Page 40 of The Last Postcard

The French official didn’t give the suitcase or my papers a second glance, just stamped them and motioned me on with an impatient flick. My blood seemed to stall and waver and flow again in the other direction as I took my first step on to African soil.

Voices, voices, breath, tar, pungent smoke and men all around trying to take the suitcase, assuring me that they knew the best guesthouse, the best girls, the best hashish, trying words in French, Spanish, English. I held the case to my chest and didn’t say a word, just walked, following the crowd. How was I supposed to find anyone, here? I didn’t even know what the man I was to meet looked like. He’ll know you, was the only instruction I’d been given.

Finally, I broke free of the pack of hustlers and stopped, staring up at the city. On the hill above the port was a huge building, sparkling with lights, red and green bulbs surrounding a sign that declared HOTEL CONTINENTAL.

A shadow loomed and I flinched as a man stepped close to me. I couldn’t make out a face beneath his hat, only the glint of small spectacles.

‘Del Potro?’ he asked, voice low.

‘Sí.’ I gripped the suitcase. ‘Are you …?’

‘Márquez.’ A false name if ever there was one. He glanced towards the ship, towards the officials who were lounging, exchanging gossip. ‘Let’s go.’

He began to walk purposefully. I hurried after him, holding out the case. ‘Wait! Here, take it.’

The man snorted. ‘It’s not me you need to give it to.’

‘Then who?’

‘Stop talking, will you?’

He moved like a stray cat, head lowered and watchful, snaking along. We passed the edge of a huge beach, on to a promenade lined with bars, shack-like things strung with feeble lights, tables scattered before them. Motorcars were rolling to and fro, spitting dust. I tried not to stare at it all, smelling hot rubber and grilling fish, a wave of perfume as a well-dressed woman fell laughing from a car. Maybe we were heading to one of the bars, I thought hopefully, watching the man in front.

But he stalked past it all into the alleyways beyond, which were darker and smelled of excrement, rotting vegetable matter and singed butter from kitchens. My hands were trembling as I followed him into a sort of courtyard, a tight chimney of space between buildings. Something scuttled over my shoe and I let out a noise of disgust.

‘Quiet,’ he barked. Before us was a rusted metal door. The man tapped on it in a distinctive rhythm. Then a bolt was grating and light was spilling out, sending the creatures on the ground fleeing.

‘Inside,’ he said.

In hindsight, I know I was a fool to do it. A silly, trusting fool. If I could go back, I would grab myself by the lapels and shake myself. But at the time, I thought I was tough enough, with my forged papers and my knife. I stepped inside.

Immediately, Márquez slammed the door behind me. We were in a sort of storage room, long and low and dim, stacked with crates and boxes. A table was pushed against one wall, a creased tide map hidden beneath papers. Before it sat a man. He was younger than Bautista, his cheeks and chin covered in a dark stubble that merged with the rest of his close-cropped hair.

‘Any problems?’ he asked Márquez, without looking at me.

In the corner, two Moroccan men were slouched, smoking and watching closely.

‘No problems, señor,’ Márquez answered. ‘But this one’s green all right.’

The boss man looked at me then. He had odd, tawny eyes, like a goat or a cat; eyes that saw too much.

All at once, the room felt stifling. The bindings made it hard to breathe. I ran a finger beneath my collar, releasing the sweat trapped there, sending it trickling down my chest. If these men found out what I was … The strange man’s eyes went to the suitcase.

‘Did you look inside?’

He was well-spoken, more refined than his surroundings.

‘No.’ I kept my voice gruff. The less I said, the better.

The boss man barked something in a language I didn’t know. One of the Moroccan men clambered to his feet and came to take the suitcase from me. The moment it left my grip, I realized I shouldn’t have let it go, that empty-handed was a bad thing to be, in that place.

‘Give me your papers,’ the boss said.

My heart gave a sick thud. ‘Why?’

‘Don’t ask questions,’ Márquez snapped. His breath stank of old garlic. When I took the passport from my pocket, he snatched it and handed it over.

The goat-eyed man began to look through the document, peering at it beneath the lamp. ‘Decent work,’ he murmured. ‘What happened to your real ones?’