Page 37 of The Last Postcard

‘What kind of job?’ My skin was prickling. I thought about the knife, hidden deep in my jacket.

‘Relax. You will take something to a friend of mine, that’s all.’

‘What?’

He tutted me. ‘Too many questions. Just take what I give you, deliver it and don’t peek. My friend will know if you have, and he’s not so nice as me.’ Bautista picked up the passport again. ‘If you are caught, you do not know my name. If you talk, we will find you. Otherwise, our business will be done. That’s fair, no? A small favour, compared to what I offer.’ He waved the document. ‘You can have this when you board the boat later. Not before.’

Crime upon crime. Smuggling, forged papers. If I were to be caught …

The hat rested on my lap, the gift from Mr Langham. I pictured him once again, at the wheel of that bright car, remembered the smell of his cologne and the way he’d glanced at the shape of land on the horizon, the way he’d commanded the respect of the hotel staff and the look on his face when I told him the sun was in my eyes. The way he’d said, mine too.

‘Well?’ Bautista said. ‘Are we agreed?’

Tangier

July 1978

‘Whoever it was, you shouldn’t have chased after them, old man, those kind of antics can get you into trouble here.’ Norton wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and grimaced down at the dry chicken on his plate. He’d insisted on eating in a dismal little hotel at the edge of the new town, partly, Sam suspected, because they served alcohol. ‘Too much bother to eat in these temperatures, don’t you think?’ he said, reaching for his wine glass.

‘I wasn’t chasing the person, I was …’ Sam pushed his plate away with a sigh. ‘I was just trying to find out who they were, where this A person lives.’

Norton made a doubtful noise. ‘The whole business sounds shady to me. Next thing you know you’ll be waiting at a rendezvous with your passport in hand, primed and ready to be mugged.’

‘But A thought I was trying to blackmail him! As soon as I mentioned the case—’ Sam stopped himself abruptly. Through sheer frustration, he’d told Norton about the notes, sent back and forth between himself and A, but the rest? He glanced over at the Englishman, to find him emptying the rest of the bottle into his glass.

‘He what?’ Norton asked.

‘He clammed up. I got a two-line response.’

‘I’m not surprised. He’s probably worried you’re on to whatever scam he’s trying to run.’

‘I don’t think there’s a scam,’ Sam said. He groped for an explanation, when of course, there wasn’t one. He didn’t know what A was up to; he didn’t even know who the man was. A character, inexplicably come to life, a mystery to be pursued on the page, but in reality … ‘Do you know,’ he said, changing the subject, ‘I’ve written more in the past three days than I have in six months? Pages of it. I’ve lost count. I think I’m on to something. A story about Tangier.’ He drained his glass. ‘Of course it had to happen now, when I’m counting how many days I might have left here.’

‘Say it isn’t so!’ Norton put down his glass. ‘Why would you leave? Visa? Money troubles?’

‘Trouble’s the word. Another week and I’ll be out on my ass.’

‘Well, if you smoked less kif …’

Sam laughed, a little. ‘I haven’t been. At least not as much as usual.’ Running out of kif would mean a visit to Abdelhamid, which would mean telling him about the Hotel Continental, and the suitcase. He didn’t feel ready to share the whole truth with anyone yet, not with Abdelhamid, not with Norton, not even with Bet and Roger. It felt private, like something that might disappear if he talked about it too much, that might wither in the hard light of reality.

‘Well, if this chap’s serious about getting his old writing case back, doesn’t that solve your problem?’ Norton said. ‘Flog it back to him for a princely sum and stay as long as you like.’

‘True.’

Norton was right; it would solve a problem. And he did want to stay. But he also wanted to keep writing. Something told him that if he handed over the case and took the money with no questions asked, A would vanish into the streets of Tangier, taking the story, and all Sam’s inspiration, with him.

‘Tell you what.’ Norton slapped the table, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. ‘If you do find anything interesting about this old guy, let me know. A sordid past, sob story, whatever. The city editor might be interested in it, nice bit of local colour for the mid-section. I could write it up for you, and we’ll split the commission. That’d keep you in kif for another week, wouldn’t it?’

Sam nodded, irritated by the offer for some reason. ‘Sure. Thanks.’

Norton checked his watch. ‘Must get back. I’m working on a juicy piece right now. Paris papers will definitely want it, mark my words.’

The heat and colour and brightness of the streets was a relief after the drab hotel dining room. Sam said goodbye to Norton and wandered towards the old town. Here, he could lose himself; he could be just another tourist, another nameless drifter with a few dirhams in his pocket. In the old town, he didn’t have to think about his past. He didn’t have to have a future beyond tomorrow.

He found himself at the edge of the Grand Socco, where he’d lost the mystery letter carrier. Norton was right, he shouldn’t have run after the person, whoever it was. It seemed absurd, thinking of it now, made his guts squirm a little in their bath of lunchtime wine. He didn’t even know for sure that they had collected the letter. But there was something in the way they had looked back, as if they knew him, and had considered speaking to him, just for a moment.

A truck sped past, its tyres flinging up grit. He stepped out of the way. Behind him was a flower stall, where blooms were beginning to wilt in their plastic buckets. The woman who sold them was tiny and old and wrinkled beneath a wide straw hat of the country farmers. How long had she been coming to Tangier, to sell her flowers by the road? Twenty years? Thirty? Had she been here as a girl, when A strode through the streets? Had he once stopped to buy a bloom for his lapel? Before Sam was fully aware of what he was doing, he was pulling some coins from his pocket and pointing to a bucket of wild-looking pink roses and to another of tiny star-white flowers. The woman told him a price in Darija. He wasn’t entirely sure how much it was, but he didn’t bother to haggle, just gave her a handful of small coins. She nodded, picked out a few, and handed the rest back.