Page 17 of The Last Postcard

I collapsed again with as much force as I could. This time I made it to the floor, slipping from the grip of one of the men. It was the one with the blinking eyes, the one who might have spoken for me. Doubled over, I managed to work my hand into the apron’s pocket before he renewed his grip beneath my armpit and hauled me to my feet.

I didn’t wait, I didn’t even breathe. I flailed out with the knife, stabbing at him. He let me go and I whirled, slashing at the other man. Blood spurted, a voice yelled in pain and for a split second, no one held me.

I threw myself towards the gate. Someone made a grab for my legs, and had I been wearing a skirt rather than Ifrahim’s old work trousers they would have brought me down. But their fingers slipped from the fabric, and whoever it was hit the ground. I darted into the street, barging my way through the crowd.

There were shouts behind me and booted feet and Morales’ yelling for someone to stop me, but there were horns too, and tambourines and bells and I ran like a wild thing from the Plaza del Potro.

Get to the river. That was my only thought: the river where it was dark and where there were tents teeming with people. As I reached the far side of the square, I glanced back and saw one of the gentlemen staring through the crowd, conspicuous in his fine, black jacket. I ducked down, pulled off the stained apron and bundled it in my arms, wiping the blood from my nose. Keeping my head down, I slipped into a large group of people who were jostling, hootingly drunk, towards the river, and vanished.

At least, that is what the newspapers said. According to them I disappeared into thin air, evading capture by calling upon a network of gitano thieves and bandits, who smuggled me past the tireless guardia.

They said other things: that Señor Ramón Vélez del Olmo was a great man, a philanthropist who had donated thousands to the Church and its reformatory. They said that I had tried to extort money from him, and had become enraged when he refused. They said he had only been at the inn to seek out a friend, in order to dissuade him from sinning. About Elena, they said nothing. Why should they? Men just like the Señor ran the newspapers, and they all had Elenas of their own. So, Señor Vélez del Olmo was a great man, and I was the venal whore who murdered him. That was the story they told themselves at their card tables and racing parties.

The truth is always less glamorous.

The truth is that I passed the hours following the Señor’s murder in terror, trying to lose myself in amongst the feria. I had no one, nothing but a knife and the clothes I stood up in – old trousers and a blouse and stained apron – unsuited to the world. My nose throbbed like the devil. When I explored it with my fingers, it felt hot and swollen but thankfully unbroken. Behind some of the tents were barrels of water for the mules where I rinsed the dried blood from my face.

In the light of the fireworks, I saw myself reflected; hair wild and straggling from the scarf, nose swollen, face gaunt with shock. By the time the second shower of light came, I had pulled the scarf from my hair and wet it so that it lay neater, I had turned the apron back to front and tied it around my waist, so that it looked almost like a skirt. While people were still distracted by the lights, I stole into the back of a tent and swiped an embroidered shawl that had been abandoned on a chair.

I crept through the people clutching drinks, staring upwards, their eyes and teeth reflecting red and orange. I sought out the most boisterous crowds, at the end of the river where the rich folk did not go. I tried to blend in by pasting a smile on to my face and clapping my hands to the music like a toy monkey.

But all the while, my mind was racing. I had to get out of Córdoba, I thought as I grinned and clapped, I had to get out before morning. It seemed impossible. I had never left the city before. My only knowledge of the world came from Ifrahim’s stories, of French jails and Portuguese shipyards, English enclaves and African souks, and they were just that: stories. Even if I did know where to go, I had no money for a bus or train ticket, no papers, no proper clothes even.

Only the knife.

Tangier

July 1978

‘I’m telling you, it just vanished.’

From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Norton shake his head.

‘Are you sure you didn’t imagine the whole thing? Maybe you never even wrote a letter, just sat there daydreaming after a bit too much –’ Norton mimed smoking a joint.

‘Of course I didn’t imagine it,’ Sam snapped. ‘I wrote the damn letter. How else did I get ink on my face?’

Even so, he felt a prickle of uncertainty. It was true, he’d lost himself in the act of writing, had scrawled out a confession to an unknown person without meaning to. But he had written. Hadn’t he? ‘Anyway,’ he said, rubbing his neck. ‘I didn’t smoke much this morning.’

‘But you did afterwards?’

‘Sure. I was freaked out.’

Norton sighed. He looked more relaxed today, in chinos and a shirt and some sort of cravat, a jacket slung over his shoulder despite the temperature. The sun had set but the streets still held their late orange heat. ‘This letter,’ he said, ‘did it have anything important in it? About you?’

Yes, Sam wanted to say. But he knew what Norton meant: name, address, social security number. He shook his head.

‘Then why are you worrying?’ Norton stopped. ‘Look, it was probably nicked by someone who thought they could pull one over on you, extortion or whatnot. I’d put my money on one of the waiters.’

‘There was this old man. I thought he was watching me but …’ There was every possibility he’d imagined that too.

‘Well there you go,’ Norton said. ‘I’ll bet he was just some loony who liked the look of you. And he didn’t take that.’ Norton poked the writing case under Sam’s arm. ‘So no harm done.’

‘I guess not.’

‘Good. Let’s get a drink and forget about it.’

They set off down a narrow street that led towards the beach. Sam took the roll-up from behind his ear and lit it, before offering it over to Norton. He watched the Englishman’s face crease at the taste of the kif.