Alexandra Singer (24 page)

Armand played his cards close to his chest. He was renowned for his utter inability to trust. He never revealed much about himself because he believed that it would give people ammunition
against him. He was always careful of being watched, or of having his calls intercepted, as a suspicious, residential foreigner.

It amused Armand to think that at this event of Florian’s, he would be mingling with the officials and elite who were so dependent on men like him and Florian. For both their illegal
income which buoyed up the city, and their own wealth, as well as their own private pleasures.

Armand stared blankly at the empty road as Palmeraie rose up ahead of him. Throwing his cigarette out of the window, he thought about Maia. She had got what she had come searching for, and now
she was a casualty. What a perfect example of supply and demand.

At that moment, Maia was wandering aimlessly through the party, past the questionable figures and their debauched characters. She blundered through, passing their gargoyle like
faces, the sickly scent of their perfumes. The masque swirled on. Maia caught the eye of a man and he grinned at her, flashing his perfect white teeth and she looked away. Through tall marble
columns, she entered a maze of corridors, which led into rambling, ruined, empty rooms lit by large, white candles. In the centre of a small square stood a statue, a Priapus on a plinth. This
Priapus was carved out of marble; it too was perfectly proportioned and grotesque in member. As she looked up, its smile leered down horribly.

At the far end of Florian’s vast garden, grass covered the steps going down to the pool, around which strange statues were placed in a bizarre mix of tastelessness. Myriad lights reflected
on the shallow water of the pool, so shallow that it was almost empty, and the soft spheres of the lanterns were illuminated as the aroma of oranges lingered delicately in the air. Every so often,
the moon vanished behind the clouds.

Maia found herself stuck with Konstantin in a booth. He was moaning about his decrepit lodgings, the general hopelessness of his life. She could no longer stand him, and she stared at the
blurred outlines of the passing figures.

“Have you seen the exhibition yet?”

“No, Konstantin, I’ve been exploring the house. It’s huge. It reminds me of a Roman villa.”

Konstantin repeated as if from a textbook. “The basic riad floor plan is plain and geometrically precise, consisting of rooms surrounding a central courtyard. It is a Roman villa designed
to meet African climatic conditions, the riad provides shade and shelter from the African heat and the central courtyard is a peaceful oasis lush with plants and surrounded by fountains and
pools.”

“Is that what you tell the tourists, Konstantin?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said and began to sob.

Maia felt only irritation. A coldness overtook her. “What is it now, Konstantin?”

“I love, and I am not loved.”

“Who is it?”

“I hate him!” he said vehemently, clutching his fists together. “You know who.”

Already she knew who it was. But she said, “I don’t know, Konstantin. Let’s look around.”

“He is here! I know it! Don’t lie to me. I hate him!”

“Why don’t you let him go, Konstantin? You don’t hate him.”

“I do, I do!” he cried out, like a child. “I know he is here with Armand!”

He rounded on her, and hissed, “Your inability to confront him is inexplicable.”

Maia looked at Konstantin; his face was horribly contorted as if a different man stood before her. She stood, abruptly, and walked along the edge of the pool, heading for the exhibition.

A series of photographs was being shown in the crumbling garden, each one as similar and as insipid as the last. Maia thought they were rather banal. The feted photographer was Blake Cram, who
had been lauded with compliments for his work for several American magazines. He was renowned for his use of light and focus. If this exhibition was the purpose of the party, as Florian had
claimed, then why, she wondered, were they being exhibited far away in his underground garden? Blake Cram was nowhere to be seen.

Stands were placed around the periphery of the garden on which photographs were perched. The women in the photos stared blankly back at her, or their eyes were filled with pain. Not one of them
exuded joy.

As the Historian approached, Maia looked around for a place, for someone to escape to. But she resolved herself, and her resentment made her cold, hard and angry. “I saw Konstantin just
now.”

“What, here?”

“I am sorry to disappoint you. No. Not here. Outside, into the garden.”

“I must find him,” said the Historian.

“He is very upset with you. What’s going on?”

“I knew he would react like this.”

“Like what? You have done something to him too! What have you done?”

He was silent and walked away from her, leaving her rooted to the spot. Only when he had disappeared around the corner did she hear him laugh.

“Like waxworks,” said a low voice in her ear.

Maia turned to look at Armand.

“The people, not just the photos.”

“Why is Florian showing them out here, not at the party?”

“Florian told me he likes the subterranean atmosphere for people to view the photographs. What he really means is that he doesn’t like to detract attention from Florian.”

“Abracadabra!” A scrawny, sly faced man jumped out in front of them. “A beautiful couple!” he shouted, and then there was a bright flash before Maia could cover her
face.

“Get him to stop it!” yelled Maia before she realised.

“Don’t be so ridiculous.”

The man didn’t acknowledge her. “Your girlfriend is very drunk.”

“Ignore her. I’m Armand.”

“Rodger.” The two men shook hands and Florian rushed over.

“Are you enjoying yourselves? Isn’t my house fabulous? Don’t you love the photographs?”

“Not really,” Maia interrupted. “I don’t know why you think they are so good.”

“Shut up.” Armand shoved her in the small of her back and Florian looked down his nose at her, as if staring at some sort of strange curiosity.

“Blake Cram has plenty of other talents as well as photography,” Florian lisped.

“I can’t wait to find out what they are.”

“I’m afraid you can’t tonight Maia. He had to fly back to New York for a shoot.”

“Now that is a shame. I would have loved to have met him.”

“Blake Cram has a talent for revealing things as they are, for enlightening us about personal situations.”

Maia looked at a series of photographs, of a well dressed women washing at a kitchen sink whilst holding a baby. There was nothing original there. Maia drank some more, and the photographs
blurred before her eyes.

“The images are not to be taken at face value,” Florian was saying. “Space creates a gap, a dislocation between how we are meant to view these photographs and what they
actually represent.”

The nature of the photographs was ambivalent. Maia resented the fact that the women in the photos were made to look so available for consumption. They should have been lounging as if they were
there of their own choice, not only at Blake Cram’s demand. Maia did, however, admire how the artist had managed to capture the sky, a hint of freedom, a clear blue with a few whispers of
clouds. Through the high windows, the sky filtered open and limitless, and the harsh geometrical tiles on the walls were dappled with sunlight, as if reflecting the fissures and gaps available to
those women who might escape.

“Look at these photos!” Florian screeched. “When we stalk the streets for clientele, the person is conditioned by social class, job, culture and nationality. There are several
personas we use to suit different occasions. Yet we adopt a general persona based on our own superior functional type. Don’t deny it. We all do it!” People began to look uncomfortable
and they began murmuring amongst themselves again.

Maia was curious, “What do you mean, Florian?’

“It is obvious! These things condition the persona. We can use several different personas to suit our own superior functional type, like thinking – whatever comes easiest to
us.”

“But... ”

“You all know, for example, that the unconscious side of the persona is the soul image, which is represented by the opposite gender of the individual.”

Here, Florian turned and gave her an unwavering stare. Maia strongly suspected that Florian did not much care for the opposite sex. She knew the theory about soul image; how it is an archetype,
which can represent the whole of the unconscious, and is modified by one’s actual experience of the opposite sex. In her blurry state of mind, she relished the idea of a debate.

“Do you identify with the anima, Florian?” She smiled at him, but he understood her underlying inference, that the complete identification with the anima can lead to effeminate
homosexuality.

Florian ignored Maia’s question, and continued with his monologue.

“Listen to me, don’t you understand? Here we are all the same! Here we can be whatever we wish! The persona is a theatre mask. It is the face we wear for society. It is conditioned
by many factors, and we adopt varying personas for different situations... ”

Now, Florian pointed his finger directly at Maia.

“But note, guests, friends, the danger is identifying totally with the persona, being nothing but the role you play. And what role do you play, Maia? What is your role? I know who all
these people are, but I don’t know you. Who are you?” His voice was getting louder, until it was almost a scream.

“Calm down, Florian, you’re wearing yourself out,” said Paola, who had wondered over at the sound of raised voices.

“Now, the perfect persona can lead to a one sided personality. You are alienated, Maia. You are afraid of dropping the mask and being revealed as hollow. You are a mask. A mask!” He
reached for her face and flung himself upon her, shrieking, “I want to rip off your mask, Maia. Let me rip it off!”

Armand grabbed him and tore him away from her. “Take him away. He’s completely out of it.”

“You drop your mask!” For a moment he seemed calm, and then he began shouting again. “The magic hour is approaching!”

“What the hell is he shouting about now?” asked Armand.

Paola shrugged. “He’s just very exhausted.”

Armand was laughing at his hysterics. “Like I said, waxworks. Let’s get away from them.” Armand took Maia’s arm and they walked until they were alone. Her heart beat
frantically against her breast. In the corridor they passed Florian’s cat, and without thinking she reached out and stroked it’s soft white coat. But suddenly it’s paw lashed out,
and she realised she’d been scratched.

“Come with me, I’ll clean you up.”

Maia looked up at him. “I don’t want to come with you.” Instinctively she shrank away from him. He scared and revolted her at the same time.

Armand ignore her dramatics, and lead her through the crowd.

Maia tried to look at Armand properly, but she couldn’t focus. “What do you know about all these people Armand?”

Armand was silent for a moment. “You know he was struck off for irregular experiments in Amsterdam?”

“Florian?”

“Yes, of course. Who else? He is completely obsessed by the persona of the soul image, and the face we wear for society. You know he used to be a rent-boy himself? He had a powerful mentor
here. And he thinks his cat used to be one too.”

“His cat Mabouche? Florian is completely cracked.”

Armand sat down beside her. “Oh, he appears so. But he cultivates the image. He is more astute than he wants others to believe. It suits him for people to think he’s mad. He is
actually quite logical.”

He went to kiss her, but her lips were now set and hard against him and she pushed him away. But he kissed her anyway; he would decide when things started, and when they would end. A rush of
sobs choked her, and he looked at her crumpled face.

“Control yourself.”

“What do you want with me? Why won’t you leave me alone?”

Armand smirked. “You never really wanted to be left alone. You really are disappointed, and that is amusing.” He stroked her face. “You know, you are really quite sweet. But
you like the idea of this older eccentric rambling around his renovated riad, showing photographic exhibitions, the bar you can go to every night and hear stories. It is our real life, not just
entertainment for you. This ridiculous impression you have of expatriate life here can’t be allowed to continue.”

“What impression?”

“That we are all here to amuse you. Characters that you can paint. Your mistaken view of the women here. Your preconceptions. This extended holiday you’re having. Go home.”

“I can’t. I may never go home.”

“But you must. You cannot stay here.”

“I want to be in peace. I like this life.”

“You will never belong here. Life here will always be impenetrable to you, for however long you stay. You want to be known for your painting. Here you will only achieve
obscurity.”

“I don’t want that life.”

“You are not in peace here and you never will be.”

“You set me on this path!”

“I never forced you to continue on it.”

“I never had a choice!”

“But you did. You wanted everything we have shown you.”

“I have nothing now to go back to.”

“And how is that our responsibility?”

She looked at the rough face, the powerful body. She took out from her small evening bag a verdant green trinket of a fertile green and held it up to the light. With her slim fingers, she
steadily adjusted the tantalising vessel of her craving, and taking a small length of leather from the bag, unwound and tied it neatly around her arm. Taking up the syringe, she thrust it in, and
sank back onto the tiles.

Maia awoke several hours later, Armand was long gone. Her head was draped over the toilet seat and her arm was bleeding, her dress was undone. It was all unnaturally familiar to her.

She walked along the corridor until she heard discrete voices muttering through a half open door.

“I hope Tangier went well. For all our benefit,” she heard the Historian say.