Alexandra Singer (17 page)

Armand booked them into a small hotel, called ‘Pension Etoile’, where the windows were high up in the mud brick walls, guarded by old cedar screens.

At the desk sat a bored, haggard old woman who spoke to Armand, before leading them upstairs. She was taken aback to find that Armand had arranged for two separate rooms. Too surprised to
respond, she stood looking at him.

“I’ll see you downstairs in two hours.” he said, and promptly closed the door on her.

Alone in her single room, Maia used the tiny bathroom to wash before lying down on the narrow bed. She could hear Armand on the phone in the next room, talking abruptly in French. His voice rose
and fell, alternately angry and threateningly calm; she fell, undisturbed, into a deep sleep. She dreamt she was back in London, amongst the tall grey buildings and the scurrying people underground
when she awoke with a jolt, filled with a vague longing.

Later, while preparing to meet Armand downstairs, he burst through the door, “Ready? We’re going.”

“I haven’t even unpacked.” She thought they would be away for a few days at least.

“We’re only here for the day. I want to show you the area.” Armand pushed her out of the door. The shove he gave her was light but insistent.

Back in the car, Maia looked down as they drove above the desolate valley. These villages were timeless, with mud brick houses, which clung to the mountainside, and ribbons of smoke rising from
their chimneys. The road twisted until Maia caught sight of a desert
ksaar
, which rose up against a higher rocky cliff. Armand stopped the car suddenly and took her hand. The desert sky was
an intense, clear blue and a man with buck teeth opened the gate of the
ksaar
for them.

Inside, there were narrow whitewashed buildings with high shutters and staunch, iron grilled windows. The man led them through a shady cobbled square, to a house with a huge brass door. From the
outside, there was nothing to be seen, but as they walked through a long corridor Maia realised the building’s vastness.

They were permitted to sit in a peaceful garden area, with a citrus tree in the centre. A lean faced young woman came from within the house and poured mint tea into small glasses. Armand ignored
them both, and looked towards the entrance into the house.

Two men holding rifles against their chests came in and stood by the door. They stared at Maia, and gradually it dawned on her that Armand was not objecting to their
leering.

“What is going on, Armand?”

He ignored her, and leaned back in his chair. Something was wrong. It dawned on her that she knew nothing of Armand’s business. She wanted to be angry with him for bringing her here, but
then he was opening up a whole new world, and part of her felt strangely privileged. Two older men then came into the garden. The first was dark and rotund, and the second was pale and angular.
Standing before her was the Historian and Mahmoud. As Maia’s heart began to race, she tried to calm herself; after all, these men were familiar. The Historian stood with his hands clasped in
front of him, and Mahmoud beamed at them.

“Welcome to my house,” he said cheerfully.

“Yes,” said the Historian. “We often come to the Atlas to escape the summer heat.”

Maia had no chance to speak, for Armand said abruptly, “Who are those idiots you employ? I had some moron try to stop me on the road. If you want to do business with me Mahmoud, those are
not the sort of people I will deal with.”

So that, thought Maia, was what had happened with the road block and the policemen. What a shame she had been asleep and missed such excitement.

“They tried to force me off the road.”

Mahmoud was strangely apologetic, obsequious even. Maia was embarrassed to see him that way. She saw him only as an authority, always in charge as the host of The Grand Tazi, the owner of all
that he surveyed.

Armand was outraged. Maia wished that he would not be so angry with the men; she was just now beginning to be comfortable with the Historian, although there was always the intangible
awkwardness, a stiffness that remained. She sensed a power struggle, and Mahmoud was at the bottom of the league.

The men continued to converse, only now in Arabic. Servants came out to set the food on the table; fresh goat’s cheese, which they ate with flat bread, oranges, apricots, cactus fruit and
olives.

Sweet black coffee was served, and Maia was beginning enjoy herself when she noticed the conversation switch English.

“The girl must leave. We have some important matters to discuss,” said Mahmoud.

“You can take a wander through the town, Maia. Someone will find you. It is very small here.” The Historian was quiet and courteous.

“I read your guidebook. You never mention the Grand Tazi, why is this?”

“It was not yet open at the time.”

“But it was!” erupted Mahmoud.

“My mistake. But please, we have something to discuss, before I drive back to the city. I will see you soon.” He impatiently tapped his long fingers on the wooden table, but his
voice was perfectly controlled; still and calm.

Maia was aware she was being pushed out. It was not the business of women, perhaps. Mahmoud and the Historian surprised her with their demeanour. The possibility that they were all involved
together intrigued her.

Maia walked slowly through the town, although it seemed more of a stronghold. She wondered who was in charge here. Surely it could not be the Historian. He was a foreigner, but he had lived here
long enough. It couldn’t be Mahmoud.

Maia was certain that she knew why they were here. This was
kif
country, and high in the mountains they would be safe from the scrutinising eye of the authorities. She didn’t care
about the illegality; wondering at the ingenuity of the criminal mind. As she walked through the streets, she saw that the inhabitants of the town appeared to be Berbers rather than Arabs.

The small town was cooking under the sun, and Maia worked up the courage to enter a café. The place was filthy, the rot of idleness having sunk into the cracks long ago. She was the only
woman in the place, and the men looked up at her with evident interest. While seated at a round table, she found herself surrounded, and decided to buy them all mint tea.

Her benevolence endeared her to them, and they resumed their normal conversation: discussing their dislike for the foreign tour groups who had begun to enter in the areas this deep into the
mountains. They took offence to their unreachable wealth, the men who wandered around in their shorts, and their uncovered, untouchable women with their patronising behaviour, taking photographs
without permission with their expensive electrical equipment.

Their broken English became a rabble of disagreement.

“These motherfuckers!” shouted one man. “We can’t even speak to them, offer anything.”

Maia was amused. They were disgruntled at not having the opportunity to rip them off. The tourists had plenty of money to spare. For a man here it might mean a week of food for his family. She
slipped away, leaving the men squabbling amongst themselves.

At a dead end, Armand appeared before her.

“I’ve been wondering where you might pop up,” she said.

Maia was delighted to see him. Her jaded nerves craved the excitement he gave, and the fear he instilled in her. She wanted to tell him about the men she had met in the café.

Armand placed his finger over her lips. “Not just now. Come here.” He enveloped her in a kiss.

“Are we going to eat dessert?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

The day had grown dark, and leaden clouds were settling low over the mountains. Armand took her back to the house. For a moment he left and she heard him talking about her as she stood at the
door. From the little she was able to gather, the very man who had attempted to stop them on the road was to help organise the smuggling for a kamikaze run to Spain, so close that a speedboat could
make the shore in fifteen minutes.

Armand went out past her and then back in again, carrying something. Mahmoud was sitting at the table in the courtyard. The two men with rifles were leaning lazily against the gate. Inside she
heard voices, the conversation continued.

“Don’t worry; she’ll go along with it.”

When she entered, she noticed one person missing. “Where has the Historian got to?”

“He has already left, my dear. He sends his regards,” said Mahmoud.

Maia felt a niggling doubt creep in. “What’s going on?”

“We are not eating,” said Mahmoud. Maia was sure a smile was playing upon his lips. There was a shift in the atmosphere. Maia was stricken, and she reached over to Armand, but he
pulled away from her.

He was now bending down over her, and she felt his lips brush her ear. “I find this is the best way to end every meal. We just need your help with something very important.” He took
her arm and began rolling up the sleeve.

“What the hell are you doing Armand?” She tried to snatch back her arm, but he was too strong. She saw his face was grim, and she felt ashamed as he uncovered her before these men.
She could barely believe it. She had never been tempted to touch the stuff and she had promised herself that she never would. Now she found herself being injected with it.

Armand opened the intricately carved box before them. Maia tried to lean forward to look inside it. Armand was furious.

“Get back!” he shouted, grabbing her arm he began to whisper nonsense in her ear. He stroked her hair, gently pushing back her head and kissed her neck. “I’m going to
give you something now. You’ll be doing us a favour.”

Armand was gripping her arm tightly and Mahmoud was sat staring. The ritual that Armand was performing intensified Maia’s sense of anticipation. He took a spoon from the table where the
fruit still lay, mosquitoes beginning to hum around in the evening air. He took a silver lighter from his shirt pocket and cooked the brown drug over the lighter. The viscous liquid dripped onto
the table, and he took out a syringe. Maia flinched, but Armand kept his grip. She wondered if she really understood his intentions, here in this remote mountain village; a forcible experience from
a man she barely knew. The acknowledgment of her own stupidity came crashing down upon her and as she looked at Armand’s face, for the first time she did not admire the ruthlessness in his
smile.

He pulled the belt tightly, drew the mixture up into the needle, and plunged it into a vein that throbbed in her arm. There was a painful shock before bliss took over. She turned over her hands
and saw the blue veins pulsating wildly. Paralysed with terror, she put her hands before her eyes but they fluttered like butterflies. The sensation was like a feather filled pillow pleasantly
smothering her. “What a beautiful nightmare this is,” she murmured.

Armand said nothing. He was taking delicious pleasure in her trembling fear, thrilled with his power to dispense both life, and, if he willed it, death to whom he chose.

She was aware of the men watching her, aware of the emotions that must be flitting across her face. She heard their voices in the background, but she no longer cared. A chasm had opened up and
sucked her in; inside it was pleasurable and warm.

Looking at her peaceful face, Armand suffered no remorse.

“Look at her, she’s oblivious now,” said a voice that Maia did not recognise.

Time slowed down, warmth spread through her body, she was cocooned in an inner temple of delights that left her breathless with pleasure, her mouth was incredibly dry and her limbs became heavy.
She awoke, and saw that she was lying on a low bed in the centre of a white room, with a thin blanket placed over her. The room was bare, and cockroaches scurried across the floor. She felt drowsy
and wakeful, warm and content. Here, as at the Historian’s house, there were carpets and hanging silks. She spent those days in a drug induced haze as the curtains grazed her ankles in the
breeze coming off the mountains. Sunlight streamed dustily through the ragged curtains. Maia fell in and out of sleep, and when she awoke she found that Armand was watching her.

Then he was in her, but now she saw that something about her disgusted him. She tried to stop him. “You hypocrite!” she tried to shout, but no words came. His hatred and fury was
bursting out towards her. Why had it taken her until this point to understand the extent of Armand’s cruelty? Maia watched his detached expression as he pushed himself into her. He gazed off
into the distance above her head; the same blank gaze of the dog copulating in the souk until all control shuddered away from him and the expression slid from his face.

They stayed at the ksaar for several more days. She barely saw Armand at all, and he came only to give her what she now so desperately required. In the narrow bed she stirred,
moaning fretfully. Later on, all that she could recall of that time were the voices and splinters of light that emerged through the high grilled windows at certain times of the day.

When Armand came to fetch her, she could hardly look at him. She slept as he drove back to the city and it was already dark when they entered the walls, driving slowly through the shifting crowd
of onlookers. Out of the window, Maia watched a young man whose tooth was being pulled out. She was horrified. He was sitting nervously on a stool waiting. The tooth puller was standing down
looking at him, grinning sadistically. Maia heard the scream pierce the air and she shuddered and turned away.

Armand watched her. “It may seem crude to you Maia, but it is all most people can afford.”

“Why did you give me that stuff and not take any yourself?”

“Why, didn’t you like it?”

Only to herself would she admit that she did. “You forced me. And I don’t need to depend on it.”

He turned and stroked her face. “But you are so unhappy, Maia, you already do.”

“No!”

“You have no choice.” His voice was harsh. “You need it now. We made you need it.”

So many times he had heard this conversation. The formula was always the same. This reaction he elicited in women had begun to be unutterably boring. He wanted to laugh at Maia, but her
innocence chilled him. She clung to him, and it made him more determined to hurt her. There are women who one has an irresistible desire to worship, and others who demand to be abused. At one time,
he had been an empathetic being, but now he was a man who preyed on others.