Tangerine

He smiled. “But I only wish to speak, to try and make things right between us once more.”

I looked at him, knowing that he did not mean what he said, knowing that there was something else, another reason for his visit today, for his visit the other night. Our encounters were not merely coincidences, I knew. There was something that he wanted from me—no, it was more than that. Something he thought he could get—perhaps deserved, was owed. I wondered what it could be, how it could ever matter, in light of what had happened already. The police would arrive soon. I had little time left, which meant I needed to return to the flat. But I paused, wanting a few more minutes, a few more hours, in which I could pretend that everything was just as it had been the day before. And so even though I knew that it was not the smartest decision, that I should shoo away the mosquito before me and continue with what I needed to get done, I leaned heavily against the frame of the booth and consented.

“I suppose,” I said, ignoring, even as I did so, the dangerous smile on his face.

Pushing aside the venomous words that he had spoken to me that night in the street, I followed him to Café Hafa and beyond, through one of the numerous unmarked doors that signaled the dwellings of the local community. I even agreed to the ridiculous proposition that he eventually put forth—a request for a portrait—wanting, needing to know in that instant just what it was that lurked behind his smile, both tired and angry that he was the second person in my life who had decided to try to put something over on me that day.

Once inside, I noted the dozen or so canvases lining the room, and moving silently among them, I wondered whether any of the work actually belonged to Youssef, or if these too were part of his facade. Perhaps the paints and brushes were just props on a stage, the canvases completed by another hand—that daughter that either John or Alice had once mentioned, though I could no longer recall who had spoken the words. The paintings themselves were adequate if unremarkable. A sunset, an ocean, the market on a busy day. Everyday life in Tangier, I noted, though the colors were bright and cheerful, dispelling the notion that anything untoward ever ran through the veins of the city. All trace of filth, of grime, swept away. I was struck with the sudden desire to laugh.

There was one, though, that caused me to pause. It was of a series of rooftops, nothing remarkable, but the vibrancy of the paints struck me. Perhaps it was the broad careless strokes, or the clashing colors—clotheslines, I could decipher, a tenuous link that held each building together, a jumbled mess that made it impossible to pick out where one began and the other ended. It was horrible, in some ways, going against everything they taught you in class—and yet, there was something else there as well, something that reminded me of Tangier, as if I were already gone. Whatever it was, I slowed, my fingers resting lightly on the frame.

“This one is beautiful,” I said.

Youssef nodded, directing me toward a stool that he had set in the center of the room, a beam of natural light illuminating the space, his easel and canvas only a few paces away. “Please,” he said.

I sat, grateful for his suggestion, for the opportunity to let my mind relax, to wander, to not dwell on all that had happened over the last few days, on all the things that would have to happen still. My eyes began to flutter in the calmness of the room. I felt the warmth of the sun against my face and I sighed, my body relaxing.

“You know,” Youssef said, his voice cutting through the air, “I saw you.”

I frowned, my mind still slow from the heat. I had not expected him to begin so quickly. “You saw me?” I repeated, opening my eyes to look at him.

His face emerged from behind the canvas, his eyes strangely bright. “Yes. I saw you the other day. By the tombs.”

I stopped. My hands twitched in my lap, but I stilled them. “With my friend, you mean?” I replied, working to keep my voice light, breathy—though I was awake now. “Yes, I took her up to Café Hafa. I thought she would enjoy the view.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “I saw that too.”

Ah. So here was the truth of it at last—he had been following me, tailing me, like some heroic detective in a third-rate film. It seemed I had not given Youssef enough thought. He had faded into the background, a mosquito to be flicked away, but now, thinking about it, recalling his expression when I had brushed him aside that night—irritation, yes, but something more as well—I felt his buzzing return. Anger. That’s what it had been. An anger that ran wide and deep, and that was, I knew, directed at far more than just me. My mind raced. If he had been following me, that would mean—my breath caught in my throat—he knew, I realized. He knew, and he had decided that he would try to trap me with it.

“Yes,” he continued, speaking slowly, with confidence, with ease—confirming my suspicions. “I saw you with him.” And then, just so that there was no misunderstanding between us, he added, “I saw what you did.”

I did not move. “I have money,” I said evenly, as though it were not a great thing, but thinking, even as I said it, of my nearly depleted account.

Youssef nodded, though his face was twisted, as if insulted by my words—even though they were the ones he had wished me to speak. I thought that I understood his disgust, his hatred. And I was willing to forgive him, in light of his situation, willing to overlook the fact that he had just attempted this con on me, his sole supporter and defender. After all, I understood desperation, understood what it could do to you, what it could force you to do in return. We were, Youssef and I, not so dissimilar from each other. But then I thought of the money. I clasped my hands together tightly, feeling the pain as my nails dug into flesh. I ignored it, ignored the bright red blood that rose from my skin. One payment would not be enough. No amount of money would ever be enough, I suspected.

No—I needed a way out.

And then I remembered. The first time we had met, all those days ago now, outside of Cinema Rif. Youssef thought my name was Alice.

It hadn’t been a conscious decision, when I had first arrived in Tangier and given him her name instead of my own. It had only been a hesitation, an uncertainty about the man before me. He was someone used to wearing masks, and so I had, as I had done many times before, adopted my own. There had been nothing beyond that initial instinct. But now, now I could see the advantages. I hated to do it, felt my whole body rebel at the thought. But then, I reminded myself, there was nothing else to be done. I had been trapped, backed into a corner, and the only thing that mattered any longer was survival—my own survival. They had, Alice and Youssef both, left me no other choice.



Thirteen



Alice



AFTER THE TELEPHONE CALL WITH AUNT MAUDE, I FELT relieved, buoyed even, knowing that she would soon be in Tangier, that she would set things right. And yet as I stood in the living room, as I took in each and every little item that belonged to John, I felt consumed by guilt for the thoughts that I had entertained only hours before, wondering whether I wanted to remain in Tangier, remain with him. It felt like a betrayal, and one far more dangerous than anything he had committed. I left the flat then, desperate to be away from the tight enclosure that was filled with him, walking down one street and then another, passing by the market that we had once gone to together, ignoring the overpowering smell of leather, of meat, though it threatened to turn my stomach. I passed by a café I recognized from our early days, where we had sat and laughed together. As I increased my pace, tripping over my own feet as I hurried, with no real direction, no real purpose, I realized that each and every corner of this city was marked by my memories of John. It did not matter where I went, there was no escaping them.

At some point, I became aware of being watched.

He was smart, kept himself well hidden, so that I saw him first only out of the corner of my eye, the wide brim of his hat obscuring his face. I had shaken my head, had told myself, sternly, to stop imagining things, but then—there he was again, the same man from earlier that morning. The one with the scar. He was just to the side of me, first to the right, then to the left, sometimes a few paces ahead. Careful never to let me see him—not entirely. He was smart, but then, I reminded myself, if he worked with John, for the government, I supposed he had to be. I felt my heart begin to beat faster, wondering what it was that he wanted, what answers he could possibly think I held. I increased my speed, turned down one alley and then another, but it did not matter.