Tangerine

At some point in the night, I began to feel a presence. My heart stammered, the blood rushed to my face. Where before Lucy had acted as a barrier, a shield, between me and everything else—for nothing would ever happen while she was there, I had reasoned—at that moment I was alone, defenseless. I pushed myself to the edge of the bed, so that my back aligned with the cold glass surface of the window. I closed my eyes and held my breath—certain that, as I did, the sound of breathing continued. It’s not real, I told myself, although the words did little to comfort, to dispel the feeling that I was being watched. That I was no longer alone in the bedroom.

I slept little that night. In novels, the heroines always tossed and turned, exclaiming that they were unable to remain still and pass the night in a peaceful sleep. I did not toss and turn. Instead, I remained entirely still, rigid, I thought, as if the preservation of my life depended upon the immobility of my body. After several hours of this, I began to sweat from the exertion. Passing in and out of sleep quickly enough that I could no longer tell how much time had passed, my body bathed in dampness, I could pass a hand across my chest and feel the wetness clinging to my palm. The terror abated only at the first bit of sun peeking through the curtains. Instead of waiting for the day to start, I swept aside the sheets, as if this movement would somehow hasten the arrival of dawn. I had had enough of night. And yet still I lingered, unsure where to go and what to do without Lucy’s presence to guide me, to help mark the time. She was always the first to rise, and I waited until she had retreated to the toilet to do the same. Without her, I stalled, lying, waiting.

Sleep-deprived from my night alone, I drifted off, despite my intention to stay awake. Instead my eyelids began to droop, my breathing becoming slow and heavy. I could feel myself falling asleep and yet I could do nothing at all to resist its soft, insistent call.

I awoke, heart pounding.

At first, I wasn’t sure what had woken me, but then I became aware of her presence. I watched, my eyes still half-closed in pretense of sleep, as she lifted her blouse over her head, so that she stood in just her bra and underwear, a garter belt, rather than a girdle, holding up her stockings. My aunt had insisted I purchase the latter, despite my protests. You may be naturally thin now, she had said, but just wait until you’re married and have had a few babies—you’ll be happy for it then. I realized that I had never seen Lucy this unclothed before. It seemed strange that after years of living together, I had yet to see her without clothes, though I knew I had done much the same to avoid such a situation—changing when she was out of the room, or rushing to the bathroom to hastily throw on my outfit for the day. I was struck by the sheer whiteness of her skin. She was pale, I knew that already from her complexion, but there was something different seeing it stretched out along the rest of her body. She seemed to glow, so that I was convinced that even if it was completely dark in the room, I would still be able to find her.

I was suddenly conscious of just how naked she was. Both her bra and underwear were white, though not the same shade, and typical of the fashion—plain, with a simple trim of lace on the top, which fitted just below her navel. Her bra also had few adornments, just a single white flower between her breasts. My eyes rested there for a moment, wondering at her generous proportions, ones that seemed ample compared to my own, and how she managed to hide them underneath her clothing. I tore my gaze away and back to her face. “Lucy,” I said, sitting up, the word sounding like a whisper, too soft for what I had intended. “Lucy, where is it?” I asked, working to make my voice strong, sturdy.

Lucy looked over at me and frowned. “What?”

I let out a deep breath. “The bracelet.”

“What bracelet?” she asked, shaking her head.

“My mother’s bracelet,” I pressed.

She shrugged. “I’m sure it’s here somewhere. I haven’t seen it since you last wore it. About a week ago?”

The words that I meant to speak, that I had prepared and memorized over the hours since we had last parted, evaporated then, disappearing into a vaporous trail before I could make them concrete. I struggled to understand what was happening. It was as if the past day, our past conversation, had not happened at all, as if—I stopped, shuddered—as if I had only imagined it. I looked up at my roommate, searching for something—anything—that could be considered as proof, evidence, of what she had done, of what she was still doing. There was nothing. She looked sincere, had sounded sincere, as if she truly didn’t understand what it was that I was talking about, as if she were genuinely worried for me.

I don’t believe you.

I was surprised by the vehemence behind my thoughts and worried, for one moment, that I had spoken them aloud. I shook my head. I held firm, resolute, reminding myself that I knew the truth. She had taken the bracelet, angry at me for Tom, for not spending as much time with her. But then—the idea was too strange, too unsettling. I wondered why I had even thought of it in the first place.

“I don’t—I don’t know,” I finally said. They were the only words that I could think of as my brain stuttered and failed to keep up with what was happening, the only truth I could arrive at. I didn’t know.

Lucy frowned. “Don’t worry, Alice.” She gave a brief smile. “We’ll look for it together, I promise.”

She enveloped me then, a more intimate gesture than the others we had previously shared, and not simply because she was standing in her underwear. For it wasn’t my roommate who was exposed, who was laid bare—it was me, and all of my shortcomings, the fragility of my mind silently splayed between us. I did not like to think of it, of that period after my parents’ death—but now it seemed to burst forth between us, undeniable, so that there was no other choice but to take it out and look at it once more.

I remained frozen, still unsure in that moment what to believe. But then, eventually, my arms left my side and I grasped her tightly—too tightly, I knew, but I was suddenly afraid to let her go, this person who knew each and every one of my secrets and had never judged me.

And so I clung to her, afraid to break from our strange embrace.



Six



Lucy



I MET YOUSSEF AT CAFé TINGIS, SEVERAL DAYS LATER, AT THE agreed-upon time. He stood, leaning against the wall. “Ready?” he asked with a grin.

I smiled in return, ready to set out, to toss aside the words and warnings of others. For there was something about Youssef, I had decided, that felt infinitely more familiar than the Johns of the world. We were, both of us, on the outside, the periphery—myself by birth, Youssef by circumstance. There was something, if not quite as strong as the affinity I shared with Alice, at the very least an understanding, which I felt ran between us. I was still wary, of course, still cautious, but I trusted the otherness that marked us to form a connective thread that would keep us tied to each other, in spite of, or perhaps because of, the world around us.

We left the medina behind, the confined and chaotic streets giving way to long, wide stretches. Fewer people dotted the path. We walked in a companionable silence, and though I was content to let my mind wander, I found myself turning to him and asking, “So is it Youssef, or Joseph?” I had been thinking about it in the hours since we had last met, ruminating over the difference. Joseph. Youssef. Were they the same, only derivations of one another? I wasn’t sure. In fact, I was no longer entirely certain which one he had first introduced himself as, and which one Alice had used when referring to him. In my mind he was already Youssef, but that was possibly my projection alone, trying to instill upon him a particular brand of foreignness that appealed to my own sensibilities.

He shrugged. He had lit a cigarette as we began walking, and he reached for it now, taking a long pull, his calloused, darkened fingers apparently untroubled by the still-hot ash that spilled over them. “Does it matter?”

I frowned. Did it? I found I was no longer sure as I turned the question over in my mind. “It’s your name,” I protested.

“We, all of us, have many names,” he responded.

I squinted. “How do you mean?”

“Husband. Father. Brother.”

“Those are titles, not names,” I countered.

He shrugged again, apparently unconcerned with the distinction. “Tangier has many names. First, she was Tingis.” He paused and reached again for his cigarette. “In French, she is Tanger. In Spanish, she is Tánger. In Arabic, she is Tanjah. So you see, she has had many different names. Or titles. It is all the same.”

I was quiet a moment more. “And so you go by either Youssef or Joseph, without any preference one way or another? Like her, I mean.”

He smiled at this. “Yes, like her.”

I MOVED TOWARD THE CLIFF’S EDGE, looking down below. There were a few other couples, scattered here and there, to either side of us. Some sat, staring out at the ocean. Others unwrapped bundles of food. I saw bread and cheese, a few pieces of fruit. There were women in niqabs, women in Western dress. It seemed that this was a place for both locals and outsiders alike. Although where here was, I had yet to learn. I turned toward my companion, waiting for an explanation.

“This,” he began at last, “is where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic.”