Page 4 of The Last Postcard

‘What’ll you have?’ Norton said, shucking off his jacket.

‘I don’t know.’ Sam’s head felt light from the coffee and the sugar and the lack of nicotine. ‘Are the beers cold here?’

‘No idea, but I’m having a whisky soda. Want one of those?’

Sam nodded. He’d never have ordered one himself.

‘Two whisky sodas,’ Norton told the waiter.

The waiter nodded blandly, and went away. Sam was just beginning to feel uncomfortable when Norton took out a packet of cigarettes. He accepted one eagerly.

‘So,’ Norton asked, settling back in his chair. ‘What brings you to Tangiers?’

His manner had changed entirely. Gone was the flustered youth, the anxiety. Here, he was at home. Old money, Sam thought. You could hear it in the way he said Tangiers the old-fashioned way, with an s, as if the city was more than itself, as if it was somehow plural. He took a drag on the cigarette, wondering how to answer Norton’s question. To someone else he might have said: ‘Just to be’, or ‘Just the road’, but those kinds of answers would sound ridiculous, here.

‘I’m a writer,’ he said cautiously.

The man’s eyes widened. ‘No, really? But so am I.’ He reached for his jacket, and pulled out a card.

ELLIS NORTON

JUNIOR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT

INTERPRESS

‘This is my first job out,’ he said, watching with obvious pride as Sam read the card. ‘I wanted one of the bureaux in Paris or Rome, but then everybody does. A year in the trenches, they said, and I can move on to somewhere more civilized.’

Sam made a vague noise and offered the card back.

‘Keep it –’ Norton waved ‘– in case you want to get in touch.’

Sam pocketed it. He couldn’t imagine a world where he and Norton were regular drinking buddies, but then, being an ex-pat did strange things to people.

The whiskies and sodas arrived. Norton took a sip of his, then downed it, almost before the waiter had finished laying a napkin before Sam. ‘Bring another couple, would you?’ he said.

Unperturbed, the waiter nodded. He was obviously used to such behaviour. Sam took a sip of the drink. The whisky was strong, almost shocking, softened by the mineral dash of soda. There was something illicit about it, drunk on an empty stomach. A shiver ran down the back of his neck. It felt wonderful.

‘What do you write then?’ Norton was asking. ‘Don’t say you’re a journo too.’

‘No, I was never quick enough for that.’ He spun the ashtray a few times. ‘I’m writing a novel,’ he admitted.

‘A novel! A Great American one?’

Sam laughed. ‘I doubt it.’

‘Are you published?’

‘A few short stories.’ He concentrated on his cigarette. He wasn’t about to confess that the last time he’d sold anything was more than a year ago, and for a pittance. ‘I’ve been travelling, mostly. France, Spain, England. As research.’

That got Norton talking about his travels in Italy and Switzerland, the summer he’d spent in the south of France. Sam nodded along, finishing the first drink and starting work on the second, which disappeared far too quickly. He was starting to feel quite drunk.

‘One more?’ Norton asked, checking his watch. ‘I’ve got to find my way to the damn office, but that can wait until this afternoon. I’m told everyone lunches like the French, here.’

‘All right,’ Sam said, accepting another cigarette. He was beginning to like Norton more. It was easy to let the chatter wash over him.

‘Must say, I’m glad I bumped into you,’ Norton said, when the third glasses were empty. ‘This has done me the world of good. I was feeling wretched in that café. But you can give me the lay of the land here, can’t you? Be my Dante through the inferno?’

‘Sure,’ Sam said, feeling a warm glow of booze and superiority. ‘There’s a little bar where ex-pats meet, I can take you there.’