Page 59 of The Last Postcard

He found Abdelhamid at the Café Tanger, amongst a group of men who were glued to a fuzzy black and white TV that was showing the football.

‘Monsieur Hackett.’ Abdel removed himself from the group to clasp Sam’s hand. ‘Where have you been? Writing your great book?’

Sam smiled back. ‘I don’t know about great, but yeah, I’ve been writing.’

Several of the men shifted their chairs to make room for him, without taking their eyes from the game.

‘It’s good you have come by today,’ Abdel said over the noise. ‘Mouad is here to visit.’ He nodded towards a large man, hovering in his chair as a player approached the goal. ‘We can ask him about the writing case, if you are still interested?’

‘Yes.’ Sam glanced over at Mouad. ‘Yes, very interested.’

Abdel took out his sebsi pipe. Eventually a waiter came by, walking crab-wise, trying not to look away from the television. He nodded vaguely when Sam ordered coffee.

‘I – have to tell you something,’ Sam murmured, once the waiter had sidled away, ‘about the case, and about those things I found, the tag and the key.’ Abdelhamid nodded, working at the sebsi. ‘I figured out what they were,’ Sam said in a rush, feeling himself turn red. ‘It was a tag for the cloakroom, at the Hotel Continental. So I went there and I asked them if they had any old luggage, and I found—’

The waiter returned, setting down two glasses of nus-nus. Sam stared into the soft, milky coffee. He didn’t know how to go on, how to explain that his everyday reality had been altered, ever since he opened the writing case. How he felt possessed by the story; how writing about it was the best and most nerve-wracking thing he had ever done. How afraid he was that it would all amount to nothing.

Around him, the café let out a wail of frustration at a missed goal.

‘You found a suitcase,’ Abdelhamid said, when the hubbub died down. He lit his pipe, and drew on it a few times before looking at Sam, smiling. ‘My friend’s boy, Mohamed works there. He told me about a visit from a mad American, who said he was a writer.’

Sam grimaced. ‘I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.’

Abdelhamid waved his words away. ‘I said to myself, if Hackett finds anything worth selling, he will bring it to me. If he does not …’ He shrugged.

‘Still, I should’ve told you.’

‘You have told me now,’ Abdel said, and drank his coffee.

Sam did the same. He began to feel at ease for the first time in days, the genial noise of the match, the kif and the coffee melting his tension like glue. He glanced over at Abdelhamid. The man was a bit of a crook, no doubt, but he was straightforward about it; he’d never tried to fleece Sam, always charged fair prices for kif. If anyone knew Tangier – as it was now – Abdelhamid did. Which meant he might know of Dar Portuna. Sam scraped the spoon through the coffee residue. Could he trust him? That whole world seemed so secretive; Dar Portuna, Langham, even the woman, Zahrah. He looked up to find Abdelhamid watching him, and swallowed. He had to be careful.

‘Have you …’ He cleared his throat. ‘Have you ever heard of a house called Dar Portuna?’

Abdelhamid rubbed a hand across his greying stubble. ‘Dar Portuna,’ he repeated. ‘No, I do not think so. Where is it? In the city?’

‘Yes, up in the casbah, by the old walls. Near the Bab al-Bahr.’ Abdel’s face changed, recognition replacing thoughtfulness. ‘You know it?’ Sam asked.

‘A big house, white walls all around?’

Sam nodded.

‘I know the house.’ Abdelhamid frowned. ‘But not this name, Portuna. We have always called it Dar Nglîz. The English House.’

‘Yes.’ Sam gripped the coffee glass. ‘It belongs to an Englishman. A man called Langham?’

‘Langham.’ Abdel shook his head. ‘I don’t know that name.’ He cleared his throat. ‘People always said Dar Nglîz was cursed. It’s a good story.’

‘Cursed?’ In the noisy, sweat-thick café, the word seemed ridiculous. ‘What do you mean?’

Abdel leaned forwards. ‘Cursed by Aicha Kandicha. People say you can hear her voice, by the Bab al-Bahr. It is the sea gate, and the sea is hers.’

‘Who’s Aicha Kandicha?’

One of the other men turned around when he heard that, looked at Sam, and said something in Darija.

‘He said,’ Abdelhamid translated, ‘that you should not say her name so loud, and never after dark, not anywhere in Tangier. Even Americans are not safe from her.’ He smiled. ‘Aicha is a djinn, a spirit. She will call your name in the night and if you turn around, you will see the most beautiful woman in the world. She likes to drive men mad. So, if someone calls your name near the Bab al-Bahr, do not turn.’

Sam tried to smile. ‘I won’t.’