Who is Maud Dixon?(36)

After driving through the old city for ten minutes or so, Hamza stopped at a busy intersection and put the car into park.

“What are you doing?” Florence asked.

“We’re here,” he said.

Florence looked around. They had passed several picturesque side streets on the way in, but this was not one of them. Music blared from a restaurant on the corner. The store next to it sold tires and car batteries. A dozen or so men were draped over white plastic chairs on the side of the road; to call it a sidewalk would have been an overstatement.

“Charming,” said Helen flatly.

“No,” said Florence, shaking her head. “No.” She unfolded the printout of their hotel reservation and showed it to Hamza again. She had chosen it after hours of research. According to TripAdvisor it was a “tucked-away oasis oozing local charm.”

“Riad Belsa,” she said, stabbing the paper with her finger. “A tucked-away oasis oozing local charm.”

“Yes,” he said agreeably. “It is a very nice hotel.” He stepped out of the car and moved around to the trunk. He handed their bags to a tall, thin man standing idly near their car. That man, in turn, tossed them into a large wheelbarrow beside him and started pushing it toward a narrow, poorly lit alley.

“Wait,” she said uselessly.

“I cannot go any farther with the car,” Hamza explained patiently. “This man will take you the rest of the way.”

“This doesn’t seem right,” Florence said quietly to Helen.

Helen shrugged as she dug in her wallet for a tip for Hamza. “I’m sure it’s fine. He had the name of the hotel on his uniform.”

Florence reluctantly followed Helen down the gloomy passageway.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she whispered.

“Panic is a waste of energy, Florence.”

They followed the man with the wheelbarrow through the labyrinth. Every turn revealed another dim corridor, empty save for a few skinny cats slinking against the walls. Florence tried to look for street signs, but all the alleyways seemed to be unmarked. They’d never be able to find their way out.

Just then the call to prayer issued from the direction of the Koutoubia mosque. It sounded like a sad, moaning lament to Florence. She looked up, but found that the walls were too high and close together here to see the minaret.

Finally, they turned into a dead end and saw an elaborately carved wooden door with a gold plaque announcing it as Riad Belsa. Florence recognized the entrance from the photos on TripAdvisor. The man swung a large brass knocker, and the door was opened by a smiling, heavyset woman in a headscarf. She greeted them warmly, saying “Salaam alaikum, good afternoon, bienvenue,” and ushered them through a small courtyard into a larger, second courtyard surrounding a burbling fountain. It was filled with citrus and pomegranate trees with lush, drooping branches. The floor and walls gleamed with black, red, and green tiles. She seated them at a table tucked under a knot of vines and then returned with a plate of dates and two small glasses of milk scented with orange-blossom water. Florence looked around in relief.

Soon a man in a three-piece suit arrived and sat down with them.

“Good afternoon,” he said in British-accented English. His comb had left stiff ridges in his shiny black hair. “Welcome to Riad Belsa. I am Brahim, the manager.”

He asked them where they were from and how their trip had been. Then he said, “My apologies, but let’s move on to the formalities, if you don’t mind. Then you can enjoy the rest of your visit without concern.” He slid two slips of paper across the table. “We need some information for the police. They require us to file these every night about new guests. We have taken the liberty of filling out most of your information from your booking, but you will need to add your profession and your signature, there, and there.” Florence examined her form. It was labeled Bulletin Individuel d’Hotel, and her name, address, and passport number were already written out.

“May I ask what you do for a living?” Brahim requested.

Helen and Florence answered “writer” and “assistant” at the same time.

“Assistant, that’s very good,” he said, nodding at Florence. “But please,” he turned to Helen, “you must not put writer. The police will become very interested. They will think you are writing political articles or something unflattering about our country. They will ask us to tell them where you have been, what you have been photographing. It will become a headache, I assure you. Please, just write ‘sales’ or ‘manager.’ That is best.”

Helen seemed delighted by the demand for farce. “Manager, then,” she said. “What should I manage? A factory?”

“Just manager is fine,” Brahim said mildly.

“I manufacture cogs, mainly,” Helen went on, nearly giddy. “For boat engines. All seagoing vessels, really. If you can float it, we can power it…with cogs. We might need to work on that slogan, what do you think, Florence?”

Florence smiled unsurely. She wasn’t used to seeing this playful side of Helen.

“Just manager will suffice,” Brahim said again. “And you are staying for just one night, I see?” he asked, consulting his iPad.

They nodded. The next day, they’d drive west to Semat.

“In that case, might I suggest an itinerary for your brief time with us? El Badi is a ruined palace not far from here. Very magnificent. Well worth a visit. And you must take a quick walk through the souks. We will be happy to provide a list of the most reputable salesmen. Leather, jewelry, anything you’re looking for.”