Tangerine(3)

Eventually, I began to feel John’s regret looming above us, growing, our exchanges limited to matters of practicality, of finances, my allowance our main monetary support. John was bad at money, he had once told me with a grin, and at the time, I had smiled, thinking he meant that he didn’t care about it, that it wasn’t a concern for him. What it really meant, I soon learned, was that his family’s fortune was nearly gone, just enough remained to keep him well dressed, so that he could play at pretending to still claim the wealth he had once had, that he had been born into and still felt was rightfully his. An illusion, I soon realized. And so, each week I handed over my allowance, not really caring, not really interested where the numbers disappeared to in the end.

And each month, John continued to vanish as well: into his mysterious city that he loved with a fierceness I could not understand, exploring her secrets on his own, while I remained inside—my very own captor and captive.

I GLANCED AT THE CLOCK now and frowned. It had been only half past eight the last time I had checked, and now it was ticking steadily toward noon. I cursed and moved quickly toward the bed, toward the outfit I had laid out earlier that morning, before I had lost all the hours in between. For, today, I had promised John that I would go to the market; today, I had promised myself that I would try. And so I looked to my costume, such as it was, the semblance of an ordinary woman about to do the week’s shopping: stockings, shoes, a dress that I had purchased in England just before moving to Tangier.

Pulling the dress over my head, I noticed a slight tear on the front, at the bit where the lace met the collar. I frowned, bringing it closer to my face for inspection, trying not to tremble at the sight of the damaged material, telling myself that it was not a sign, that it was not an ill omen, that it did not mean anything at all.

The room felt too warm then, and so I stepped out onto the balcony, needing, in that moment, to be free of its imposing walls. Closing my eyes, desperate for any hint of a breeze, I waited, but there was nothing, except the still, arid heat of Tangier as it bore down on me.

A minute passed and then another, and in the quiet, listening to the rise and fall of my breath, I became aware of the peculiar sensation of being watched. Opening my eyes, I cast a hurried glance toward the street below. There was no one. Only a handful of locals making their way to the market, their steps rushed, the hour when the market would end slowly approaching. “Pull yourself together,” I whispered, heading back into the safety of the flat. Despite these words, I closed the windows firmly behind me, my heart pounding. Glancing at the clock, I saw that it was now half past one. The market could wait, I told myself.

It would have to, I knew, my hands shaking as I tugged the curtains closed so that not even the tiniest trace of sunlight could filter through.





Two


Lucy


THE SUN BEAT DOWN HEAVILY AS I LEANED AGAINST THE railing. I felt the rocking sensation beneath me grow stronger, a lurch in my stomach as the ferry started and stopped, inching awkwardly to its final destination: Morocco. I hurried to grab my suitcase, the past few months already marked by dreams of grand, sweeping displays of Moorish architecture, of the intricate twists and turns of the lively souks, of colorful mosaics and brightly painted alleyways. Joining the queue that had already begun to form, I craned my neck, impatient now to grasp my first, real glimpse of Africa. For already, there was the smell of her, beckoning us from the shore—the promise of the unknown, of something infinitely deeper, richer, than anything I had ever experienced in the cold streets of New York.

And Alice, she was here too, somewhere within the beating pulse of the city.

Stepping off the boat, I scanned the crowd for her face. In the few hours between land and sea, I had managed to convince myself that she might be there to greet me, even after all that had transpired. But there was no one. Not a single familiar face. Only dozens of locals—young boys and old men alike—trying to entice me, along with the other tourists who had disembarked, into purchasing one or another of their services. “I am not a tour guide—only a local that everyone knows. I will take you places other tour guides do not know about.” When this did not work, wares were displayed: “Madame needs a purse?” To the gentleman trailing behind me: “Monsieur needs a belt?” Coats were opened and other items were taken out and passed beneath the eyes of each and every unassuming newcomer. Jewelry, small wooden carvings, and strange musical instruments that were foreign to the sight. I, like everyone else, waved away these trinkets with impatience.

There had been few travel guides on Tangier, but I had hunted down whatever literature I could find, reading line after line about the city that I would soon call home, however temporarily. I had read Wharton and Twain, and once, in desperation, some pages by Hans Christian Andersen. He had, quite surprisingly, been the most helpful in preparing me for this onslaught of eager guides, the crushing tidal wave of faces who descended upon the arriving boats like locusts, ready and able to provide services to the naive and inexperienced traveler. The latter I could be described as, certainly, but the former, never. So I was ready, prepared, armed with words and research to protect me against this scene of chaos. I knew precisely what it was that I would be stepping into from the safety and relative quiet of the ferry. And yet, nothing could have prepared me for it. Wharton, Twain, and even Andersen—their words failed to act as swords and shields in the end.