Bon Bon Voyage

by Nancy Fairbanks

  Carolyn said she, for one, was glad he didn’t want us to get lost, and she put on her scarf under this big sun hat and began asking people in our group if they’d seen Mrs. Gross that morning. No one had. The idea was that we should stay lined up, follow the guide when he blew the whistle, stop when he blew the whistle, and listen to what he had to say, all of which interfered with Carolyn’s search for the old lady.

  “Ex-military,” said Barney, nodding toward our guide.

  “Pig,” said Vera.

  “They don’t eat pigs,” Carolyn added helpfully, and off we went.

  Everyone wanted to sell us something, but the guide drove them off and took us into stores from time to time— little, crowded, dusty places where you had to haggle over everything. I got to feel right at home, like I was in Juárez in the central market, the one that burns down every ten years or so. Carolyn took a fancy to this huge copper tray with elaborate designs all over it. She didn’t even blink at the price, which was a hell of a lot of money. She told me it was a steal, but Vera said, “Nonsense,” and haggled the guy down to about a fourth of the original price, which was still a lot of money.

  Muhammad, or whatever his name was—everyone was named Muhammad or Ali or something like that—congratulated her on her purchase. I figured he probably got a cut on everything his tourists bought. Then he blew his whistle at me because my scarf had fallen off for about the fourth time. I told him if he liked the damn scarf so much, he should wear it himself, and Barney had to intervene. Poor guy probably wished he’d caught a different tour. Still, he really seemed taken with Vera. Go figure. Carolyn got in on that argument herself.

  Then damned if she didn’t get into trouble in the souk. She was looking at caftans and Berber rugs when she caught three teenagers pointing at us and making remarks that were pretty obviously insulting. Not that I actually knew what they were saying, but if we’d been in El Paso, I’d have expected them to be showing off gang T-shirts and tattoos—your usual teenage macho crap.

  Carolyn took offense and demanded that the guide translate, and the dumb shit did: “They say lady with camel-piss hair must be concubine or other bad woman for not covering head.” Whoops! Somehow or other Carolyn had lost her scarf completely, and her blond hair was hanging out from under that big sun hat. Needless to say, she was not amused. In fact, she really lost it. I haven’t seen her so mad since she went after Boris Ignatenko in the office at Brazen Babes and he blacked her eye.

  She whirled on those kids and really tore into them. “Concubine? Is that how you treat respectable visitors to your country?” She grabbed Muhammad’s arm and ordered him to translate what she had to say, and then she lectured the boys about how their mothers would be ashamed of their terrible manners, and her children would never do anything like that because she’d taught them better. She finished them off by saying, “And since you so charmingly commented on my ‘camel-piss hair,’ I’d like to say that I much prefer to have blond hair than a camel-piss personality like yours, you nasty little twerps.”

  Everyone was trying to shut her up; the guide stopped translating pretty quick and started blowing his whistle, but once Carolyn takes offense, she’s bound and determined to have her say, and she did.

  The kids turned tail and ran, Muhammad yelled at her, and Vera was so tickled that she gave Carolyn a hug and called her a “woman after my own heart.” Then she called Muhammad “Hitler in a white dress.” Evidently Carolyn didn’t get many hugs or kind words from her mother-in-law, because she looked pretty shocked. Muhammad missed the Hitler comment; he just wanted to get us out of there before we caused any more trouble, but Carolyn insisted on staying to buy two caftans. Killington, the guy from Silicon Valley, offered to carry the heavy tray for her. He was lucky she hadn’t decided on one of the bright red, wooly Berber rugs. He’d probably have got stuck with that, too.

  Then Carolyn trotted off after Muhammad, who had forgiven her because she bought more stuff, and we continued sightseeing. The buildings may have been cracked and crumbly, like the adobe houses in the Segundo Barrio back home, but they had these colorful doors and shutters, pretty yellow and blue tiling, and elaborate scrollwork decorations made of what looked like plaster. Vera said at least the streets weren’t full of dog shit like European streets, but then they probably ate the dogs in Morocco.

  “Camel and donkey taste good, too,” Muhammad told her with an evil grin. Christ! I hoped no one wanted me to eat any camel meat. They were really smelly animals.

  After that, we got back on the bus and started into the countryside, which was dusty and scrubby and had the thinnest cows you’ve ever seen, not to mention the edible camels and donkeys. We were on our way to see a lighthouse. I suppose it was old or historic or something. I couldn’t understand the guide.

  After that the bus bumped along some more so we could visit this cave that had something to do with Hercules. At least I think that’s what he said. Anyway, the sea washed up into a hole in the cave with a whoosh-boom. It was pretty spectacular, but I figured that if a really big wave came in there, it would drown a hell of a lot of tourists at one time. Then we got back on the bus and returned to visit a teahouse in Tangier.

  It was a big, shabby room with draperies all over the place on the second floor of a building that looked like it had been hit by an earthquake and never repaired. After walking in all those alleys and climbing into the cave, my knees were killing me, and I was not happy to see pillows plopped around low tables. We were expected to sit cross-legged on the pillows while we sipped green mint tea, which I didn’t like. It was too damn sweet, not to mention hot enough to cause blisters on your tongue.

  A waiter, or whoever, made the tea at the table, while Carolyn, who was sitting beside me, provided a whispered, running commentary. It was worse than watching a golf match on TV. I didn’t really care that tea, the ultimate expression of Arab hospitality to visitors, was served in glasses because glasses were more masculine than teacups, and always was made by the male head of the household or his eldest son, because Allah didn’t approve of women making tea. Vera overheard and looked furious, but Barney on one side of her and Muhammad on the other cut her off every time she started to say something abrasively feminist.

  Meanwhile, the tea-maker put a bunch of green tea in a big metal teapot (Carolyn whispered that if we were at a palace, the pot would be a fancy silver thing) and poured some hot water over it (to take away the bitterness, Carolyn said), then added a handful of mint leaves. After that he picked up this long blob of sugar and whacked off a piece with a copper hammer, poured in more boiling water, and stirred it around while he and Muhammad exchanged sneaky smiles and nods, like we were all going to drink some and fall over dead because we were rotten infidels. After that the guy tasted it and added stuff and tasted and so forth.

  Finally, for God’s sake, he stood up and started pouring tea into our glasses, which were on the table below. If I could have gotten out of the way, I would have. Carolyn, Miss Know-It-All, told me that the sound of the tea, falling from a height, was “pleasing to the ears of Allah.” Meanwhile, half our crowd was scrambling back in case the guy missed and poured hot tea in their laps. He gave us a contemptuous look and left to get the Moroccan desserts, which Carolyn loved.

  First, she ate sliced oranges with cinnamon sprinkled all over them, while telling me that in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the Venetians had a monopoly on the cinnamon trade, then the Portuguese beginning in the sixteenth century, and finally the Dutch—like I cared. At any rate, a lot of people died because cinnamon was popular and expensive in the old days and came from someplace far away—Ceylon? The oranges tasted pretty good.

  Then, she ate these fried donuts, some with honey, some with sugar. They were okay, too, and by then I’d had enough. The tea was the eat-a-hole-in-your-stomach variety, for all the sugar in it, but I wasn’t going to ask for water to dilute the stuff. They probably didn’t have any that was drinkable, and I didn’t need a bad case of M
ontezuma’s revenge. Or maybe here it would be Muhammad’s revenge. Anyway, I figured the heat might have killed the germs on the hands of the guy who made it. Obviously they didn’t provide plastic gloves for the cooks and tea-makers in Morocco, like we do in restaurants at home.

  Anyway, Carolyn wasn’t satisfied with oranges and fried donuts. She wanted to know if they didn’t have any chocolate desserts. She tried saying chocolate in several languages and ended up with a Moroccan torte, into which she bit, said “Ah!” and ate the whole thing. She was going to put on about fifty pounds before the cruise was over if she didn’t quit that.

  Vera said Carolyn was eating like she was pregnant, and Carolyn snapped that she wasn’t pregnant, but she was certainly stressed, and she felt a lot better for having had something nice to eat. Well, whatever bakes your cake, I thought, and had to be pulled off the damn pillow for more sightseeing.

  We started running into other tour groups from our boat, and Carolyn asked everyone she met if they’d seen Mrs. Gross. No one had. Most of them didn’t know who Mrs. Gross was, lucky them. Why Carolyn wanted to locate her was beyond me, but I found out when we finally returned to the ship. We’d been in the suite about a half hour and were having drinks on our balcony—you can’t get a real drink in an Islamic country, or I’d have skipped the tea—when the loudspeaker system came on. “Would passenger R. L. Gross please call the desk? Passenger R. L. Gross . . .”

  “I knew it,” said Carolyn. “She’s been kidnapped by a cab driver.”

  “Would passengers Janet and Harold Wilcox please call the desk? Passengers Janet and Harold Wilcox.” And so it went. About six people hadn’t returned, and the ship was ready to leave for Gibraltar.

  “She probably didn’t even go into Tangier,” said Vera. “What would an alcoholic woman want with a country that hates women and doesn’t allow drinking?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Carolyn agreed. She finished her drink and went in for a nap while Vera and I fixed ourselves seconds and had a good laugh about Muhammad and his whistle and Carolyn driving off the teenagers.

  “She’s lucky they didn’t try to stone her,” I said. “She told me that’s what they do to women who don’t follow their damned rules.”

  “You wouldn’t believe what a wimp my daughter-in-law was for years and years,” Vera mused. “I have to say, I was proud of her today. Did you know she saved my neck when the idiot San Francisco police arrested me for murder?”

  “Yeah, she mentioned that,” I admitted, “but I thought—”

  “Went right out and found the murderer. Almost got shot herself. Jason had a fit.”

  “I can believe that.”

  Traveling in a city like Tangier can be very stressful, and finding food and drink that relieves stress is not easy. No alcohol is allowed in Muslim countries, so relaxing with a cocktail is out unless you’re invited to a foreign embassy. Sweets are popular, but they’re not what we’re used to—not what an American would consider “comfort food.” Two Moroccan dessert recipes follow. The first is healthful but not particularly calming. The second, because it contains chocolate, is much more satisfying to the frazzled tourist weighted down with purchases that required haggling and bedeviled by Arab youths who feel free to make rude comments at the sight of female curls uncovered in public.

  Cinnamon-Dusted Oranges

  Peel and slice particularly sweet and juicy oranges into rounds (one orange per person) and arrange on a plate. Apple and/or pear slices can be added, as well.

  Dust each portion with ½ tablespoon cinnamon.

  Serve immediately.

  Orange-Walnut Moroccan Torte

  Preheat oven to 325°F and separate 6 eggs.

  Beat the egg whites with ½ cup sugar in an electric mixer until the mixture holds stiff peaks.

  Using the unwashed beaters and a small bowl, beat the yolks with another ½ cup sugar until fluffy and light. Add the yolks to the whites and then 1¼ cups coarsely chopped walnuts and fold in gently.

  One cup at a time, fold in 2 cups shredded, unsweetened coconut.

  Pour the cake batter into a greased, 9-inch spring form pan and bake for 45 minutes until lightly browned on top.

  Remove from oven; mix ½ cup orange juice and ¼ cup Grand Marnier (or other orange liqueur) and pour over cake while still in pan.

  Once cooled, place cake in refrigerator until time to serve.

  Whip one cup whipping cream and shave 1 square semi- or bittersweet chocolate.

  Remove torte from fridge and from pan, top with cream, garnish with chocolate shavings, and serve.

  Store any remaining cake in the refrigerator.

  Carolyn Blue, “Have Fork, Will Travel,” Little Rock Post-Time

  18

  Where is Mrs. Gross?

  Carolyn

  Dinner was, again, excellent—braised duck breast in a sauce made of cherries, wine, and rich duck juice. Delicious, as was a salad with tomatoes, mozzarella, and eggplant (I skipped soup and pasta because it seemed to me that my waistband was getting a bit tight). On the downside, Mrs. Gross was not in the dining room. I looked for her while I was having the obligatory dance with Dr. Lee. After the entrée and the selection of my dessert, I actually got up and walked from table to table looking for her, although it probably wasn’t necessary. If she’d been in the dining room, she’d have been on a second bottle of wine and getting loud.

  Back in my own seat and very worried, I was not inclined to listen to Mr. Marshand going on about how good a high-fiber cereal, of which his former company had several tasty varieties, was for the bowels. Really! He’d obviously had a good deal of wine himself. I’d ordered a raspberry crème brûlée, which was so good that I decided to try the chocolate-Kahlúa ganache in puff pastry.

  Then I excused myself and went off to call Mrs. Gross’s room. She didn’t answer. My next strategy was to return to the suite and search out Herkule, who always seemed to be on duty. First, I told him about the amazing cave with its forceful, booming tide bursting in through a large hole—a cave that bore his name. He responded that Herkule was a “legendful” name and then agreed to have a fellow steward check Mrs. Gross’s room to see if she was ill and needed help. She wasn’t there.

  Now very worried, I asked that Mr. Hartwig be paged, and we had the following conversation standing near the desk downstairs:

  ME: She wasn’t at dinner, and she wasn’t in her room. Were you able to warn her about the dangers of third-world taxicabs?

  MR. HARTWIG: Actually, I never saw her this morning, but then I wasn’t able to monitor the whole morning disembarkation. Let me check the computer. [He went behind the desk, displaced one of the young women whom my mother-in-law referred to as “those cheerleader types,” and tapped some computer keys.] She left the ship at ten thirty, Mrs. Blue, and we have no record of Mrs. Gross returning. Actually, I remember now that she was among several passengers that we had to page before leaving port. Perhaps you heard the pages.

  ME: [Alarmed.] Were all those people left behind in Tangier? Don’t you send someone out to find them?

  MR. HARTWIG: [Looking, I thought, somewhat condescending.] Passengers are responsible for getting back an hour before the ship leaves port; two hours is recommended. You’ll find that in the passenger instruction booklet, Mrs. Blue. Occasionally we do have to leave people behind. Some get separated from their tours and temporarily lost. Some, foolishly, decide they’d rather walk back to the ship than take the bus. And there are occasionally those who prefer to go out on their own, as Mrs. Gross evidently did, and forget the time.

  ME: But—but you can’t just leave her there. An old lady in a country that doesn’t even respect women.

  MR. HARTWIG: I’m sure she’s just fine, Mrs. Blue. I believe that Mrs. Gross is a wealthy woman and one accustomed to getting her own way. She’ll find an expensive hotel in which to spend the night, then take a ferry to Gibraltar and reconnect with the cruise there, none the worse for her adventure.

  I w
as somewhat calmed by his reassurances. After all, he obviously knew more about these things than I, although I did think that an old woman with an alcohol problem might not be able to take care of herself. And what about those dangerous cab drivers? I reminded myself as I made my way to the elevators. And in a country where she can’t get a drink, she might have serious withdrawal symptoms—delirium tremens.

  “Hi there. You never did tell me your name.”

  It was Mr. Griffith, the thriller writer, joining me on the elevator. “Carolyn Blue,” I replied. “Tell me, have you, in your travels, ever heard of an elderly female passenger being left behind when the ship sails?”

  “Again, we’re not talking about you, are we?”

  I frowned at him. “Do I look as if I’ve been left behind?”

  “No, love, you look smashing. Why don’t we have a drink, and we can talk about your friend, who’s obviously gone missing.”

  “Well, she’s not really my friend, just an acquaintance, and I should return to the dining room to see if my mother-in-law is still there.”

  “You’re married, then?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Right. Well, off we go.” And he took my arm and led me out of the elevator at the dining-room level.

  Of course, Vera wasn’t there, or Luz, or anyone at our table, except Mr. Barber, who was taking videos of the waiters clearing the dishes and wine glasses. I had to wonder if he subjected friends at home to all these video memoirs of his trips. My roommates weren’t at the evening’s show, either. They were probably out taking romantic walks on deck with their new male friends.