Who is Maud Dixon?(38)

Many of the stores they passed had laid out their wares on the ground outside, and these too tumbled into the clogged streets, an odd mix of the exotic and the pedestrian: live turtles, plastic-wrapped socks, children’s umbrellas, sacks of pigment and spices and beans, diapers, sunglasses, glistening piles of raw meat. Everything was overseen by somber men in djellabas. A cat darted past them with a bird’s head in its mouth.

By the time they reached El Badi, Florence was overheated and on edge. They paid seventy dirhams—around seven US dollars—to enter and found themselves in a large, open-air complex that was shockingly silent and still. The palace had just opened, and they seemed to be the first people there apart from the guards.

Florence read from a pamphlet they’d been given with their tickets and summarized it for Helen: “The palace was commissioned by the sultan in 1578 and finished fifteen years later. A hundred years after that a new sultan stripped it and used the materials to build his own palace in Menkes—no, wait, sorry, Meknes—in the north.”

Helen snatched the pamphlet from Florence’s hand and began fanning herself with it. “It’s hot as blue blazes in here,” she said.

“It’s the chergui,” Florence replied.

Helen walked away, toward a sunken garden in the center of the courtyard. Florence retreated to the high walls where there was a sliver of shade. She ran her hands along the rough surface, which was pocked with the same large holes as the walls of the medina. Here, though, they were filled with cramped, huddled pigeons—hundreds of them. Their cooing had the aggressively soothing tones of a nursery rhyme in a horror movie. A few pieces of straw floated down to the ground in front of Florence. She looked up. Huge storks stared down impassively from shaggy, shedding nests they had erected on top of the walls. There was bird shit everywhere.

Florence turned down a set of steep stairs into a series of destroyed, roofless rooms with cracked tiled floors. The birds were even louder in here. She found a recess in the wall that was shaded from the sun and pressed her cheek against the surface. The stone was surprisingly cold. A few moments later, another tourist entered. Florence was not immediately visible to him. When he moved farther into the room he saw her and jumped.

“Christ,” he exclaimed. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” she said, moving out of the shadows.

“Hiding?”

“Just from the sun.”

“Yes, he’s a bastard today.” The man had the accent and toothy look of an Englishman. “On holiday?”

“Not really,” Florence said. “Working.”

“Oh yes? Let me guess.” He looked her up and down slowly. “Archaeology student,” he pronounced, pointing a long, spindly finger in her direction.

“Novelist,” said Florence. The man raised his eyebrows. “Oh, well done,” he said. “Brilliant.”

After lying, Florence had the same feeling she got when she stepped past the point in the ocean where you can still run from the waves, so deep that you have to rush headlong into them. She felt, absurdly, that he might begin to quiz her.

She moved abruptly away from him and climbed back up into the brightness. She crossed the complex, past the sunken gardens of orange trees and the algae-covered pool. On the opposite side, she found another staircase leading downward. She took it and found herself alone in a series of dark passageways. She entered a room with display cases filled with primitive-looking chains and neck shackles. On the wall hung faded black-and-white photographs of prisoners hunched over in despair. She hurried back up into the sunlight.

Helen stood peeling a small orange in the shade, her resin bracelets clacking in time with the motion.

“Where did you get that?” Florence asked.

Helen nodded her head at the orange trees in the sunken garden.

“You just took one?”

Helen shrugged. “Why not? Who’s it for, the storks?”

Florence looked enviously at the juice running down Helen’s wrist but she lacked the temerity to pick one herself. She glanced at one of the guards, an acne-scarred twenty-something tapping at his phone. He seemed to sense that he was being watched and looked up. Florence abruptly turned away.

“Are you about ready to go?” she asked.

Helen ejected an orange seed from her mouth and held it up to the sun between her thumb and forefinger before flicking it away. “Let’s hit it,” she said.

They parted ways at the entrance to the palace and agreed to meet in an hour at the intersection by their hotel.

“Oh wait, I need my things,” Helen said, turning back.

Florence pulled Helen’s phone, wallet, and cigarettes from her bag and handed them over. Helen slipped the cigarettes and phone into the pocket of her dress, but opened the wallet and pulled out her driver’s license. She handed it to Florence.

“What’s this for?”

“For the car rental place. I assume they’ll need a license in the same name as the credit card the reservation is under.”

Florence looked at the picture on the driver’s license. She tipped the card and watched the hologram catch and repel the light. “You think I’ll pass?” She and Helen both had blond hair and small builds, but she’d never dared to presume any stronger resemblance.

“I guess we’ll find out.”