Page 88 of The Last Postcard

Bouzid came forwards and closed the lid, picked up the case. ‘Mr Langham has the key. He will lock it now. Shall I take your suit up to the dressing room, too?’

He had unhooked the suit before I could answer. Why did it make me so anxious, to see my possessions being borne away?

‘Bouzid!’ I called. He turned around. I wanted to ask how long it would be before I saw him again after tonight, what he would do while Langham and I were away, but I couldn’t.

His face flickered. ‘He is waiting for you,’ he said.

I met Hilde coming out of Langham’s room. She was carrying a curling iron.

‘He’s done,’ she said, and tried to smile. ‘You should have heard him fussing over his hair. Vain as a debutante.’

For a long moment we just looked at each other. Then, we stepped forwards and held each other tight.

‘I’m frightened,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘I’ve never seen him like this before. What if …’ She pulled back. ‘What if it goes wrong? I couldn’t bear it.’

‘It will be fine.’ I told her what we both wanted to believe. ‘You’ll see. We’ll be back in a month or two, maybe sooner if things have calmed down.’

‘And what if they don’t?’ She was too clever for my placating words. ‘What if you can’t come back?’

‘Then we’ll send for you,’ I said, putting my hand to her cheek. ‘We’ll send word and you can lock up the house and join us, and we’ll sun ourselves on a yacht in Algeria, or take tea in Ceylon.’

She tried to laugh, but it was more of a ragged breath. ‘You sound like him,’ she said. As I stepped away, she held on to my sleeve. ‘Please, Alejandro,’ she whispered.

Langham stood at the window of his room, looking out. Beyond him, the water of the strait was pearl violet with evening. I stared at the back of his head, wanting to fix it in my mind like a painting, a moment I could always return to.

When he turned, and met my eyes, I knew he was thinking the same.

‘Well?’ he said, raising his hands towards his hair. ‘I think it is ridiculous, but Hilde says it will serve.’

Earlier that day, he had washed his hair with dye to darken it, and now, curled by Hilde, it looked almost like my own. He’d darkened his eyes too, with a smudge of kohl, shaded his cheekbones to make them more like mine. It changed his face, made it seem less formal, less English. Looking at him, I managed a smile. Was that how he saw me?

‘What will your guests say?’ I asked, touching his cheek. ‘Won’t they think it strange?’

‘Strange?’ He snorted. ‘Everyone is strange in this city.’ He smiled a little. ‘If anyone asks, I shall tell them it is part of our party theme. A good, white English suit, hiding a red-blooded Andalucían.’ He reached out, and slid the robe from my shoulder. ‘Shall we?’ he murmured.

Article by article, we dressed. I smoothed silk underwear over his hips, he pulled the brassiere down over my head and laced it tight. Face to face, we fastened each other’s shirts, finding excuses to touch, to linger. When it came to the trousers, I thought we should never manage to dress each other, but eventually, we did, settling the white flannel creases in place. Jackets, ties; his fingers took their time straightening my collar, brushing against my neck. Finally, I sat before the mirror and he dressed my hair, his face serious with concentration. When he’d finished, he let the comb fall to the table, and sat down beside me.

We were reflected, shoulder to shoulder, cheek to cheek. The same suits, the same hair, the same sober, watchful expression. The same man, almost. Enough to fool a casual glance.

‘You said you wanted to be like me,’ he whispered into the glass.

Eventually, he stood up. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘the final touch, for later.’ From the bottom of the wardrobe, he took two hatboxes. Inside each was a hat, two identical straw boaters, each with a wide red ribbon. ‘It should be your size,’ he said, and placed it on my head.

At any other time, Hilde would have clapped and laughed to see us walking down the stairs, hand in hand, the spitting image of each other. As it was, she only watched us solemnly, as if we were descending into the trenches.

‘This is it, then?’ she asked, as she fixed a hibiscus flower into each of our lapels. She too was wearing white. Her eyes looked heavy with make-up, and from whatever she had taken, for courage.

Langham squeezed my shoulder once, and let go. ‘This is it,’ he said, and nodded to Bouzid, who threw open the front doors.

Soon, the house began to rattle with laughter and music and the boisterousness of those who were the first to arrive. I stood behind the bar, my outfit hidden by a long white server’s jacket and apron. The drinks I made were strong and cold and perfect for throats parched with road dust. I watched as they were thrown back, one after another.

Langham seemed to be everywhere, during those first hours; smoking on the veranda with gentlemen, winding up the gramophone, allowing ladies to exclaim and touch his curled hair and try to win the hibiscus from his lapel. Everyone wanted to be near him. I, on the other hand – who could have been his twin – was invisible behind my tray. The apron and serving jacket relegated me to a piece of furniture, beneath notice. Only those who had been at Langham’s party the night of my arrival glanced my way, some – men and women both – with curiosity.

By the time the clock struck eleven, the party was in full, wild swing. Hilde was pale under her powder, her smile painted on. Langham too had started to sweat in the hot night – unusual for him.

I knew why. ‘Colonel Mayer’ had asked to meet Langham at the far end of the port at one o’clock. Of course, we all knew who would truly be waiting there. Whenever I thought about it, I felt sick.

‘What will you do to Cabrera?’ I had whispered earlier, in the safety of the study. ‘Will you kill him?’