Tangerine(14)

In that moment, I wanted to rebel. To punish him for the way he was so obviously trying to punish me. John had resented my decision to come out—for the simple reason that it had not been his own, I suspected—grumbling about the long hours he had worked that day. “But who is she, even?” he had pressed, his eyes searching mine in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. “I’m quite sure I’ve never even heard you mention her name before today.” By the time he had done a quick toilette, layering his hair carefully with cream—the powerful scent causing my stomach to turn—and we had left the apartment at last, his mood had shifted, the alcohol turning him sullen and petulant, though he attempted to hide it behind a large grin.

And throughout it all, I could feel her. Lucy. Sitting beside me, eyes peering through the darkness, watching John, watching everything, just as she always did. She had only been in Tangier for the space of a few hours, but I could already feel that same effect she always had over me: strengthening and emboldening me, her presence serving as an armor I could somehow never manage to affix on my own.

John grabbed one of the stools. “This is fine,” he said, his voice a bit harder than before. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, its scent like smoke and dust and something ancient. “Well, what do you think?” he asked, turning to Lucy, sweeping his hand around him. “It’s not much, but it attracts quite the crowd.”

Lucy nodded but made no response. I did my best to smile, a sour taste on the edge of my tongue. There was silence, and I could feel the tension—thick, like the Moroccan air—huddling around us.

“So, Lucy Mason from America.” John smiled. “What is it that you do exactly, out there in the real world, I mean?”

“I type manuscripts,” she answered. “For a publishing company.”

He nodded, though his expression was dull, as though he wasn’t listening, not really, so that I suspected the real reason he had asked was only so that she would do the same. For while John had never been entirely forthcoming about his work to others, not even to me, he seemed to take pleasure in throwing around vague allusions, referencing the government, the insinuation that being in Tangier, at this particular moment, was affording him the chance to prove himself to his superiors. The opportunity, he had said to me, and various others, on more than one occasion, though he never actually bothered to explain what it was actually an opportunity for, and I, in turn, had never bothered to inquire.

I could see him now, waiting for Lucy to ask, for the chance to begin his monologue, but she only smiled and hastened to continue: “Yes, though it isn’t the only job that I have.” She took a gulp of her drink. “I’m also a writer.”

His eyebrows raised in surprise, and I could see him casting aside his feigned interest. “Really?”

“Of sorts,” she replied.

John looked at her with curiosity. “‘A writer, of sorts,’” he repeated. “And what does that mean exactly?”

She hesitated, and I wondered then whether her initial declaration was as grand as she had made it seem, both hoping and dreading that it was. I knew it was wrong, that it only made me small and petty, but I felt sad, slightly resentful even, at the idea that she might have fulfilled the promises we had once made to each other, while I had—what?—become the opposite of the idea I had envisioned.

“I write obituaries for a local newspaper,” she replied. I saw a flicker in John’s eyes, a note of disappointment, and I saw Lucy stiffen in response. Her voice was tight as she continued: “There’s a good deal of research involved, actually. A number of interviews have to be conducted, for background information, for quotes. It’s no different from any other story that’s printed in the newspaper.” I could hear the defensiveness in her tone, could see that John had noted it as well. Lucy turned to me and smiled. “But what about you, Alice?” she asked. “Are you still working on your photographs?”

John frowned. “Photographs?”

I felt myself blush. I had never told John much about Bennington, about the accident—only what any of the newspapers had reported. Instead I had pushed away everything to do with my former life, including Lucy, and the camera that I had once considered my most prized possession and now sat, unused, the shutter release most likely rusted from disuse. Still, it had been among the few possessions that I had brought along with me to Tangier—a great what if rattling somewhere at the back of my mind. And while I hadn’t yet released it from the depths of my suitcase, in the back of our bedroom’s wardrobe, I sometimes thought I could feel its presence as I walked past, so that more than once I had hurried my footsteps in response.

“Yes,” Lucy said. “Alice was quite the photographer at Bennington. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Is that right?” He gave a soft laugh. “Well. My Alice is full of surprises tonight.”

There was an edge to his voice. He was being cruel, I knew, most likely annoyed that this new piece of information, about his wife, his Alice, was being relayed by a complete stranger. I felt the knowledge of it pressing in, assaulting me from all sides, so that in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to have it out with him—something, a confrontation, perhaps—to complete what the two of us had started earlier in the night, with his jokes about my lack of friends, lack of fertility, a sparring that had seemed to blossom, to thrive during our first few months in Tangier so that now, at times, it felt as though it was all that was between us. I could feel the need, the desire for it starting to spill out of my pores. I wiped the sweat from my brow, trying to cool myself. It was suddenly too warm in the bar, too stifling, so that when I took a deep breath my lungs seemed to stop short, give way, refusing me that last refreshing, comforting breath. I could feel my cheeks start to warm and hoped that it was not visible.