Tangier July 1978
Tangier
Sam wrote for hours, by the light of the cheap little bedside lamp.
Around him, he heard the house settle; stairs creaking, bedroom doors closing, lights being switched off.
Outside the open window, night began to bloom.
It seeped through the plaster walls, fluttered in the form of the tiny moths that found him, wedged in the corner of the room, the pen scratching at sheets of paper, the edge of his hand ink-stained a deep, ocean blue.
Eventually, he squeezed his burning eyes closed, easing out a crick in his neck.
He had no idea what time it was. Not morning, but not far off either.
Outside, the streets seemed utterly still, as if the hustlers and grifters had finally given up, and night had rolled down the hill to the beach, to disappear into the cool, grey sand.
Sam picked up the papers, covered on both sides with his spiky writing, and shuffled them into some kind of order. He smiled as he did it; how long had it been since he’d written a stack of pages like this? A year, two years. Not since college.
The stolen letter was the first chapter – he’d have to try and remember it at some point. This second chapter of … whatever it was he was writing, began with a heading, with the words Blood and Sand.
He put the pages to one side. Though he was tired, he didn’t want to stop. If he stopped, he might start thinking too hard about what he’d done, taking a stranger’s possessions from the Hotel Continental, pawing through them, writing about them, like a voyeur.
Inspiration, he told himself, that’s all this is. And anyway, A. L.’s long gone. Rubbing his face, he dipped the ink pen again, and turned over the sheet of paper he’d been writing on.
Pencil marks caught his eye, silvery in the dim light, like veins beneath skin. He blinked hard. Was he seeing things?
Words. There were words, scrawled across the page at a hasty angle, in pencil so faint it didn’t show on the other side of the paper.
A drop of ink splattered from the pen and he swore.
What if he’d ruined the page by writing on the other side, made it illegible?
He dropped the pen into the ink bottle and held the page directly under the lamp to see.
Sure enough, blue ink had seeped through, making the letters difficult to decipher. Why hadn’t he been more careful? This page had been in the writing case the whole time, waiting for him, if he’d only been patient enough to look for it.
He turned the page this way and that, peering at the shining lead letters. Only when he brought it closer to his face did he see the top line:
A,
A what? An initial, an address? Was this a letter to A. L. – just like the one he had written in the café?
He sat back, eyeing the paper. He was burning with curiosity and yet this page – whatever it was – had never been intended for him. What if it contained something deeply personal?
Almost unintentionally, his eyes strayed back to the paper. It was no use; he had to know.
D Portuna, 28.7.28
A,
I am sorry.
One day, I hope you’ll understand.
*
He woke in a sweat at noon and pushed back the shutters, feeling as if he’d been running all night.
Outside, the city was alive. He breathed it deep, tasting the bustle of the day, the tang of the sea, burning rubber, wet dust from washing.
Leaving the window open, he went back to the tangled sheets and looked down at the writing case, open on the floor, surrounded by ink-scrawled papers.
The pencil-written page lay on the top now.
Rubbing his eyes, he picked up the stub of pencil from the case, wondering if it was the same one which had written that feverish note.
After a while, he fished around for a scrap piece of paper. Not the stuff from the writing case, he wasn’t making that mistake again. Instead, he found the airmail letter from his parents, clumsily folded. Such a grateful son, he thought as he smoothed it out and wrote on the back:
A. L. = A?
Alejandro del Potro?
Game – rules?
28.7.1928?
Continental?
Blood and Sand?
Sorry?
There was something else, some word that had prickled at him. Going back to the beginning of the letter, he saw it:
D Portuna.
D Portuna. An unfamiliar word. Someone’s name? He scrawled it down, followed by another infuriating question mark.
By mid-afternoon, he was wandering up the Rue Anoual, turning it all over in his mind. A writing case lost to the casbah, a letter never sent, a suitcase never collected, all fifty years ago. A strange passport and now this name: Portuna.
It was like eavesdropping on a conversation, without being able to hear the whole thing. He’d fill in the gaps using his imagination; weave these fragments together into characters, events, into a story that made sense.
If you’re going to play the game, you have to learn the rules.
Smiling, he pushed open the door of the Gran Café de Paris.
He hesitated for a moment, feeling the waft of warm air from the ceiling fans.
He shouldn’t waste money, not even on coffee.
Even with the small flush of cash from Abdelhamid, things would soon begin to look threadbare again.
There was nothing else to sell, no one else to ask, except maybe Norton …
The idea made him grimace. But what the hell, he decided, he couldn’t stay in his room all day, and it was only a dirham.
He sat down in the corner, and placed the writing case in front of him.
His head was bubbling over with ideas, just waiting to be brought to life in scratchy ink.
‘Café, shukran,’ he said to the waiter who appeared on the other side of the table.
‘Excusez-moi, vous êtes appelé Hackett?’
He looked up in shock. He’d never told anyone at the café his name.
‘Yes.’ He half stood from the chair. ‘Is everything all right?’
The waiter signalled for him to sit down again. ‘Oui, oui, pas de problème. Mais … I have something for you.’
Did he mean the letter? Maybe one of the waiters had taken it after all, and here was the manager, giving it back. Sure enough, the man was reaching into the pocket of his apron and pulling out an envelope. He laid it on top of the writing case.
‘Is that my—’
Sam stopped abruptly. The envelope was addressed with one word:
HACKETT
For a second, he couldn’t speak.
‘Where – did you get this?’ he spluttered to the waiter.
‘It was left here,’ the man said in broken English, ‘for you.’
‘Who?’ Sam was up from his seat again. ‘Who left it? How did they know who I was?’
The waiter was shaking his head, as if he wanted to deny any involvement. ‘Je ne sais pas, I do not know his name.’
‘He? Was it an old man? With a hat, glasses?’
The waiter nodded, looking uncomfortable.
‘Did the man—’ Sam stopped, forcing himself to speak more calmly. ‘L’homme, the old man, he knew my name?’
‘Oui.’ The waiter was looking around, wanting to take his leave. ‘Oui, he said you are an American, and I will know you by this.’ He tapped the writing case.
Sam stared. He’d written a letter to the past, and now here was a reply. What the hell was going on?
‘Wait.’ He caught the waiter’s arm as he turned away. ‘This man, have you seen him before? Does he come here regularly?’
The waiter shrugged, freeing himself. He’s been paid, Sam realized, watching the man hurry away towards the kitchens. He’s been paid to stay quiet.
Stunned, he turned back to the table, to the impossible letter. HACKETT. Hardly daring to touch it, in case it crumbled into nothing, he eased open the envelope and peered inside.
A single sheet of paper. Not his letter at all. This paper was clean, new, covered in neat black writing.
Dear Mr Hackett,
You have something of mine. I would like it back.
Please reply, outlining how much you will take for the case. Leave your response with Khalid, the manager here. Do not try to contact me by any other mean.
Regards,
A