Page 3 of The Last Postcard

The two of them began speaking at once, the waiter pointing to the young man’s empty coffee cup in frustration and exclaiming in Darija, and the young man holding up his wallet.

‘It’s not on!’ he said loudly. ‘I refuse to believe that a cup of coffee is more than fifty dirhams, he’s trying to stiff me!’

Sam couldn’t help but stare. The young man’s wallet was stuffed with banknotes. And he was waving fifty dirhams around as if it were a handkerchief. No wonder the waiter was looking pained.

‘He isn’t trying to stiff you,’ Sam said, holding a hand up to the waiter to show that he would explain. ‘It’s just that a coffee is one dirham.’ He pointed to the note. ‘He’s telling you he doesn’t have change for that. Haven’t you got anything smaller?’

The young man flushed, right up to his eyes. ‘Oh.’ He stared at the note in his hand. ‘Well then, why didn’t he say? I know a bit of French. He could have told me. I thought they all spoke it here?’

Sam shrugged. ‘Spanish, more likely. Do you have anything smaller?’

‘What? Oh. No, I don’t. This is it. Just came from the bank, you see.’ He stared down into the wallet, as if it would magically sprout small change. ‘I don’t suppose he’d accept pounds?’

Sam grimaced. He already regretted coming over, but then again, there was that wallet …

‘Here,’ he said, pulling a few santimat from his pocket. ‘Let me.’

‘I couldn’t possibly …’ the young man began to protest, but Sam had already dropped the coins on to the waiter’s tray. The waiter nodded to him before walking off, rolling his eyes and shouting to a co-worker near the kitchens.

‘That was very decent of you,’ the young man said, collecting a leather briefcase. It seemed he wanted to be out of the café as fast as possible. ‘I can pay you back.’

‘It’s only a dirham,’ Sam murmured. Twenty-seven, he thought bleakly.

‘Nonsense. I’ll pay you back right now, if you come with me to my hotel. It’s just down the road. Surely they will have change.’

Stepping out of the café was like diving into a pool of colour and smell and noise. Sam sometimes felt as if he was swimming, when he walked the streets during the day, coming up for air when he stepped into a café or a bar or up to a rooftop. It was different at night, of course. But in the day, the city seethed. He watched the young Englishman sweating in his suit as they walked. The man’s eyes kept darting everywhere, from the stray cat that washed itself at the edge of the kerb, to the old woman crouched in a doorway, her hands pushed out to them, her face creased by the world.

Did I look like him? Sam wondered. That mix of panic and concentration, all out of rhythm with the street? Probably, he thought. Amazing what a couple of months could do.

‘I’m Ellis, by the way.’ The young man was holding out a hand. ‘Ellis Norton.’

‘Sam Hackett.’ He shook quickly, conscious of the dirt beneath his nails. ‘You’re British?’

‘Yes.’ The man sounded breathless. ‘Arrived from London last night. You’re American?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘You seem to know your way around,’ Norton said, ducking past a group of women laden with shopping. ‘How long have you been in this hellhole?’

‘Here? A few months. Two, nearly three, I guess. I’ve lost track.’

‘I hope I get used to it.’ Norton stopped on the street, where two potted palms flanked a recessed door. ‘Well, this is me. Come in and I’ll get you that change.’ He glanced inside. ‘Actually, there’s a bar here too. Let me buy you something stronger, to say thanks.’

Sam stared at him, then beyond into the dark lobby, where a uniformed bellhop waited. The El Minzah was one of the good hotels. He shifted in the sticky espadrilles.

‘I’m not exactly dressed for it.’

For the first time, Norton seemed to look at him properly, eyes roaming from the tangled hair brushing his shoulders, to his jeans. ‘I’m sure that won’t matter,’ he said uncertainly. Then his eyes brightened. ‘Here,’ he said, loosening his tie and passing it over. ‘They won’t say a thing if you’re wearing that.’

Sam dropped the loop of fabric over his head, feeling stupid, knowing that he looked it too. The man must be desperate for company, he thought. About as desperate as I am for a proper drink.

He followed Norton into the lobby, trying not to duck his head. Inside, it was quiet, marble-cool. A record was playing somewhere, soft jazz. For a second the lobby and the streets seemed to curdle around him, like milk and orange. Norton was sighing in what sounded like relief, walking up a short flight of steps, and Sam had to follow.

He’d heard of the bar at the El Minzah, but had never been in. Too expensive. Not his scene. Ahead, he saw a cavernous space, where red carpets made the air drowsy with dust, barely disturbed by a breeze, despite the open windows. It was empty, except for a pair of older women who sat stiffly on a sofa, small glasses before them. It wasn’t yet noon.

‘God,’ said Norton, dropping into a chair. ‘What a day.’

Sam followed suit. He had the odd feeling that he had tripped, somewhere on his way up the Avenue Pasteur, and had fallen into a different reality. It was all too strange; Norton and his fat wallet, the stuffy bar with its promise of booze. What if the man was a fake and wanted something from him? He watched as Norton craned around to summon a waiter, and decided that he didn’t have the energy to care, not for an hour. Perhaps in that time, he’d work up the courage to ask about borrowing a few dirhams.