Tangerine(55)

It was those words, more than anything else, that persuaded me, in the end.

Maude took a small metallic notebook from her handbag, its outside a darkly embossed botanical design, the kind one saw in Victorian wallpaper, and using the gilded pen within, wrote the address on a slip of paper. I took it, my hand trembling as I placed it into my pocket.

The very next day, I withdrew my rent money from the bank and stood in line at the ticket office for Cunard, booking a passage across the Atlantic.

WE HAD BEEN WALKING for nearly fifteen minutes. During that time, neither of us had spoken. At first, I thought maybe the temperature was to blame for his silence—for while the sun had set, there was still a powerful heat that seemed to burn against the back of my bare head. I could feel my blouse cling to my body, smell the scent of my own sweat as the material around my armpits dampened. I wondered if he could feel it too—but he always looked so unbothered by the heat, it was impossible to tell. Perhaps it was just an affectation, like most of his life. Or perhaps he was still upset after last night. I wondered if that was the real reason he looked straight ahead, at the road in front of us, at anyone and anything, it seemed, but me.

Then, at last, he spoke.

“I know you saw us.” His voice was neither kind nor threatening. The words were spoken without emotion, as if waiting to see how I would react.

I looked at him. “You and Sabine.”

I saw the flash of surprise on John’s face. He had not expected me to know her name, and I wondered what he would have said if I had remained quiet, if he would have eventually tried to pass it off as something innocent, a colleague, a wife of a friend—as I suspected he would have that day in the Kasbah.

“I won’t ask how you figured that out,” he said, that same teasing smile emerging on his face once more, though there was something halfhearted in the gesture, as if he could no long muster up enough energy for such pretense. “I’m surprised, of course, but you seem rather resourceful.” He cleared his throat. “Have you told Alice?”

I smiled and said instead: “I’m leaving soon, John. And Alice wants to leave with me.”

I noticed the change in his face, the way his eyebrows dipped—not quite a frown, nothing quite so declarative as disapproval. It was confusion, I decided. Was he really so naive as to think that Alice would not leave him following his indiscretion? We continued walking to our destination, and almost instinctively, I moved away, creating a slight gap between us as we continued. I wondered whether it would be violent, his reaction, or whether he might cry and beg me to change her mind. I couldn’t decide which one displeased me more. We moved slowly, the night setting in fast. Already it was becoming more difficult to see, the lights of the medina far behind us.

“You’ve told her, then?” he asked, though his voice sounded neither fearful nor worried. Instead it was almost as though he were amused, as if the notion that I had shared the news of his infidelity with Alice was something trivial, something to be cast aside.

“She didn’t need me to tell her, John.” I paused. “She already knew. She’d figured it out all on her own.”

He was silent for a moment, and he nodded, as if attempting to let the words settle. “Yes, I sometimes supposed she would. She’s not dim, that one, is she?” he said, with a short, quick laugh that conveyed his uneasiness.

“No, she’s not.” I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. “So what will you do?”

He looked at me. “About what?”

“About Alice.” I stopped. “Surely you don’t expect her to stay with you, not after this.”

He let out another laugh—this one more real, more authentic, I thought. “And why wouldn’t she?” he asked. “All this was her aunt’s idea, you know. Both she and my mother had been quite keen to introduce us. And though I suspect I’m not Aunt Maude’s favorite nephew-in-law, I think faced with the option of having to care for Alice herself or having someone else take care of her, well.”

I turned to him, my step momentarily faltering.

He must have sensed my confusion, even in the night, for he continued, “Alice isn’t going anywhere, Lucy. I think you know that. Beyond all the family ties, we’re good for each other. We’re—what do you call it? Symbiotic. Isn’t that one of your fancy terms? We need each other, Alice and I. Haven’t you already figured that out? I need her money—well, maybe not need, perhaps appreciate would be the better word.” He laughed. “And she needs me to keep her out of the loony bin.”

I stopped. We had arrived. Even in the darkness, I could see him, looking around, trying to familiarize himself with his surroundings. He didn’t recognize the place, which told me that he had never been there before. I was glad. It would make things easier.

I had decided, sitting at Café Tingis. John was the problem, the patriarchal head that had to be cut off, the dragon that had to be slain in order to rescue the heroine. I could not compete against John, just as I never could with Tom, not really—for the world told me this was not possible. I was their better in every way but one. I only needed to best them in order to make Alice see this as well. That her future lay not with them, but with me. I could feel the insistence in the air—beating, strongly. The days of suppression, of subjugation, were dwindling for the Moroccans, and I thought, in that instance, that I could feel it, the herald sounding for myself, for Alice as well.