Tangerine(20)

I had given up on my day dresses. Although it appeared that there were a number of expat women who still favored them, I found the fitted bodice too restrictive in the heat, and the skirt prone to catching against the jagged edges of the city. Instead I had liberated several pairs of capris from my suitcase, ones that I had not yet mustered the courage to wear back home, and a couple of monochrome blouses that seemed more prepared to handle the climate.

I had tried to convince Alice to come, but she had refused, shaking her head, waving her hands around the cluttered apartment to indicate all the work she should do before John arrived home—work that never seemed to be completed but that went on and on. Go, she had said, enjoy your holiday. I had frowned and pleaded, but it soon became apparent that she did not intend to give in. The vehemence with which she shook her head when I had pressed the issue, the thin white of her lips as she moved them together, gave the impression that her reluctance to show a friend around the city was something much more serious than just her need to attend to the laundry.

I thought of her as I walked—Alice, her lovely lily-white skin that had obviously not seen sun for quite some time, locked up within the walls of their flat. I remembered the paleness of her face from the night before, after that wretched beast had bitten her, after she had fainted and fallen onto the ground. She had grown quiet—quieter still—as we had been forced to find a doctor in the hours afterward, a frantic search for a vaccination and a check for any possible concussion. And in the ensuing chaos, I had been forced to push aside what I had seen, what I had witnessed, in the moments before Alice had been bitten.

It had happened shortly after John disappeared from the table.

I had looked up, away from Alice, away from my drink, and into the mirror fastened on the wall before me. I had seen him, his image distorted by the divots in the glass, standing at the bar. Only, he had not been alone, had not been with anyone named Charlie. Instead a woman stood beside him, her face half obscured by a mane of long dark hair. A local, I thought, watching as his fingers trailed the upper part of her thigh, pushing at the material of her dress.

I had glanced at Alice, but it didn’t seem like she had noticed, and I cast a hurried glance back to the mirror, appraising the angle at which it hung, uncertain whether she would be able to see them at all, even if she did look up. Part of me wanted to show her, to point out the reflection, the truth displayed brazenly before us. But something stayed me. Something whispered that it was not the time, that I should wait before revealing this bit of information to her, this girl I had once known as well as myself and who looked at me now with an expression I couldn’t quite understand, couldn’t quite manage to breach.

I wound my way through the medina and over to the Grand Socco, where a pleasant sort of plaza greeted me. Green spaces filled with flowers, couples, groups of men, and expat pensioners enjoying a leisurely stroll in the afternoon heat, and several feet away a large, imposing building that towered over the rest. CINEMA RIF, the sign read, its facade dim and grimy. What had once no doubt consisted of brilliant reds, blues, and yellows had faded under the thick application of dust that had since settled. Housed within the cinema was a small café, a scattering of chairs arranged just inside the building, the doors thrown open to the sun, with a few leftover tables and chairs scattered on the sidewalk outside.

I moved quickly to take a seat: a small round table intended for two, pushed up against the building’s rough wall, underneath a poster advertisement for a French film I had never heard of before that pictured a young boy standing beneath a red balloon. Several moments passed before the waitress appeared: a short, squat woman whose face was lined with wrinkles. I was relieved to find she spoke French, and although I knew only a scattering of words, it was enough to successfully place an order, as within minutes she returned, a tall glass filled with hot Moroccan mint tea clutched between her fingers. Her severe face broke into a grin as she placed it in front of me.

“Merci,” I murmured, moving to adjust the glass. I instantly recoiled, hissing with surprise. I glanced down at my fingers—the tips of which had turned a bright pink.

“Attention”—the woman laughed—“il est chaud.”

I blushed. “Oui, merci.” While all of the guidebooks had extolled the virtues of drinking mint tea in Morocco, they had failed to advise on just how treacherous the endeavor could be. I was used to the thick porcelain of New England diners, not thin glass that seemed to threaten to melt one’s fingers. There were no handles and I wondered how on earth one was supposed to drink the concoction.

“Lentement, mademoiselle.”

I looked over my shoulder to see who had spoken.

“Slowly. You must have patience.” He was standing at the opening of the café, neither inside nor outside and without food or drink in hand, leaning with confidence against the wall of the building. I could see right away that it was the same man from the day before, the one who had been watching me in the medina.

I smiled but turned back, hesitant to be drawn into conversation with him.

To the left of where he stood, a shoe shiner was busy at work, moving swiftly between his client’s right and left foot—though his own shoes, I noticed, appeared to be placed on backward. After a few moments of closer inspection, I could see that the man appeared to be missing his feet altogether, and that he had placed the shoes backward upon the stumps of his legs only in order to steady himself. I continued to watch him work, falling into an near trancelike state as he first applied shiner and then, withdrawing a rag from his belt, began to swipe with long, vigorous strokes, repeating this movement with sustained intensity before moving on to the next shoe.