be best to first get to Rabat.'
Elizabeth Pandy dismissed my question with a wave of her hand. 'Marrakesh? Don't be silly. I'm sure there's nothing to see there. Come, now,' she demanded, 'do have a drink. Marcus, order Miss O'Shea a whisky sour. Isn't it lovely being away from the tedium of Prohibition back home? All that silly clandestine behaviour. So tiresome.'
There seemed no alternative without appearing horribly rude to Miss — or was it Mrs? — Pandy. As I manoeuvred myself into the chair, she glanced down. 'Have you turned your ankle on the terrible streets here? I noticed you limping heavily.'
'No,' I said. 'No, I haven't. It's . . .' I stopped, unsure of how to continue.
'Well, never mind, sit down and take a load off. And look, here's your drink.'
Elizabeth Pandy introduced me to the men and one woman, although the only name I remembered was Marcus. His hair was slicked back with shining oil, and was an artificial shade of dark red. All of them, including Elizabeth, were in various stages of intoxication, and it appeared, from their casualness with each other, that this was not an unusual circumstance..
One of the men asked me which room I'd been given, and the other woman — wearing a short pleated skirt and striped jersey, her hair in the same style as Elizabeth's — interrupted him, asking in a demanding voice how long I was planning on staying, but I had no time to answer before the conversation swung away from me. A glass was set in front of me; upon trying it I decided it was more pleasurable than the Campari, and occasionally took a very small sip.
The talk and laughter grew louder, and after a while it took on the quality of quacking, punctuated by animal roars. My temples throbbed and finally, when my glass was empty, I stood to leave.
The alcohol had gone to my head; I wasn't used to it, and for a moment I felt as though l were back on the sea, swaying the slightest and bracing my legs.
Elizabeth grabbed my wrist. 'Don't go. We haven't learned anything about you yet. Always good to have new blood from home,' she said, her mouth opening in a soundless laugh, and I thought of the excitable yawning of some large African beast.
I sat down again, partly because of Elizabeth's tugging on my wrist, and partly because I feared I might topple over.
'Well?' she demanded. 'What has brought you to Tangier? Nobody comes to Tangier without a story.' Again, the open mouth. A string of saliva stretched between her eyetooth and a bottom tooth. The others laughed as well, too loud, too loud.
'Story?' I repeated, sudden panic coming over me as all their eyes turned in my direction.
'Yes, yes,' Marcus encouraged. 'What's your story, then, Mrs O'Malley?'
'It's O'Shea. And Miss. Miss O'Shea,' I told him.
He barely appeared to notice the correction. 'Come, then. What brings you to Tangier?'
I looked at him, and then back at Elizabeth. The other faces receded into pale ovals and inverted triangles. 'I'm going to Marrakesh.'
'I've told you, my dear, it's nonsense. No point going way down there. Stay up here; Tangier is rather mongrel at the moment, but it certainly has its intrigue. Or at least go to Casablanca,' Elizabeth said. 'Now Marrakesh, well, it's such an outpost. Nothing of interest, I'm sure,' she said again. 'Although who was it — Matisse, I believe — who worked there some years back? And there are a few odd artist types — painters and writers and so on — who seem to find inspiration away from civilisation. But on the whole, Tangier has much more to offer in terms of entertainment. There are all sorts — as well as being into all types of things —'
Here she was interrupted by someone's coy murmur: 'What with it being so ungoverned.'
The others joined in, a rumbling chorus of agreement.
'No. I must. I'm . . .' I stopped. In the momentary silence Marcus snapped his fingers, and a boy with a tray appeared. Marcus whispered into his ear. 'I'm looking for someone. In Marrakesh,' I said, unnecessarily.
'Ah. I
Elizabeth Pandy dismissed my question with a wave of her hand. 'Marrakesh? Don't be silly. I'm sure there's nothing to see there. Come, now,' she demanded, 'do have a drink. Marcus, order Miss O'Shea a whisky sour. Isn't it lovely being away from the tedium of Prohibition back home? All that silly clandestine behaviour. So tiresome.'
There seemed no alternative without appearing horribly rude to Miss — or was it Mrs? — Pandy. As I manoeuvred myself into the chair, she glanced down. 'Have you turned your ankle on the terrible streets here? I noticed you limping heavily.'
'No,' I said. 'No, I haven't. It's . . .' I stopped, unsure of how to continue.
'Well, never mind, sit down and take a load off. And look, here's your drink.'
Elizabeth Pandy introduced me to the men and one woman, although the only name I remembered was Marcus. His hair was slicked back with shining oil, and was an artificial shade of dark red. All of them, including Elizabeth, were in various stages of intoxication, and it appeared, from their casualness with each other, that this was not an unusual circumstance..
One of the men asked me which room I'd been given, and the other woman — wearing a short pleated skirt and striped jersey, her hair in the same style as Elizabeth's — interrupted him, asking in a demanding voice how long I was planning on staying, but I had no time to answer before the conversation swung away from me. A glass was set in front of me; upon trying it I decided it was more pleasurable than the Campari, and occasionally took a very small sip.
The talk and laughter grew louder, and after a while it took on the quality of quacking, punctuated by animal roars. My temples throbbed and finally, when my glass was empty, I stood to leave.
The alcohol had gone to my head; I wasn't used to it, and for a moment I felt as though l were back on the sea, swaying the slightest and bracing my legs.
Elizabeth grabbed my wrist. 'Don't go. We haven't learned anything about you yet. Always good to have new blood from home,' she said, her mouth opening in a soundless laugh, and I thought of the excitable yawning of some large African beast.
I sat down again, partly because of Elizabeth's tugging on my wrist, and partly because I feared I might topple over.
'Well?' she demanded. 'What has brought you to Tangier? Nobody comes to Tangier without a story.' Again, the open mouth. A string of saliva stretched between her eyetooth and a bottom tooth. The others laughed as well, too loud, too loud.
'Story?' I repeated, sudden panic coming over me as all their eyes turned in my direction.
'Yes, yes,' Marcus encouraged. 'What's your story, then, Mrs O'Malley?'
'It's O'Shea. And Miss. Miss O'Shea,' I told him.
He barely appeared to notice the correction. 'Come, then. What brings you to Tangier?'
I looked at him, and then back at Elizabeth. The other faces receded into pale ovals and inverted triangles. 'I'm going to Marrakesh.'
'I've told you, my dear, it's nonsense. No point going way down there. Stay up here; Tangier is rather mongrel at the moment, but it certainly has its intrigue. Or at least go to Casablanca,' Elizabeth said. 'Now Marrakesh, well, it's such an outpost. Nothing of interest, I'm sure,' she said again. 'Although who was it — Matisse, I believe — who worked there some years back? And there are a few odd artist types — painters and writers and so on — who seem to find inspiration away from civilisation. But on the whole, Tangier has much more to offer in terms of entertainment. There are all sorts — as well as being into all types of things —'
Here she was interrupted by someone's coy murmur: 'What with it being so ungoverned.'
The others joined in, a rumbling chorus of agreement.
'No. I must. I'm . . .' I stopped. In the momentary silence Marcus snapped his fingers, and a boy with a tray appeared. Marcus whispered into his ear. 'I'm looking for someone. In Marrakesh,' I said, unnecessarily.
'Ah. I
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