Alexandra Singer (9 page)

“The strength and the speed of a camel can be discerned by the legs, the chest, the eyes, the ears and the position of the hump.” He swayed slightly, with the effect of the drink
heavy upon his frame. Mahmoud was enjoying himself. His head began to bob up and down, like a buoy at sea. His audience stamped its feet feverishly and gave shrill cries of delight. Mahmoud’s
thunderously low laughter revealed the enjoyment he got out of life. “I, I too was once a camel trader myself. I know. I know!” He grabbed Maia’s arm with excitement. “If
you ever decide to purchase a camel, I insist that you must take me with you.”

Maia smiled politely. She didn’t know why Mahmoud imagined that she might ever purchase a camel, but she chose to humour him; his delight at being surrounded by the enthusiasm of an
attentive crowd was evident. Maia had passed by the weekly camel market before, and was disgusted by the way in which goats and camels were exchanged while Moroccan merchants gossiped over their
sweet mint tea, unperturbed by the throat slitting and the disembowelments beside them.

“You must look for the teeth. They reflect age. You also have to look for signs of irritation, such as a conflated mouth sac, ferocious slobbering and gurgling.” He wouldn’t be
stopped, although Tariq made a half-hearted attempt to persuade him to come down.

“These signs are most evident during the mating season. Now! No wonder the camel was amorous!” He slapped the back of the man who was hunched over with grief for his wife. “You
should have come to me first. I would have advised you.” A preposterous image came to her of Mahmoud standing by a huge animal, its face snarling and lips bared back to reveal its hideous
tombstone teeth.

Confidently, Mahmoud insisted that it was this lack of knowledge that had led to Pamela’s unfortunate demise, the ignorant European’s inability to discern the true temperament of a
camel.

Maia was amazed at the onlookers as they gathered to listen to Mahmoud’s lecture. Their curious contentment to stand around the bar and watch the father and daughter grieve. She winced at
their cowardice. But neither did she speak.

Armed with her new knowledge about Rupert and Lucy Bambage’s bond, Maia made her way towards the British group. The misery of the father and daughter had lent her a new surge of
confidence, and Maia despised the clientele’s supercilious amusement. Fragments of their conversation drifted over to her:

“I hear the husband bought her an amorous camel.”

“An amorous camel, what is that?”

“But surely you must know. Don’t pretend... ”

“It is the season, they say.”

“They are staying at our riad.”

“I only know them by sight.”

“But why would anybody want one? Such ugly creatures.”

“Yes, they do get so over excited.”

“It’s a tragedy...”

She knew they prided themselves on not staying in another faceless hotel belonging to an international chain. Anonymous luxury was not what they were searching for. In finding the hotel alone,
they believed that they had found the true meaning of adventure. Here they could step out of their usual surroundings, fraternise freely with these ephemeral travellers, people with whom they would
never again meet. Instead, in the faded glory of the Grand Tazi they could wallow in the debauchery of the upstairs corridors, lie beneath the high ceilings amidst the fermented stink of Arabic
coffee and stale food. They were looking for history, colour, spice and the space to breathe away from the competition in their lives at home. Everything that was so luxuriously provided for, they
believed that they had obtained for themselves through their own efforts.

“Whale,” Maia told Lucy Bambage, “I just remembered.
Balene
means whale in French. So sorry about that. Children can be so cruel.” With a detached distaste, Maia
watched the muscles of Lucy Bambage’s face spasm. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” Maia said lightly, and could only laugh as a look of such malevolence was thrown over her. As
she walked away from the group, she heard them all talking in those ridiculous theatrical whispers, “She’s the type of person who will never be happy.”

Maia wondered if what they were saying was true. There
was
a void within her. Somewhere along the line she had made a wrong choice and every further turn had been a mistake. She had never
stopped to wonder where she was. For a long time she had lived passively, and now at certain moments she was prone to remembering her past with regret. She relied on a certain brittleness to
conceal her vulnerability.

She looked back to where Armand had been sitting with the two women, and seeing his seat was empty, found herself wishing that he had not left with them.

She went down into the deserted streets and returned to her room at the Historian’s empty riad. As she opened the front door it struck her for the first time how far she was from home, and
how completely alone. The street was silent and the closed houses formed an impenetrable façade.

In a tangled, clotted mass the people poured into the streets, while above them, a wailing was emitted so beseechingly from the mosque. Everywhere there were hands feeling,
prodding, poking, and always the unrelenting, merciless stares. At first Maia tried to force her way through, but soon found it impossible and allowed herself to be carried through the streets.
Body contact was frequent and unavoidable. Sunlight continually dripped onto her face, as she fumbled through noise.

At the entrance to the medina she broke from the heaving crowd and, having stopped in a moment of weakness, allowed herself to be picked up by an American who unwittingly saved her from a
ferociously overexcited carpet salesman who had been choosing the right moment to pounce.

“Jacopo,” said the tall American, holding out his hand to her. Jacopo believed that he had chosen Maia, but really Maia had been following his filthy panama hat all the way through
the crowd like a beacon. He was insistent on making conversation in that enthusiastic American way, and as they walked together through the chaos, shafts of light fell onto his face through the
wooden slants separating one shop from another. In the direct sunlight, his complexion was pale and waxy.

Jacopo was unbearably inquisitive; he intimidated Maia with his eagerness. “Where are you from? Why did you leave London? What are you doing here?”

Maia behaved as if she could not help but be constantly distracted by the people surrounding them. “Thank you for showing me the way, Jacopo. But now I must go.”

“No! Now we have met, you must stay. Please stay with me!” Jacopo grabbed her arm and pulled her towards him. His gaze was intense and Maia saw the hurt in his glazed, bulging eyes.
As he stepped closer towards her, Maia wrenched her arm from his grip, and began to hurry off. She saw that he wanted to call out to her, but she had not told him her name.

Maia walked at random, negotiating her way through the maze of narrow and twisting streets, the aroma of spices drifting from the stalls. She walked on, the city morphing into a dream, a circus,
with wandering donkeys burdened down with packages and dark Berber women sitting cross legged upon the ground, laying out their wares. Car horns blared and people shouted to one another. The shops
were selling handcrafted items, intricately styled bags, jewelled gowns and shoes, leather book covers and candles.

Through the cobbled, climbing alleyways, she walked in uninterrupted gloom amongst beggars who stretched out their hands to her. Maia felt that she was being followed. Only an occasional ruin
allowed light and space and the odd glimpse of trees. She could not understand where she might be and several times she found herself exactly where she had begun.

A hand grabbed her arm, and Maia went to shrug it off. But as she turned, she saw that it was the man from the Grand Tazi with the photographic eyes.

“Have you been following me?”

“Yes, Maia. You seemed so lost. I couldn’t let you go on like this.”

“How do you know my name?”

“How could I not? The Historian is an associate of mine. And this is a small city. Now let me take you out of here.”

“I can find my own way,” said Maia, but secretly she wanted his help. She didn’t want to appear too eager as she felt the full force of his stern gaze.

“No, you cannot. You have been trying for too long. Come with me.”

Maia acquiesced, and he smiled down at her as he took her arm.

“Where are you taking me?” She was discovering that she enjoyed the sensation of allowing him to take charge. “Armand, tell me now where are you taking me?”

“And how so you know my name?”

“Mahmoud told me.”

He reached down and lifted up her chin. “So you admit you have some interest in me.” He took her hand and led her through the rutted alleyways and out into the waning sunlight. His
grip was firm.

“Where are you taking me? Tell me now!”

“To a friend’s café.”

She laughed. “This sounds familiar. To my friend’s shop, my uncle’s café, a hotel, to find you a taxi. Do you want to try and sell me a carpet as well?”

“Don’t be sarcastic, I want to help you. I cannot allow you to walk on through here alone. It is not safe. Besides, I am intrigued. Why exactly are you here?”

“So I intrigue you?”

“I am curious, I admit it. I want to know what you are doing here at Mihai Farcu’s place.”

“I paint. He needed an assistant. I met an old university Professor who mentioned it to me. That is all.”

He didn’t reply, but looked at her. “So he hasn’t yet involved you in any of his real business?”

“What business is that?”

Again, he didn’t reply.

Maia looked at him. His darkness, a long, straight nose; blue, narrowed, unreadable eyes. He spoke English with only the faintest intonation.

“I wouldn’t have thought you would need company,” she said. “I imagined you would have plenty of friends here.”

“Whatever made you think that?” He grimaced, “I have no friends.”

She had revealed her own emptiness in the blink of an eye. He saw what she wanted and with surprise he realised that he was willing to give it to her, attracted by her helplessness in the face
of the unknown. As they walked, she looked closely at the buildings and the people now entering and leaving them. They arrived at a café, The Parador, which was filled only with men and a
dense fog of smoke. As they entered, the men stared at her with undisguised curiosity.

Through the smoke, Maia caught the pungent smell of strong coffee, and heard an Arabic tune playing on the radio; through the guitars and the beats of the tambourine a soulful female voice broke
through.

Outside, the sun was setting and the sky was turning red as the muezzin was sounding the call to prayer, but these men sat still. Maia thought of how everyone else was rushing around, but these
men failed to move even for prayer. She envied them their contentment.

Armand attracted the attention of the waiter and he walked over to the bar. All eyes in the café were on her and she cringed beneath their gaze. As Armand returned, their eyes quickly
swivelled away. He returned with a carefully carved cream box.

“What’s in there?”

He opened it. “You do play chess, don’t you? You look the type.”

“To be honest with you, chess bores me.”

“It is a game of strategy. I don’t know why, but I assumed you might be good at that.”

“I don’t know why you would think that, my life is actually very disorganised.”

Maia helped him set up the wooden pieces, and Armand took the first move. He placed his pawn forward by two spaces. “Did you know that the pawns symbolise little boys?”

Maia shrugged. “Pawns grow up.”

“But they can never become King.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“It is interesting, no? All the history, the psychology behind the game.”

“Perhaps. But so many cultures have their own ideas. One might surmise anything. But did you know, Armand, that the Queen never became the most powerful figure on the chessboard, as she is
seen today, until chess was introduced to the West? A direct reflection of our differing attitude towards women, do you think?”

He laughed. “Evidently. But don’t start that nonsense with me.”

“It is not nonsense.”

“I am intrigued. Why would you want to stay with the Historian? He is not... a friendly character.”

For a moment, Maia was speechless. The question was utterly unprovoked. “I was not even thinking about him. I was wondering where to move my rook. But, since you ask, his research
interests me.”

“I don’t think that it does. I believe that you will come to despise him. But I also see that working for him, living with him affords you certain... opportunities. I know of his
connections.”

“Of course, you might imagine that. My motives are not purely altruistic. But whose ever are? I came here for my painting, for the sunlight.” He smiled at her to continue. “The
light in London is terrible. The scenes too. The people boring. So ordered. So familiar.”

“Familiar?” he interrupted. “So you came for the exotic, the light. You want to paint decorative pictures of a foreign land.”

“I have never claimed to be original.” Maia wondered at the deep dissonance in his words; his sudden hostility.

“Well, you are French. What are you doing here?”

“I live here. Sometimes.” Armand waved his hand dismissively.

“Fine, you are here on holiday then. If that is all you want me to know.”

“It is all you need to know. Now, why do you like painting so much?”

“You actually do have extraordinarily long eyelashes, Armand.”

“I asked you a question.”

Maia recalled the same discussion she had with the Historian. Evidently him and Armand were of the same opinion.

“Perhaps you will find it difficult finding a woman who is willing to sit for you. You may have to go somewhere less than respectable.” He looked her over, and smiled slowly.
“But I am not sure you are too concerned about that. I know Mahmoud will be able to help you.”

“No!” Maia was sharp. The thought of being in any way further indebted to Mahmoud filled her with dread.