Page 35 of The Last Postcard

Tangiers, the hotel man said. Tangiers. The name was familiar. Was it from one of Ifrahim’s stories? I squinted in the late afternoon sun, trying to find the dark shape of land on the horizon. The name brought an idea of hot sun, of a port full of ships from every country of the world, of money and spices and danger, where anything was possible, where a person might pull a brand-new name out of the air.

Tangiers. Beneath the bindings, my heart began to quicken. I turned towards the town, the peseta note crinkling against my skin.

Money can buy many things. In La Atunara it was possible to find a suit of passable quality amongst the clothes stalls of the market, a tailor to shorten the trousers, to unpick the initials of the person it had once belonged to. It was possible to find a pair of second-hand shoes, a bundle of men’s socks and linens, a roll of bandage stolen from a military hospital. It was possible to find a barber who would trim uneven clumps of hair into better shape, without commenting on a young man’s lack of stubble. It was possible for a person to transform themselves over a couple of days, all for the cost of ten pesetas.

I bundled up the stolen clothes, the torn apron, everything that remained of my old existence. The only thing I kept was the knife, its handle worn smooth by years of use. I did not want to walk the streets of La Atunara without it, in case someone saw through my disguise.

Langham’s hat was the final piece. Holding it before my face, I caught a wisp of his scent. Wax from rose-scented hair pomade, musk from cologne and a faint, elusive note I recognized as sweat. I settled it upon my head, and looked at myself.

I looked young, too young, almost a boy still. The suit hung loose on my frame, the hat looming over my lean cheeks and the fading bruise. And yet, I might pass in a crowd for a semi-respectable young man. The suit, the leather shoes, and most importantly, Langham’s fine hat, would hopefully be enough to fool people. In a stuffy, locked room of a cheap hotel, I began to knot Alejandro del Potro and myself together, tooth by tooth, eyelash by eyelash.

‘Señor Langham,’ I murmured, dropping my voice a few tones lower, ‘I am delighted to see you again.’

I put the remaining pesetas into the pocket of my jacket. There was one last thing I needed, and it would be the hardest to obtain, even in a place like this. I could declare that my name was Alejandro del Potro until I was blue in the face, but no one would believe me. What I needed was proof; a piece of paper to vouch for my existence.

I had an idea of where to go, though it made me nervous. I waited until dusk to leave the hotel. Even so, the second I stepped from the door, I felt a surge of fear. My head was clearer now than it had been when I had slept among the beggars. People in La Atunara were sharp-eyed; what if they saw through my suit to the truth beneath? What if they could tell by the way I walked, how I held myself? I kept my head lowered beneath the hat, my hands in my pockets, and slouched along, my guts twitching, my heart squeezing itself against my ribs. A few times, people called to me, women from their corners or bartenders but I didn’t stop, not even when I became out of breath thanks to the tight bindings. From a kiosk near the beach, I bought a newspaper, and a packet of cigarettes. Props, to occupy my trembling hands.

Sure enough, groups of men were beginning to loiter near the shore, where the smuggling boats put in, cracking their necks in preparation for the work to come. I sat on an upturned boat, a little way from the activity, and opened the newspaper.

Of course, I didn’t read it. I kept half an eye on the beach beyond, on the milling groups of men waiting for something to happen, for a ship’s horn or a yell or a flashing light in the bay. I turned the pages mechanically, headlines washing over me until:

BUSINESSMAN SLAIN AT CÓRDOBAN INN MURDERESS STILL AT LARGE

The suspect, a prostitute and thief named ALEJANDRA EXPÓSITA, remains a fugitive, and should be considered dangerous. She was last seen three days ago in the region of RONDA. The Vélez del Olmo family are offering a reward of TWO HUNDRED pesetas for information leading to her capture.

I couldn’t breathe; the air was too thick with tar and salt and panic. Alejandra Expósita. It was a surname they gave to foundlings, to orphans, to abandoned children. It wasn’t my name: I’d never truly had one. Morales must have given it to the authorities as proof of my illegitimacy, my baseless existence.

She’s not you, I told myself, fumbling open the packet of cigarettes. Not any more. And yet, I’d chosen del Potro, named myself for the very place I was trying to escape. I could have picked anything: Moreno, Gómez, Ávila … I put one of the cigarettes in my mouth, only to realize that I didn’t have any matches. I forced myself to breathe as if I was smoking anyway, to slow the racing in my chest. No. For better or worse, the inn had shaped me. It was mine: the only thing I had ever known. I wouldn’t let them take that from me, too.

When I looked up again, the beach was all activity. A boat had appeared and men were striding towards the waves, away from a figure in black, who stood overseeing everything. I tucked the cigarette into my jacket pocket, keeping my eyes on that man.

I waited until the work was done. Only when all the contraband had been stacked on a wagon and hauled away, when all men had been paid and the man in black had closed his satchel did I stand and walk towards him.

‘Señor Bautista,’ I called. He turned. His eyes were blank as they took in my suit and my hat. I hid my trembling hands in my pockets.

‘Who wants him?’ the large man who dealt with the men said, stepping up beside Bautista. A brute, a boot and fist man. I’d seen his kind before.

‘I—’ My mouth lost all its moisture. ‘I lost my papers. I heard you might be able to help.’

‘Get lost,’ the brute said.

Bautista continued to stare. I knotted my guts about my heart.

‘I can pay.’ I wrenched the ten-peseta note from my pocket. After all my expenses, I had fifteen left; five would be enough to survive another week or so, if I was frugal. ‘I can pay well for the papers.’

Bautista smiled. His face was ordinary, forgettable with its donkey-grey beard, but in that moment I was afraid, for there was something about his expression that reminded me of Morales. The money fluttered in my outstretched hand.

‘Where are you from, chico?’ he asked, after a while.

‘North.’

‘And you have no papers?’

‘They were stolen.’

‘They were stolen,’ Bautista repeated, holding my gaze. ‘Well –’ he beckoned for the money. I let him take it, but kept hold of the other end. ‘Chico,’ he chided mockingly.

I let go. In that moment, I truly did not know what he would do; whether he would agree to my request, or whether he would have his man beat me bloody. Had I been wearing the stolen suit, poor and stained, he might have done just that.