Page 61 of The Last Postcard

The days were beginning to turn hotter, as June wore on. That day was the hottest yet, a strange sea fret hanging over the city, turning the sun into a gelatinous orb behind the clouds, making the air cling like gum. Beneath my shirt, the tightly laced brassiere was soon soaked through with sweat, and I longed to rip it off and dive naked into the pool.

Sweat beaded my forehead and upper lip as I worked in the kitchen. It ran down my neck and collected in the hollow of my throat, beneath the collar, where Langham’s hand had brushed my skin. I tried to concentrate. I couldn’t.

That thick heat sent me into a sort of delirium. When Bouzid came at eleven to inform me there would be seven guests for dinner and to ask what I would need from the market, I gave him a list that might have come from a deranged person. Oysters, with the cool water of the port still in their shells, and honey and champagne, saffron and artichokes. Bouzid seemed on the verge of asking me if I was well, but he knew my ways by then, and only nodded, mopping his own brow. Perhaps he thought it didn’t matter that I had lost my mind in the heat; everyone else was likely to be in the same state.

Later, when I looked down at that strange collection of ingredients, I felt the old kitchen-duende shiver rising in me. I had always tried to cook what I thought other people wanted, and yet, here were my own desires, laid out before me. I wanted the colour of the sea and the ochre sunsets seen from the best room in Dar Portuna. I wanted the sting of cold champagne on my tongue and the sear of spice from the medina street vendors. I wanted the perfume of dawn flowers and the must of unswept streets, the pungency of kif and the bitterness of hot coffee, served in a silver pot. I wanted to own the streets. I wanted to stride the world as Langham did. I wanted to be inside his skin.

My hand slipped on the oyster I was shucking, sending the knife slicing into my thumb. Blood welled, a droplet falling into the dish that held the liquor. I watched it disappear.

I cooked for so long that day, I barely had time to run to my room, scrub the sweat from my neck and change into a fresh shirt. In the mirror I caught a glimpse of myself; it showed a black-haired young man, red high on his cheeks, perspiration shimmering at his temples. Slowly, I drew the green silk tie from my pocket and put it on. Was I making a wrong move? No way to tell, until I saw Langham’s face.

I made my way to the lounge, tying the long, white serving apron about my waist. I already knew the drink that I wanted to mix that night. I had found it in The Gentleman’s Guide. Temptation, it was called; orange and lemon skin entwined, both of them in fine spirits. When Langham stepped into the lounge with his first guest, I already had the drink waiting, and handed it to him before he could ask. His eyes travelled over my face and down to that green tie. Did I imagine it, or did he smile?

Now I have you, that look seemed to say.

A few minutes later, I escaped to the kitchen, leaving Bouzid to deal with the drinks, and the guests. I’d watched them with interest, trying to gauge their relationships with Langham. There was a man with watering eyes, who spoke no English, only French in a thick German accent. A tall, black American woman in a shimmering satin dress who sang a snatch of Italian opera. A florid Englishman in a striped waistcoat that broke every rule in The Gentleman’s Guide.

I was lingering by the kitchen door, waiting for the signal that they had gone into dinner when I heard footsteps and Langham’s hushed voice in the hall. I leaned closer.

‘Any word from Cabrera?’ he murmured.

‘Not yet.’ That was Bouzid.

Langham swore.

‘Call down and see if there’s trouble.’

‘Of course.’

I ducked into the kitchen, and was back at the stove by the time Bouzid put his head around the door.

‘They are going in to dine,’ he told me, and hurried away. To call Cabrera, I supposed.

Trouble, Langham had said … I began to arrange the plates, my heart skipping a little. What did he mean? I’d never heard him sound agitated, never heard him swear in frustration like that. I tried to forget about it. It was probably just business, and I had my own to concentrate on, the heady, eccentric meal that had swallowed my day. First came the starter: poached artichoke hearts, each of them holding a single oyster, surrounded by its liquor and a sauce made from champagne. It smelled earthy, of flesh and salt, like alcohol spilled on sea-wet limbs. I helped Bouzid carry in the plates, but I could not look at their faces, least of all Langham’s.

Make them think of you as a kitchen-thing, a duende, a stove-spirit, then they will want you for your usefulness, and will leave you be. That wasn’t what I was doing. I wasn’t hiding behind a kitchen apron, or keeping to my place at the stove any more. I was out in the open, I was brazen. I watched through a crack in the door as Langham spooned up the oyster and tipped it whole into his mouth.

The next course was different. First, I sent out bowls of water scented with rose and orange blossom, to awaken their senses. Next came chicken, burnished with saffron and lemon, cinnamon, ginger and chilli. It was a dish to revive throats that had been burned by too many spirits, to quicken lips numbed by luxury, to entice them to eat and drink and talk and never stop talking.

During the meal I paced the kitchen like a cat locked in a room waiting for … I didn’t know what. Something had to happen after a dinner like that, after the glances that Langham had given me. When Bouzid came in I almost grabbed him by the arm.

‘Señor Cabrera has arrived,’ he told me. How could he be so cool? ‘Please make him up a plate. He is in the study with monsieur. The other guests will take their dessert on the veranda.’

I nodded. Had I not been so distracted, I might have proceeded with more caution. I might have tried to eavesdrop before approaching the study. As it was, I simply knocked and stepped through the door, thinking only of Langham’s face.

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I have brought a plate for Señor—’

I froze. The goat-eyed man, Bautista’s contact, was standing before me.

Look away, I screamed at myself, turn your head. But I couldn’t and he met my gaze, his yellow eyes flat in the lamplight. For one, desperate moment, I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me. Then his eyebrows were twitching into a frown, and I knew it was too late.

‘Gracias,’ he said, staring hard. ‘How kind.’

I had to step past him to put the tray on a side table. He watched me do it. I could feel his eyes on the nape of my neck and thought wildly of the Señor.

‘Will there be anything else?’ I murmured to the rug, wanting to run from the room, wanting to vomit up the crushing fear in my stomach. I didn’t want to look at Langham, not with Cabrera watching me, but when there was no answer, I had to raise my eyes.

Langham’s face was unreadable as stone.