told me about herself, between sips of gin. I drank too, to seem companionable, and as the liquor disappeared she grew warmer with me, as if confiding to a friend. I believe she forgot all about the papers in the drawer, about my revelation. She was caught in the pattern of her own past, in the aching relief of confession.
Her story began with a marriage to a wealthy Italian businessman, followed by an idyllic honeymoon that went sour the moment they arrived back at his family home in Milan.
‘He turned overbearing, controlling, none of the things he had been when we were courting. He wouldn’t let me see my friends. He said they were offensive, though before he had spent nearly every day in their company. And his business –’ she laughed, tears wetting her eyelashes, loosened by the gin ‘– I had never asked much, you see, before the wedding. I knew he owned factories that made parts. I thought the details too dull to bother with.’ She drank. ‘But then the conferences began, the dinners, and I saw the sorts of people who attended, I heard them talk, discussing armaments and weaponry as if they were sweets.’
She looked at me. ‘A British wife with government connections is a useful thing in the arms trade. That’s how he saw me, a tool in his negotiations. I couldn’t stand it. Finally, I told him I was leaving.’ She drained the glass. ‘He disagreed. He tricked me into going to our country house, in the middle of nowhere, and locked me up there until he was sure I was with child.’
She held her hand out for the box of cigarettes on the dresser, and I handed them to her, helped her light one. ‘He thought that would stop me, you see,’ she said. ‘He was wrong. One night he left me alone, and I ran. I caught a train to the nearest town and I fixed the little problem he had given me. You can do that, you know, with enough money, even in places like Italy.’
Her hand was trembling as she took a drag on the cigarette.
‘Then I did exactly the same as you. I got out of the country. I knew he’d never agree to a divorce, and that I wouldn’t be safe, once he discovered what I’d done.’
‘Where did you go?’ I asked it quietly.
‘France,’ she said, ignoring the cigarette ash that fell on to the sheets. ‘Back to the Riviera. I had friends there. I thought about going home to England, but I was scared my family might intervene, send me back to Francesco. So I floated between Antibes and Nice, keeping as quiet as I could. That’s where I met Arthur, a year ago, at the Beau Rivage.’
There was something in the way she said it, softly, quite different from the terrible matter-of-fact way she’d discussed her marriage.
‘Were you and he …?’ I felt my cheeks burn. Had he looked at her, the way he looked at me, in the shadows of the lounge? I shifted on the bed, trying to seem casual. It was no use. She knew.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, we were lovers.’ She smiled and took another drag of her cigarette. ‘For a little while anyway. But the thought of it all growing hateful and burning out, it was too much for me. Arthur felt the same. He has so many other concerns. We soon realized we were much better suited as companions.’
I looked down at the floor, more confused than ever. Beside the bed were the papers, spilled from their file. Had she drunk enough to talk about them?
She followed my gaze, and sighed. ‘Insurance, against my husband,’ she said, stirring the papers with a bare toe. ‘They’re blueprints. Original copies. I stole them when I left, and told Francesco that unless he leaves me alone, they will find their way into the hands of every foreign military attaché I can think of.’ She smiled. ‘It is the only language he understands.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I told her.
‘So am I. But we’re here now, aren’t we?’
Sitting on that rumpled bed, we looked at each other.
‘I won’t tell Arthur,’ she said abruptly, stubbing her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on the bedside table. ‘But you will have to.’
My stomach tightened with nerves. ‘What will he do?’
‘Honest
ly?’ Her eyes travelled over my suit, my tie, my reddened face. ‘I have no idea.’ After another moment she smiled, like the sun through cloud. She was looking at the napkins on the floor. ‘Do you really need those?’
When I grimaced and nodded, she let out a laugh.
‘Go and use my bathroom, then. You don’t want Bouzid walking in and surprising you.’
I found myself smiling at that, as I collected them up. ‘He’s suspicious enough already.’
‘Oh, he knows something’s up with you, just as I did.’ She laughed again. ‘Poor Bouzid, when he finds out.’
I made for the bathroom door, my head swimming from the gin and the smoke and the knowledge that someone at Dar Portuna could see beneath my mask.
‘Alejandro.’ Hilde’s voice stopped me. ‘Tell Arthur soon. He is not a man to keep things from.’
Tangier
July 1978
Birdsong, that was what he heard, sweet and scattered and echoing back from high walls.
Sam opened his eyes. Sunlight was spilling past the heavy velvet curtains, revealing a blaze of greenery beyond. He blinked hard, and a low bronze table came into focus, covered in empty glasses and plates and oil-slicked dishes. Dar Portuna, he realized. He was still at Dar Portuna, waking on one of the old, sagging sofas.
He pushed himself up to sitting, massaging his stiff neck, and a thin embroidered blanket fell to the floor. Someone must have covered him with it in the night. He had no memory of falling asleep. He remembered talking until very late – or rather listening – to a story of another time. He’d drunk brandy at the border of Gibraltar, starving and sun-struck. He’d been a terrified smuggler’s accomplice, then a fierce young cook trawling the markets of the medina, spinning truth potions out of spice and liquor. He’d met Langham all over again, this time through Alejandro’s eyes. He’d fought to build a new life amongst the splendour and squalor of this city.
Of all the Tangiers tales he’d heard, it was the best.
But now, his head was pounding as he eyed the empty glasses on the table. It had all been too much, a wild concoction, as many flavours as words. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to remember the last thing he heard before he fell asleep. Something about a discovery, two women seeing each other clearly for the first time. He clambered to his feet, swaying, and made for the garden door.
The sun made his eyes water, but the air was a balm, each tree clinging to a faint halo of coolness. Water droplets still lingered in the shade. He was brushing his hands through them when a figure emerged at the other end of the veranda.
It was Zahrah. She was scattering handfuls of crumbs out into the garden. A little brown bird flew down and started to peck up the bits of bread.
‘Hello,’ he called, his throat dry. ‘I – fell asleep.’
‘I know.’ She dusted off her hands as the bird flew away and, for the first time, looked at him with something like a smile.
‘We talked all night,’ Sam said, embarrassed, walking across the cracked tiles. He glanced up at the house. ‘Is …?’ He still wasn’t sure what to call the person he’d spent so many hours listening to.
‘Ale’s asleep,’ Zahrah said, turning away. ‘Will be for a few hours yet.’
Ale. Sam tested the name … Alejandro. Alejandra.
‘You must have thought I was pretty stupid,’ he said, remembering his demands to see ‘Langham’, his insistence on talking to the ‘old man’.
She shrugged. ‘People see what they want to see. You came here with an expectation.’
He winced. ‘That’s true.’
She smiled a little more. ‘Ale has fooled smarter people than you, Mr Hackett.’
He didn’t take offence. He deserved it. ‘It’s Sam,’ he said, closing one eye, as his headache surfaced again.
‘I know.’ She jerked her chin at the kitchen. ‘Do you want some breakfast?’
At the huge old table, she set him to picking mint leaves from the stems while she made coffee. He watched her move around the kitchen, easily, quickly, a little carelessly. She was in control here, he realized. Ale had talked last night of the safety that could be found in kitchens, the power and control that came with feeding people. Had this young woman learned the same?
For all her new friendliness, Zahrah didn’t look at him again. By the time he’d got through half the mint stems, she’d shoved a basket of bread and a jar of honey on to the table, a bowl of plums and a dish of what looked like soft, white cheese, drizzled in oil and fresh herbs. Last came the coffee, very strong, poured into tiny, chipped cups.
She dropped on to a stool opposite him and didn’t wait, but scooped up a bit of cheese with a wedge of bread. Foggy-headed, he did the same.
‘So,’ she said as she chewed, spooning out some honey. ‘How are you going to fix the mess you’ve made?’
Sam almost choked on the bread. ‘What?’
‘The mess you have made with the journalist,’ she said. ‘Telling him about this place, letting him think that there is some scandal to be dug up about Langham and Ale.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
His stomach twisted with guilt all over again. She must have eavesdropped on the conversation, or else Ale must have told her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘First I’ll go and find Norton, try to persuade him to drop it.’
‘You have to do better than try.’ Her face was serious. ‘Listen, there’s a reason why we are so private. No one, apart from a few trusted people, knows that this is where Ale lives.’ She twisted her coffee cup around, obviously wondering how much to tell him. ‘Ale has had an … interesting career. And the name Alejandro del Potro is linked to certain kinds of trouble. If the authorities found out about this place, they would come and look for Ale, search the house at the very least. And if they thought they could tie Ale to a murder, however long ago it happened,’ she shook her head, ‘they’d use it as an excuse for an arrest, an investigation. You understand?’
He blinked, trying to process it all. ‘I think so.’ He looked at her, but she was stirring sugar into her coffee, avoiding his gaze. What did she mean, certain kinds of trouble? He remembered Abdelhamid’s furtive glance at Mouad. Both of them knew something of Tangier’s underbelly. Had they heard of Ale? Not for the first time, he felt as if there was a whole other world he couldn’t see, operating in plain sight. ‘You know I’m writing about Langham and Ale and this house too, don’t you?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Not an article, a book. A novel, maybe.’
She took a piece of bread. ‘That’s different.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s fiction.’ She smiled at him then, in a way he couldn’t quite decipher. He opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but she was pulling the bowl of fruit towards her. ‘Anyway, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you stop this newspaperman from letting half the world know where to find Ale. Can you do it, Sam?’
It was the first time she had said his name. He fought the urge to smile stupidly.
‘I’ll try everything I can, I promise.’
She nodded, and carried on eating.
They were both silent as they worked their way through the bread and fruit. Sam couldn’t stop himself from sneaking glances at Zahrah’s face, and eventually, she caught his eye. He looked back to his plate hurriedly. Another mystery to unravel.
He made short work of the food, despite the rich meal he had eaten with Ale the night before. There had been bowls of olives marinated in herbs, a rich potato tortilla, a dish of softly stewed aubergines and pomegranate that he couldn’t get enough of.
‘The food last night,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘Did you make it?’
‘Of course.’
‘It was wonderful.’
A hint of a smile returned to her face. ‘Ale always says that food is important, that if you can cook, you can discover what people want, and then, you can know them for what they are.’
Sam stopped, in the middle of mopping up all the trac
es of oil and soft cheese from the bowl with his finger, and swallowed, wondering what she thought he was.
Together, they tidied up, putting the plates into the huge chipped sink. Maybe it was the food, but Sam felt a glow of warmth, completing that simple chore alongside Zahrah. Abruptly, he wanted to stay, wanted to ask if she would teach him how to cook something, so that he could remain in her company in that bright, worn kitchen.
But eventually they were done, and she was stepping into a pair of sandals, taking a djellaba down from a hook behind the door and dragging it over her head, to cover her faded t-shirt and shorts. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked.
She was the mysterious figure again, the one he had first seen, emerging from the Gran Café de Paris.
‘You don’t need your disguise, there won’t be any letters today,’ he said.
She gave him a sarcastic smile in return. ‘You try being a woman and walking around this city in shorts.’
She was right, he thought, as he followed her out of the kitchen door. He’d never considered how Tangier might be a different city for her than it was for him – another experience, a different face. One that was less permissive, less open. Just as the streets of La Atunara had been for Ale, without a man’s suit.
‘Ale wants you to come back,’ Zahrah said, as they crossed the garden. ‘Later, after you have spoken to the journalist.’
The thought of confronting Norton made Sam feel sick. But Zahrah was right. It was his fault; he had to try and fix it.
They used the front gate this time. He held aside the fall of jasmine while Zahrah unlocked it with a huge, old key.
‘Not the most convenient entrance, is it?’ he said.
‘I told you, we don’t want people to know about this place.’ She locked the gate behind her. ‘It’s Ale’s safe haven.’
They stopped on the nearest corner.
‘Well.’ For the first time, Zahrah seemed awkward. ‘I will see you later.’
‘Wait!’ he called before she had even taken a step. ‘Can I walk with you, for a while? Where are you headed?’
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