Tangier July 1978 #2
‘Nothing. I just … ran … to get here on … time.’
She looked at the suitcase in his hands.
‘Come in then.’ Her voice was quiet.
They walked through the overgrown gardens. With every step, the city outside the walls receded; the fumes and radio fuzz and traffic became a distant memory.
‘You look strange,’ the woman said, frowning at him as they approached the back door.
Sam realized he’d been staring fixedly at the house. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, though he knew he wasn’t. There was sweat coating his back that had nothing to do with the heat. Who was waiting for him inside? ‘Could I have a glass of water?’ he asked.
She shrugged and poured one from a jug on the sideboard, where a lace handkerchief kept off the flies.
He drank slowly, trying to calm himself.
‘Thank you,’ he said, handing the glass back. ‘It’s Zahrah, isn’t it? Your name?’
She nodded briefly. Today she was wearing denim shorts, a faded blue t-shirt. Her nails were stained yellow, as if she’d dipped her fingers into pollen.
‘Is Mr Langham …’ The words from the newspaper article nagged at him, like someone whispering in his ear, even as he tried to speak. ‘Is he your employer? Do you work for him?’
She half smiled. ‘Something like that.’
‘For how long?’ he pressed, his voice low. ‘I mean, how long have you worked here?’
‘About five years.’ Somewhere in the house, a door creaked. ‘Go on,’ she said, motioning to the corridor. ‘You’re expected.’
Sam hesitated. She seemed like a bridge between times, this woman; a real person in a place of shifting, unreal things.
How did you come to be here? he wanted to ask.
Who are you? Do you live here? What do you know about all of this?
But she had turned her back and was clattering at the sink.
She wouldn’t talk to him, he sensed, until he’d spoken to the person waiting in the study.
The man was standing at the window looking out on to the garden, his hands behind his back, twisting a ring on his middle finger around and around. For a long time, Sam just stood in the doorway, unable to speak.
The body has been identified by personal effects as that of a Mr Arthur Langham.
‘Did you bring it?’ a low voice asked.
‘Yes.’ Sam’s throat was dry, despite the water. ‘Yes, it’s here.’
He took a step into the room, then another. Finally, the man turned.
‘Good.’ His eyes flicked to the case. ‘A drink first?’
‘Yes,’ Sam said automatically before remembering Norton’s words about staying on guard.
‘I mean, no thanks, not just now.’ His face was burning, and he knew he must look awkward.
Somehow, he couldn’t remember how to act normally.
All he could think about was Mouad’s story and the words Englishman Drowns in Strait.
The man frowned at him. ‘You’re different today,’ he said. ‘Yesterday you were so full of questions. What’s changed?’
‘Nothing,’ Sam said quickly. ‘I mean, I’m just trying to get my head around all of this, you know, first the writing case, then you and this house …’ He trailed off, knowing he sounded false. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out the suitcase. ‘Don’t you want to see it?’
‘Of course I do.’ The man had a drink in his hand, and was moving stiffly towards his chair.
‘Of course. But you must understand, Mr Hackett, that you are bringing me the past, things which have lain undisturbed for a long time. A rusty knife can still be dangerous.’ He took a sip of the drink, and motioned to the case. ‘Show me,’ he said.
Hands trembling, Sam knelt down on the sun-faded rug and pressed the clasps of the suitcase.
‘It was locked when I found it,’ he murmured. ‘I opened it with the key that was hidden in the writing case.’ The man said nothing, his worn fingers gripping the glass tightly. With a breath, Sam pushed the lid open.
The case was in disarray. The linens and collars were jumbled together, the suit trousers balled up, the jacket half-inside out.
The book had been shoved clumsily into one corner, its cover bent, the bottles and packets ripped from their holders.
Sam stared at it all, horrified. He’d packed it carefully, just the way he’d found it, except for the passport, which he’d slid down one side.
Frantically, he began to search through the muddled clothes.
It was not a big case; it should have been impossible to miss that smooth, green card.
When his fingernails found only the suitcase’s lining, he felt a stab of panic.
Had he left it in his room? No, he remembered packing it.
The old man knew something was wrong, he was leaning forwards, the drink forgotten.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
‘The passport.’ Sam forced himself to look up. ‘It’s gone.’
The man’s eyes were hard. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The passport, belonging to Alejandro del Potro,’ Sam said, pushing hopelessly at the clothes. ‘I don’t understand, I put it in myself, this afternoon. I haven’t—’
I haven’t taken my eyes off it, he was going to say, but that wasn’t true. He had. He’d left it at Interpress, and Norton had been the one to fetch it from the back room … He let out a noise of frustration. ‘That bastard, he took it.’
‘Who?’ The man leaned forward.
‘Ellis Norton, a journalist from Interpress.’
‘A journalist.’ The man’s face was tightening with anger. ‘What have you told him about me? What do you know?’
‘What could I have told him?’ Sam shoved himself to his feet, his temper flaring, kindled by Norton’s actions, by the way his story was being twisted into something rotten.
‘I don’t even know who you are! Arthur Langham has been dead for fifty years.
That’s why Norton took the passport. He wants to know who you are and what you had to do with Langham’s death. And so do I.’
The man stared. ‘I never said I was Langham,’ he spoke slowly.
‘But you let me believe it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ Sam swallowed, trying to tamp down the anger. ‘So I would give you the case? It never even belonged to you.’
The man didn’t answer. He just stood, staring down at the suitcase, with its old, jumbled possessions.
‘What will he write about me,’ he said, eventually, ‘this journalist? How much information does he have?’
Sam sagged a little. ‘I don’t know. He wanted to talk to his bosses, start digging for more information about Langham.
I asked him to wait until I’d spoken to you, but obviously …
’ Sam shook his head. Despite everything, he felt guilty.
‘He thinks that Langham’s death wasn’t an accident.
He thinks it might have been suicide. Or – or murder.
’ He glanced at the man. For all he knew, Norton was right, and he was talking to a killer.
‘He probably thinks it will make a great story, get him the front page.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Why did you have to stir this up? You don’t know what you’ve done.’
‘Then tell me. Tell me what really happened, who you are, and maybe I can stop him. Please.’
For a long moment, the man held his gaze. There was defiance in that expression, and anger, and something else as well; a hint of resignation.
‘There’s brandy on the bar,’ he said.
Sam knew an instruction when he heard one. He went to fetch it, searching through the forest of bottles until he found one marked Fundador.
He turned to find that the man had pulled the case towards him. He was holding the book, The Gentleman’s Guide. Sam watched as it fell open.
‘If you want to play the game,’ the man said softly, ‘you have to learn the rules.’
Sam almost took a step back. The man’s voice had changed completely. It was lighter, softer, an accent replacing the clipped British tones.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Are you A—’
‘Yes.’ The stranger looked up at him with a twisted smile. ‘For this story, I am Alejandro del Potro.’