The Forgiven: A Novel

by Lawrence Osborne

  She lay for some time collecting her thoughts, with the blueness of the sky reflected all over the room, slowly realizing that she was alone in the chalet. David had gone out. Then element by element, she went over the previous night so that she knew it was real. A lizard on the white wall stared down at her, swiveling its head at an impossible angle. The eyes had pieces of dark orange rind in them, concentrated within a knowing brilliance. So it was all true. She hadn’t dreamt it.

  Her long, athletic limbs filled the bed, which was sprinkled with sand. It was nearly midday. Light, percussive laughter floated over from the main house. She turned on her back and filled her lungs to bursting. The black despair of the night was not as strong as she had feared it would be. For one thing, she was no longer physically exhausted, and for another, she was thinking about it alone without David’s constant harassment.

  She showered lazily. The water from the roof was scalding. Her introspection was perfect. If only she could be alone for the next twenty-four hours. If only David wouldn’t come back and the guests would ride off into the desert never to return. It was disarming the way Richard and Dally had Fortnum & Mason toiletries in all the rooms. She washed her hair, turned off the air-conditioning, and put on her bathrobe.

  Outside, the air was bright but savagely hot. The paths were piled with sand, and the mountains beyond the walls had the color of cool ash. Azna was of the same color, like something that has burned overnight and settled into a pile. She winced in the heat. As if summoned purely by her thoughts, a boy was walking toward her, his white robe billowing around him and his babouches slapping the path.

  “Café?”

  “You’re a godsend! Can I have some hot milk?”

  She took it on the porch in her sunglasses with some toast and strawberry jam. Crickets ricocheted around her, and a gay splashing echoed from the pool area, where the girls laughed as if they were alone in the world. In the shadow of the house a few tables were set up with napkins. The wind had died down completely and palms stood motionless against a blank sky. She folded the toast slices and stuffed them into her mouth. Idly, she thought about her books. She hadn’t written one in eight years, but stories and ideas were constantly suggesting themselves. She stretched her shins into the sun and let them burn a little. “Punishment,” she thought. The boy returned with oranges that had obviously been stored in a fridge, a small silver knife laid next to them. He had forgotten the honey.

  “Where is my husband?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I didn’t see him.”

  The boy was haratin, with black features. He nodded and looked away. She had a sudden desire to engage him, to ask him all kinds of insolent questions. There was just a chance that he would tell the truth. Am I beautiful? Is my husband mad? Am I mad? But he responded slothfully, reluctantly when she asked again if he knew anything about the dead boy. She wanted to know if they were angry.

  SHE WENT OVER TO THE HOUSE IN HER BIG YELLOW SUMMER dress, which she had bought in a Chelsea antique store. It was patched up and precarious, and she knew that she was far too old for it, but it was okay for Morocco and a party where no one knew her or even cared. In a house full of buxom young women, she didn’t have to be careful about her appearance. She was free. She breezed up to the house and for a moment admired the elaborate surfaces that adorned its sides. A riot of filigree screens and lacelike carvings made the four-sided structure look like an incredibly detailed sculpture made out of milk chocolate. A whole wall was covered with all sorts of lozenges, diamond-shaped motifs, and tiny lathed columns. She heard the music, the chatter coming from inside, the voice of Dally, and then, thinking better of her planned entry, she skirted around the house and wandered into the small maze of lanes and houses that sloped gently from it to the south wall. A space had been cleared among them and turned into a piazza with marble tiles. She walked across it, feeling the heat burst through the soles of her leather slippers, and snapped her fingers at her sides. Horse riding? He was mad. He wanted to escape from her and clear his head, but he had gone about it eccentrically.

  The lanes shimmered with tall flowering weeds pestered by bees. Those houses that were still empty breathed a smell of moss and decayed timber and dried flowers. Some corroded steps led up to the top of the wall and she climbed them, breathing hard in the heat. A dense smell of dry herbs and smoke rose from the hillsides below, and people walked on the road in wide straw hats, beating skanky donkeys with sticks and hollering upward toward the ksour. The echoes of these voices were clipped; they rang out clear across the empty spaces.

  There was a surprising normality to everything, no sense of crisis or anguish. She ran her hand along the hot baked mud of the wall and let her chin burn a little under the rim of her baseball cap. Like Hamid’s, her heart was not behaving regularly. Her fair, freckled skin recoiled from the light, and the thought of David riding blithely across the mountain infuriated her. So often he took things into his own hands and took off, oblivious, neither enjoying himself nor doing anything especially useful. He had left on a whim, because he couldn’t face the horror that the morning would bring, and yet it had to be faced because everything has to be faced, and if he didn’t face it, she would have to. She could sense that nothing had been concluded. The crisis would roll on, and it would drag them downward into some plot over which they would have no influence.

  Farther along the same wall, she spotted the American from the dinner taking photographs, kneeling behind the parapet and taking his time with each shot. He was so wrapped up in his task that he didn’t notice her until she was a few feet away. He appeared very pleased. There was a quick “Hiya,” and he got off his knees, doffing his straw porkpie hat. He flipped it and said, “I got it in Casablanca. Made in China.” He put it back on and nudged his aviators. She liked him, she decided on the spot. There was something affable and solid about him, a good-sport aura, and he was one of those who watch and take notes, who never take their eyes off you. Perhaps they were the only two sane people there, it occurred to her.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME, SHE LOOKED AROUND HERSELF. SHE hadn’t been able to notice anything the night before. She’d had no cognizance as to where she was. Now she saw the menacing slopes of tawny rock dotted with date palms, the valley sweeping down to plains that seemed white, like flats of dried salt. Above Azna, lumpen peaks reared up, made of great round boulders piled on top of each other like a children’s game. This kind of stone seemed to shine in the light, as if its surfaces had been polished with wax. There were hardly any trees, only outcrops of prickly pear and tufts of yellow flowers like wild mustard. The ksour was made of dried mud, and so it appeared to rise spontaneously out of the earth itself, like something that had been spat up by a subterranean eruption. The courageous folly of choosing such a location for a vacation home was immediately obvious, and one had to admire it. Day pointed to a neighboring ksour on the far side of the road, a rectangular shape clinging to the side of an identically inhospitable mountainside. It was owned by a German couple, he said. They, too, had festive weekends.

  “It’s a wild sort of place,” she murmured.

  “I wouldn’t live here. They’re living out some sort of fantasy, I imagine.” He wasn’t interested in the hosts at that moment, however. He came forward, ready to console. “Are you all right?”

  She seemed startled that anyone should ask her that. “All right? No, I’m lost. It’s like going through the Looking Glass. And I haven’t seen Richard today.”

  “I think it’s all been settled. You’ll have to fill out some forms and I expect that’ll be the end of it.”

  She sank her face into her hands for a moment and rested against the wall. Settled? But nothing was settled.

  “This morning I thought it was a dream. For a moment I was happy again. How could we have been so stupid?”

  Day touched her arm.

  “Shall we go down and get some lunch? There’s little point in blaming yourself.”

  Her eyes began to drip. But
her body was still, fixed to the wall. He waited it out. She was a woman of high but discreet internal tension, with her tall, loopy frame, her exaggerated freckles, and her patient, exact voice. Everything about her was compressed, internalized, and yet when she looked at you without forethought, the blueness in her eyes opened up suddenly and you found yourself entering them, and as you entered, a door closed behind you and you couldn’t leave.

  “Everyone speeds,” he said firmly. “It’s not the issue.”

  “But it is the issue, you know. We killed that boy because we were going too fast. And because we were having an argument.”

  He waited patiently. The calm exhaustion after emotion is what one waits for. Her skin had a wonderful melancholy about it, a dusky ripeness. From the house came the sound of live jazz, a band playing in the tent that had just been erected, a tinny jumble of trombones and cymbals and bassoons. The music was romping away, badly played but saucy. As soon as she heard it, she smiled.

  “So you like jazz?” he said gaily.

  “I loathe it. But it always makes me hungry.”

  In reality, she was scanning the hills, the ravines, rather than thinking about jazz. There was a puff of dust in the distance. Her eyes narrowed and she frowned. Horses, perhaps. She was never jealous of David, but it was remarkable that she remembered this fact only now. She never thought of what he was doing while he was away from her; she felt his absence as a vacuum that couldn’t last very long. She wasn’t ever jealous; she was annoyed only by his occasional failure to tell her where he was. It was informational insecurity.

  “My husband went riding this morning,” she said distractedly. “Who did he go riding with, though?”

  Day licked his chapped lips. “There was a group of Eurotrash, girls in riding boots, that sort of thing. I think I saw him. I would have thought it was far too hot for that sort of thing. Don’t horses get heatstroke?”

  “It wasn’t very nice of him,” she said, pouting. “Aren’t there lawyers and policemen waiting to torture us?”

  He turned and skipped down the adobe staircase to the bottom of the wall, darting with a gasp into the shadow and grinning up at her. He was trim, boyish, and not too American after all.

  “I doubt it. Dally and Dick are the feudal lords here. Everyone kisses their ass. You should get out of that sun before you start bleeding.”

  “I don’t bleed very easily.”

  THEY WENT SLOWLY BACK TO THE HOUSE. HER DRESS, YELLOW and ripe looking like some huge, floppy flower with crinkled petals and blood-stained hems, swished against his legs. It seemed as if she wanted to be amused. There are women like that, he thought to himself: permanently half interested in life, waiting for a sudden attack, a sudden onset of charm. He thought of them as the Waiting Fruit. You could always tickle them with a bit of bawdy, letting them know that you were a gentle, caring cad. They would hesitate, pretend to disapprove, and then the sexual elastic inside them would distend, grow taut, then relax. At that moment, they could be picked. It didn’t matter at all if they were married. He described how he had spent the night in Casablanca before driving out here. He had gone to one of the beach clubs in the suburb of Aïn Diab and played Ping-Pong with a hooker at the Tahiti.

  “You didn’t!” she cried.

  “I did. Desperate hookers find me irresistible. I have a smell of decaying money about me. It’s one of the best things about money. That smell.”

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “You did.”

  He made her laugh, and that was something to her mind. It was quite surprising. What was she laughing at? He had even teeth. It was as if his dentist had filed them all down so that they formed a symmetrical row.

  “I wouldn’t tell a lady,” he groaned. “Not even my mother.”

  “Your mother would be fascinated.”

  She liked her dress rubbing his legs. It was her way of feeling his legs without doing anything.

  On another note, he asked, “Have you been here before?”

  She shook her head and frowned again. “We rarely get away on holiday. David works all the time. His patients are all rich old bags who harass him mercilessly around the clock. We are ruled by his pager.”

  “So he’s a doctor, then?”

  “I’m sorry … I didn’t even say.”

  “Well, I like it here. It seems like a country where a useless man could be happy. Maybe I’ll move.”

  Meanwhile her eyes had dried. No more crying, she thought, but it occurred to her that she should ask Richard to see the body. She had to see it and say something to it. A prayer at least, even if it was not in the right language, or from the right book.

  AS THEY WENT THROUGH THE ENORMOUS BERBER TENT where the jazz was playing, she looked for him everywhere. A small crowd picked at the buffet and drank from an elegant bar draped in white cloth. Powerful electric fans did their best to keep it cool. The ground was covered with brown and gold Atta carpets with lozenge designs that looked like eyes, and there were low sofas with brocaded peach-colored cushions. Day suddenly took her hand for a moment, to pull her through a knot of people, and she was not startled enough to snatch it back. So he pulled her through. They went to the bar and got a drink. At the same time, people came up to her and asked her if she was all right. They were talking about the accident, but discreetly, under their breath, and when they saw her, they felt they ought to say something. They cradled her shoulder with their hands and said, “How horrible!” To which there was nothing she could say.

  She was soon lost, bewildered, irritated. Where was David? She hung on to the kind American and begged him to take her out again. They borrowed some parasols from the staff and walked toward the pool, which was planted all about with cypress trees and offered shade. The whole scene seemed pointless to her now, with the Paris dresses and the tinkly jazz that was out of place. The idea of champagne made her sick; the sight of the mezze laid out in the tent struck her as needlessly provocative to the staff, who looked on with noticeably greater coolness. The American seemed nice—but who was he? What did he want? By the gates there was a small crowd of Berbers who seemed to be waiting for something, and as Day and Jo approached them, the group shifted on their feet, muttering, pulling back a little but staring violently. Day gripped her hand and said, close to her ear, “They seem put out by you. Hang on to me. I look violent.”

  Hamid was arguing with some of them, clearly asking them to step back through the gates. Reluctantly, they agreed, and the courtyard cleared out as the gates were closed and bolted. Seeing Jo, Hamid came up with a shower of tight-lipped apologies.

  “The horses are back, Madame. Your husband is taking a shower. I think it was a bad idea to go out on horses.”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “Your husband can tell you. It is all foolish.”

  “Where is Monsieur Richard?”

  “He has gone to Tazat to talk to the police.”

  She would have gone on with more insistent questions, but the sun was too strong and she was beginning to waver. Hamid was becoming more blank toward them, more testy, and she felt that he didn’t like her. She wasn’t sure what to do. Bluntly, she asked if she could see the body, which she knew was in the garage. For a moment, he appeared stunned. Then he shook his head emphatically and glowered. No, Madame, that was out of the question. Monsieur Richard would never forgive him if he permitted that. It was not a sight for a woman, especially not one of the parties involved.

  “I’ll ask Monsieur Richard,” she said icily.

  “As you like, Madame.”

  Before she turned to go, she said, “What were those men doing inside the gate?”

  “They are locals,” Hamid replied. “They are upset by the events of last night.”

  “What do you mean, upset?”

  “They were rowdy at first, but we calmed them down.”

  “Rowdy?”

  Her tone must have been aggressive, because he returned her s
tare with even greater force. She felt the American hand pulling her away.

  “What were they rowdy about?”

  It was a queer English word Hamid had learned from Richard, and he wondered if he had misused it.

  “They were noisy and offended, Madame.”

  “By me?” she gasped.

  Day whispered in her ear.

  “Now, now. Don’t bait him.”

  With the gates bolted, the staff went back to the tent. Jo and Day threaded their way through the maze of houses toward her chalet, and halfway there he stopped. The sun was now full, at its height, and they stood starkly isolated by it.

  “You should talk this over with your husband alone.”

  “I should. Shall we meet later?”

  She thanked him quickly and walked off, turning once to shoot him a smile. She shouted over, “Are you going to the pool this afternoon?”

  He nodded. “It’s better than horse riding.”

  Already from the pool came a sound of ice cubes and laughter, making it clear that the guests were not thinking too much about her problems or the accident. At least such thinking was compatible with getting on with their weekend. She walked like someone on their way to a store, thrusting her legs too quickly, flapping her arms. She didn’t forget the man watching her go, or the interest in his eyes, because there were indisputable things that didn’t need to be thought about. She knew he was an unserious womanizer. But in London no one ever looked twice at her; she was sure that David’s friends all felt sorry for him when, as they said, “he could have had anyone.” The American was a nice compensation.

  At the street corner nearest the chalet, she looked up and saw buzzards circling the ksour, as if mating. The houses shot razor-sharp shadows across the paving. Only now did she notice the flower boxes hanging on all the doors, and the brass hands of Fatima on the doors, positioned superstitiously upside down. The parts of the fantasy village that were restored were so well done that one had to concentrate to notice the discrepancies, the cracks. The walls were so perfectly surfaced. The doors were all new, varnished, and made to look old. Even the hands of Fatima were imposters. They made for a strange contradistinction with the ruined dwellings all around them.