John nodded, sipped his drink. “So, what, you were hoping to find work here, in Tangier?” He raised his eyebrows as he spoke, as if the notion were ridiculous, as if he had never heard of such an outlandish idea. “I don’t think you’ll find many publishing companies. Besides, won’t your family miss you? So far from home?”
I felt Alice stir. “Lucy hasn’t any family, John. I’ve told you that,” she said, a distinct edge evident in her voice.
He nodded. “Sure, I remember now, only”—he stopped, turning to me—“only that’s not entirely true, is it?” He gave a quick laugh. “You see, I did a little digging. I know, I know,” he said, looking at Alice, who had started to protest, “I shouldn’t have, an abuse of power and all that. But I like to know who’s living under my roof.”
I was still, waiting, wondering what it was that he had managed to unearth, what skeletons he would drag out of the closet and into the light. He paused—waiting, as well—his grin, his laugh, dragged out for full effect, as to emphasize his greatness, his perceived triumph over the woman who had threatened to best him.
And Alice.
Alice was watching me, I could feel it, feel her gaze, burning—hot and accusatory.
She was the one to speak first, her voice small, trembling. “What did you find?”
“Oh, nothing too interesting, in the end. A struggling, lower-class family. A tiny flat above a garage. An absent mother and father. Nothing too unexpected. I suppose that’s the better turn of phrase.”
“But—” Alice began.
“Do you know, it’s strange, I sometimes think,” John said, interrupting her.
“What is?” I asked.
“This whole situation. You, here in Tangier. How you showed up, uninvited.” His words were coming faster, spit starting to gather in the corners of his lips. The sight made my stomach turn, and I looked away in disgust.
“Alice wanted me here,” I said, my voice steely, loath to answer his accusations but anxious to defend myself nonetheless.
“No.”
I turned. It was Alice who had spoken. She hadn’t shouted, not exactly, but the word was loud and drawn out. It seemed to echo in the space around us, despite the presence of numerous bodies. It was as if we were, the two of us alone, as we had once been, rendering John’s presence uncanny.
“No,” she said again, quieter this time, as if she could not quite believe in the word itself or what it stood for. “No, I didn’t. Lucy. I never invited you.” She held my gaze. “I never wanted you here,” she whispered, the last word all but lost in the noise around us, so that I was not entirely certain it had actually been spoken.
Alice stood, sending our table off balance, so that the drinks we had ordered swayed precariously, threatening to spill. I watched, my eyes riveted to the swaying glasses. In truth, I could not bring myself to look up at her, to see what was written there after what she had said. When I finally did, it was only to see the back of her, disappearing through the front door of the bar. I snuck a quick glance at John, surprised to find that instead of the smirk I had expected to see, he only sat, his face long and drawn. I wondered whether it was confusion or something else reflected there. He did not make any movement to chase after his wife but instead pulled out his kif pipe. I waited for the space of a moment—counting under my breath, one, two, three—and then I stood and followed Alice out the door.
THE STREETS WERE CROWDED. Hundreds of locals were singing, waving banners in the air. But this wasn’t a protest, that much was apparent. People danced and laughed, clapping one another on the back, as if in congratulations. I could feel it, the pulse of the city, pumping through them, through me. For one wild moment I wanted to crouch down onto the ground, to lay my hands on the road and to feel the murmur, the beat of it, against my skin. It was as if the city knew—things were happening, finally, after all this waiting. I could feel it, tingling in my hands. Watching as the people moved around me—locals, expats, tourists, travelers. I wanted nothing more than to follow, to be swept up in it, to move and continue moving and never stop.
But then I remembered Alice.
A sharp distinctive wail cut through the night—the noise, I knew, that the women in Tangier made in celebration. Ululation, I had learned, my mouth delighting in the dips and curves of it. In front of me, I saw Alice, a few paces ahead, her arms wrapped around her waist, just like the night before. And yet the temperatures had not yet abated. The heat, despite the sun’s absence, still lingered in the air around us. I could feel the sweat pooling at the base of my throat, in the small of my back.
“What is that?” Alice asked, lips trembling as I approached.
“It’s nothing,” I said, though I was uncertain whether she could hear me over the noise, whether she would be able to hear me regardless, the look on her face unreachable.
I looked around for John, unsure whether he had followed me out of the bar. The voices were beginning to grow louder, and there was chanting now, though I could not make out the words. Fewer foreigners dotted the streets.
The wail started up again, and I saw Alice shudder. “It’s horrible,” she cried. “Why won’t they stop?”
“It’s just to do with the celebration, Alice,” I told her.
She looked around, her eyes scanning the crowds. “It sounds like someone is dying.”
“They’re not, I promise,” I said, reaching for her. She let me pull her forward, and together we began to move again, though her steps were heavy, as if she were walking through mud. There was no expression on her face, and yet, somehow, this absence seemed to fill her so completely, so entirely, that it crowded her features. I moved to speak, to ask her about what she had said in the bar only moments before, but something stopped me—a hand on my shoulder—and I turned, my heart racing, expecting it to be John.
Instead Youssef stood, watching.
I shrunk back, wondering how he had managed to find me, how, in fact, he had ever managed to find me in the continued disorder and confusion that was Tangier. I fixed him with a stare, my mind flooding with distrust, and I felt all of it then—the strangeness of the night, the uneasiness, the anger—and I hated him, for intruding, for interrupting my moment with Alice, for jeopardizing my chance to make things right. I cast a weary glance over my shoulder. Alice did not seem to notice Youssef’s presence but instead continued to stare blankly ahead—her eyes taking in the chaos that surrounded us. I felt his hand on my shoulder again and I grimaced under its pressure.
“I worried after our last conversation,” he said, his voice low and insistent.
I blinked. Our conversation—about John, Sabine—it seemed as though it had happened weeks ago, months even. I thought about how much had changed since then—and how much more everything was about to change again. I remembered what he had said—girl—and how I had reacted. I blushed, the anger slowly seeping from my veins, grateful that the night hid the red creeping up my cheeks. Perhaps I had acted with haste—it certainly seemed so now. And yet, the word sat badly with me still, leaving an acidic taste in my mouth.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.
Something inside me grew still, quiet.
He squinted through the darkness. “I cannot think why, but it is quite clear that you are,” he said, moving toward me, closing the distance between us.
I took a step backward.