Page 54 of The Last Postcard

Tangier

July 1978

Outside, night fell as the man talked. He didn’t switch on a light. Better that way, Sam thought. In the shadows he could imagine himself back there, to the Tangiers of fifty years before: a place of French champagne and Moroccan rosewater, Indian opium and cold, dry Plymouth gin.

He heard stories about parties and thrilling flights to Gibraltar, night cruises on the strait, where the lanterns and flares of smugglers lit up the three-mile limit. The man spoke of a city built from the materiel of the Great War – the bones of the old world wetted with the blood of the new. Sam gulped the man’s words like the cocktail in his glass. If he’d been there, if he only could’ve been there … In that moment, he would have given anything.

Finally, when it was completely dark, the man stopped talking. Sam couldn’t see his face; he could barely see his own hands that rested on the writing case.

There was a knock at the door. When neither of them answered, it creaked open, letting in a sliver of warm, yellow light and the smell of toasted spices.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ the young woman said, breaking the web of words around them. ‘Is he staying?’

The man said nothing, as if he had exhausted himself. Sam hesitated. He did want to stay for dinner. He wanted to desperately. And yet … His head was bursting with what he had heard. He needed to remember it, write it all down.

‘No.’ His voice sounded clumsy in the dark room. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to get back.’ Too late he realized he hadn’t actually been invited. ‘Another time?’

‘Another time,’ the man murmured. ‘Yes. Come back tomorrow, around five. Bring that old suitcase.’ The chair creaked as he leaned back. ‘Zahrah will show you out.’

Awkwardly, Sam put the glass down on a side table. He paused, the writing case in his hand. Should he give it back? The man hadn’t asked for it. He decided not to.

‘Thank you, Mr Langham,’ he murmured.

He received no response.

In a daze, he followed the young woman back into the kitchen. On the table he saw a platter of meat scattered with pomegranate seeds and herbs; rounds of bread wrapped in cloths. He began to regret his decision not to stay.

She showed him out a different way, through the garden, where plants and vines dragged at his shoulders, releasing their scent. He caught a glimpse of water through the trees; a swimming pool, tiled blue and white. The stones around it were cracked but clean, as if still in use. Dar Portuna only pretended to be abandoned, he realized. Like a rich man dressed in pauper’s clothes. But why?

‘Tomorrow come this way,’ the girl told him shortly. ‘Don’t use the front gate. It’s always locked.’

‘It wasn’t today,’ he said. ‘I walked straight in.’

The girl made a noise. ‘I forgot to lock it. I was distracted. Some idiot chased me through the medina.’

‘Sorry.’

They’d reached the far end of the garden. Hidden behind a tree was a short flight of steps, and a second door, whitewashed like the wall.

‘Tomorrow, wait for the end of Asr, the call to afternoon prayer, then come here and knock. Don’t let anyone see you. Don’t be late. I won’t wait around.’ She turned away.

‘Wait, Miss … is it Zahrah?’ She nodded curtly. ‘Listen, I’m not going to cause any trouble, I promise. I’m just a writer who wants to talk to your –’ he hesitated ‘– grandfather? Uncle?’

The woman snorted and held open the gate. ‘We’re not related. Remember, be here, right after the call.’

Sam stepped through, and turned, meaning to apologize again, only to find himself facing a locked door. From this side, it blended almost imperceptibly with the wall, weathered dust-grey wood, tucked into an alcove. He looked up and found himself standing on a narrow, trash-strewn walkway below the Bab al-Bahr. Stone steps disappeared down into the darkness, hugging the curve of the old fortifications. He’d never seen them marked on any map.

An escape route, he realized. But for who?

That night, he wrote feverishly, trying to remember every sensation, every smell and sound of Dar Portuna. He wrote about the woman – Zahrah – and about the exquisite villa with its gentle decay. He wrote about the strange figure at the heart of it all, who had drawn him there.

He used the final piece of the writing paper, and had to scrabble about under the bed for the old, half-typed sheets he had discarded from the Hermes. First, he wrote on their backs. Then, when he ran out of space, he wrote around the letters that were already there, until they merged, ink on ink, new story on old, becoming something that was both, and neither. Like the city, he thought.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but when he awoke it was with ink-stained fingers and a page beneath his face, every inch covered with writing.

He didn’t read it – worried it wouldn’t make sense in daylight – only stacked it with the others. The pile was growing now. He laid a hand on top of them. As long as he could keep going, he was sure those pages could become something. A new start, perhaps.

There was now only one sheet of paper that remained almost blank. He lifted out the strange pencil-written note. Why hadn’t he mentioned it to Langham?