Alexandra Singer (7 page)

One evening she was distracted and failed to save his work on time before there was a disastrous power cut. She swore loudly, and as she looked up she saw Ina was staring straight at her. Their
eyes met and Maia refused to take her gaze away. After a few moments, the old woman withdrew, leaving Maia with an unpleasant sensation of having been spied upon.

She looked into the shadows moving in the courtyard, at a bit of inky sky, and at the other side of the house, which was turning black in the darkness. Through the shutters she could almost
smell the heat smouldering in the night and then somewhere, not far off; she could hear the rising tremolo of a lute. Maia began to ache again for excitement. She knew that out there in the streets
below there was a party and fascinating, entertaining people, but she didn’t know how she would find it and in any case she was tied in here now. In the isolation of her self-sufficiency, her
longing for privacy and retirement from life was now morphing into loneliness.

With no-one to amuse her, Maia painted. The houses, the city itself from different angles and those inhabitants whom she was able to persuade to sit for her. She soon found the courage to enter
cafés and introduce herself to the regulars, to explain that she was a painter who needed models she could paint in public, in all the mundane situations of daily life. But the men were all
inappropriately keen, and disillusion showed on their faces when once they had agreed she began to take out her pens and paints, rather than inviting them to pose privately.

Inevitably, the men would begin to make salacious advances towards her, but they were always in public and as soon as this began, Maia made clear her lack of interest. She passed the afternoons
with an interchangeable series of men in cafés, with passing tourists and people doing up their riads in the old medina, and soon she had amassed a small number of acquaintances. But the
people she met were always on the cusp of leaving, and the lack of women in the midst of the crowds of local men began to concern her.

Too often, she saw that women were neither seen nor heard, and her curiosity about them grew. She saw that here women were allowed to exist only on the periphery of life, and only in the roles
allocated to them, and even those she saw in the streets were often silent and covered, or hovering on the rooftops of the uniformly plain stone houses which lined the labyrinthine alleys.

Maia prepared her canvas in white, so that the material glowed through with the illusion of dazzling sunlight, and the light and colours splintered the surface and created an uneven perception
for the viewer, in an imitation of the real life of the city. Her use of colour was so imaginative and exuberant that she lost hours in experimentation at sunset exploring all the shades of red and
pink, vivid hues of terracotta, salmon and red earthstone. When she went out onto the roof to paint, Maia tried to forget the objects which stood before her, and she saw only shapes, lines and
curves, rather than houses, trees, the small, drab black clad figure of a woman. As she painted she increased her sense of perspective and an understanding of at least the architecture of the city.
But it was a true appreciation of the character of the inhabitants of the city, which still eluded her.

Maia wanted to grasp the true character of the inhabitants. She watched the women, waiting for an opportunity to see behind their doors into their lives. Sometimes she brushed past a woman in
the street; she smelt her scent, looked at the worries etched upon her face, but Maia knew that she would never know her. She was aware that while the women were hidden from her, the city would not
reveal its secrets, however hard she tried to immerse herself.

Maia was sitting at the Historian’s dark wooden desk, translating a lengthy correspondence between his French agent and London publisher, when the telephone rang shrilly
and knocked her out of concentration. The Historian hardly ever received telephone calls.

“Bonjour, ma petite!” bellowed the man at the end of the line. Immediately Maia realised it was Mahmoud. His voice was even more robust than at their first meeting at the Grand
Tazi.

“Hello, Mahmoud. I’m afraid that the Historian is away in Europe.”

“Really? Do you imagine that I am not aware of where Mihai is, child? I know all his movements. I also know that you have nobody here and I hate to think of you sitting there all alone in
the house and well... all cold and lonely.”

“I am not cold, Mahmoud.”

“Yes, yes, so you say. That is by the bye. Still, too much time alone for a young lady. Come back to my hotel and you can meet all my regulars. You come at once! Straight away! I give you
very nice time.” Then he thought for a moment. “No – there is another place. A bar. Ask at the desk.”

“I have a lot to do for the Historian before he returns, Mahmoud.”

“Mihai won’t mind.”

“I think, in fact, that he will. He is expecting this work to be finished.”

“But you must have some enjoyment too, my dear. That is what you come for, no, a new life?”

For a moment, Maia remained silent. “Well, not only that.”

“You are too alone. It is never good for a young girl to be too alone.”

“I am happy.”

“As you say, my dear, as you say. Come this afternoon, this evening, whenever you wish. Consider this an invite, and you know, one must be invited to visit the bar at the Grand
Tazi,” said Mahmoud proudly, with an unmistakable tinge of snobbery.

“I’m not sure... ” She was nervous to meet new people, and beginning to enjoy her reclusive lifestyle.

“But of course you will come!” It was clear that Mahmoud was of a persistent nature.

“I will come this evening,” said Maia, accepting her fate. There was to be no escape, no more revelling in her self imposed loneliness.

“You need to see people,” said Mahmoud in a softer voice.

She could almost imagine him saying he had her best interests at heart. He was so convincing that for a moment Maia forgot that the man barely knew her.

“Well, that is settled then! Make sure that you bring a bathing suit,” said Mahmoud, and the click on the line signalled the call was over.

Maia decided to take the least revealing bathing suit she could find. She didn’t know that the Grand Tazi possessed a private pool, but then, thought Maia, why should she? The Historian
had not mentioned it to her. A thought struck her; perhaps the Historian would not be pleased if she were to visit the Grand Tazi. He might consider it an intrusion into the life that he had built
for himself, a life about which he was so secretive. Maia decided to ignore these doubts. She was beginning to resent the Historian; surely in his absence she could visit the Grand Tazi, if she had
been invited. The Historian had left her here, with piles of his work, leaving all of his affairs in disarray, publishers hounding him to return advances, and she, alone in the city. A sudden fury
overtook her; she began to forget how she had arrived here searching for peace and a tranquility in which to concentrate upon her art; she now resolved to immerse herself again in the world.

Going down into the street, Maia found herself intrigued by Mahmoud’s invitation. She was apprehensive at the prospect of entering his private bar and meeting his ‘regulars’.
Weaving her way through the crowds, all that she was able to hear were the angry voices of shouting men and women and the wail of an ambulance. She could see a mass of people peering round several
police cars, with a camel at the centre of the chaos. Resisting any fruitless attempt at seeing anything further, Maia tore herself from the growing crowd, and continued on her way to the Grand
Tazi.

Arriving at the hotel, Maia went through the empty foyer until she heard a voice frenetically calling her back. A woman was standing at the desk sporting a visibly black moustache that lined her
upper lip. Maia was unable to tear her eyes away; the thing wriggled. The woman appraised her from top to bottom.

“I have been invited by Mahmoud. He knows I am coming. Where is the pool and bar?” Past events had disposed Maia to take a harsh position towards other women.

“It is a long, long way away,” the woman said mysteriously. She then spoilt the effect by smirking widely.

“Your boss has invited me.” Maia felt herself go pale with hostility. The woman relented, and she bowed low, with a false sycophancy.

“
Par ici, mademoiselle,
” she said, pointing to a half open door in the corner of the foyer.

Maia crouched slightly and passed through the windowless, smoky corridor. Crumbling and peculiarly low, the few feet she took seemed endless, until she emerged into the sun.

A gloomy sight greeted Maia; a dried up old courtyard filled with weeds, a wall at the far end peeling with paint, and a small, square shaped pool with sea monsters carved of stone malevolently
peering down into the water. The tangled snake hair of Medusa trailed along the ground, dripping into the pool and twisting round the sides. The statue’s nostrils flared angrily at the
guests. By the other side of the courtyard, only a few metres away from the pool, the bar curved softly, quietly admonishing the ostentation of the sea monsters. Beside the small pool there lay
scattered small tables and cushions. Over the bar towered an enormous fig tree providing shade in the heat, and the pool itself was immaculately tiled with a pale blue, which lent the water an
alluring glow in the fading light. The place had a certain louche charm, but the weeds beside the pool were overgrown and had begun to fall into it, so that shards of green leaves fluttered across
the water’s surface.

Maia saw that upon coming out into the open she had almost walked into two large Arabs who lay sprawled upon the threadbare chairs placed on the stone steps leading down to the bar, their square
grooved faces leathery and as contented as baboons in the afternoon shade. The two men scrutinised her as she began to step down, but they let her go. Two gargoyles at the entrance, thought Maia,
to add to Mahmoud’s collection.

Maia took no notice of the men. It was obvious how used they were to staring so openly at the women who passed through the doors. The longer Maia spent in that city, the easier she was finding
the constant scrutiny.

At the bar, Maia saw Tariq, the receptionist from the previous day, dressed only in a pair of voluminous swimming trunks. He was standing there looking around with a vague expression on his
pitted face. The bar itself was an exhibition of Mahmoud’s appetite for outlandish decoration, with swathes of ragged curtains surrounding the curved marble bar, tinged with a grey
residue.

A male guest, stretching back his tawny limbs in the sun, looked at her and laughed, raising his half empty glass in a sarcastic gesture. The man appeared to be the companion of a bulbous
couple; the woman sat humming tunelessly, and the man with extraordinarily pasty skin, his hand placed over his forehead in a dramatic gesture of fainting. He exuded a fat feminine air, and
immediately Maia could tell they were all British.

Tariq interrupted her thoughts, “May I offer you a drink, Maia?”

“You know my name?”

“Of course I know your name! It is my job. Mahmoud has been expecting you.”

“No drink yet, thank you. Are you not working on reception tonight?”

“I do all here,” he said proudly. “I am Tariq.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. All, all. All you need, I get you.” Unnecessarily, he bowed. It was embarrassing. The group across the pool was watching her intently.

“Just for the moment, Tariq, I think I’ll take a dip.”

All afternoon the city had been sweating and it was still unbearably hot, despite the breeze that was starting up. The promise of cool water was alluring. Maia went over and undressed. A young,
slim man of Latin origin was sitting at the centre of a small trio, regarding her attentively. Glancing over at the group by the bar, she saw that they were all now sitting up, looking directly at
her.

The effeminate young man waved at her, and then he stretched back in his chair and yawned horribly, more like a lizard than a man. From the corner of her eye, Maia saw Mahmoud come out to sit at
the bar, but he did not approach her. He waved his hand in greeting and fell into conversation with a nearby group.

Maia sat perched on the edge of the pool, dangling her legs. As the sun descended she lowered herself in and sank beneath the water. Above her head, she watched bubbles ripple and rise to the
surface where, as if in slow motion shadowy figures were moving about. When she emerged, Maia opened her eyes to find Mahmoud staring down at her, offering a towel.

She hoisted herself out of the pool and took the towel from him, looking around at the people by the bar.

“You are still in a trance, my dear,” smiled Mahmoud indulgently.

“The water was lovely. Thank you for inviting me.” He must have taken that as encouragement, for he took the towel from her, and began to wrap it around her shoulders. “No, no
Mahmoud. Please don’t.”

He stroked her wet hair off her face and Maia masked the shudder she felt at his touch.

He frowned at her, then beamed. He took a step back. “Do not fear me, Maia. I will show you where you can change.” He steered her with his large hand firm upon her shoulders. More
guests had begun to congregate at the bar, and they muttered amongst themselves in different languages. Iron wrought lanterns had been lit and candles flickered. The bar warped and swelled with
sparkling voices, the loosening of inhibitions, the sharp clink of ice in glasses, and the subtle, trembling rhythm of the guitars.

As Maia walked past the bar, she felt glaring eyes upon her. As she moved forward, her path was blocked by a tall man.

“Please, move for this lady,” smiled Mahmoud, muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

“Of course Mahmoud,” the man said, and allowed her through. In the moments he stood before her she saw that the man’s features were at once virile and weak, and in his eyes,
which were a pale light blue, she saw instantly that here was a man capable of great deception. But that failed to stop her being drawn to him; his eyes were searching, his skin was bronzed and his
hair, an intense dark brown, swept about his eyes in an elegantly long fringe that he wore utterly without irony. His chin was hard and strong and two creases grooved into both sides of his mouth.
He was tall and lean, wore an expensive dark shirt and trousers, without adornments. He looked as if he might be going anywhere in the world, from one second to the next. Maia was drawn to this
man, while at the same time repelled by him.