He laughed. “He is not Moroccan, no, but he spends a good deal of time here. We see one another often and wave. He is familiar, a neighbor. Not simply a famous writer.”

Bowles. I placed the name somewhere in my mind, making a mental note to check whether John had any of his work scattered among the unread books that lined the flat. For while I considered myself something of an expert in classical literature—particularly anything British—I was the first to admit my deficiencies in more contemporary work, as it had never managed to hold my attention in the same manner. Give me the wilds of an English moor, or the gritty urban streets of Victorian London, and I would feel, if nothing else, at home. But as to the latest stream of authors sweeping the country, I was essentially a novice.

Perhaps this is what the man offered—a guide to the country that Alice now called home, however reluctantly. Perhaps there was worth to be found there, I thought.

“I promise to read him, the very first chance I have,” I said.

“Good. Then you will learn the difference between a tourist and a traveler. And we shall see which one you are.” He leaned over, offering a cigarette. “Here.”

I paused—Alice did not smoke. The distinction seemed important to uphold, so I shook my head demurely. He shrugged and pulled an expression, as if to indicate it was my loss. And I did regret my decision—almost instantly. I inhaled the fragrant smoke: heavy and perfume-like. French, most likely. Gauloises. One didn’t smell many of them around Tangier, I had already noticed. I wondered if I could change my mind, but then, that would reveal a part of me to this stranger that I wasn’t yet sure I could trust. Better to remain behind the veneer a bit longer.

“I have a studio by the ocean, where I paint,” he said, after a few moments’ consideration. “This is where you must come.”

“By the ocean?” I repeated. After several days in Tangier, despite the fact that it was a port city, I had seen very little of the water. It was strange, I thought, the way the city was able to swallow you up so completely.

“Yes, it is next to Café Hafa. Do you know it?”

I shook my head.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “this is the place you must go. It is where all the artists are. They also have the best mint tea,” he said, gesturing to my empty glass. “And the view—it is much better than this. Just the ocean, nothing else.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“It is.” He smiled, nodding his head. He peered at me through the smoke. “So, Miss Alice, tell me. Do you want to see the real Tangier?”

I hesitated, assuming he meant to offer himself as a guide and wondering, at the same time, at the advisability of such an idea—disappearing into a city I knew little about, with a man about whom I knew even less. But then I thought of Alice, stagnated by fear, stuck inside the dark confines of her flat day after day, waiting for John to return from work. Waiting, both of us, always waiting. I shook my head, as if to shake the word from my mind, as if I could somehow physically dislodge it from my vocabulary. I had spent a good deal of my life waiting. Too much time. I nodded—a sharp, pointed gesture that conveyed my acceptance of his offer.

“Morocco is your home.” He said the words slowly, watching my face closely as he spoke. “Yes, it is yours. You are a Tangerine now.”

He pronounced it tangerine, like the fruit. I smiled, letting the thought settle. Morocco was mine. And it could be, I reasoned. After all, what did I have to return to? A damp, shared room on the wrong side of New York. Endless days spent typing up other writers’ manuscripts. Here I could finally write something of my own, put pen to paper as I had always dreamed of during college—as Alice and I had dreamed, together. And if that meant making Morocco my own, I was prepared to do just that.

I was a Tangerine now, after all.

Five

Alice

I DID NOT ASK HER WHERE SHE HAD SPENT HER DAY, OR WHOM she had spent it with. I did not ask what she was doing in Tangier, why she was here, what she wanted—still too afraid of the answers I might receive. Instead, I smiled, the gesture feeling odd and forced, and told her to sit, told her I would make drinks again—the nights already beginning to take on the shape of those we had spent at Bennington.

I wondered at the ease of it, of how quickly we had slipped back into our roles, how comfortable already it had begun to feel. And I resented it, the feeling that I had tried to clasp onto at the bar suddenly mine, strong and fierce, until I could think of nothing else but the way that she had so carefully reinserted herself back into my life without a mention of the past, of her part in what had unfolded between us, the tragedy that had ensconced us. I didn’t know what I expected her to say, not exactly, but there was neither a word nor a glance, not anything at all that seemed to indicate she recalled those last few weeks we had spent together and the tension that had grown between us.

I could feel my anger growing, and I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand, peeling the zest from the lemon that I had bought at the market two weeks past, the skin of the fruit now dried, withered.

I called from the kitchen: “It’s like this most nights, I’m afraid. John is always off to one dinner party or another.”

“And what about you? Don’t you ever go with him?” she called back.

“No, not anymore.” I thought of the faces I had been introduced to those first few months—appraising and cold. “I did at first, but well, it turned out they weren’t for me. Tangier seems to attract a certain type, and I’m afraid that I don’t generally fit the description.”

I found her perched beside the window, gazing out. At my entrance she turned, frowning. “Do you like it at all, Alice? Tangier, I mean?”

My face burned a fiercer shade of red. “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I haven’t really given it a chance. Or at least, that’s what John always says.”

I did not add that I often doubted whether there was any truth in what John said, wondered instead whether the truth wasn’t something much simpler: Tangier and I were not suited for one another, that we never would be, no matter how many chances I gave it. From the little I knew of it already, I had realized what a hard place it could be. It was not a place where one simply arrived and belonged—no, I imagined that it was a process, a trial, even an initiation of sorts, one that only the bravest survived. It was a place that inspired rebellion, a place that demanded it, of its people, its citizens. A place where everyone had to constantly adapt, struggle, fight for what they wanted. I looked up at the woman in front of me. It was a place for someone like Lucy.

“I made a friend today,” Lucy said, bringing me back to the present. “A Moroccan man. Rather strange, I suppose, though he was quite kind. I was sitting outside of Cinema Rif. Do you know it?” When I nodded, she continued: “I was having a tea and he happened to notice I was sitting there alone. He offered to show me around Tangier, in fact. He mentioned something about being an artist. A painter, I think.”

I felt myself flush at her words, felt it spread throughout my body. My dress, despite the pink blush fabric, was severe and unyielding in the evening heat. There was something strangely unsettling about Lucy’s piece of information, about the fact that she had already made an acquaintance, a friend, and suddenly I could feel it, a tinge of envy, of jealousy, growing hot in the pit of my stomach. I could feel a sheen of sweat break across my forehead. “Here,” I said, handing her the drink I still held clutched between my fingers. I moved toward the sofa, hoping she would follow, that she would forget what it was that she had just been discussing. “Try this,” I instructed, worried as she sat down beside me that she would feel it, the heat that now seemed to radiate from my body.

“What is it?” she asked, shifting closer.

“Just my own creation.” I let out a nervous laugh, raising the glass to meet my lips. “It helps to pass the time.”

She took a cautious sip and I knew what she was tasting—a sweetness, like cherries. “That’s the grenadine,” I said. “There’s a brand that I love in France. I make sure John always brings back a bottle or two whenever he travels to the Continent.”

“And you? Do you go home often?” she asked, peering at me over her drink.

“To England?” I shook my head, trying not to think of it, of the smell that was London, fragrant and stale, rich and musty. I pushed it aside, and in its absence something else occurred to me, in the silence of the room. “That sounds like Youssef,” I said.

She frowned. “What does?”

“The man you were just describing. I was wondering if it might be Youssef.”

“Joseph, you mean?”

I shook my head. “No, Youssef. He’s notorious for preying on unsuspecting tourists. Everyone here knows him, if not directly, well, at least about him.”