Flashback by Jenny Siler Page B

bar was more British than French or Moroccan, dark and richly paneled like the library in some English gentleman’s country estate. A large oil portrait of a serious-looking Scot in full military dress dominated the room, staring down on a crowd tinged with the shabby, desperate whiff of exile.
    From down in the dank and tangled streets of the medina it would be hard to imagine the existence of such a place as Caid’s. It would be difficult to conceive of such blind and easy luxury, the thin rattling of ice in a crystal glass, the fizz of champagne, a woman’s bare shoulders rising like a frail white flower from the black sheath of her dress. There were no beggars in Caid’s, no dirt-smeared children grappling for change, only the pervasive stink of orchids and tobacco, and a nauseating blend of expensive perfumes. Here, I thought, was the fantasy money can buy, the Victorian illusion of a separation between this world and the savage one, these few dozen bodies clustered under the pale archways and dark pleated drapes like exotic orchids in a winter hothouse.
    The staff was all Moroccan and male, as was the piano player, a small round man with a smile as white as his dinner jacket. He was singing a maudlin rendition of “Ne Me Quitte Pas” while several couples pawed each other on the dance floor. One of the waiters, a handsome young man in a neatly tailored red vest and black pants, started over to me, his face brightening as he neared.
    â€œMs. Boyle,” he said warmly when he had reached my table. Tucking his tray under his arm, he leaned in closer, beaming, shaking his head in evident disbelief. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
    Boyle, I thought, Ms. Boyle. I looked up at the man’s delicate, caramel-colored face, searching in vain for something familiar.
    â€œNadim,” he said, motioning to himself.
    I smiled. “Yes, of course, Nadim.”
    He stood there for a moment, an awkward silence passing between us, then made a slight stiff bow. “Your drink,” he said, turning. “I will be right back.”
    I watched him walk to the bar. He said something to the bartender, and they both glanced back at me and nodded; then the bartender pulled a clear bottle from the shelf behind him. I had been here, I thought, shifting my gaze to the piano player and the dark bank of windows beyond him, the panes reflecting the bar’s dim faces. I had been here, and yet I could not remember. The waiter came back carrying a martini glass and laid a small linen bar napkin on the table in front of me.
    â€œWhen was I here last?” I asked.
    Nadim set the glass on the napkin, then straightened up. “It has been a while,” he said, scowling, trying to remember. “A year. Maybe longer. You stayed with us.”
    I looked down at the drink. A single delicate sliver of lemon rested at the bottom of the glass. “Was I alone?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd I was here before that?”
    The waiter drew back now, puzzled. “Of course. Ms. Boyle, is everything all right?”
    â€œAlone?”
    â€œWhy no, with Mr. Haverman.”
    I took a sip of the martini. It was vodka, cold and citrusy, studded with tiny shards of ice. “A friend?” I asked.
    â€œOf course, Madame.”
    â€œWhat does he do, this Mr. Haverman?”
    â€œDo?” Nadim asked, perplexed.
    â€œFor a job.”
    â€œHe’s an American,” the waiter said, as if being an American were a profession in itself. “Like you. A nice man.”
    â€œAnd what does he look like?”
    Nadim shuffled his feet nervously. “Young, like yourself.”
    â€œBrown hair? Blond?”
    â€œBrown,” Nadim said, growing more and more wary of this game by the second.
    A customer several tables away signaled for service, and the waiter gratefully excused himself. I put the drink down and reached up and grasped his wrist. “What else, Nadim?” I