Page 44 of The Last Postcard

Dar Portuna

Hop Toad

Take one jigger of Hungarian apricot eau-de-vie, the juice of half a lime and two dashes of Peychaud’s bitters. Shake well and drink very cold to make the heart leap and the tongue jump.

In Tangiers, there is always a way in. Whether it’s a soft word or a wink, a jackboot or a silver dollar in the palm, there is always something that will open the door.

I thought Dolores Moberly would be my key, and so I let her drag me through the night, let her waft brandy and broken French and Spanish into my face. I didn’t hear a word. I was too busy looking around, as we stepped heavily from the taxi.

We had pulled up alongside an ancient stone archway. From up here, I could see the lights of ships, glinting on the strait.

‘Where are we?’ I asked impatiently. I’d expected us to pull into a driveway, or alongside a grand entrance. Here, I could see nothing but a high, white wall, running away into darkness.

‘We’re here, darling.’ Dolores took my arm. ‘That’s Dar Portuna, look!’ She pointed to the wall, the tiny bag swinging on her wrist. ‘Funny name, isn’t it? Wait!’ She stopped dead on the dark road, listening.

Noises were drifting over the top of the wall: a treble of laughter, a splashing sound, a squalling jazz horn that broke the night open. I forgot the woman who held my arm and walked forwards, my nose to the air, because now I could smell cigar smoke and jasmine, heady in the night. The sounds and scents led us around the corner to a gate, where double wooden doors barred the way and an ornate, curling sign announced:

Dar Portuna

‘If I’d known we were coming to a party, I would’ve worn my silk,’ Dolores was murmuring, dabbing at her face.

Her two friends had trailed behind us, sullen and smoking. I tried the handle of the gate. It was locked. There was a bell, buffed bronze, and I jabbed at it without a second thought. Too late I realized that my suit was dusty, that the tie was loose around my collar, the woman beside me undeniably drunk. The door swung open.

‘Señor Langham—’

Not Langham. A Moroccan man in a pristine brocade robe was staring at me.

‘Hello,’ I tried in my best English. ‘I am looking for Señor Langham?’

‘Have you an invitation?’ he replied in French.

‘I,’ I stuttered. ‘No, but I know him—’

‘Yes, and we’ve been before,’ the woman interrupted, leaning on my arm. ‘Miss Dolores Moberly and friends. Your master is sure to remember.’

The man’s face didn’t change. Beyond him I saw lights twinkling through trees, windows shining. I stepped forwards.

‘No admittance without an invitation,’ the man said.

‘Wait!’

The door slammed, a bolt slid, and we were out in the dust of the street once more.

‘How rude!’ Dolores slurred. ‘To send a servant to lock us out.’

‘You said yourself it was the devil’s work to get in,’ the blond man muttered, lighting a cigarette. ‘Let’s go to The Grand instead.’

I said nothing. I had to get in. I had to see Langham. If I could talk to him, just for a second … I took a step back.

‘Alejandro?’ Dolores asked.

I ran for the wall, leaping for the wooden trellis that supported the jasmine. Stems broke under my weight, the smell of flowers and crushed greenery swamping me as I hauled myself upwards, shoes scraping at the whitewash. With a burst of effort I managed to sling one arm over the top, then the other, then a leg. I caught a glimpse of Dolores, her mouth hanging open, before the branches sagged under my weight, sending me tumbling ten feet to the ground the other side.

For a few seconds I lay stunned, lungs flattened by the fall, hat knocked askew. When the air rushed back into my chest, it brought the scent of a garden, ferns and lilies and the sweetness of mint, crushed beneath me. Wincing, I pushed myself to my feet.

‘Alejandro?’ I heard Dolores calling beyond the gate. ‘Are you all right?’

I never answered her.