Page 71 of The Last Postcard

‘So,’ she said as she chewed, spooning out some honey. ‘How are you going to fix the mess you’ve made?’

Sam almost choked on the bread. ‘What?’

‘The mess you have made with the journalist,’ she said. ‘Telling him about this place, letting him think that there is some scandal to be dug up about Langham and Ale.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

His stomach twisted with guilt all over again. She must have eavesdropped on the conversation, or else Ale must have told her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘First I’ll go and find Norton, try to persuade him to drop it.’

‘You have to do better than try.’ Her face was serious. ‘Listen, there’s a reason why we are so private. No one, apart from a few trusted people, knows that this is where Ale lives.’ She twisted her coffee cup around, obviously wondering how much to tell him. ‘Ale has had an … interesting career. And the name Alejandro del Potro is linked to certain kinds of trouble. If the authorities found out about this place, they would come and look for Ale, search the house at the very least. And if they thought they could tie Ale to a murder, however long ago it happened,’ she shook her head, ‘they’d use it as an excuse for an arrest, an investigation. You understand?’

He blinked, trying to process it all. ‘I think so.’ He looked at her, but she was stirring sugar into her coffee, avoiding his gaze. What did she mean, certain kinds of trouble? He remembered Abdelhamid’s furtive glance at Mouad. Both of them knew something of Tangier’s underbelly. Had they heard of Ale? Not for the first time, he felt as if there was a whole other world he couldn’t see, operating in plain sight. ‘You know I’m writing about Langham and Ale and this house too, don’t you?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Not an article, a book. A novel, maybe.’

She took a piece of bread. ‘That’s different.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s fiction.’ She smiled at him then, in a way he couldn’t quite decipher. He opened his mouth to ask her what she meant, but she was pulling the bowl of fruit towards her. ‘Anyway, that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you stop this newspaperman from letting half the world know where to find Ale. Can you do it, Sam?’

It was the first time she had said his name. He fought the urge to smile stupidly.

‘I’ll try everything I can, I promise.’

She nodded, and carried on eating.

They were both silent as they worked their way through the bread and fruit. Sam couldn’t stop himself from sneaking glances at Zahrah’s face, and eventually, she caught his eye. He looked back to his plate hurriedly. Another mystery to unravel.

He made short work of the food, despite the rich meal he had eaten with Ale the night before. There had been bowls of olives marinated in herbs, a rich potato tortilla, a dish of softly stewed aubergines and pomegranate that he couldn’t get enough of.

‘The food last night,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘Did you make it?’

‘Of course.’

‘It was wonderful.’

A hint of a smile returned to her face. ‘Ale always says that food is important, that if you can cook, you can discover what people want, and then, you can know them for what they are.’

Sam stopped, in the middle of mopping up all the traces of oil and soft cheese from the bowl with his finger, and swallowed, wondering what she thought he was.

Together, they tidied up, putting the plates into the huge chipped sink. Maybe it was the food, but Sam felt a glow of warmth, completing that simple chore alongside Zahrah. Abruptly, he wanted to stay, wanted to ask if she would teach him how to cook something, so that he could remain in her company in that bright, worn kitchen.

But eventually they were done, and she was stepping into a pair of sandals, taking a djellaba down from a hook behind the door and dragging it over her head, to cover her faded t-shirt and shorts. ‘Ready to go?’ she asked.

She was the mysterious figure again, the one he had first seen, emerging from the Gran Café de Paris.

‘You don’t need your disguise, there won’t be any letters today,’ he said.

She gave him a sarcastic smile in return. ‘You try being a woman and walking around this city in shorts.’

She was right, he thought, as he followed her out of the kitchen door. He’d never considered how Tangier might be a different city for her than it was for him – another experience, a different face. One that was less permissive, less open. Just as the streets of La Atunara had been for Ale, without a man’s suit.

‘Ale wants you to come back,’ Zahrah said, as they crossed the garden. ‘Later, after you have spoken to the journalist.’

The thought of confronting Norton made Sam feel sick. But Zahrah was right. It was his fault; he had to try and fix it.

They used the front gate this time. He held aside the fall of jasmine while Zahrah unlocked it with a huge, old key.

‘Not the most convenient entrance, is it?’ he said.

‘I told you, we don’t want people to know about this place.’ She locked the gate behind her. ‘It’s Ale’s safe haven.’