by Avery North
“Don't worry, Dad, I’ll swim, lie in the sun, call my friends.”
“OK, you do that,” he strode away, a man on a mission once again.
I was on a mission, too, a mission to get a second helping of breakfast.
Carrying my plate over to the buffet counter, I overheard the hubbub at a nearby table. Strange, this wasn’t the kind of place where you expected to hear a family having a loud quarrel, at least not people as well-to-do as the people who seemed to stay here. At least my father and I had managed to keep the peace for the duration of breakfast. But the loud group was the French family Louise had pointed out. Passing by, I looked more closely this time. Yes, the parents were having a serious argument, voices raised, hands gesticulating; their daughter had her head bowed and her face half hidden behind a curtain of chestnut hair.
Back at my table, enjoying my second coffee of the day, the sound of a chair being roughly pushed back drew my attention to the French family again. They were on their feet, collecting their belongings and storming off, mother and father leading the way, and daughter trailing at the rear.
All of a sudden, the studio and the song we were working on became less important. The way the daughter swayed those hips, the fabric clinging to her curves, the chestnut hair resting on her shoulder blades. The prospect of three weeks in Marrakesh might turn out to be, well, attractive.
Simone
Why did it always have to end like this? Why couldn’t we be like a normal family, doing normal things like having at least one meal a day without rowing? I swung round to face them in the lobby.
“Mama, Papa − this will not do. I am never, ever again, coming on holiday with you. If you don't stop trying to control me and arguing about me, I am going back to Paris.” I resisted the temptation to stamp my foot. “You need to understand and stop it now, or I will be on the next flight home.”
They looked at me astounded. They really didn’t get it. In their minds, I was still their teenage daughter, not in my mid-twenties.
“Mama,” I tried again. “I will eat what I want, even if it makes me fat. I will meet who I want, whether you approve or not. Papa, do you understand?”
I threw my hands in the air in that gesture they hated. Papa gave me his usual defeated look.
“Simone, chérie, you know we have standards to maintain. Your mother is making sure they are upheld. It’s not as if we were trying to hurt you.”
“But you are hurting me! I am an adult. Let me be an adult.”
But I could see that it was useless. The only solution was to stay away from them for the rest of the day.
“I am going for a swim.” Fortunately, I had brought my swim bag down to breakfast with me; at least I didn't have to go back to the suite.
“Simone, we have to talk about this,” Mama began again.
“No, we don’t. Remember, I am an adult. I make my own decisions.”
I turned on my heel in the direction of the courtyard swimming pool. A few laps in the pool, some time to listen to music on my mobile, alone time − a few hours away from my family, looking after myself, should rescue another day that had begun badly.
But I was not to be alone. When I was finished swimming and was lounging in a deckchair, I noticed someone was by the palm trees. Strange, not many people came out in these high temperatures. Peering through my sunglasses, I saw a male figure, somebody young. I recognized the young man I had seen at breakfast with the tousled blonde hair and tattoos.
That had been the start of the morning’s row. Mother couldn’t bear to hear me admiring the art of those tattoos, or commenting on the importance of being oneself. She was probably afraid that I would decide to be different and bring disgrace to the family. Not that I could see myself falling for such a tattooed man like him …
Brad
She hadn’t seen me watching her.
I had brought my swimming gear through to the courtyard, but seeing that girl moving so easily through the water had caused me to lose courage. I could swim reasonably well but, wow, that was competitive level swimming. I counted fifteen laps before she even started to tire, twenty laps, and she was out of the pool. Five more minutes and she was in a beach dress, sitting on the deckchair, her mobile in her hand, and struggling to insert her earbuds.
I wondered if I could offer to help her with the earbuds but decided not to. However, I could still sit by the pool opposite her.
“Do it, Brad,” I said to myself. “Remember the swaying of her hips in the dining room.”
But sitting so close to her, my courage failed me. I consoled myself by thinking I couldn't speak French anyway but had to admit that the memory of seeing her sensuous wet body might be the real reason. That and the obvious pleasure my own body had taken from the sight. Lying on my stomach to hide my embarrassment, I took out my phone.
I was scrolling through my messages when I was interrupted by a wailing call from a tall tower in the distance. Turning over, I looked skywards, trying to locate where the sound was coming from. I got my answer from the French girl lying on the deckchair.
“That is the muezzin giving the call to prayer,” she said in an amused voice. “This is your first time here?”
“You speak English?”
“Of course.”
Chapter 2
Simone
“Did I speak English?” I had to smother a laugh. Of course, I spoke English; it was obligatory at school! And Dutch and Italian, both majors in my degree, but I wasn’t going to bamboozle him with those.
Now that he has spoken to me, I take him in fully. Good looking in a British way, blonde hair, blue eyes, and muscular. He certainly works out. But those tattoos … did they really hint at an artistic streak as I had told my mother, or did they have a more sinister meaning? For some reason, my fingers itched to touch them and to trace their pattern.
“Do your tattoos have a meaning or, or a message?” He looked surprised at my question.
“Well,” he paused for a moment. “Some do. This one on my arm is meant to represent a band I follow. But it needs touching up. The other on my shoulder,” he pulls up the sleeve of his t-shirt to show a pattern of circles, “is just a design I found in the tattoo parlor.”
“Um, nice. I like them.” And I really did. “But why did you get them? It must have hurt?”
“Yes, they hurt a bit, but I wanted them because, well, because they’re different parts of me. They say something. The band symbol represents my love of rock music.”
“So do I. Not that I would ever get a tattoo to say that for me!”
“You like rock?” Suddenly he was on the edge of the deckchair, leaning forward, eyes bright with enthusiasm, muscles taut under his t-shirt.
“Yes, and heavy metal and R+B.”
“Wow!” I listened as he told me about the band he was working with and the recordings they were doing when he returned from his holiday.
“Sorry, if I am boring you,” he finished sheepishly. “What do you do? I don’t even know your name − I’m Brad.”
“Simone,” I smiled at him, “I mostly just study, post-grad stuff.” I shrugged my shoulders, “then I have to decide on a career. One that my parents find acceptable.”
“And that’s it? I heard the argument this morning.”
I could feel myself blushing. “Just a normal morning for the Berger family sadly. I’m sure everybody heard it.”
“And do you want to do what your family wants you to do?”
Nobody had asked me that in a while. In my world, it was taken for granted that I would follow my parents into their business and continue the family tradition. Papa had already been pressuring me to join him at the office for a while now.
"No," I shook my head, attempting to keep the quiver out of my voice as I answered. "I want to do something different. Something that will set me free from the boring entitled life they want me to live. Something in art or music, maybe."
His intense, blue eyes held mine for a moment before he re
ached across and took my hand. His hand was strong and warm. I found myself wanting to touch his tattoos again.
“We should meet up again. Are you free tonight? Go for a meal or whatever we can do here?”
I nodded, trying not to look too eager, “Sure, I can show you round. Introduce you to Marrakesh properly.”
“Great, meet you here by the pool. At eight, OK?”
Brad
Simone was already there when I reached the pool at eight, her frame outlined by the full moon shining into the courtyard. I had left my dad in the dining room, mulling over what sounded like a very expensive wine, brought to him courtesy of Gilbert, the Riad owner, and Louise’s partner. Tired from a day photographing in the intense heat, he had merely nodded when I had announced I was going out to see Marrakesh at night.
I was slightly surprised to see her waiting for me. Yes, we had made an arrangement, but an afternoon of thinking back over our conversation had convinced me that she wouldn't show up, that her parents had so much control over her life that she wouldn’t be able to get away. Or that she wouldn’t want to. Truth be told, that prospect had hurt a little.
But here she was walking towards me, her hair tied back, her ripped jeans and flat shoes telling me this was going to be a casual evening. She greeted me in the French way, a peck on one cheek, then on the other, teasing me with a tantalizing whiff of her perfume.
“And we are going to … ?” I began.
“Djemaa el Fna, the famous square in the old quarter. You haven’t heard about it? You must have seen it in guidebooks.” She was laughing at me, her hazel eyes glittering with humor. “You are so English!”
I laughed along with her, “Yes, I know. Thank you for teaching me. Well, lead the way.”
I followed her through the lobby and down a side street, the sound of music getting louder as we went further from the Riad. She walked confidently, ignoring remarks from passers-by and skirting around beggars until the full expanse of the square spread out in front of us.
“Wow!” She smiled at my amazement as I took in the packed square, the rows of tents covering shopping stalls, performers under their blue umbrellas, and the acrid smoke rising from the braziers cooking for the bustling multitude.
“Yes, wow. Time for a juice, up here.” She led the way up a staircase to an open-air balcony that overlooked the square.
Sipping our drinks, I got an opportunity to look at her again while she explained the scenes in the square. She was fresh skinned, not wearing any makeup, her skin gleaming, a white shirt loosely tucked into her jeans, a belt cinching her waist.
“Do you come here a lot?” I asked, wondering if it was safe for a woman to wander about here on her own after dark.
She shook her head. “Only with my parents and they don’t like it. They prefer restaurants and fine dining, not this kind of thing.” She extended a hand to take in the scene beneath us. “They think it’s too dangerous for tourists, but I don’t think so. But come! You must see some of the performers and maybe add to your tattoos.” She was on her feet again, heading for the stairway.
We delved back into the crowd and got traditional henna tattoos before watching some men arm wrestling.
During the wrestling, I realized she was no longer beside me. The crowd was denser now, the shouts of hawkers louder. I tried to wriggle my way out of the group watching the wrestling session.
Somebody was shouting at me loudly in Arabic until his friend intervened with, “Do you speak English?”
“Yes, yes,” I said hurriedly. “My friend. A French girl in jeans and a white shirt. I can't see her."
His friend translated for the first speaker who nodded in response and, with a friendly pat on my arm, indicated that he would go search for her.
Following them, Simone saying “they think it’s too dangerous” flashed through my mind. I could now see how her parents might have been right. The claustrophobic press of people all speaking in a language I didn’t understand, the smoke from the braziers burning my throat and eyes, the unfamiliar rituals going on around me added to my sense of fear and anxiety. Weaving my way through the crowds, I followed the direction taken by the man who had said he would search. But I found her myself. The crowd slackened, and reaching the edge of the square; I spotted her standing on the edge of the sidewalk, struggling to pull her bag away from the man beside her and to unleash his grip on her shirt.
“No! No! Leave her alone. Give it back, don’t touch her!” I was running, my hand already forming a fist. I didn’t realize I had struck him until I heard the thump of him falling to the ground and felt the warmth of the blood on my knuckles and the softness of Simone throwing herself into my arms.
“How did that happen? Did he hurt you?” She was safe in my arms, sobbing into my shoulder.
The would-be thief had run away, his nose bleeding, but not before growling what sounded like a threat in my direction.
“I stopped to help a lost child. He was waiting when I got her to the sidewalk. It was a scam, and I fell for it." She was still sobbing, her chest heaving and her breathing ragged.
“OK,” I held her close. “You need to sit down. Here, there’s a bench.”
Half guiding, half carrying her, I helped her over the bench and crouched in front of her.
“Now, please tell me you weren’t hurt,” I said, taking her face between my hands.
She shook her head. “No, just terrified. He looked so evil.”
I listened as she told me about the man's piercing eyes, how she had felt she had been singled out, and the way he had looked at her as he tried to take her bag.
“He was the kind of guy who could seriously harm you.” She shuddered, “Let’s get you back to the Riad. By taxi.”
Maybe her story had unsettled me, but even in the taxi, I couldn't help but feel as though we were being watched.
Chapter 3
Simone
Sitting beside Brad in the taxi, I couldn't believe how foolish I had been. He was new to Marrakesh, but I had been there often enough to know how to take care of myself, but I had been caught by one of the oldest scams operating there. Of course, a Western tourist would be taken in by a child begging and could be drawn into a trap. I had let down my guard and all because I had wanted to impress some guy with my sophistication.
That guy’s arm was now wrapped around my shoulders. I was close enough to hear his heartbeat and to feel his breath on my face. But what was he thinking? Probably about how foolish I had been. I looked at the bloodstained hand resting on his knee. Well, he had saved me with that blow he delivered to my attacker. Romance stories told me I should be overcome with warm, fuzzy feelings for him, but I just felt stupid, plain stupid. And especially after impressing him earlier with my air of “The woman who has seen everything.”
I sneaked a look at his face. There was a brooding anger in the tautness of his jaw, and he was clenching and unclenching his bloody hand on his knee.
“Does it hurt? Your hand, I mean,” I looked at him nervously.
“No, not really,” was his response. “What really hurts is the way you were treated.” He turned to face me. “He cannot be allowed to get away with this. I am going to the police, or I’ll track him down myself.”
The anger in his voice shocked me. “Please be careful. Don’t put yourself in danger. It’s not worth it.”
"Not worth it? You go out with a girl for a nice evening, and someone attacks her? Of course, it's worth it. You are worth it."
I was taken aback. Far from considering me foolish for falling for the scam, he was angry at how I had been treated. I could feel a warm glow spreading across my cheeks.
Putting my hand on his bloodstained one, I murmured, “OK, but go to the police. Don’t track him down yourself.”
The taxi pulling up in front of the Riad meant he didn’t have a chance to answer.
Brad
Louise was in the lobby, talking to my father when we got in. One look at us was enough to tell them th
at something bad had happened. On hearing our account of the night’s events, Louise took control immediately, fetching a first aid kit for my hand and hot drinks for both of us, while Simone sat beside me on the couch. I was very aware of her shoulder touching mine.
"How can I go about finding this guy?" I asked Louise as she wound a bandage around my hand.
“You don’t, Brad. This man sounds dangerous. The Riad will contact the police.” She fixed me with a warning look.
Strange that nobody wanted him challenged. My father's reaction had been exactly the same. But they hadn't seen the distress on Simone's face or the oily hand stains on her shirt where her assailant had grabbed her. Putting my free hand across her shoulders, I determined that this was something I would have to handle myself. But I needed to discover where I could find him.
That problem was soon solved when the porter arrived and told Louise that he had heard reports of a similar attack on a guest at another hotel.
“They think the attacker is living on a side street beside the leather dyeing quarter. He has a reputation for doing things like this.”
“He’s done it before? And nobody has done anything about it?” The anger in Louise’s voice was palpable.
“No,” the porter shrugged his shoulders before walking back to his post.
“Simone and I will relax in the courtyard for a while,” I said when Louise had finished patching up my hand. That OK with everybody?”
I could see that Simone wanted to move away from the attention focused on us, and I wanted to be alone with her.
“You OK?” I asked when we had reached the calm of the courtyard and pulled out the deckchairs.
“Yes, I think so. Thanks for saving me.” She was curled up on her chair, her feet tucked under her, and her sandals lying on the ground. “I feel so foolish having fallen for his scam.”