Page 13 of The Last Postcard

‘But you hate him.’

She looked up at me. In that moment, I saw Mama Morales in her, in the defiance that coloured her cheeks and made her lips compress, in the rigid stare that said there is no way but this.

‘I hate this place more,’ she said.

And so I set the stew in front of them. I watched from the shadows as they ate, as their mouths and moustaches became coated with juice from meat and bone, as they mopped the thick, brown sauce with bread and washed it down with glasses of their expensive, foreign spirit. When the Señor lifted a piece of meat on a spoon and held it to Elena’s lips, I wanted to rush out and tell her about the blood and the bull, tell her not to eat. But I couldn’t. I could only watch, and wait.

Trouble was brewing. As I crossed the yard to clear the table I could hear it in the music, in every cracked-throat cry and feverish guitar note, in the hands that beat slap slap slap against each other. I collected the dishes. The Señor’s eyes crawled over the nape of my neck.

‘A fine rabo de toro,’ he said, as I loaded the tray. ‘Though a little forceful for my liking.’

I couldn’t help it. I looked at him. He was drunk, his face reddened from sun and alcohol, the brash smell of whisky all about him. His friends had been diluting theirs with seltzer, but I watched as he tipped some into his glass, neat, spilling it on the tablecloth. Beside him Elena sat, pale and sweating. He caught my glance towards her.

‘Poor little Elena, your rabo was too much for her.’ He drank his whisky. ‘Perhaps the two of us should take her up to bed.’

‘Be my guest,’ I retorted and walked away before I could see the consequence.

I didn’t have to wait long. Morales stepped into the kitchen a few minutes later, where I was hacking the bread to crumbs.

‘He wants ice, upstairs,’ she said. ‘Take it to him.’

I stopped my sawing and met her gaze. My lips were shaking with rage. I did what you wanted, I told her silently, I made what he asked for. Now leave me be.

‘I’m busy,’ I said.

‘You are not too busy for this.’

‘Get one of the girls to do it.’

‘No.’ Her face didn’t change. ‘He wants you to take the ice.’

In that moment, I remembered the knife in my pocket.

You know the rest. You know what I found, when I carried that bowl of ice upstairs and opened the door.

Blood and sand. Whisky and violence. Elena with the bottle in her grip – sharp as a freshly broken promise – and the Señor, his throat slashed, bleeding all her hope out on to the rug.

Tangier

July 1978

By the time Sam reached Madame Sarah’s again, it was dark. He’d drifted through the evening streets of the casbah on a wave of good feeling, had even smiled at the kids who nearly hit him in the face with a football.

He was still smiling as he opened the door of the house. Madame Sarah was in the kitchen. It was warm and yellow in there, filled with the crackling sound of the radio, the smell of gas from the stove and fish frying in spices. For a moment, he wished Madame Sarah would smile at him the way she smiled at Pierre, wished she would ask him to sit down and eat with her and Aziz. But her face soured when she saw him.

‘You owe me rent,’ she said, pointing a fork at him. ‘Now.’

He nodded humbly and stepped into the kitchen to count out the money. He didn’t blame her for being angry. He felt awful about it. Impulsively, he added an extra few dirhams on to what he owed. Her eyes narrowed when she saw that. No doubt she was wondering what he’d done to get the money, but he gave her his best smile.

‘Here it is.’

She gave a sniff, and folded it into her apron.

Behind her, next to the gas burner sat a stack of msemen. He could already taste them, the thick, chewy layers, rich with clarified butter, like the best pancake ever made.

‘Could I …?’ he heard himself asking, pointing to them, already knowing what the answer would be.

But to his surprise, she sighed, shook her head a little and picked a couple up.