Lucy nodded but made no response. I did my best to smile, a sour taste on the edge of my tongue. There was silence, and I could feel the tension—thick, like the Moroccan air—huddling around us.
“So, Lucy Mason from America.” John smiled. “What is it that you do exactly, out there in the real world, I mean?”
“I type manuscripts,” she answered. “For a publishing company.”
He nodded, though his expression was dull, as though he wasn’t listening, not really, so that I suspected the real reason he had asked was only so that she would do the same. For while John had never been entirely forthcoming about his work to others, not even to me, he seemed to take pleasure in throwing around vague allusions, referencing the government, the insinuation that being in Tangier, at this particular moment, was affording him the chance to prove himself to his superiors. The opportunity, he had said to me, and various others, on more than one occasion, though he never actually bothered to explain what it was actually an opportunity for, and I, in turn, had never bothered to inquire.
I could see him now, waiting for Lucy to ask, for the chance to begin his monologue, but she only smiled and hastened to continue: “Yes, though it isn’t the only job that I have.” She took a gulp of her drink. “I’m also a writer.”
His eyebrows raised in surprise, and I could see him casting aside his feigned interest. “Really?”
“Of sorts,” she replied.
John looked at her with curiosity. “‘A writer, of sorts,’” he repeated. “And what does that mean exactly?”
She hesitated, and I wondered then whether her initial declaration was as grand as she had made it seem, both hoping and dreading that it was. I knew it was wrong, that it only made me small and petty, but I felt sad, slightly resentful even, at the idea that she might have fulfilled the promises we had once made to each other, while I had—what?—become the opposite of the idea I had envisioned.
“I write obituaries for a local newspaper,” she replied. I saw a flicker in John’s eyes, a note of disappointment, and I saw Lucy stiffen in response. Her voice was tight as she continued: “There’s a good deal of research involved, actually. A number of interviews have to be conducted, for background information, for quotes. It’s no different from any other story that’s printed in the newspaper.” I could hear the defensiveness in her tone, could see that John had noted it as well. Lucy turned to me and smiled. “But what about you, Alice?” she asked. “Are you still working on your photographs?”
John frowned. “Photographs?”
I felt myself blush. I had never told John much about Bennington, about the accident—only what any of the newspapers had reported. Instead I had pushed away everything to do with my former life, including Lucy, and the camera that I had once considered my most prized possession and now sat, unused, the shutter release most likely rusted from disuse. Still, it had been among the few possessions that I had brought along with me to Tangier—a great what if rattling somewhere at the back of my mind. And while I hadn’t yet released it from the depths of my suitcase, in the back of our bedroom’s wardrobe, I sometimes thought I could feel its presence as I walked past, so that more than once I had hurried my footsteps in response.
“Yes,” Lucy said. “Alice was quite the photographer at Bennington. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Is that right?” He gave a soft laugh. “Well. My Alice is full of surprises tonight.”
There was an edge to his voice. He was being cruel, I knew, most likely annoyed that this new piece of information, about his wife, his Alice, was being relayed by a complete stranger. I felt the knowledge of it pressing in, assaulting me from all sides, so that in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to have it out with him—something, a confrontation, perhaps—to complete what the two of us had started earlier in the night, with his jokes about my lack of friends, lack of fertility, a sparring that had seemed to blossom, to thrive during our first few months in Tangier so that now, at times, it felt as though it was all that was between us. I could feel the need, the desire for it starting to spill out of my pores. I wiped the sweat from my brow, trying to cool myself. It was suddenly too warm in the bar, too stifling, so that when I took a deep breath my lungs seemed to stop short, give way, refusing me that last refreshing, comforting breath. I could feel my cheeks start to warm and hoped that it was not visible.
“So why bother with a place like Bennington?” John asked, turning back to Lucy, his voice light, deceptively casual. “Surely you didn’t need to in order to write a few snippets for a rag? That’s an expensive school, from what I understand.”
“I was on scholarship,” Lucy replied.
As she said the words, I realized that was what he had wanted to know all along, what he had been digging for in the first place, with his questions about her profession, about her love life—the origins of this American girl that he had never heard of before. He had been wondering, I realized, whether Lucy Mason was worth knowing.
And now, it seemed, he had his answer.
He shrugged. “Still, even with the money.”
Lucy fixed him with a smile. “Actually,” she said, “I have always loved literature. That’s why I decided to go to Bennington.” She finished her gin in one final gulp and leaned close to him. “Have you ever read the Bront?s, John?”
I stopped, glancing up from my drink, hearing the shift before I saw it, written just there, on her face. A quick look at John told me that he had not noticed it—but then, he did not know her as I did. Did not know that this was her, the Lucy that I remembered. Not the polite, perfect houseguest who had sat on our sofa trading banter over cocktails. This was the Lucy who spoke her mind, who knew what she wanted and took it.
John, still unaware, shook his head—though he was, I could see, unsettled by the question, the unexpected turn in the conversation. “No, I haven’t.”
She affected surprise. “What, never?”
He gave her a tense smile. “Never.”
I became aware, in that moment, of my silence, of the fact that the conversation between them seemed to exclude me entirely. And yet I did not stir. Instead I only sat, watching them both: the narrowing of the eyes, the tilting of the head, the mistrust, no, distrust, that was already growing between them. I thought I could hear it. In my mind I saw them circling each other, slowly, testing out the boundaries that separated them.
“Not even a little of Jane?” Lucy was laughing, though the sound was sharp, jagged. “Heathcliff and Cathy, I can understand. They can be difficult even for the most ardent of admirers. Perhaps that’s why Emily only ever published one novel?” She swallowed her gin. “Do you know, I once had a teacher in secondary school who absolutely hated Wuthering Heights. Called it the worst book in British literature, in fact. So I can understand the aversion, the hesitation. But Jane? Sweet, orphaned Jane? You really haven’t read it at all? Not even a sentence?”