The Heat of Betrayal (15 page)

A stroke of good luck. On a page creased in half, and partially decorated with sketches of . . . oh God, this was too hard to bear . . . her face . . . I opened the fold to read:

I have to find a way of getting Samira back in my life. Robin will freak – to put it mildly. But she has to know the truth sometime . . . though if she found out all the truth I would lose her for ever.

So there it was: the second secret he'd been harbouring for some time now. The other woman. How could I have been so naive? How did I not see this life in parallel that he was having? And how did he meet this Moroccan beauty . . . whom he was desperate to get back into his life?

The other woman. The stuff of cliché.

And a younger woman who lives at:
2350 rue Taha Hussein, Casablanca 4e
.

No phone number. Damn. No email. I flipped open Paul's computer. The strangest feeling hit me, of unease about violating his privacy; yet another part of me simultaneously castigated myself for even allowing guilt to enter the current equation. I didn't know Paul's password for his computer – and it was very much locked. I tried several combinations of possible passwords – I knew that our joint bank account was robinpaultogether. That was his suggestion. Simply typing it made me well up again.

A knock at the door had me scrambling to put everything away, ensuring that the photograph of Paul's beloved was slipped back into the inside pocket of his journal. When I opened the door I found Mira there, holding a tray of mint tea, looking as though she wanted to be anywhere but here. I ushered her inside. As soon as I shut the door she asked where I would like the tea. I pointed to the chest of drawers.

‘You know something, don't you?' I asked.

She looked at me, wide-eyed, as if I had caught her in the act of theft, and shook her head several times. I saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.

‘It's all right, it's all right,' I said.

That's when a shudder ran through her body. Reaching into the pocket of her djellaba she pulled out a $100 bill.

‘I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should have never taken this . . .'

‘Did my husband give this to you?' I asked.

More tears.

‘I told him I didn't want it. But he pushed it into my hand. “This is what I make in two weeks,” I told him. He just shrugged and said it was a little thank-you if he could . . .'

She seemed on the verge of breaking down.

‘You didn't do anything wrong.'

‘Yes, I did. Because I took his money in exchange for showing him a way out of here that avoided going by the front desk.'

‘Did he say why he wanted to sneak off without anyone knowing?'

‘Of course not. He just said that he needed to “vanish without a trace” – his exact words. He gave me all this money after asking me if I knew a hidden passage out of the hotel.'

‘And do you?'

Mira now looked even more perturbed by this question.

‘I should never have helped him.'

‘Did he say he was running off?'

‘All he said was: “Can you find a way for me to disappear without being seen by anyone? And can you keep a secret and not tell anyone that I left?”'

‘So why are you telling me now?'

‘Because you're not anyone. You're his wife. He's done something bad, hasn't he?'

‘Nothing criminal – just hurtful.'

‘I let him escape.'

‘All he was doing was running away from himself.'

Silence. I could see that thought lodging in her consciousness, and leading to more confusion.

‘Did my husband say where he was going?'

She shook her head, then added:

‘I insisted on bandaging his head before he left.'

‘What had he done to himself?'

Pointing to the bed – and asking my permission to sit down – she positioned herself on the edge of the thin mattress, grasping onto it as if it was keeping her afloat.

‘I heard a lot of noise before I came into the room. It sounded like he was throwing himself against the wall. Deliberately smashing his head. When I opened the door I saw him run towards the wall and take the entire blow against his head. The room was madness, as if it had been torn apart. When he collapsed on the ground and I started running out the door to get help, he shouted at me not to. Then he apologised for yelling, and asked if I could find a bandage for his head, again begging me not to mention this to Ahmed or anyone else. So I ran and found a bandage and some hot water. When I got back Monsieur Paul was sitting on the bed, looking as if he might pass out. I cleaned up the wound and wrapped his head in a bandage, as there was a lot of blood. I told him that he had a very large lump on his forehead – already blue-black in colour – and that he should really see a doctor, in case he had a concussion. They can be dangerous
, n'est-ce pas
?'

‘Yes, they can be dangerous. What happened next?'

‘He asked me if there was a way out of the building that would avoid the front desk.'

‘Did he say why he wanted to sneak out?'

‘No.'

‘I suppose he didn't want anyone to see what he'd done to himself.'

‘I wouldn't know. He seemed very . . . unstable. I was worried that, after injuring himself, it mightn't be a good idea for him to go out. But he said he had to see a friend.'

‘Did he tell you the name of the friend?'

‘The man who runs the café. He asked me again if I knew a way out the back of the hotel. When I told him I didn't want to get into any trouble he gave me this . . .'

She brought out the crumpled $100 bill.

‘I was shocked when he insisted on giving me so much. I told him I didn't want his money and that Monsieur Picard would be furious if he discovered that I had helped him sneak away . . . especially with the state of the room. But he told me that Monsieur Picard would get money from you to pay for it – and the one hundred dollars was a gift to me for helping him out and not saying anything. But I really can't keep it.'

She proffered the creased bill, making me wonder if Paul had a stash of American dollars he hadn't told me about.

‘Of course you must keep the money. I will give you an additional three hundred dirhams if you show me the back way out of here.'

‘But the police . . . they will get very angry with me . . . maybe get me into trouble if they find out that I have helped you.'

‘They didn't know you helped Paul. They won't know that you helped me. Anyway, I will be back in an hour or so. What did he take with him?'

‘Take with him? Nothing. Once I had bandaged his head he stood up and said he could walk, and gave me the money. I asked him to wait in the room, then returned when I was certain it was safe for him to go.'

‘Where's that secret way out of here? Will I be able to get back in by myself?'

‘Please,
madame
, if they catch me aiding you . . .'

‘I will take the blame.' I reached into my pocket for the cash and thrust it upon her.

‘You and
Monsieur
are being too generous.'

No, what we are being is very American: thinking that money can buy our way out of everything.
Mira looked at the cash. I could see her hesitating.

‘I will come back in twenty minutes,' she said at last. ‘Ahmed will be on a break then. We won't have much in the way of time, because he only gets fifteen minutes off. But as long as you are ready when I return . . .'

‘I'll be ready.'

Mira nodded and left. I went over and poured out a glass of the ‘Moroccan whisky', but the mint tea was balming nothing tonight. I quickly repacked the backpack with things I didn't want left behind in the room: my laptop, my passport and journal, Paul's diary. I counted all the remaining cash that I had hidden away in a sleeve at the back of my journal; money that I had secreted just in case emergency funds were ever needed. There was close to 8,000 dirhams – around $900. My great hope was that, once I got over to Chez Fouad, I would discover that Paul had hidden himself in some room within the café which the inspector hadn't found. With some coaxing and kindness (and putting aside my maimed pride for a day or so) I could get us back to the States and Paul into the hands of a good shrink – who would help him negotiate the aftermath of my leaving him.

I finished the tea. Resisting the temptation to look further through Paul's diary, I tried to keep the hurt and anxiety that were coursing through me under control.

A light knock on the door. When I opened it Mira put her finger to her lips and motioned for me to follow her. I hoisted the backpack. We both scanned the corridor. It was clear. We crept along like cats. At the end of the hallway was a small door – I had to take off my backpack to squeeze through it – and after that a narrow stairway, the steps crumbling, the walls reeking of damp. Down and down we went, entering some subterranean warren. We reached another door. When Mira opened it the stench of sewage hit my nostrils: vile, overpowering. Reaching into her apron pocket she brought out a candle and a disposable lighter. Holding a flame to the wick she whispered:

‘Don't say a word, don't make any unnecessary noise.'

We were in a low tunnel, with wet muddy walls and a damp dirt floor. The height couldn't have been more than six feet. Paul must have been forced to painfully crouch down all the way along its moist, odorous passageway – further pain after the self-inflicted wound. I sucked in my breath, put my hand over my mouth and used my thumb and forefinger to pinch my nostrils shut. I followed the candle held by Mira. It took us a very long and unsettling five minutes to reach its far end. The walls seemed to be sweating, as trickles of liquefied dirt mingled with insects, worms, and . . . oh God, no . . . a rat that ran right out in front of us and made me gasp. Mira – completely unfazed by the sudden emergence of this filthy rodent – put her finger to her lips. I kept wondering if one wrong move, an accidental bump into its delicate substructure, would cause the entire tunnel to collapse, burying us alive. My horror at being in this tiny passage was magnified many times over by the thought that I had endangered a young girl, no older than fourteen, by insisting she take me along the same escape route as my husband.

We reached a metal door. Mira tried to open it but it wouldn't budge so she rapped on it harshly with her tiny knuckles. After a moment it creaked open. A small hand reached in and pulled Mira through. Then the same hand reappeared. I took it and was hoisted around the door's rusted frame and found myself face to face with the owner of the hand: a kid around fifteen, with a sly, challenging look on his face. He said something to Mira in Arabic. She answered back in a way that made it clear to him that she wasn't impressed with his wise-assed comment. Switching to French she told me:

‘This is Mohammed. He thinks he is my boyfriend. He is not. He wants one hundred dirhams for opening the door and guiding you up to the street. I have told him thirty dirhams. We've agreed fifty. You pay him half now, half when you return.'

Then she barked something at Mohammed, which made him tense for a moment before that flirtatious look returned to his face. Mira saw this and rolled her eyes – and then raised her finger close to his face and said something that, from its tone, sounded half like a warning, half a threat.

‘I've told him if he plays any games with you – like asking for more money – he will have to answer to me,' Mira said. ‘Now I have to go back. Mohammed will wait for you on the street above here. He will guide you back through the tunnel, and get you to the doorway into the hotel. From there you climb three flights and then you will be on the corridor where your room is located. You must assure me that if anyone finds out you disappeared for a few hours . . .'

‘I will never tell them of your involvement in my disappearance. That is a promise.'

‘
Merci, madame
,' she said formally.

‘I can't thank you enough.'

‘There is no need to thank me,
madame
. You and your husband paid me well for my silence.'

With a nod – and a last withering glance at Mohammed – she pulled open the rusted door and disappeared back into the underworld.

Mohammed motioned for me to follow him. We were in some basement, above which was loud music and the sound of rhythmic chopping. When I looked quizzical at this noise, he said in a very rudimentary French:

‘
Mon père est boucher
.'

My father is a butcher.

His establishment was evidently right above us. And he was dismembering something as Mohammed held out his hand for the first instalment of his fee. The 25 dirhams turned over to him, Mohammed then guided me through a basement that looked like a makeshift abattoir. Garbage pails and industrial-sized dumpsters filled with the remains of carcasses. Dried congealed blood on the concrete floor. All the associated stenches that accompany the left-behinds of dead animals. Mohammed smiled when he saw the effect that the aroma of his father's basement had on me. I clamped my hand over my face as we went up the stone steps into the back of the shop. When I emerged from behind the counter, Mohammed's dad – a man around forty with a hangdog face and bad teeth, a bloody hatchet in one hand – looked bemused to see me coming up from the lower depths. He nodded a polite hello, then barked something at Mohammed. When Mohammed barked back – and also rubbed his thumb and forefinger together – his father seemed placated. He even offered me mint tea.

‘
Mille mercis, mais j'ai un rendez-vous
,' I said. But where was I now? Though I knew the souk well after several weeks here, the fact remained that it was so densely structured, so labyrinthine in design, you inevitably found yourself down a dark laneway not encountered before. Just like the alley I was ushered out into. It was full of ominous shadows and no markings to tell me where I might be. Mohammed pointed to his father's shop and said: