Flashback (5 page)

“Oh, no,” I said. “I don't want to trouble you.”

“It's no trouble.” He smiled.

I hesitated a moment. I didn't relish the idea of making my way through the medina alone. Besides, the man seemed lonely, grateful for my company, and I was hungry. “Sure,” I agreed.

He bowed stiffly at the waist, then held out his hand. “I'm Joshi.”

“Marie,” I said, taking the offered hand. It was cool and soft against my own.

*   *   *

We ate at the Café Africa, a well-lit establishment near the Grand Socco. The restaurant was clean and cheery, with a white-tiled floor, mirrored walls, and freshly laundered tablecloths, a slightly exotic copy of a French brasserie. The meal was like a strange dance. I had the uneasy feeling that despite his meticulous appearance Joshi had little enough money to be hungry, that the price of a meal was the unspoken fee for his guidance. Yet when I reached for the check at the end of the meal, I could sense the depth of his embarrassment.

It was raining when we left, turning the sidewalks slick with filth. We walked across the Grand Socco and in through the gates of the Old City, down the bustling Rue as-Siaghin, past the Great Mosque.

“My apartment,” Joshi said, as we neared the eastern ramparts of the medina and turned into a narrow side street. “There. Do you see the flag?”

I looked up, following his finger. There was a series of low rooftops lit now by flickering streetlights and a slightly taller building beyond. In one of the dirt-smeared windows of the taller structure was a white flag with a simple red circle in the center. I nodded. “I see.”

“And here is the Hotel Continental,” Joshi announced, directing my gaze to a plaster gate that lay just a few steps in front of us. “I'll take you in.”

The Continental was a large colonial structure, a Western stronghold perched at the edge of the medina. Inside the gate, a stone courtyard led to a sweep of stairs. At the top of the stairs was a generous veranda with an unobscured view of the port. It was a terrace wide enough for the foregone days of cocktails and dancing and Dior dresses, though my best guess told me even in its prime the Continental had verged toward the seedy. Today, a few bedraggled tables and chairs sat empty, staring out toward the dark bay. The building's pinkish facade was cracked, the plaster flaking.

Inside, the hotel was like a movie set, the walls richly mosaicked, trimmed with carved plaster and wood. The few guests in the lobby were a strange mix, a new breed of Western traveler, more Lonely Planet than Paul Bowles. Several members of an American film crew loitered around the front desk, hassling a gray-haired clerk about the rooms they'd been given. Two young German women huddled around the public phone, each taking turns with the receiver. A middle-aged woman in sensible travel attire, lightweight pants, hiking boots, and fanny pack, sat on a sagging couch paging through an English-language travel guide.

I stood behind Joshi, eavesdropping on the disgruntled Americans, while the clerk listened patiently, then politely explained that the rooms were the best he had to offer. The men were not easily convinced, but in the end the clerk's implacable manner won out, and the crew retreated, grumbling, while the elderly clerk turned his attention to us.

Spend a year hoping for recognition, and you will come to know the intricacies of the human face, the delicacy of expression. In the first few months of my new life I lived in a state of constant anticipation, examining each person I passed on the street for some hint of familiarity, some clue to a shared past, however brief. And though what I saw was never the bewildered tic of the long-lost acquaintance, I saw every other possible countenance, love, despair, and even emptiness.

When the manager turned his face from Joshi's to mine, the ripple that passed across his features was almost imperceptible, slight as the barest breeze roughing the surface of a lake, slight as a minute's interval of light at sunset. His eyes paused for just longer than a second on mine, long enough for me to think we had met before, then he murmured something in English. “It is easy for me,” I swore I heard him say.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

He shook his head, the look I'd taken for recognition passing on. “Nothing, Mademoiselle.” Smiling genially, he turned to Joshi. “I see you've brought us a guest.”

Joshi nodded. “Marie's just come in on the ferry. I promised her you'd have a room.”

The man glanced at me once more, then slipped on a pair of reading glasses and peered down at his registry. “I believe I can find something.”

I watched the side of his face, his hands sliding across the page in front of him. He was Moroccan, but not fully, his blue-gray eyes betraying whatever Frenchman or Brit lingered somewhere not far back on his family tree.

“I have a room for two hundred dirhams,” he offered, finally. “With a shared bath down the hall.”

I nodded, fishing fifty euros from my pack. “Can you change this for me?”

“Of course.”

The clerk opened a cash box and counted out a stack of dirhams, setting two hundred aside for himself, giving me the rest. He penciled something in the registry, then slid a piece of paper across the counter.

“If Mademoiselle wouldn't mind,” he said.

I looked down at the blank registration form in front of me, the lines marked
Name
and
Passport number
. Sliding Marie's passport from my bag, I penned in what information I could, hesitating over my home address, finally scribbling down the street number of the chocolate shop in Lyon.

When I had finished, the old clerk reached over, grabbed a key from one of the many hooks that hung on the wall beside him, and set it on the counter.

“Room two-oh-five,” he said.

I picked up the key and looked down at him, willing myself to remember if I could, my mind straining to see through the dark night of all I'd forgotten. “Do I know you?”

He shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“Are you sure?” I pressed.

Abdesselom looked to Joshi and then again to me. “I would remember.”

*   *   *

I thanked Joshi for all his help, then climbed the stairs to my room. A funny little man, I thought, opening the door, setting my rucksack down on the bed, so stiffly British and Asian at the same time, so awkward in his intentions. Though I couldn't say I hadn't been grateful for his guidance. Leaving the lights off, I stepped to the window and peered down at the waterlogged veranda and courtyard. The hotel's front door swung open, and a group of tourists filed out, heading for the medina. A few seconds later Joshi appeared, his orange shoes glowing unmistakably. He stopped, drew a pack of cigarettes from his coat and lit one, then opened the black circle of his umbrella. A lonely man, I told myself.

Headlights flickered outside the gate, and a little red taxi pulled into the courtyard. I watched as a figure climbed out, a man in a long raincoat. He said something to the driver, then climbed up the steps to where Joshi was standing. The taxi sat where it was, engine idling. I could see the man's face in the veranda lights. An American, I thought, squinting to see better. Yes, he had that look: blond hair, white teeth, and an unnatural healthiness. He and Joshi exchanged a few words; then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a brown envelope, handed it to Joshi, and headed back to the waiting cab.

*   *   *

I went to bed early and was awakened sometime around midnight by a barrage of off-key German drinking songs. There was a chorus of drunken footsteps in the hallway, several minutes of slamming doors and water running in the pipes; then the floor fell silent, and I drifted back to sleep.

Sometime later in the night I woke again, wrangled from sleep by the quiet shuffling of another body in the room. In my half-dreaming state my first thought was that it was Heloise, come to wake me for the morning prayer. I sank down deeper under the covers, thinking it was far too early to face the cold walk to the chapel, the drone of Magdalene's voice.

Then the person moved again, and the fog in my brain lifted. I snapped my eyes open and stared into the darkness, heart racing, body flush with adrenaline. Stiffening, I willed myself motionless.

The curtains were open, and in the bars of bluish light shining up from the veranda I could see the figure's silhouette. It was a man, broad shouldered and tall. In his hand was my rucksack. Carefully unbuckling the little front pocket, he pulled out my passport.

Should I yell? I wondered. Surely the noise would scare him off. All the money I had in the world was in that bag, not to mention the passport. I could afford to lose neither. Then I thought of the sisters, of Heloise's face tight with fear, and what she'd told me at the Tanes'. Was this one of the men? Had he come for me? Opening the passport, he pulled a long thin object from his clothes.

Would the Germans hear me in time? Or were they too groggy from their midnight drunk? There was a soft clicking noise, and a small circle of light sprang from the man's hand. The thin object was a flashlight. The man shined the beam on the passport, reading, it seemed; then he snuffed the light and returned the passport to its place in the rucksack.

He hesitated a moment, then took a step toward me and another. Slowly, silently, I drew my breath in and lowered my eyelids. Yes, I thought, he could kill me now before anyone heard a thing. In the morning there'd be only someone's sleep-warped memory of a short, thin scream. One thousand one, one thousand two. I counted out each second till, miraculously, I heard him turn.

Opening one eye, I watched him put his hand on the knob and noiselessly pull the door inward. Light blazed in from the hallway, briefly illuminating him as he slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him. He was only visible for a second, but it was time enough for me to recognize him. It was the American, the man I'd seen on the veranda with Joshi.

SIX

I lay still for a good half hour, body rigid, ears alert to the slightest sound, some part of me expecting the man to return. When I finally lifted my arm from under the covers and checked my watch, it was just before five. Swinging out of bed, I dressed, slipped the rucksack over my shoulders, and headed into the hallway.

I made my way down through the empty lobby and out onto the veranda, then crossed the courtyard. Outside the Continental's gates, the medina was bustling with people, alive as I might have imagined it to be at midday. The streets smelled of roasting meat and hot bread, preparations for the predawn feast and the day of fasting ahead.

Backtracking to the spot where Joshi and I had stopped the night before, I found the flag that marked his window. A good fifteen feet of smooth wall separated the little rectangular opening from the roof below it. If I wanted in, I'd have to find a way inside the building. A corner apartment, I told myself, counting up the floors, skirting toward the front of the structure. The heavy wooden door was locked tight, barred by a thick iron strap.

I stepped into the street, contemplating my options. Could there be a back door? A lower window somewhere? As I started back the way I'd come, I caught sight of a woman in a djellaba and a head scarf coming toward me. The crook of her left arm held a shopping bag. In her right hand was a ring of keys. I let her pass me, then turned and followed a few steps behind. Hugging the shadows on the far edge of the narrow street, I watched her turn into the front alcove of Joshi's building. I flattened myself against the wall and waited. Keys jangled in the lock; then I heard her step inside.

The door creaked closed behind her, and I leaped forward, my fingertips catching the smooth wood before the latch clicked into place. I ducked into the alcove and waited, listening to her footsteps, the opening and closing of an interior door. When I was certain she was in her apartment, I pushed my way inside.

From what little I had been able to discern from the jumbled rooftops and seemingly random placement of windows, my best guess put Joshi's apartment on the third floor. The woman had switched the timed hallway light on, and a dim bulb illuminated the stairwell. I hit the switch again, buying myself another few minutes of light, then started upward. When I reached the third-floor landing, I found the corner apartment and knocked.

The building was beginning to awaken. From behind the other closed doors came the sounds of children's voices, the clatter of crockery, the race to eat and drink before the sun came up. Only Joshi's apartment was quiet. I knocked again, louder this time, and waited.

Finally, something moved in the apartment, bedclothes rustling, feet on bare tiles. I knocked once more, and the door cracked open. Two bleary eyes stared out at me. Jamming my shoulder against the door, I forced my way inside. The little man reeled backward, knocked off balance, and slammed into the wall.

“Who is he?” I demanded, closing the door behind me.

Joshi recovered himself and backed away. He had on striped cotton pajamas, blue bed slippers, and a blue robe. A pink sleep crease ran across the side of his face. “I don't know,” he stammered. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

I stepped closer to him and grabbed the front of the pajamas, pulling him toward me. He was smaller than I was, his face collapsing now like a scared child's. He made a little noise, a weak attempt at a scream.

“I saw you together on the veranda at the Continental,” I said. “How much did he give you?”

Joshi squirmed in my hands. “I don't know this man,” he insisted. “I only asked him for a light.”

“Bullshit. He paid you to follow me from the beginning.” I raised one fist as if I was going to hit him, and he shrunk back, his eyes pinched shut, his arm flying to protect his face.

“Don't hurt me,” he whimpered.

“Who is he?” I asked again.

“Just an expat, an American,” the little man said. “His name is Brian; that's all I know.”