Flashback (16 page)

We found a table, and Brian directed me to a seat, then took one himself. “Baccarat,” he said. “You know the rules?”

I looked at the green felt, the white lines radiating out from two half rings, one marked
Banker's,
the other,
Player's.
“You bet on either the banker's or player's hand,” I said. “Nine wins, and if the hand adds up to a double digit, you drop the first number.”

Brian looked over at me. “I thought you spent the last year in a convent.”

“Things come back to me,” I told him, smiling. “I must have done this before.”

I played the first hand and lost, then won the next two. Brian was right; it was easy to play with someone else's money. I might have remembered the rules, but my skills were rusty, and I lost quickly, running through most of Brian's chips in the first half hour.

“Let me have a hand or two,” he asked when I'd whittled his cache down to almost nothing.

“Sorry,” I said sheepishly.

He smiled. “Don't be.”

Relinquishing the game and the chips to Brian, I sat back and scanned the room. The Asian man and the woman in the pink gown were back, taking a turn at roulette. A group of loud Frenchmen were playing poker near the back of the casino.

Just a few tables away, engaged in what looked like a game of twenty-one, was a solitary figure, a man. He must have come in while I was concentrating on my baccarat, for I hadn't noticed him earlier. He was an Arab, Moroccan from the looks of him, though I couldn't quite see his face from where I sat. His play was businesslike, almost devoid of pleasure, dispassionate as a visit to a prostitute might be, as if he were simply taking care of some unpleasant need.

He peeled the cards back and looked furtively at them, then nodded to the dealer for another card. There was something about him, something about his gestures, that made me think I knew him. Sitting forward, I craned my head to get a better look. The dealer slid his third card out, and the man glanced quickly at the result, then flipped the cards over, obviously disgusted with himself. This way, I thought, willing him to turn in my direction, just a few inches. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigar, and cut off the tip. Then, as if obliging me, he turned his head and signaled a nearby waiter.

I was right. He was someone from my past, though not so distant a past as I might have expected. I'd seen him just the day before in the medina. It was Mustapha, the man at the Berber pharmacy, the spice seller from Pat's address book.

“Eve?” It was Brian.

I sat back and turned to face him.

“Recognize something?” he asked, looking past me to the twenty-one table.

I shook my head and glanced down at the table. “Are you out already?”

Brian nodded. “Not my lucky night. You ready to go?”

I nodded, getting up out of my seat. Why was I lying to him? I wondered.

“Look,” Brian said. “It's Charlie.”

Our flush-faced host from earlier that day had just stepped through the casino's entryway. He looked worse for wear, sweaty and disheveled. Brian waved, but Charlie didn't notice. His eyes were glued to the twenty-one table, to the pharmacist's bulky back. He lingered for a second inside the doorway, slightly unsteady on his feet; then the spice seller turned in his chair, his eyes flicking briefly in Charlie Phillips's direction. A peculiar look flashed across the American's face, a strange mixture of greed and shame. Blanching visibly, he ducked his head and turned, heading out of the casino.

“Poor, pathetic Charlie,” Brian said.

It was, I thought, a generous description. “Who is he?” I asked. “The man playing twenty-one?”

Brian put his hand lightly on my back, guiding me to the door. “A local entrepreneur,” he said. “Keeps the expat community in gambling money.”

“It looks like Charlie has some unpaid debts,” I remarked.

“Doesn't surprise me.”

“And Pat?” I asked.

Brian didn't say anything. We had reached the door, and he lifted his hand from my back and gestured to the bouncer. “Where are you staying?” he asked, as if he hadn't heard my earlier question.

“The Hotel Ali,” I told him, “just off the Djemaa el-Fna.”

Brian nodded as if he knew the place. “You feel like taking a walk?”

“Back to my hotel?”

He shook his head. “Come on.”

*   *   *

It was a perfectly cloudless night, the dark desert sky brimming with stars. A chill breeze blew down from the Atlas, making the white canvas pool umbrellas billow and creak like the sails and riggings of a yacht. The pool was light itself, casting a sea-blue blush on the hotel's plaster walls, dancing like film glow on the water-misted overgrowth. Papery bougainvillea flowers stippled the patio, bright as drops of newly spilled blood. Somewhere in the garden an automatic sprinkler hissed on.

“Do you know why Marrakech is so red?” Brian asked as we skirted the pool.

I shook my head.

“There's a Berber legend,” he said, “that when the Koutoubia Mosque was built, it stuck in the city's heart like a giant sword. So much blood poured out that it stained everything crimson.”

He stopped walking and turned so that he was standing just a few inches away. “You can almost believe it, can't you?” he said, pointing through a gap in the trees to the Koutoubia, the illuminated minaret thrust up into the black sky, the stone gleaming like honed steel.

“We're not allowed inside it, as non-Muslims, are we?” I asked.

“No,” he answered. He lowered his hand, and his fingers brushed my arm, making my skin pucker with goose bumps. “Too bad, isn't it? It must be beautiful.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

In the summer at the abbey we had a little outdoor chapel, a garden house made of bamboo and old boards one of the sisters had salvaged from an old chicken coop. Instead of a crucifix there was a small rock fountain in the back of the structure, and a tiny pool that caught the glimmer of whatever votive candles had been brought out for prayer. The structure was built behind the larger stone chapel, on the far lip of the grounds, overlooking the farms in the valley below. It had been my greatest pleasure to sit on one of the rough-hewn benches, listening to the splash and bubble of the fountain, watching the fields succumb to evening.

Brian started forward again, deeper into the garden, and I followed silently behind, letting the great monolith of the mosque slip from view. What was it about these holy places? Where did the stillness come from? I had not prayed, I realized, since I'd lit that last candle at the convent, and even that had been in anger.

“You must miss him,” I said as we emerged onto a wide path bordered by orange trees. “Your brother, I mean.”

“He was always the better person,” Brian remarked sadly.

“I'm sorry I don't remember him.”

“He wrote poetry. We used to give him shit about it. He was the kind of person who was always falling in love.”

I didn't say anything. I was thinking about Hannah smiling for the camera. Hannah, the girl of Pat Haverman's dreams. What lies, I wondered, had she told, and why? Surely Pat hadn't known about the box at the El Minzah. My guess was he hadn't known about Leila Brightman, either.

Brian stopped. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

“Said what?”

“About Pat being the kind of person who was always falling in love.”

“It's okay,” I assured him.

He shook his head. “If I'd met Hannah Boyle at the Ziryab, I would have fallen in love with her, too.”

I reached out and put my hand on Brian's wrist. “And Eve?” I asked.

There are certain advantages to not being able to remember, certain experiences that, when lived again for the first time, are miraculous gifts. Like my first snowfall at the abbey, a sudden blanketing of white that came early one morning during matins, so that when we stepped out into the bitter November morning the world had been transformed. Or the first fresh egg I ever tasted, the yolk a deep orange, the white lacy, the edges crisped in butter.

“I would have fallen in love with her, too,” Brian said.

Remember this, I told myself, as I moved through the darkness. Beneath my fingers I could feel Brian's pulse, the slow stride and rhythm of his heart. I opened my mouth just slightly and put my lips on his lips. Wasn't this the way to do it? Somewhere deep, deep in my memory the old sensations of pleasure stirred, the unassailable desire for touch.

Kissing him made me forget everything for a moment, Joshi, Pat and Hannah, the men at the convent, Salim and his friend on the train. We followed the orange trees to the far back of the garden, hands and mouths grappling as we went. When we reached the great earthen wall that marked the edge of the Old City, I leaned my back up against the plaster and pulled Brian toward me.

The wall was warm on my back, the thick pisé releasing all the heat it had gathered and held during the day. I looked up, searching the sky for the minaret, but it was nowhere to be seen.

“I don't remember,” I said, reaching for his face in the darkness.

“Don't worry,” Brian whispered, his mouth on my ear. “You will.”

Then, suddenly, laughter sounded, someone coming down the walk, and I drew back. It was only the woman from the casino, the one in the pink gown, a benign figure if ever I'd seen one, but still she reminded me of all the hazards I'd forgotten. She stepped into the glow of one of the garden lamps, and for an instant I thought I knew her, had seen her somewhere before. One of us was in danger, I thought, shivering slightly, perhaps both of us.

Brian squeezed my hand. “Come on,” he whispered, pulling me after him. “Let's go to my room.”

I nodded, agreeing despite my better judgment.

*   *   *

“What's out there?” I asked. From the balcony of Brian's room I could see the pool and the dark gardens we'd come from. Beyond the gardens, past the unseen city wall, was more darkness, the immensity of it broken here and there by the lights of a lone car.

“The mountains,” he said. “You'll be able to see them in the morning.” He came and stood behind me, his body fitting perfectly against mine. Then he brushed my hair aside and pressed his lips to my neck.

The mountains, I thought, and beyond them, Ourzazate and the date plantations. “I want to go down to Ourzazate,” I said.

Brian stepped away from me and went inside. “We could rent a car in the morning,” he offered. “It's just a couple hours' drive.”

“Who knows?” I told him. “I might remember something.”

“Yes,” he said. “You might.” Crouching, he opened the minibar and pulled out a tiny bottle of bourbon. His shirt was untucked, the sleeves rolled up, the buttons one hole askew. He had taken his shoes off, and there was something about the nakedness of his bare feet that made him seem delicate and vulnerable. I wanted to take the rest of his clothes off and make love to him, slowly and carefully.

More than anything, though, I wanted to tell him about Werner, about the men from the train, and the little thief in the Djemaa el-Fna. Lying seemed pointless now, worse than pointless. It seemed somehow perverse, and dangerous.

Brian straightened up, looking for a drinking glass. Finding one on top of the bar, he opened the ice bucket, plucked out three half-melted cubes, and tossed them into the glass.

“So,” Brian called, disappearing into the bathroom. “This Bruns Werner, you think he knew Pat?”

Bruns Werner
. I froze, my heart hesitating while my mind frantically rewound our dinner conversation, the way Brian had taken the olive into his mouth when I'd asked him if he'd ever heard the name Werner. And then the pit falling into the little white plate.
Not that I can remember,
he'd said.

Fighting back a wave of nausea, I stepped inside. Werner, I'd said. I hadn't used the name Bruns, hadn't even known the name. I was certain of it. Instinctively, I scanned the room for a weapon, something sharp and substantial. Letter opener? Nail scissors? On the top of the minibar was a stainless steel wine key. It was no Beretta, but it would do in a pinch.

I heard Brian turn the tap off and crack the seal on the bourbon bottle. “Eve?” he called, appearing in the doorway, the glass of bourbon in his hand.

He handed me the whiskey, and I took a sip. “What did you say?” I asked casually.

“Bruns Werner,” he said. “You mentioned the name at dinner. Do you think he had something to do with Pat?”

He was a good liar, almost good enough to make me doubt myself. I took another drink and shrugged. “I can't remember. Like I said, it's probably nothing.”

Kissing me on the top of the head, he reached up and unbuttoned his shirt, then pulled it and his pants off and laid them neatly on the back of a chair. “I think I'll jump in the shower. You want to join me?”

“You go ahead.”

“If you change your mind…”

I smiled, stifling a shiver. “I know where you are.”

He ducked back into the bathroom, and I heard him turn the shower on and pull the curtain closed.

How did he know? I wondered. Setting the whiskey down, I crossed toward the minibar and grabbed the wine opener. Part of me just wanted to run, but another part needed to hear what he had to say. I opened the wine key and surveyed my options. There was a little knife on one end, but it was dulled from use. No, the corkscrew was my best bet. Making my way back to the open bathroom door, I flattened myself against the wall, took a deep breath, and started a slow count back from one hundred.

What else had he lied to me about? I wondered. Over the sound of the shower I could hear Brian humming, the tune too faint to be recognized. And what if he had lied? Hadn't I lied to him, too? Hadn't I been lying all along? The water ebbed and subsided, and Brian stepped out of the tub. I heard him grab a towel and rub himself dry. “I feel like a new man,” he called. “This place is worth the price of admission for the shower alone.”