“Perhaps this was someone different,” she ventured, her voice sharper than it had been a moment before.
I could see that the information had unnerved her, that the idea that she might somehow have been taken in sat poorly. It was, after all, something that I would have expected of myself—I trusted too easily, too often, I knew. And then, there it was again—that awful feeling, tinged with green, that stirred in my belly and made me strangely glad to see that it was Lucy who had done something wrong, that it was Lucy who had been taken in by another’s kind word. I found myself unable to stop. “Fedora with a purple ribbon?”
She frowned and nodded.
“That’s him, then. John says he lures tourists back to his house, then demands money for all sorts of useless junk. I think he once had a girl involved, pretending to be his daughter.” I shrugged. “The locals never say anything to the tourists. In fact, they find it all rather amusing, I’m afraid.”
Before I could say anything more, the front door opened, and John’s voice rang throughout the apartment: “I’m not home for good. I just need to grab a few things before heading back out. Ignore me.”
I placed my palm to my cheek, willing the coldness of my hand to stop the flush that had spread across my face over the last few minutes, emboldened, it seemed, by Lucy’s misstep. “I was just telling Lucy about Youssef,” I said, calling out, recalling the litany of amusing stories that John had on the subject. I thought of the other night, of the spectacle John had made of himself, of us, and I wanted him to show her, then, what it was that I had seen in him, to prove that he was not altogether horrible, that I had not made a complete and utter mess of my life when I had agreed to marry him in the tiny register office that rainy summer day.
John murmured something, but it was impossible to tell whether it was just an acknowledgment of having heard or an indication of his interest, a prompt for me to continue. I paused briefly, my hands stilled in front of me, a smile frozen across my features. “You know, the man with the purple ribbon on his hat?” I continued.
At this, John emerged, his face shiny with sweat. He moved to the bar, filling his glass with a generous serving of gin, followed by a small splash of tonic. I noted that he had not bothered to remove his hat.
“I’ve told her to be careful, that he’s a grafter of sorts,” I continued.
“A grifter, honey.”
“Yes, that,” I said, flushing worse. “I’m always mixing up words,” I explained, turning back to Lucy. “John is always having to correct me. I’m afraid I can’t keep anything straight.”
Lucy smiled, though it seemed tight, her demeanor, I had already noticed, shifting in John’s presence. I turned away quickly. “Tell her,” I implored him—begging, I could not help thinking, the way a child did a parent, or a puppy its master. “About what you heard. From your friends at work.”
John nodded and turned back to the bar. He poured a second drink, neat, and only then did he commence his story. “It’s typical in Tangier, you’ll find. One of the guys at the office knew a couple, some young Americans on holiday, when they happened to run into Youssef. They got to talking, thought he was harmless enough. In fact, they thought he might even be someone to know, or someone in the know, if you catch my meaning. They thought it might be beneficial to tag along with him, see where the night took them.” He paused, as if for dramatic effect. “Well, Youssef led them back to what he said was his place—some out-of-the-way dive on the wrong side of the Kasbah. The couple now has no idea where they are, only that they’ve been walking for quite some time and have lost all sense of direction. Then, before they know it, they’re standing in front of a garbage heap of sorts. It’s pitch-black and there’s no one around except them and Youssef.
“He asks for money, of course. Demands they pay him in order to show them the way back to their hotel. Well, the Americans are outraged. They refuse flat out to pay him. They start walking around, trying to figure a way back into the Kasbah, back into the medina, but they can’t. It’s late, the wife is getting worried, so eventually they just give in and pay him. He takes them back, but only far enough so that they recognize their way, not to the hotel itself. The Americans say fine, thank you, leave us alone now. They’re happy to get on their way. They start walking and then—”
“This is the best bit,” I broke in, smiling.
John paused. “Alice, do you want to tell the story yourself?” He let out a short laugh and attempting, it seemed, to lighten his tone, though his words were still short and clipped, said, “I don’t know why you even bothered to call me in here, it doesn’t seem as if you need my assistance.”
“No, no,” I replied, affecting something like a pout, though I did not mean to, and sinking back into the couch. “You tell it. It’s always better when you do.”
John let out an exaggerated sigh, as if to further demonstrate how unreasonable I was being, his silly little wife. I nearly expected him to turn toward Lucy with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes, followed by a commiseration on the more irritating points of the Alice they had in common. Instead, he looked at neither of us but began his tale once more, picking up where he had left off and diving into the story as though no interruption had ever occurred. “So, they start walking, and about fifteen minutes later, who should show up again but Youssef. He’s back for more money—and you’ll never guess why.”
The silence indicated that this was where Lucy and I, the captive audience members, were expected to join in. “Why?” I asked, at Lucy’s silence.
“He says that they should pay him for agreeing to leave them alone.” John leaned back and laughed, the liquid in his cup moving dangerously from side to side. “Can you believe the nerve of the man? You have to give him credit, I suppose. He certainly is inventive.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Lucy replied, though her eyes were narrowed.
“Why are you so curious about Youssef, anyhow?” John glanced in my direction, a grin breaking across his face. “What? Did she happen to fall for one of his tricks?” he teased.
“No, it’s nothing like that,” I said, shooting Lucy a nervous glance.
“I happened to mention that I met him today,” she said, trying, I could see, to dispel the coldness from her voice. “He seemed friendly enough,” she concluded.
“Friendly?” John laughed.
“Yes, well, what’s wrong with that?” I demanded, embarrassed by John’s cavalier attitude. I had only wanted a chance to change Lucy’s mind, to show her that John wasn’t entirely awful, that he could be good fun, when he felt like it. Only it had all gone wrong again—John had been cruel, Lucy had been offended. There was nothing, I suspected then, that I would be able to do to convince the other that they were worth knowing. But then, of course, it shouldn’t have surprised me, not really. Lucy and I had always functioned as a twosome, held separate and apart from the rest. Distinct.
“Honey,” John said, shaking his head. “Friendly is the grift.”
I realized then, watching Lucy as she glared at John, as he, in turn, eyed her with something like distaste, derision, there was nothing to be done. Nothing at all.
EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED during our junior year at Bennington College.
I had been away for the holidays, visiting my aunt on one of her trips to the East Coast—a formal dinner in whatever hotel she had been staying fast becoming our holiday ritual—and though she had offered to hire a driver to take me back to Bennington, I had insisted on catching the bus. I had left later that day, already looking forward to returning to my room, to Lucy, to what had fast become the definition of home. But as the bus pulled up at the station, several hours later, I had felt my stomach drop. We were still in Massachusetts, had not yet crossed the border, and while I knew that my ticket included a connection to Vermont, looking out of the window, my nose pressed against the cold glass, I could see that the bus station was completely dark.
The bus will be here, the driver assured me when I questioned him. “But the station,” I said, casting a nervous glance toward the darkened structure. “It doesn’t look open.”
“Closes at six o’clock,” he replied. “You’ll have to wait outside.”
I looked out of the bus, into the darkness beyond. The temperature was already hovering somewhere in the thirties, with snowfall forecasted for later that evening.
“But they didn’t say,” I began.
“There isn’t anything I can do, miss,” he cut in. “I have another pickup scheduled and I can’t wait around.” The other passengers had already disembarked, and he pointed toward the steps, indicating that I should do the same.
I nodded, dulled by the realization.