Page 41 of The Last Postcard

‘They were stolen,’ I said. The side of my face was prickling. One of the Moroccan men was staring at me, as the other jimmied a knife back and forth in the lock of the suitcase.

The boss scratched at the ink with a fingernail. ‘Why’ve you come over here?’ he demanded. ‘Got an offer of work? Trouble back home?’

‘No,’ I lied. ‘Just a fresh start.’

In that grim, seedy room it sounded ridiculous, and the man laughed.

From the corner, there came a clicking sound. The Moroccan man called something, and pushed the lid of the case open. He shoved aside a bundle of old clothes to reveal what looked like cardboard, dull green files stamped with red. Márquez lifted one out, riffling through the papers. A moment later, he nodded over his shoulder.

The boss man tossed my passport on to the desk. I stared at it, that little rectangle of card, so precious to me. Let me go, I begged silently, please just let me go.

‘What did Bautista pay you?’ the boss was saying. I dragged my eyes back.

‘He didn’t. He gave me the passport. That was the bargain.’

The man snorted. ‘Here.’ He held a peseta coin towards me. ‘A tip. Take it.’

There was no way to refuse. ‘Gracias, señor.’

He picked up my passport and handed it over. ‘Go get yourself a drink,’ he said. ‘And a girl. Not the ones on the beach, though, if you know what’s good for you.’ He fixed me with those yellow eyes. ‘Keep your mouth shut.’

I nodded. I knew he could see the terror on my face, and that it satisfied him. Then, Márquez was unbolting the door, giving me a shove into the thick night. The moment it clanged behind me, I took off.

My back was crawling with sweat, with the feeling that I’d been standing in the hot maw of a lion, and had – by chance – slipped free. I ran until I reached the sandy promenade, with its brash lights.

Alone in Tangiers. What was I doing? I didn’t know anything about the place, other than the fact it was somehow international territory, belonging to many countries and none. My only thought had been to get out of Spain, out of danger. But I had been here only a moment and danger had found me once again. If Márquez and his boss were to discover that I had lied, that I was not the young man I appeared to be …

No. I walked briskly up the promenade. No, I had to be smart. Something had drawn me here, across the strait. Someone. The way Langham had looked at me, despite the presence of the woman at his side. Had I imagined that? My lips twitched a little, an almost smile. We’d been all women at the inn, but I knew what some men liked, and though I’d never met anyone like Arthur Langham before, so cool, so refined, I’d met plenty of other wealthy men. I was clever, I was quick; I could get what I wanted from him, through sympathy or persuasion.

But what did I want? I watched as two men ran from one of the bars on to the beach, whooping drunkenly, their polished shoes filling with sand. Their carelessness made my bound chest contract, made me ball my hands into fists in my pockets. I knew what I wanted well enough, but it was impossible for someone like me. Security, I told myself severely. Safety. That was what I needed.

I followed the flow of people up a steep street into a tightness of buildings. All my plans involving Langham would be useless if I couldn’t first find him. In Córdoba, the Plaza de la Corredera was where life happened. It must be the same in any city, surely: there would be a central place, where people lingered and talked and talked.

When I’d imagined Tangiers I’d pictured palm trees and gleaming ships, grand villas that looked like the Mezquita back home. But here, the plaster walls were pocked and crumbling, revealing layers of colour beneath. Pigeons shuffled in crevices, gulls wheeled hungrily overhead, like flashing eyes in the dark.

Soon, the streets grew more crowded. Modern buildings sprang up amongst the old, their signs bellowing for my attention: HOTEL DETROIT, CAFÉ-BAR POSTO, BOUCHERIE BENSIMON. Donkeys idled on corners beneath signs for Marlboro and Coca-Cola and Cinzano. From a rusted basement window, a child’s face looked up at me, gaunt and solemn. I was shoved by passers-by whenever I stopped on the narrow street, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop looking, for here – it seemed – was everything.

Brightness and misery, rope sandals and gleaming shoes, animal dung and French perfume, music and screamed insults. A boy elbowed past, newspapers bristling on his arms like the feathers of city pigeons. Edición noche! he bawled at a group of men who sat smoking on a step. Edition soir! Evening paper, sir! Abendausgabe!

From above, I heard a shriek and jumped to the side just as a splash of liquid came cascading down. Every orifice of every building seemed to be spilling, oozing with life.

A few steps on, the street seemed to take pity and expand a few paces, leaving room to breathe. Here it was brighter, café awnings marching down the sides of a small square. I took a step towards one of the bars, my heart squeezing at the thought of fulfilling my dream: of sitting down on my own and ordering a drink, like any young man in a hot foreign city.

But after a moment, I felt someone watching me. It was a woman at a table near by, an unlit cigarette in her hand. Her red hair was tightly curled, eyelashes black with mascara, smudged beneath. She smiled and raised an eyebrow. No one had ever looked at me that way before. Face burning, I turned away, too late.

‘Do you have a light?’ she called in English.

Her accent was strange. American, I realized, looking from her to the two men at her table. I’d never met Americans before. All three of them were young, and deeply tanned, yet the skin of their faces looked waxy and one of the young men had bloodshot eyes. Too much, those faces said, too much.

‘Well?’ she asked again, waving her cigarette.

‘No, señora,’ I muttered. ‘I am sorry.’

‘Señorita, please,’ she said. She looked up at me again through her lashes. ‘And no matter. Are you lost?’

‘No.’ I kept my face lowered.

‘Well, you sure look it. You must be new in town?’