was, or had expected him to serve it to me. He pointed to a line on the paper he handed me, and rather than argue further, I signed my name. Then he left. I stared at the water, watching the insects trying to escape the carafe. One had made it part-way up, clinging desperately to the, side of the glass, while, the other two were moving in a sort of swimming walk, although very slowly, as though the water was molasses. Surely all three would soon perish.
Nobody noticed me, and in an attempt to appear that I was used to these situations, I breathed deeply, sitting back and taking a tiny sip of the Campari. It was bitter and had an almost medicinal quality. I thought the strong flavour would have been lessened by the addition of the fizzy water. But I wasn't sure what to do about the insects.
A shadow fell over the carafe as a woman passed my table. She walked in long, easy strides in flat leather shoes, and wore a rather mannish shirt tucked into a simple skirt. She had her hair bobbed, and it curled on to her nape. She glanced at me, and then away. I watched her go to a table and join four others — another woman and three men. They all greeted her with a burst of enthusiasm.
She looked like the type of woman who would know about hiring a car.
I touched my fingertips to my lips; they were burning from the Campari. I rose from my chair and went to the group, aware, as I grew close, that they had turned to watch me. I stumbled, slightly, on the heavy carpet in the high-ceilinged room, lit by long rays of light from the arched windows. A silence fell as I stood to one side of the raw-boned woman.
'Excuse me,' I said.
'Yes?' There was something slightly unfriendly in her manner. She openly studied my hair and my face, her eyes lingering on the scar on my cheek. I fought not to raise my palm to cover it.
'I . . . I'm newly arrived in Tangier. Just a few hours ago, in fact. And I'm in need of hiring a car. I thought perhaps you could help.'
As I spoke, her demeanour changed. 'Well, hello,' she said, extending her hand as if we were men. I responded, putting my hand in hers; it was big boned and strong. She squeezed my fingers in a firm grip, making my knuckles ache as she gave my hand one abrupt shake and then let it go. 'Elizabeth Pandy,' she said, adding, 'from Newport, Maine. And you?'
'I'm Sidonie O'Shea.'
'O'Shea. Hmmmm. Of the Boston O'Sheas? I knew old Robbie. And his daughter Piper.'
'No. No,' I repeated, shaking my head. 'I'm from Albany.' I stuttered on the last word, aware they were all watching me. My forehead felt damp.
Now she smiled. She had a short upper lip, and a great deal of her gum showed. 'Well. New York. I wouldn't have—' She stopped herself. 'Look, when I first saw you I thought you were French. You—' She stopped for the second time.
I knew why she had made this distinction. But the way she spoke — her tone, especially — made me realise that it might be better not to tell her about my mother's background.
'Join us, why don't you, and have a drink.'
'Oh, I already have one, thank you. A . . .' I looked back at my table.'A Campari.' Again I touched my stinging lips. 'Although I didn't order it.'
She nodded in a knowing way. 'I don't know why these bloody boys think that every foreigner in Tangier drinks Campari. Come now, and have a proper drink with us.'
She raised her chin at one of the men, who immediately stood and pulled a chair from the next table in beside hers. Elizabeth Pandy was unmistakably a woman used to telling others what to do.
'I . . .' I looked behind me, at the doorway of the lounge. How could I leave without appearing impolite? But these confident men and women made me so uncomfortable, so aware that my life was nothing like theirs. That I didn't fit in. 'I really . . . I'm hoping to hire a car, as quickly as possible. And a driver, of course. I was wondering if you knew how I could go about this. I need to get to Marrakesh. I was told . . .' I thought of the American, 'that it would
Nobody noticed me, and in an attempt to appear that I was used to these situations, I breathed deeply, sitting back and taking a tiny sip of the Campari. It was bitter and had an almost medicinal quality. I thought the strong flavour would have been lessened by the addition of the fizzy water. But I wasn't sure what to do about the insects.
A shadow fell over the carafe as a woman passed my table. She walked in long, easy strides in flat leather shoes, and wore a rather mannish shirt tucked into a simple skirt. She had her hair bobbed, and it curled on to her nape. She glanced at me, and then away. I watched her go to a table and join four others — another woman and three men. They all greeted her with a burst of enthusiasm.
She looked like the type of woman who would know about hiring a car.
I touched my fingertips to my lips; they were burning from the Campari. I rose from my chair and went to the group, aware, as I grew close, that they had turned to watch me. I stumbled, slightly, on the heavy carpet in the high-ceilinged room, lit by long rays of light from the arched windows. A silence fell as I stood to one side of the raw-boned woman.
'Excuse me,' I said.
'Yes?' There was something slightly unfriendly in her manner. She openly studied my hair and my face, her eyes lingering on the scar on my cheek. I fought not to raise my palm to cover it.
'I . . . I'm newly arrived in Tangier. Just a few hours ago, in fact. And I'm in need of hiring a car. I thought perhaps you could help.'
As I spoke, her demeanour changed. 'Well, hello,' she said, extending her hand as if we were men. I responded, putting my hand in hers; it was big boned and strong. She squeezed my fingers in a firm grip, making my knuckles ache as she gave my hand one abrupt shake and then let it go. 'Elizabeth Pandy,' she said, adding, 'from Newport, Maine. And you?'
'I'm Sidonie O'Shea.'
'O'Shea. Hmmmm. Of the Boston O'Sheas? I knew old Robbie. And his daughter Piper.'
'No. No,' I repeated, shaking my head. 'I'm from Albany.' I stuttered on the last word, aware they were all watching me. My forehead felt damp.
Now she smiled. She had a short upper lip, and a great deal of her gum showed. 'Well. New York. I wouldn't have—' She stopped herself. 'Look, when I first saw you I thought you were French. You—' She stopped for the second time.
I knew why she had made this distinction. But the way she spoke — her tone, especially — made me realise that it might be better not to tell her about my mother's background.
'Join us, why don't you, and have a drink.'
'Oh, I already have one, thank you. A . . .' I looked back at my table.'A Campari.' Again I touched my stinging lips. 'Although I didn't order it.'
She nodded in a knowing way. 'I don't know why these bloody boys think that every foreigner in Tangier drinks Campari. Come now, and have a proper drink with us.'
She raised her chin at one of the men, who immediately stood and pulled a chair from the next table in beside hers. Elizabeth Pandy was unmistakably a woman used to telling others what to do.
'I . . .' I looked behind me, at the doorway of the lounge. How could I leave without appearing impolite? But these confident men and women made me so uncomfortable, so aware that my life was nothing like theirs. That I didn't fit in. 'I really . . . I'm hoping to hire a car, as quickly as possible. And a driver, of course. I was wondering if you knew how I could go about this. I need to get to Marrakesh. I was told . . .' I thought of the American, 'that it would
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