“What am I to do until then?” he asked.
The captain looked around the docks. The last thing he needed was a member of the aristocracy complaining to the home office about inadequate accommodations. But with a piston blown clean through a cylinder, and the ship bleeding steam, he couldn’t possibly risk anyone’s safety by keeping them onboard.
“I know a hotel nearby,” the captain said. “It’s nothing fancy, but it is clean.”
“Who will see to my luggage?”
The captain sighed. “I’ll see to it personally, my lord.”
From the docks, they waded through throngs of Arabs and Berbers. The streets were narrow and filthy. Sun bleached, mud brick walls corralled hundreds of people in the marketplace that afternoon. Low arches and tattered carpets blocked out the heat of the sun, but even for someone accustomed to the bustle of London, Patrick felt confined.
Old men in robes called out to him to buy olives and dates. Women with their faces hidden behind black veils pressed bolts of colorful woven cloth against his chest. They spoke bad French because he was a white man, but Patrick could only pick out pieces of it all in the chaos.
“Do we have far to go?” he asked the Captain.
“Not much farther, my lord.”
The other passengers from the ship, mostly women and children on their way to join their husbands and fathers in the African colonies, pushed at Patrick from behind, trying to hurry him out of the market.
A sharp right turn brought them down an even narrower alley, but to their relief, it soon opened up to a large square. There were other white men there. A few women, also. They sipped tea at low, round tables shielded from the sun by umbrellas and wide-brimmed hats. Further beyond them was a gate, which opened up to the h?tel courtyard.
The walk from the docks had taken him straight through the heart of the Old Town. Now he stood on the threshold of the Ville Nouvelle—the ‘new city’. And as the porters led him up the carved granite staircase, Patrick realized the ship’s captain had been wise to suggest this place. Instead of lanterns, the hotel was lit by electric light. There was running water, and all the other modern conveniences an Englishman would be accustomed to. Truly, it was an oasis of the familiar in a place more foreign to him than anywhere he’d ever traveled.
Once upstairs in his room, Patrick pulled off his straw panama hat and tossed it on the bed. Raking his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, he drew a few bracing breaths.
What ever made him decide to go to Africa? Miserable place, Africa. He should have stayed home in Kyre where he belonged. Now he would be stuck until the ship was fixed, and God only knew how long that would take.
At least his room had an ocean view. He threw open the windows and leaned over the ledge, breathing in the fresh salt air. Under his window, a palm tree rustled in the breeze. Patrick reached out to touch the stiff green fronds. He had only seen trees like these in someone’s hothouse or potted in some grand hotel foyer. Never in nature. It occurred to him just how far from home he really was. If he wrote to his family, he doubted they could even find him on a map.
It was both a frightening and comforting prospect.
But wasn’t the point of a holiday to get away from it all? He’d certainly accomplished the away part. Now if he could only manage to enjoy himself…
Patrick wished he’d thought to bring some books—they would have helped to pass the time. But he never expected to be sitting idly in a damned hotel room. When he planned this trip, he fully intended to have a rifle in one hand and field glasses in the other, wreaking havoc on the African wildlife. Yet, here he was, with nothing to do but stare out the window at the ocean for the foreseeable future.
He was a disgrace to bored aristocrats everywhere. He couldn’t even loaf about properly.
Behind him, two young Arab porters entered the room, dragging his trunks in one by one. When the boys finished, they turned to him and held out their hands. Patrick blinked down at their little brown faces. It seemed these children wanted a tip. As if he would give them any money before they finished bringing in the rest of his luggage!
“Where is the other trunk?” he asked.
The tallest boy pointed to the one at his feet.
“No,” Patrick said. “Not that one. The other one.”
Again, the boy pointed.
Patrick sighed. “There were three.” He held up his fingers and counted them off. “One. Two. Three.”
The boys stared at him blankly.
“No English, I suppose,” he said, suddenly remembering he was in French Morocco. “Fran?aise?”
The boys smiled and nodded.
“Où est mon autre malle?” Patrick asked.
The two boys looked at each other and shrugged. “Nous ne savons pas, monsieur,” the taller one said.
Clearly, they did not know anything about another trunk. For all Patrick knew, it could have been left aboard that damned sinking ship.
***