Page 22 of The Last Postcard

‘Store? Then you do have a storage room?’

‘Of course, monsieur.’

‘Could …’ His curiosity was too much. What might be lurking in the storeroom of a hotel like this? ‘Could I perhaps have a look?’

The manager’s eyebrows rose. ‘We do not allow guests to enter the storeroom. It is untidy. Too many old things.’

‘But I’m not a guest. I’m a writer. I’m writing a book about this place,’ he bluffed, hoping to sound convincing. ‘About this hotel, about the past in Tangier. That’s why I’ve been going through my uncle’s things. It would be great to have a quick look. Even if my uncle’s belongings aren’t there.’

The manager gave a little sigh. Sam scrabbled in the pocket of his jeans.

‘Please,’ he said again, reaching for the manager’s hand. ‘It’s important to me. I’d be very grateful.’

The ten-dirham note felt crumpled against his fingers, and for a moment, he thought the manager might drop it in disgust. But then the man was straightening his jacket, and the money was gone, as if it had never been there at all.

‘Very well, monsieur. I do not see the harm. I will send Mohamed with you. He will assist.’ Keep an eye on you, in other words.

The storeroom was low down in the hotel, a semi-subterranean room that looked as if it had once been carved from the coastal rock itself. When the metal door swung open, it released a waft of air, cool with stone-must. Perhaps this cave had once been used to house barrels of wine, crates of tobacco and contraband rowed in from creaking ships. Perhaps Bet had even used it, back in her smuggling days, bribing the manager with charm and French cigarettes, stowing boxes and suitcases in the dead of night, conducting shady business from the hotel terrace.

An overhead bulb flickered on, sickly yellow, illuminating the space.

The manager was right. There was no romance of the past here, no buccaneer’s hoard, only the detritus of decades, washed up against the sides of the room. A broken hat stand listed from a vast pile of newspapers and periodicals, a lidless toilet yawned mournfully. There were empty metal drums that had once held oil, rusted gas canisters, a mattress from another era, sporting the stains of its many occupants. Nevertheless, junk could hide treasure …

‘You see, monsieur,’ Mohamed said, ‘there is nothing—’

‘It’s great,’ Sam interrupted. ‘It’s perfect. The mess doesn’t matter.’ He squinted upwards. ‘Is that the only light?’

‘I am afraid so.’

‘Do you have a torch or something?’

He saw the young man hesitate, no doubt worrying what the manager would say if he found out that the strange foreigner had been left alone in the storeroom, to lay his hands on god knows what.

‘I’ll stay right here until you’re back,’ Sam said. ‘I wouldn’t want to trip over anything.’

That seemed to do the trick. Mohamed nodded. ‘I will get a torch. But please, do not touch.’

Sam stood completely still, letting the fusty air of the storeroom surround him. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to be alone, but now that he was, he could feel anticipation prickling beneath his skin, like the surface of water just before it boils.

He took one step forward, then another. The smell of salt-damp and rust grew stronger. His eyes traced the forms of shelves crammed with objects; frayed electric cords, glass seltzer dispensers clouded by time, miscellaneous fabrics long-folded, stiffened into parchment. There was something thrilling about all those things, left to decay. He felt like an archaeologist, unravelling the secrets of lost decades, of countless lives, one ordinary object at a time. Was it a lie, to say he was writing a book about Tangier, about the past? For all he knew he was: that’s what the letter had been. An arrow, shot back through the centuries.

The space grew cramped, shelves closing in. He had to turn sideways to squeeze between them. One was stacked high with squarish objects. The light from the bulb barely stroked the darkness here, and Sam wished Mohamed would hurry back with the torch, while simultaneously hoping he would not. Against one wall, a broken mirror was propped, shards of glass clinging to a frame. Carefully, he worked one of them loose and crouched down. Sure enough, when he angled it this way and that, a few inches of light flashed across the shelves, illuminating leather, rusted metal, paper.

Luggage. He was looking at a huge shelf full of luggage; suitcases and valises, trunks and hatboxes. He stared, opening his eyes wide, trying to see more in the gloom. What if A. L. had left his belongings, all those years ago, through absentmindedness or misadventure?

He began to move the beam of light back and forth across the shelves. He tried to be methodical, but there were so many cases, stacked floor to ceiling, and he didn’t even know what he was looking for.

Gold flashed in the darkness and he stopped. Hardly daring to breathe, he inched the beam of light back across a shelf until it caught on something. There, on the front of a leather suitcase, two gold initials were glinting, half obscured by grime:

A. L.

Continental Sour

Take a bar glass and fill with shaved ice. Into this add a teaspoon of sugar dissolved in water and the juice of half a lemon. Add a jigger of whisky, shake and strain into a sour glass. Dash with claret. A marriage of two worlds.

When I awoke on that beach, I became aware of three things, above all others. First was the smell: baked seaweed and tarred rope and sun-scorched wood. Second was the feel of sand, in my hair, clinging to the sweat on my skin. And third was hunger, like I had never felt before.

No matter how bad things were at the inn, I rarely went hungry. Perhaps that was why I didn’t entertain thoughts of leaving, until there was no other choice. Ifrahim and I would often keep back the best for ourselves, sneaking slivers of the choicest cuts of meat, corners of fresh cheese, glasses of wine. When the rest of the inn was replete, we would take our cook’s reward in the kitchen. It was a habit I continued after Ifrahim died. Sometimes, I’d even use one of the best crystal glasses for my stolen wine, and recline by the stove, pretending there was someone to wait on me, to turn down my bed at the ring of a bell.