Page 70 of The Last Postcard

‘Honestly?’ Her eyes travelled over my suit, my tie, my reddened face. ‘I have no idea.’ After another moment she smiled, like the sun through cloud. She was looking at the napkins on the floor. ‘Do you really need those?’

When I grimaced and nodded, she let out a laugh.

‘Go and use my bathroom, then. You don’t want Bouzid walking in and surprising you.’

I found myself smiling at that, as I collected them up. ‘He’s suspicious enough already.’

‘Oh, he knows something’s up with you, just as I did.’ She laughed again. ‘Poor Bouzid, when he finds out.’

I made for the bathroom door, my head swimming from the gin and the smoke and the knowledge that someone at Dar Portuna could see beneath my mask.

‘Alejandro.’ Hilde’s voice stopped me. ‘Tell Arthur soon. He is not a man to keep things from.’

Tangier

July 1978

Birdsong, that was what he heard, sweet and scattered and echoing back from high walls.

Sam opened his eyes. Sunlight was spilling past the heavy velvet curtains, revealing a blaze of greenery beyond. He blinked hard, and a low bronze table came into focus, covered in empty glasses and plates and oil-slicked dishes. Dar Portuna, he realized. He was still at Dar Portuna, waking on one of the old, sagging sofas.

He pushed himself up to sitting, massaging his stiff neck, and a thin embroidered blanket fell to the floor. Someone must have covered him with it in the night. He had no memory of falling asleep. He remembered talking until very late – or rather listening – to a story of another time. He’d drunk brandy at the border of Gibraltar, starving and sun-struck. He’d been a terrified smuggler’s accomplice, then a fierce young cook trawling the markets of the medina, spinning truth potions out of spice and liquor. He’d met Langham all over again, this time through Alejandro’s eyes. He’d fought to build a new life amongst the splendour and squalor of this city.

Of all the Tangiers tales he’d heard, it was the best.

But now, his head was pounding as he eyed the empty glasses on the table. It had all been too much, a wild concoction, as many flavours as words. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to remember the last thing he heard before he fell asleep. Something about a discovery, two women seeing each other clearly for the first time. He clambered to his feet, swaying, and made for the garden door.

The sun made his eyes water, but the air was a balm, each tree clinging to a faint halo of coolness. Water droplets still lingered in the shade. He was brushing his hands through them when a figure emerged at the other end of the veranda.

It was Zahrah. She was scattering handfuls of crumbs out into the garden. A little brown bird flew down and started to peck up the bits of bread.

‘Hello,’ he called, his throat dry. ‘I – fell asleep.’

‘I know.’ She dusted off her hands as the bird flew away and, for the first time, looked at him with something like a smile.

‘We talked all night,’ Sam said, embarrassed, walking across the cracked tiles. He glanced up at the house. ‘Is …?’ He still wasn’t sure what to call the person he’d spent so many hours listening to.

‘Ale’s asleep,’ Zahrah said, turning away. ‘Will be for a few hours yet.’

Ale. Sam tested the name … Alejandro. Alejandra.

‘You must have thought I was pretty stupid,’ he said, remembering his demands to see ‘Langham’, his insistence on talking to the ‘old man’.

She shrugged. ‘People see what they want to see. You came here with an expectation.’

He winced. ‘That’s true.’

She smiled a little more. ‘Ale has fooled smarter people than you, Mr Hackett.’

He didn’t take offence. He deserved it. ‘It’s Sam,’ he said, closing one eye, as his headache surfaced again.

‘I know.’ She jerked her chin at the kitchen. ‘Do you want some breakfast?’

At the huge old table, she set him to picking mint leaves from the stems while she made coffee. He watched her move around the kitchen, easily, quickly, a little carelessly. She was in control here, he realized. Ale had talked last night of the safety that could be found in kitchens, the power and control that came with feeding people. Had this young woman learned the same?

For all her new friendliness, Zahrah didn’t look at him again. By the time he’d got through half the mint stems, she’d shoved a basket of bread and a jar of honey on to the table, a bowl of plums and a dish of what looked like soft, white cheese, drizzled in oil and fresh herbs. Last came the coffee, very strong, poured into tiny, chipped cups.

She dropped on to a stool opposite him and didn’t wait, but scooped up a bit of cheese with a wedge of bread. Foggy-headed, he did the same.