If the authorities thought they could tie Ale to a murder, however long ago it happened, they’d use it as an excuse for an arrest, an investigation.
He had to take Zahrah’s word for that, but it didn’t matter either way. He’d promised.
He hurried down the stairs, the writing case gripped in one hand. What on earth was Ale involved with? If the authorities were a threat, then it must be serious. Part of him felt uneasy, wondering whether he should report Alejandro del Potro himself. He knew he’d never do that, but what if Norton was right to be asking questions? Sam had only Ale and Zahrah’s words to go on, and there was still so much he didn’t know. Not least that note.
I am sorry.
He screwed his eyes shut.
‘Monsieur Hackett!’
Madame Sarah was standing in the kitchen doorway.
‘Sorry,’ he said, flushing. ‘I – what is it?’
Her lips were pressed tight, as if she was working up to something. ‘Monsieur Hackett, if you want to stay after this week, you must pay me in advance. I cannot allow any more late rent.’
He stared at her, trying to haul his mind into the present. ‘In advance? But …’ He’d just about been managing to pay a week in arrears. ‘Can’t we just carry on as normal? I won’t be late with it, I promise.’
In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure how much money he had left. Most of the cash from the typewriter had gone on rent, the rest on kif and a supply of paper, new ink and coffee and beers.
Madame Sarah looked unhappy. ‘My sister says I should not let you stay here unless you pay in advance. Last night, when you did not come back, I thought you might have run off without—’
‘I’d never do that! Last night I was with a … a friend.’ He sounded so guilty. No wonder she was frowning at him. ‘OK, I’ll pay a week in advance, I swear. As soon as I get back later.’
She looked unconvinced. Not for the first time, Sam wished he was a better tenant. Or a better liar. Behind her shoulder, the clock was pointing at two. He’d have to run if he wanted to catch Norton before he got back to the office.
‘Here.’ Impulsively, he held out the writing case. ‘This is incredibly important to me. Keep it as a security deposit. Tomorrow I’ll give you the rent, I promise.’ Perhaps he could borrow a few dirhams from Ale.
Madame Sarah frowned at the leather case, with its scuffed corners. ‘All right,’ she said quietly, taking it. ‘But tomorrow, please.’
Sam’s hands felt empty as he hurried through the casbah. He stuck them in his pockets, full of kif dust and rolling papers and small change. Facing Norton would be easier in a suit like Ale’s, something smart and elegant, rather than his usual scrubby jeans. He straightened his shirt as much as he could before stepping into the El Minzah.
He needn’t have bothered. Norton wasn’t there. The desk clerk, side-eyeing Sam’s attire, told him coolly that Mr Norton had not returned at all that day. Grimly, Sam strode out into the street and started in the direction of the new town. Was Norton putting in extra hours to dig around the archives, looking for information about Langham? He walked as rapidly as he could through the sweltering afternoon, until he saw the brown glass windows of the Interpress building glinting up ahead.
He stopped in the middle of the street, staring at the lobby. What the hell was he going to say? Norton might be a bastard, but he was on the right track, there was a scandal to be uncovered, Sam was sure of it. How was he going to convince Norton otherwise? He swallowed hard, and walked towards the building.
The reception was hot, a couple of fans shunting cigarette smoke about the place. The woman from the day before was pushing typewriter keys one at a time, struggling to stay awake.
‘Hello,’ Sam said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m here to see Ellis Norton.’
The receptionist blinked at him. ‘Mr Norton? I’m afraid he just went out.’
Sam hesitated. He’d come here ready for an argument. Did this mean he’d have to sit and wait like an idiot until Norton returned? Frustrated, he nodded and turned away, gritting his teeth when he pictured how Norton must have swiped the passport …
Sam stopped. The passport. Norton had taken it for a reason. It was proof, he realized, the only concrete bit of evidence Norton had that someone else might have been involved in Langham’s death: the only thing that named Alejandro del Potro. If he could get the passport back, Norton would have nothing, just speculation, rumours. No editor would accept an article without verifiable evidence.
Quickly, he searched through his jeans pockets until he found what he was looking for. A business card, crumpled and a little grubby:
ELLIS NORTON
JUNIOR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT
INTERPRESS
‘Actually, do you mind if I wait for him upstairs?’ Sam waved the card at the receptionist. ‘Ellis and I are working on a story together. I was here yesterday, remember? You gave me some money for a taxi.’ He felt as though his smile was creaking.
‘That’s right,’ the woman said, stifling a yawn. ‘You were in a rush.’
‘I’ll go wait at his desk, then.’ He moved towards the elevator, his heart beating faster.
‘Wait!’ The receptionist’s voice stopped him. She was leaning over the edge of the counter, holding a pen. ‘You need to sign in first.’
Trying to steady his hand, he took the pen and wrote a name in the register.
‘Thanks, Mr –’ she glanced down ‘– Langham. You want the second floor. I’ll tell Mr Norton you’re here as soon as he arrives.’
Sam nodded, and made for the elevator. He’d have to be fast.
The second floor turned out to be a messy open office space, blinds pulled down over the windows to keep out the fierce sun. He expected someone to stop him at the door and ask what he was doing, but no one did. He passed one man snoozing behind a huge stack of files, a woman who was working at a typewriter, her glasses sliding down her nose with perspiration.
‘Excuse me,’ he asked her. ‘Which is Ellis Norton’s desk? I’m meant to wait for him and—’
‘Who?’ she asked, not looking up from her typing.
‘Norton, Ellis Norton, he’s a junior correspondent.’
The woman tutted over a typo and pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Corner desk.’ She jerked her head towards the windows. ‘Next to metro.’
Sam had no idea what that meant, but he walked confidently in that direction, until he saw a piece of paper pinned to a cubicle divider that read E NORTON.
He was sweating now. So was everyone else in the room, though he wagered they were sweating from the heat rather than nerves. He lowered himself into the chair at Norton’s desk, ducking behind the divider.
The workspace was cluttered, carbon copies strewn around a typewriter, newspapers in French and English piled up next to it. This could have been his own life, Sam realized, with a bizarre rush of clarity. If he had followed a different path, if he had studied harder at college and made the right connections, he might have been sitting at one of these desks working, rather than skulking like a thief. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Quickly, he began to search. No one seemed to be looking his way. The only man within eyeshot was smoking and reading a copy of Al-Alam. He found a handwritten note and snatched it up only to discover that it was all in shorthand, like a taunt. Think. The passport was Norton’s proof. He wouldn’t just leave it lying about in the open.
Beneath the desk was a squat metal filing cabinet. The top drawer opened with a metallic squeal, and the man opposite gave him half a glance. Sam smiled back. Be calm, he told himself.
The drawer was full of cardboard files, all the same shade of beige. The passport could be in any one of them. He started to lift covers at random, peering at the papers inside. They were full of cuttings, edited notes, picture references. He began to scrabble through them faster. It would make him look suspicious, but he didn’t care; he didn’t know how much longer his nerves would hold out. He opened the fourth
file down and felt smooth card beneath his fingers, thicker than carbon copy. He yanked it out.
PASAPORTE.
Thank god.
The photo of Alejandro looked up at him, defiant and sullen. He recognized Ale now, so young, and felt his chest tighten with sympathy, with admiration. What had happened, during those dark, hot days of July 1928? He still didn’t know.
Englishman Drowns in Strait.
Skin prickling, Sam shoved the passport into his back pocket. He was reaching down to close the drawer when something else caught his eye, a photograph of a familiar location. He pulled it out.
The picture was black and white and grainy, as if taken in low light, but he could tell it showed the entrance of The Hold. Two blurred figures were standing by the door. He squinted, trying to make them out. Only when he saw the shape of a cigar did he realize that one of the figures was Bet. Bet and Kline, his head near hers, as if in quiet conversation. Sam’s fingers tightened on the print. What the hell was Norton playing at? Abruptly, he remembered the intent way the journalist had stared at Bet across the bar, the way he’d feigned drunkenness as he declared, I’ve just been hearing the most marvellous stories from Giles. He said that you were a smuggler!
‘Bastard,’ Sam hissed.
‘Hackett!’
He shot up from the chair, the picture still clutched in his hand. Norton was striding across the office, pale beneath his sunburn. ‘What in god’s name are you doing?’
People were looking now, but Sam didn’t care.
‘What in god’s name are you doing?’ he said. ‘What the hell is this?’
He threw the photograph at Norton, who barely managed to catch it. When he saw what it was, his face went even paler.
‘It’s my job,’ he said, with deliberate control. ‘I’m doing my job, Hack, investigating what I think needs to be reported. This isn’t personal.’
‘Yeah, right.’ People were standing now, craning to see what was going on. Let them, Sam thought recklessly. ‘Stalking isn’t doing a job. Neither is stealing from my suitcase. It’s theft.’
‘That suitcase wasn’t yours,’ Norton snapped. ‘And that passport is a fake. I called the consulate, they have no record of any Alejandro del Potro—’
‘I asked you to wait.’ Sam stepped towards Norton. ‘There are people who could be hurt by what you’re doing!’
‘People who deserve it.’ Norton shook his head, as if Sam were a child, throwing a tantrum. ‘You have no idea, do you, the kind of people you’re dealing with? I found Langham’s record. He was a crook, just like this del Potro character, or whoever it is living in that house.’
‘You don’t understand!’ He was shouting.
‘No, you don’t. You’re so bloody naive. That lot at The Hold, Bet, Kline, all of them, they’re criminals. They’ve charmed you with their stories, flattered you into thinking you’re special, but I’m not fooled, I can see them for the scum they are—’
Before he could think twice, he raised his arm and punched Norton square in the face.
Between the Sheets
Take three quarters of a pony each of brandy, Cointreau and white rum. Add just a dash of lemon juice, shake well and strain into a glass. How you drink it is nobody’s business.
June slid into July like butter on a hot plate. I was used to Andalucían summers; the fierce sun and the darkness of shuttered rooms, the constant thirst of those who cannot escape the city for mountain or coast, who only emerge in the greyness of dawn to crawl to mass and pray for rain. But Tangiers heat was different. It was the heat of the desert, come to try its luck by the sea. It was an old god, one who laughed to see us sweat and swoon. It found me wild with anxiety and joy and fear and desire shaken up together.
The night with Langham turned into another, then another. My morning meetings with him – ostensibly to discuss the day’s menu – would more often than not descend into a frenzy of fingers on buttons and loosened garments, up against the locked door. There was no hiding it from Bouzid, of course, or Hilde. Early one morning she had walked into Langham’s room and found me there, in my strange collection of male underwear and the tight brassiere. She had laughed, and I felt a huge wave of relief. I wanted her for my friend.
‘I see he took your news well then,’ she said, helping herself to a cigarette from the box on his dresser. By the time Langham emerged from the bathroom, Hilde and I were standing at the wardrobe, holding up suits, trying on hats, Hilde with a cravat looped about her neck.
‘What’s this?’ he said, with his secretive half-smile. ‘A pantomime?’
‘Tell del Potro,’ Hilde said around her cigarette, ‘that a gentleman must have a flannel suit for days like this. A gorgeous, white flannel suit, with –’ she rifled through the shelves ‘– a pale green shirt, or a rose pink.’ She held one up beneath my chin. ‘Yes! Just like that. You’ll look a dream. And a sprig of jasmine at the lapel. The ladies won’t be able to keep their eyes off you. Or the men,’ she added slyly.
‘No, no.’ Langham came forwards, his robe brushing against me, his hair still gleaming with water. ‘A gentleman is never ostentatious.’ He was quoting from The Gentleman’s Guide, and I smiled at him. ‘He does not covet attention but attracts it by way of an engaging ensemble.’ He pulled out a saffron-coloured shirt and held it up to my chest, with his arms around me. ‘One that defies analysis,’ he finished, his eyes on mine in the mirror.
Smiling, I took the shirt, and slid my arms into it. Langham followed every movement. ‘This one,’ he murmured, pulling a suit from the rows that hung there. ‘Try this.’
It was white flannel, just as Hilde had suggested. I pulled the trousers over my legs, felt a rush of delight as I adjusted the waistcoat and settled the jacket over my shoulders.
She clapped when I was dressed.
‘Perfect. Just perfect.’
Langham was smiling. ‘Hilde’s right. How fine you look. You must get one of your own.’
We were almost of a height, he and I, and though the suit was too big across my shoulders and around the waist, it wasn’t a bad fit. He ran his hands through my hair, combing it back from my forehead, like his own. Quietly, Hilde let herself out.
‘There,’ Langham murmured when he was done. Our faces were next to each other, his flushed from washing, mine from his touch. ‘We could almost be the same man.’
I turned to find his mouth, the hangers in the wardrobe clattering as we leaned back against it.
Later that day, I slipped outside the back gate for the first time in days, and beckoned to one of the children who were always lingering near the Bab al-Bahr, on the make. A boy came running over. He wore rope sandals, his hands quick and grubby, his eyes appraising of my fine suit.
‘Yes señor, monsieur, yes?’ he asked.
‘You know Souissa, the tailor down near the Petit Socco?’ I asked.
He nodded rapidly, answered sí sí, his eyes on my pocket as I took out a handful of centimes. ‘Take this down to him right away.’ I handed over an envelope, one from Langham’s personalized leather case. ‘Tell him to send the bill as usual. You can remember that?’
The boy snatched the letter from my hand before I finished speaking. ‘Sí, señor, claro,’ he smiled, holding out his hand for his payment.
I watched him run off with a smile, picturing Souissa’s face when he opened the letter and found my order for a white flannel suit, and a shirt of palest saffron gold, just like Langham’s.
As I turned back towards the house my neck prickled, despite the heat. I looked about, searching for the eyes I was sure were watching me, but all I saw was a flash of movement as someone disappeared around the corner of the Bab al-Bahr.
In those hot weeks, Langham did not go out as much as he usually did. Perhaps he was feeling on edge too, or perhaps we were simply being gluttons, revelling in each other’s company. We hadn’t spoken about the night he had returned, sea-drenched and bleeding from what looked like a knife wound to the arm. Indeed,
though I began to know every centimetre of his body, from the jut of his hip and the smooth gold-brown hair of his thighs, there were multiple scars across his back and chest and now his arm that eluded definition. I asked him about the wound only once on that first night, as we lay tangled in clothes and bedsheets. He had only looked at me, and smiled. ‘A scuffle, that’s all.’
Whether that ‘scuffle’ was the cause of his lapse in business, his increased presence in the house, I didn’t know. Bouzid knew, I was sure. He’d been ‘with the boat’ on the night it happened. On a few occasions I saw them together, talking in hushed voices, but I could never get close enough to hear.
I tried to forget about it, basking in my new life at Dar Portuna, in the delicious, decadent freedom. I slipped from being domestic help to lover, friend. I knew things had changed for good when Langham caught my hand and asked me to eat supper with him and Hilde as they lay on the veranda, rather than in the kitchen. I still cooked, still served food, but that was my power: something neither of them possessed. I shared it with affection and was proud.
For two weeks, the outside world did not exist. It was as if the three of us – Hilde, Langham and I – had signed a pact to be idle for a time, to take joy in each other. Bouzid did not break the hierarchy as I had. Sometimes, he could be compelled to join us on the veranda for tea, during the afternoons that seemed to last a century. Mostly though, he left us to our revels.
We soon lost all notion of should and ought. I began to leave off the tight brassiere, certain that Bouzid now knew my secret, and would keep it. Every day I sent orders to town for ice, more ice; ice to chill melon to tooth-stinging coldness, ice to mix drinks powerful enough to make us forget the heat, until we rolled on the hot tiles of the poolside, laughing as freezing gin slid across our cheeks. One afternoon Hilde produced a lump of hashish and told me, looking like a child who has raided the pantry, to ‘do something nice with it’.
An Echo of Scandal Page 24