John, meanwhile, laughed loudly. “There now,” he proclaimed, snatching the pipe back from me. “That wasn’t so terrible, was it?”
I tilted my head, not entirely sure who the words had been directed at. And soon it was as if they had never been spoken at all. In fact, it was all becoming rather muddled. The drink we had sipped back at the apartment before heading out, and now the kif—all of it crowded and confused my mind. It began to seem as though we had been sitting there for an eternity, and yet I was certain that very little time had passed at all. I decided then I didn’t like it, if only for the way it seemed to swallow time whole. And yet I felt strangely emboldened, sitting in our strange circle of three. I thought of the words I wished to speak, prepared, I thought, to voice them at last if Alice would not. I looked over at her, to ensure that she felt the same, and found her slumped in the corner, her eyes glassy and distant. I wondered whether it was the kif, or whether she had looked like this before and I had somehow failed to notice.
I felt then as though the air had gone out of me. I stood, moving quickly toward the back door, leaning my body out and into the night sky. I inhaled deeply, slowly, grateful that the sun had already set, that some of the humidity had begun to leak out of the day. I grasped my head, willing it to stop spinning, to stop moving so swiftly.
I glanced back at the table. Alice remained still—like stone, I thought, impenetrable. John, sucking determinedly on the pipe, looked up and caught me staring. I tried to read what was there behind his eyes, but then he blinked and rose from his seat, asking, “Shall we go on?”
I heard a general chorus of agreement, though I had not spoken a word. Still, we followed him, Alice and I, traipsing after him once more like schoolchildren. Neither of us asked where we were headed, we only continued to walk, silently and obediently, our heads both bowed as we concentrated on the unleveled road beneath us, careful not to misstep in the darkness.
We had walked for some time in silence when John disappeared through a hidden doorway. It was darker than the place we had just left, so I stumbled a few times before finding a place to sit. Onstage was a group of older men, sitting in a semicircle, though the music they were playing was decidedly not jazz—even my uninitiated ear could distinguish as much. Instead a blend of Arabic and Andalusian music emerged from the instruments held by the men, their voices occasionally adding to the melody. They played often together, as a collective, and then there were moments where one of them paused and the others took over the music, each one seeming to anticipate the rhythm and flow of the other. I watched as one of the old men used this interlude to produce a kif pipe, tucked unceremoniously in his back pocket until then. The old man inhaled, a second or two stretching out into three or four.
I noticed the look of annoyance that passed over John’s face. “Wrong night, I suppose?” I asked him, fighting to keep the smirk out of my voice.
He ignored my comment. “So,” he proclaimed instead, looking back and forth between the two of us, as if deciding what route to travel down—whether to give in to the desperation or to cling to the illusion, the falsity, that everything was fine, that everything would continue to be fine. I looked away, not knowing which one I hoped for. Despite John’s jubilant tone, there was something hard, something rougher than there had been before. “Alice finally left the flat.”
The words hung among the three of us, John looking back and forth between us, as if anxious to see who would respond first, who would rise to his bait.
“Don’t be absurd,” Alice said, reaching for her drink and taking a deep gulp. “I’m not a recluse.” Her voice was low, so that I had to lean across the table in order to make out the words. She seemed dulled, harder, so different from the lively creature she had been only the night before. I struggled to understand what had changed.
“Yes, well, I must admit I was surprised. I wondered at first whether you hadn’t just headed back to England,” John observed, his smile wide, his eyes bright. He let out a laugh. “Oh, my little Alice in Wonderland, what on earth am I going to do with you?”
“Don’t call me that,” she whispered, though her voice was largely lost in the din of the noise.
John turned to look at me then, his eyes moving up and down, taking in my appearance. A blouse and trousers once again, my unfashionable long, dark hair pulled back into an equally unfashionable plait. I could read the disappointment on his face. “What on earth should I do with her?” he asked, his gaze locked onto my own.
A million responses flitted through my mind, the very first among them: let her go. I didn’t say it, though I could feel the words forming on my lips. Instead I turned, breaking his gaze, and reached for my drink, anxious to feel the warming calm of the gin.
There was silence for a moment, and then John said, looking at me, “Say, isn’t your little holiday about over by now?” He leaned back in his chair, swirling the ice cubes in his drink. “Surely it’s nearly time to return to the real world.” He laughed, though I could see the glint in his eye.
He meant it as a slight. I could feel it in his words, his resentment for my relationship with Alice, boiling over the dips and curves of every syllable. I saw her too—the slight flinch, the quick intake of breath. She had heard it as well, had felt it—after all, that was the point. For his words to insult—to cut, to tear, to wound. I would never really fit in, never really be one of them, that was what he was trying to say. Those girls from good families, those effortless girls. The ones who woke up with long, blond shiny hair, pale, nondescript features, an aquiline nose that spoke of wealth and good breeding. Girls who did not have to work for their supper, who only had to look first to Daddy and then to their husband. I was different, marked out. My engagement with work an enduring testament to the differences that separated and, ultimately, divided us. My friendship with Alice was something that John could not understand, but more than that, it was something he did not like. I could see that now clearly. I had tainted her, altered her—or his perception of her, at any rate. Our friendship was a detriment to her character, something that he wished to expunge.
I had not bothered him at first—the strange woman who had turned up at his doorway, independent, alone. Those meant two different things, I knew. One could be alone but entirely dependent, like Alice. She was alone at Bennington, she was alone here. She had always been dependent on someone—her aunt, John, even Tom for a brief period of time. I was another species altogether, one that had not roamed the same circles as John McAllister. He had been intrigued at first, delighted even, by the woman sitting on his couch, drinking gin. Now he was angry, unamused by my continued presence, and perhaps most important, he was threatened.
I smiled, my lips stretching tight against my teeth. For a moment I thought that I tasted blood. “Actually,” I said, feeling the full effects of the night, my mind loosening, my words slipping easily from my tongue, “I’ve no real world to return to, as it happens. I’ve resigned from my position at the publishing company.” I noticed how Alice frowned at this piece of information. I hadn’t meant to tell her, not until we had left Tangier, but perhaps it was best that such a secret came out beforehand. Yes, I felt like I could see this admission working to my advantage. After all, there was no longer anything tying me to the States, to New York. Together, we would be able to go anywhere.