BARBARY COAST
Take a pony of gin, a pony of Scotch whisky and a pony of Crème de Cacao. Add to this a pony of fresh cream. Shake together with cracked ice and strain into a chilled glass. Strange, sweet and dangerous in quantity.
I’ll never forget the moment I saw Tangiers.
From the deck of the ship, the white walls of the city gleamed, like a milky eye in the darkness.
The bay was a phosphorescence of boats and lights, red and purple and green stars.
I willed them closer. The moment I reached that shore, I would be a step further away from the murder charge that waited back in Spain; a step closer to freedom.
I watched the dock approach, my palm slick with sweat on the handle of the suitcase. It was surprisingly light. I didn’t know what was inside, and neither did I want to. I just wanted to hand it over and be done.
A small price to pay for freedom. On the darkened docks, I could see the shapes of men, catching ropes, waiting to unload cargo. I swallowed dryly. Somewhere down there, Bautista’s ‘friend’ was waiting for me.
The French official didn’t give the suitcase or my papers a second glance, just stamped them and motioned me on with an impatient flick. My blood seemed to stall and waver and flow again in the other direction as I took my first step on to African soil.
Voices, voices, breath, tar, pungent smoke and men all around trying to take the suitcase, assuring me that they knew the best guesthouse, the best girls, the best hashish, trying words in French, Spanish, English.
I held the case to my chest and didn’t say a word, just walked, following the crowd.
How was I supposed to find anyone, here?
I didn’t even know what the man I was to meet looked like.
He’ll know you, was the only instruction I’d been given.
Finally, I broke free of the pack of hustlers and stopped, staring up at the city. On the hill above the port was a huge building, sparkling with lights, red and green bulbs surrounding a sign that declared HOTEL CONTINENTAL.
A shadow loomed and I flinched as a man stepped close to me. I couldn’t make out a face beneath his hat, only the glint of small spectacles.
‘Del Potro?’ he asked, voice low.
‘Sí.’ I gripped the suitcase. ‘Are you …?’
‘Márquez.’ A false name if ever there was one. He glanced towards the ship, towards the officials who were lounging, exchanging gossip. ‘Let’s go.’
He began to walk purposefully. I hurried after him, holding out the case. ‘Wait! Here, take it.’
The man snorted. ‘It’s not me you need to give it to.’
‘Then who?’
‘Stop talking, will you?’
He moved like a stray cat, head lowered and watchful, snaking along.
We passed the edge of a huge beach, on to a promenade lined with bars, shack-like things strung with feeble lights, tables scattered before them.
Motorcars were rolling to and fro, spitting dust. I tried not to stare at it all, smelling hot rubber and grilling fish, a wave of perfume as a well-dressed woman fell laughing from a car.
Maybe we were heading to one of the bars, I thought hopefully, watching the man in front.
But he stalked past it all into the alleyways beyond, which were darker and smelled of excrement, rotting vegetable matter and singed butter from kitchens.
My hands were trembling as I followed him into a sort of courtyard, a tight chimney of space between buildings.
Something scuttled over my shoe and I let out a noise of disgust.
‘Quiet,’ he barked. Before us was a rusted metal door. The man tapped on it in a distinctive rhythm. Then a bolt was grating and light was spilling out, sending the creatures on the ground fleeing.
‘Inside,’ he said.
In hindsight, I know I was a fool to do it. A silly, trusting fool. If I could go back, I would grab myself by the lapels and shake myself. But at the time, I thought I was tough enough, with my forged papers and my knife. I stepped inside.
Immediately, Márquez slammed the door behind me.
We were in a sort of storage room, long and low and dim, stacked with crates and boxes.
A table was pushed against one wall, a creased tide map hidden beneath papers.
Before it sat a man. He was younger than Bautista, his cheeks and chin covered in a dark stubble that merged with the rest of his close-cropped hair.
‘Any problems?’ he asked Márquez, without looking at me.
In the corner, two Moroccan men were slouched, smoking and watching closely.
‘No problems, senor,’ Márquez answered. ‘But this one’s green all right.’
The boss man looked at me then. He had odd, tawny eyes, like a goat or a cat; eyes that saw too much.
All at once, the room felt stifling. The bindings made it hard to breathe. I ran a finger beneath my collar, releasing the sweat trapped there, sending it trickling down my chest. If these men found out what I was … The strange man’s eyes went to the suitcase.
‘Did you look inside?’
He was well-spoken, more refined than his surroundings.
‘No.’ I kept my voice gruff. The less I said, the better.
The boss man barked something in a language I didn’t know. One of the Moroccan men clambered to his feet and came to take the suitcase from me. The moment it left my grip, I realized I shouldn’t have let it go, that empty-handed was a bad thing to be, in that place.
‘Give me your papers,’ the boss said.
My heart gave a sick thud. ‘Why?’
‘Don’t ask questions,’ Márquez snapped. His breath stank of old garlic. When I took the passport from my pocket, he snatched it and handed it over.
The goat-eyed man began to look through the document, peering at it beneath the lamp. ‘Decent work,’ he murmured. ‘What happened to your real ones?’
‘They were stolen,’ I said. The side of my face was prickling. One of the Moroccan men was staring at me, as the other jimmied a knife back and forth in the lock of the suitcase.
The boss scratched at the ink with a fingernail. ‘Why’ve you come over here?’ he demanded. ‘Got an offer of work? Trouble back home?’
‘No,’ I lied. ‘Just a fresh start.’
In that grim, seedy room it sounded ridiculous, and the man laughed.
From the corner, there came a clicking sound.
The Moroccan man called something, and pushed the lid of the case open.
He shoved aside a bundle of old clothes to reveal what looked like cardboard, dull green files stamped with red.
Márquez lifted one out, riffling through the papers.
A moment later, he nodded over his shoulder.
The boss man tossed my passport on to the desk. I stared at it, that little rectangle of card, so precious to me. Let me go, I begged silently, please just let me go.
‘What did Bautista pay you?’ the boss was saying. I dragged my eyes back.
‘He didn’t. He gave me the passport. That was the bargain.’
The man snorted. ‘Here.’ He held a peseta coin towards me. ‘A tip. Take it.’
There was no way to refuse. ‘Gracias, senor.’
He picked up my passport and handed it over. ‘Go get yourself a drink,’ he said. ‘And a girl. Not the ones on the beach, though, if you know what’s good for you.’ He fixed me with those yellow eyes. ‘Keep your mouth shut.’
I nodded. I knew he could see the terror on my face, and that it satisfied him. Then, Márquez was unbolting the door, giving me a shove into the thick night. The moment it clanged behind me, I took off.
My back was crawling with sweat, with the feeling that I’d been standing in the hot maw of a lion, and had – by chance – slipped free. I ran until I reached the sandy promenade, with its brash lights.
Alone in Tangiers. What was I doing? I didn’t know anything about the place, other than the fact it was somehow international territory, belonging to many countries and none.
My only thought had been to get out of Spain, out of danger.
But I had been here only a moment and danger had found me once again.
If Márquez and his boss were to discover that I had lied, that I was not the young man I appeared to be …
No. I walked briskly up the promenade. No, I had to be smart.
Something had drawn me here, across the strait.
Someone. The way Langham had looked at me, despite the presence of the woman at his side.
Had I imagined that? My lips twitched a little, an almost smile.
We’d been all women at the inn, but I knew what some men liked, and though I’d never met anyone like Arthur Langham before, so cool, so refined, I’d met plenty of other wealthy men.
I was clever, I was quick; I could get what I wanted from him, through sympathy or persuasion.
But what did I want? I watched as two men ran from one of the bars on to the beach, whooping drunkenly, their polished shoes filling with sand.
Their carelessness made my bound chest contract, made me ball my hands into fists in my pockets.
I knew what I wanted well enough, but it was impossible for someone like me.
Security, I told myself severely. Safety. That was what I needed.
I followed the flow of people up a steep street into a tightness of buildings.
All my plans involving Langham would be useless if I couldn’t first find him.
In Córdoba, the Plaza de la Corredera was where life happened.
It must be the same in any city, surely: there would be a central place, where people lingered and talked and talked.
When I’d imagined Tangiers I’d pictured palm trees and gleaming ships, grand villas that looked like the Mezquita back home.
But here, the plaster walls were pocked and crumbling, revealing layers of colour beneath.
Pigeons shuffled in crevices, gulls wheeled hungrily overhead, like flashing eyes in the dark.