Page 87 of The Last Postcard

She reached into her bag and pulled out a thick envelope. There was writing on the front, addressed to him. He took it.

Dear Sam,

Don’t blame yourself. Some stories are beyond our control.

A

‘But – this doesn’t mean anything,’ he said, gripping the envelope. ‘Ale could have just … left town for a while, or something, until this blows over. You don’t know for certain that it’s for ever.’

He looked across at Zahrah. This time, there was no anger in her face, only sadness as she shook her head.

‘There was a letter for me too.’ She took a second envelope from the bag and held it in her lap. It was thick, containing many more pages than the one left for Sam. He caught a glimpse of writing on the front, the words Dearest Zahrah.

‘There’s a will inside,’ she said softly. ‘Ale has left me everything. Including Dar Portuna.’

‘Is there anywhere else Ale could have gone?’ Sam asked desperately. ‘A hotel, another house, friends?’ His voice ran out. Zahrah was shaking her head.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No one would leave a will unless they meant it. Unless they never intended to come back.’ She looked across at him. ‘In the letter Ale said I should come and find you right away, that we should read what’s in there together.’ She nodded at the envelope in Sam’s hands, the one addressed to him.

He couldn’t believe it. Dazedly, he turned over the envelope and broke its seal. Inside were ten written pages, all in the same restless, dashing hand. He leafed through them, before turning back to the beginning, looking for a note, an explanation, anything.

‘“Shanghai”,’ he read, and glanced down the page. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Keep reading.’ Zahrah leaned closer to see the letter, her arm brushing against his.

He blinked hard, and cleared his throat.

Shanghai

Take two dashes of imported grenadine, one and a half tablespoons of lemon juice, half a tablespoon of anisette and a pony of Jamaica rum. Shake well, strain into a cocktail glass, and drink to what’s behind you.

The day before the party passed like a speeding automobile; even as I tried to seize on details, they were whisked away, leaving me with streaming eyes. The details I do recall are scattered. The smell of coffee in the kitchen, the quiet breakfast Hilde and Langham and I took together in the garden, my aching head, the purple bruise around the wrist of the tailor’s son, who would not meet my eyes. The beautiful new suit hiding a message from Cabrera and a forged telegram from ‘Colonel Mayer’, an old associate of Langham’s, begging his presence at an urgent meeting that night. I showed it to him in the safety of his study, and he had studied it hard, before burning it up in his ashtray, his hand on my shoulder.

Langham did not mention marriage again, though during the night he had asked me once more to go away with him. His manner all that day was odd, sometimes distant and formal, at other times fraught, passionate. He would send me away with an order, only to catch me and pull me to him in the shadow of the door. Finally, I agreed to accompany him, on the condition that it was not as a woman, not as his wife. He seemed so relieved, and held me, whispering about what we would do, how we would lay low in some quiet port town, drinking and listening to the wireless, until Hilde sent us the all-clear. I felt a rush of exhilaration at the knowledge I held some power over him: that he wanted me so.

Even so, I was far from easy. Why can’t I trust you? he’d whispered to me, that first night in the bathroom. And though it pained me to the pit of my stomach, I found myself thinking the same.

For one thing, the party itself was a masterpiece of cunning. Langham understood how to manipulate people with food, too, I realized, how drinks could be used to charm people, to undo them, to make them malleable. I wondered whether that was what he saw in me, my first night at Dar Portuna.

Between us, we plotted every detail, as if planning an assault. The food was to be light, nothing to soak up the forceful cocktails we planned to serve. Ajoblanco, I suggested, oysters on ice, blanched almonds rolled in salt to make people thirsty and drink more, crystallized rose petals, raspberry jellies laced with liquor, for those who tried to be abstemious. Mahjoun, too, a mountain of it, made with a block of hash the size of a small melon.

‘Good,’ Langham murmured, watching me roll the balls of it in powdered sugar, to fool people with its sweetness, to compel them to eat more than they should. ‘Make sure this goes around all evening.’ He picked up a piece, only to put it back on the tray. ‘Be generous with the spirit measures, too.’

I nodded, though my throat was tight, stuck with floating sugar. If it all went to plan, the guests would be reeling, roaring drunk or lost in a haze of hash and smoke, and no one would be able to remember a single reliable thing.

‘It’s time,’ Langham murmured to me, when the hall clock struck seven. ‘Go and pack, then come upstairs.’ He ran a hand through my hair, careful of my bruised skull. ‘I want us to dress together.’

I was shaking as I closed the door to my room, that modest, little space that meant so much to me. Waiting on the bed was a suitcase of Langham’s; pale, buttery leather, embossed with his initials. A. L. It gave me pause. For all its beauty, I didn’t like the idea of placing my belongings into a case emblazoned with his name.

It’s just a bag, I told myself, what difference does it make?

Rapidly, I packed cologne and pomade, put on a robe so I could pack my fawn-brown jacket and trousers, my fine underwear and socks, and The Gentleman’s Guide, my first gift from Langham. The new, white flannel suit was waiting on its hanger. It was beautiful. Despite – or perhaps because of – Cabrera’s intervention, Souissa had outdone himself. And yet, there was something unsettling about it. It was white as bones are white, bleached by the sun. Clean as flesh when drained of blood. It had no place in a kitchen, and part of me felt uneasy about wearing it.

Soon, Bouzid was knocking on the door. He looked wonderful, wearing a magnificent brocade djellaba. When I looked down, however, I noticed a glimpse of plain, dark trousers protruding from the hem.

‘You are finished?’ he asked, pointing to the suitcase. I assumed he was going to hide our bags somewhere, the car perhaps, so that it would not seem suspicious.

‘Yes,’ I said, retrieving the precious passport and sliding it into a side pocket. ‘But I don’t have the key.’