A Half Forgotten Song (40 page)

“All right,” he said softly. “All right. I’m just . . . I’m worried for you.” Hannah let her arm drop, gathered up the cotton wool and salt water.

“Don’t be. I’m fine.” She turned and went back upstairs.

For a moment, Zach considered walking out. Setting off into the pounding rain, alone, thwarted. He tried to picture Hannah running after him, the way she ran after Ilir, but he knew it was far more likely that she’d let him go. He searched the kitchen for a pot of instant coffee, made three mugs, and dumped sugar into each one when he couldn’t find any milk he’d be willing to use. Was it just that he knew she was keeping secrets from him? Was that all that made him stay? In which case, he should leave. He should have nothing more to do with her, because to publicly pursue the authenticity of the Dennis pictures would be to expose Hannah. But then he pictured her, standing at the end of the stone jetty, staring out at the empty spread of the sea, all alone. The resolute set of her shoulders, the way she faced the world head-on, with her jaw set, while at home, in private, everything was chaos and neglect. His head was aching, but he knew with total clarity that he didn’t want to leave her. He shut his eyes for a moment, cursed, then took a swig of one coffee and picked up the other two, walking carefully back towards Ilir’s room.

He heard their voices from about halfway up the stairs, low but distinct. The stairs didn’t creak, didn’t give him away. Unbidden, his feet slowed. He took one more step up and then froze, listening, hating himself.

“I haven’t told him anything, I promise,” Hannah said. Zach’s jaw clenched in protest.

“I know, I know. But what if the police come, Hannah? What if Ed calls them, like he said he would?”

“That pig was so drunk tonight he could barely stand . . . he won’t even remember what went on tonight, or what he said.”

“But what if he does?”

“If he does . . . well. We just have to hang on till next Tuesday. That’s all. Three more days, Ilir, then it’s done! You can disappear . . . If the police come, you can hide. I’ll say you ran away after what happened in the pub. I’ll say I don’t know where you are.”

“You can get in trouble for this, Hannah. You would do this for me?”

“Of course I would. We’ve come this far, haven’t we?”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Everything will work out, you’ll see. Three more days, Ilir. Three! That’s no time at all.”

“I am sorry for before. For the pub. I should not have got angry. I should not have provoked him.”

“Hey—I never want to hear you apologize for punching Ed Lynch, okay? Every blow that man takes is a service to society.” Zach could hear a smile shaping Hannah’s words.

“What will you tell Zach, when it is done?” said Ilir. Not wanting to hear more, Zach took three steps up, to stand in the doorway. Two sets of eyes swiveled to look at him.

“Yes, what will you tell me?” he said woodenly. He suddenly felt cold and exhausted. A muscle twitched in Ilir’s jaw, and the silence in the room resounded. He saw Hannah shrink slightly, as if surrendering to something inevitable. “What’s happening next Tuesday?” he said.

“Zach,” she said, but added nothing to that. A statement of his name, loaded with all the awkward weight of unspoken things, and with it Zach realized that it was impossible, that he had never had her, never truly known her. With the exaggerated care of someone unsure of their feet, he went back downstairs and left without another word.

D
imity slept fitfully, with Charles’s picture of her in the desert beside her. She had wanted that image to inhabit her dreams; had wanted to open her inner eyes and be that maiden, that beautiful creature that Charles had created. But what came were visceral memories, not visions of lost beauty. The intoxicating press of Charles’s body, his mouth against hers, the taste of him and the feel of his arms around her in the precious seconds before he pushed her away. The pain that blossomed in her head when she hit it on Celeste’s dressing table, the way her face had burned, as if the woman’s slap had been venomous, a scorpion’s sting. She was at the mercy of these truths, as she slept, and a drawn-out refrain repeated itself over and over, and seemed to mock her.
Allahu akbar!
Allahu akbar!

T
he muezzin was singing, calling, high above her head. She looked up at the dizzying height of a minaret, a short way off and dazzling green against the bright sky. There was sweat running down her face, into her eyes, stinging; the dry air wheezed into her lungs. She had run for a long time. Blinking furiously, she sat down on a dusty doorstep, leaned back against the ancient wood, and waited to catch her breath. The memory of Celeste’s anger gave her a sick, unsteady feeling. The woman’s fierce blue eyes, the quick, hard movements of her hands as she tugged at the scarf, the necklace. She had heard Dimity practicing her wedding vows. Practicing her pledge to Charles.
It was only a game
—that was what she would have to say. But it wasn’t true, and Celeste knew it wasn’t true—only that could explain her fury. Dimity could not face seeing her again, trying to apologize. The thought was unbearable and yet she could think of no way to avoid it. If she didn’t go back to the guesthouse, then they couldn’t take her back with them, could not force her back to Blacknowle, but what use that, if Charles departed with them? Tears were hot on her face, hotter even than the sultry afternoon sun.

For a while she drowsed, drifting into dreams where Charles came searching for her, took her into his arms and kissed away her fears. The images made her ache inside. Voices startled her awake. Two women were standing in front of her, one draped in ashen robes, with only her eyes peering out, like coals; the other with that deep black skin that so fascinated Dimity, her teeth when she spoke as white as the crest of a wave at night. The black woman smiled; added soft, muttered comments to the stream of words coming from the veiled woman. Dimity could not tell if the veiled woman also smiled, or if she was angry, or inquisitive. She was anonymous, blankly threatening. Dimity had no idea what they were saying, so she sat, and did not answer or move. Her heart began to thump. The women exchanged a glance, then the black one reached out, put her broad hand on Dimity’s arm and pulled gently, beckoning to her to rise, to go with them. Dimity shook her head violently, all of Delphine’s stories of white slaves suddenly coming back to her. The black woman tugged again, and Dimity lurched to her feet, yanked her arm away, and fled, stumbling in her urgency, expecting to feel their hands on her again at any second.

She ran until her chest ached and she couldn’t run anymore. Her dragging feet kicked up sprays of dust and rubbish and she tripped over the cobbles from time to time. To either side of her, the buildings of Fez were tall and unadorned, plaster crumbling from reddish walls. The windows were hidden by weathered shutters; no balconies here, no bustling people. Slowly, Dimity stopped, and a new fear crowded in on her. She had absolutely no idea where she was, or how to get back to the guesthouse, or even how to find the city gates, the edge of the maze. She turned in a slow circle, breathing hard.
Don’t wander off on your own, will you, Mitzy?
The doors opening onto the street were huge and forbidding; the wood carved into ornate designs that trapped the desert sand and the street dust in their filigreed patterns. For a second, Dimity considered knocking on one, and asking the way, as if a familiar face might answer it, someone she knew from home. As if she would have been able to name the guesthouse, or the street it was on, and would understand the reply. Her legs were heavy with fatigue, and the heat dragged at her like an anchor. She could no longer hear the muezzin, and she hummed the only words of his song she had learned, as though this would draw her back to the green tower, which she knew wasn’t far from the
riad
.
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar . . .

Beside her, a door creaked open and a thin man squinted out, eyes sharp with curiosity. Dimity gasped, stopped singing, shook her head at the startling barrage of words the man aimed at her. She turned again, walking back the way she had come, and when she looked over her shoulder the man was standing in the street, watching her every move. There was dust in her shoes, rubbing the skin raw around her heels and toes. She wiped the sweat from her face and felt sand on her fingertips, gritty against her eyelids. On she hurried, and with every step her panic grew, beating its wings in her chest, in her head, until she could hardly think. A labyrinth, Charles had called the Old City, and even Dimity knew that meant it was a place you never escaped from, a place designed to trap you and drive you mad. A place with blind turns, and dead ends, and monsters at its heart.

She marched for hours. She tried walking in a straight line, never turning, thinking that she would eventually reach the desert, but the city was never-ending. She tried taking all the turnings to the right that she could, but ended up returning to the same small square again and again, where a starveling dog eyed her distrustfully. She tried turning alternately left and then right, zigzagging from one direction to the other, but she never saw a building she recognized, or a street she had been in before. She tried to remember which way she had come, but when she retraced her steps she always found herself somewhere different, as if the city was one of black magic and imps who moved the buildings and the walls when her back was turned. Her heart ached with fear and fatigue like the rest of her.

She came to a bustling bazaar, and hope flared until she realized it was far smaller than the central medina Charles had taken her to, and from there she returned to empty streets. She felt watched, as though something malevolent was just waiting, biding its time until she collapsed. Eventually she came to the foot of a steep flight of stone steps. She paused to catch her breath and then climbed, dragging at her heavy legs, hoping to reach some vantage point, to be able to see a landmark she might recognize. But the steps ended in a high stone wall that she could not see over and yet another arched door that she could not go through. Helplessly, she banged on the door, finally deciding to throw herself on the mercy of whoever happened to live there. A kind woman, perhaps, who might give her something to drink and make inquiries on her behalf. She knocked for a long time, but nobody answered the door. Still she knocked, until she skinned her knuckles and they started to bleed, and she could not keep from sobbing as she slumped down against the heedless wall.

Her throat was parched. She had never been so thirsty in all her life, nor so lost or afraid. The sun was sinking slightly in the sky, but it was still so bright that it seemed to scorch her eyes, and made her head pound. She had no idea how long she waited at the top of the steps, but eventually she found the strength to rise and go back down them. Back into the labyrinth of streets and alleys, the endless twists and turns and archways and doors. She walked until her legs shook with every step, weak with exhaustion, and, eventually, she returned to streets where there were shops and people, hurrying along or standing together, deep in conversation.

This was at once a relief and an added worry. Dimity wished she had swaths of gray cloth to throw over her head, over her face, to shield her from the stares of passing men. Perhaps this was why the women veiled themselves, she thought, because the watching eyes were hard and thoughtful; hostile; questioning. Even if she had spoken their language, she would have been too afraid to ask for their help. She was lost forever, to wander the narrow streets like a ghost, a wraith. She fought hard not to show her panic, her vulnerability. Then she rounded a corner and came upon an elaborately tiled fountain, with water splashing down into a stone trough. With a cry of relief she stumbled towards it and drank messily from the brass spout, filling her cupped hands, easing her parched throat; so much water that her belly swelled. She rinsed her hands and wiped them across her filthy face and when she was done she turned, and found that a small semicircle of men had gathered behind her. Dimity froze. Their faces were expressionless, unreadable, mouths closed into flat lines, eyes simply watchful, arms hanging loosely at their sides.
Don’t wander off on your own, will you, Mitzy?
Charles’s words came back to her again; the subtle warning in them.
What would happen if a Christian were to go inside? It might be best not to find out
. She realized that they were blocking her from getting away, each man no more than an arm-span from the man beside him. Dimity thought of cows. Of Barton’s cattle, back in Blacknowle, who the previous summer had circled a tourist walking her dog through their field. Just circled her and held her there, watching like this. And when she tried to move away, they closed ranks. Trampled her, broke her leg and her ribs, killed the dog.

Dimity’s throat went dry again. Her stomach twisted, and she fought to keep the water she had just drunk from spewing back out of her mouth. She looked for an escape route in the other direction—past the fountain to the empty street behind it. There was a wooden barrier across it, but it was only a single bar and she realized that she could easily duck beneath it. In the massive wall farther up the street was a set of huge, beautiful gates. High above, the green tower of the Karaouine Mosque blazed in the sun, watching it all. Dimity waited for as long as she could, fearing that if she moved, her legs would give way and she would not be able to run. Then she took a fluttering breath, stepped down from the fountain, and bolted towards the barrier. At once there was uproar behind her, a sudden clamor of voices and scuffling feet. Dimity whimpered in terror. She got to the barrier and bent to duck beneath it, but her hair was in her face and she misjudged it, hit her head hard on the beam and was knocked from her feet, sent sprawling to the ground. She struggled to get up, but the world spun around her and white flecks of light spangled across her vision, and a wave of nausea rose in her throat. The men closed around her in a circle, all talking at once; some angrily, waving their hands at her, some agitated, some almost anxious. All she could see were their faces, closing over her like stormy water, their voices blurring and booming in her ears. Something dribbled from her forehead into her eyes, and she blinked, and the world turned red. She thought again of the cows, of the trampled dog, and knew that she would die if she did not get up. She got to her hands and knees and began to crawl towards the empty street behind the barrier, but before she had gone even a yard she felt hands grasp her.