The Heat of Betrayal (28 page)

‘You have been too kind to me,' I said.

‘I wish I could convince you to stay.'

‘I have to see this through.'

Her reply was a look that said:
No, you don't . . . and you know that.
Then she handed me the hotel card with her cellphone number on the back of it.

‘If I can help you in any way, you know where to find me.'

Half an hour later I was on the bus heading south. It looked like a relic of the 1980s, with half-stripped paintwork, chewed-up seats, grimy windows, no air conditioning, no ventilation.

Thankfully there were only ten of us boarding at Ouarzazate, which meant that I had two seats to myself all the way. The other passengers were four elderly women in full burqas, three men of equally advanced years, a young mother with two babies, and a shy adolescent girl who glanced back at me on several occasions, clearly curious as to why I was on this bus. I managed to smile back, but drifted into my preoccupied reverie. Outside, the terrain was part oasis – trees, patches of arable land – and part encroaching sand. There was the occasional change in the topography – a vista in which stern mountains could be seen on the horizon; a densely populated village, its souk in full late-afternoon swing; the tents of Bedouin families pitched alongside the road; the sense that, with every kilometre, we were travelling deeper into a void. Didn't I read online yesterday that, in Berber Arabic, Ouarzazate means ‘without noise, without confusion'? Gazing out at the darkening landscape – the sand turning copperish in the declining sun – I could understand just why, when compared to the noisy jumble that was other Moroccan cities, Ouarzazate wasn't simply the doorway to the desert, but also to the immense silence into which I was now venturing. When you stared at the ever-expanding Sahara, you could understand why it was something akin to a blank canvas, divorced from the disarray and chaos of life beyond. But I began to wonder if that too was an illusion. You look at a sea of empty sand, two Bedouin parents crossing this terrain with their children, and marvel at the timeless simplicity of it all. The truth is more complex: the need to find water, to find money for food and other essentials. The daily ordeal of survival in a harsh, unforgiving universe.

Without noise . . . without confusion
.

Life is noise, confusion. We can run to the ends of the earth, and it will still impinge on us. Because the demons within us never vanish – even in a landscape as hushed as the Sahara.

The bus stopped in a tiny village next to a small stream. I bought a cup of mint tea from a sad-faced man. There was a toilet in a nearby shed: a hole in the ground over which had been constructed a wooden box with a makeshift seat. The smell was overpowering. I emerged, choking, desperate for fresh air. But even at sunset, the heat stifled everything.

I boarded the bus again. I attempted to nap. But the bus's lack of suspension and my own preoccupations hindered sleep. Tata couldn't be that big a place. A handful of hotels at best. I'd stop in each one until I found Paul. I'd soothe and comfort him. Then I'd call Yasmina in Ouarzazate and get her to book us tickets on the next flight to Paris. I'd get us back to her hotel by midday tomorrow. I'd . . .

Make plans, as usual. In the hope of imposing reason on someone for whom reason was more than a stretch. Faiza – as angry and vindictive as she was – did get one thing right: Paul brought chaos into everybody's life. But there was a difference between the Paul I met three years ago – who feigned obliviousness to the mess he engendered – and the man who left me what was clearly a suicide note. He could no longer run from himself. But he could run into the Sahara.

The hours on the bus went by slowly, the vanished sun lowering the temperature somewhat, but not acting as a palliative against the grubbiness of the journey. I nodded off for a spell, waking with a jolt when the bus screeched to a halt, the horn was honked, and the driver shouted:

‘Tata.'

We were in a parking area outside a walled town. I had been sleeping against my backpack. Getting off the bus I was immediately confronted by two young men – both in their early twenties, both trying to grow beards with not much luck, both wearing baseball caps, both looking me over.

‘Hello, pretty lady,' one of them said in French.

‘You need some help to guide you around?' the second one asked.

I held up the photo page of Paul's passport.

‘I'm looking for this man – my husband.'

‘I know where he is,' the first guy said.

‘You do?' I asked. ‘Honestly?'

‘You come with us, we show you . . .' the second one said, but he was interrupted by the bus driver, who began to shout at them in Arabic, telling them several times to ‘
imshi
'. These two operators were not intimidated, however, and began to sass him back, until another man – in his late fifties, wearing a dark suit – also weighed in on the argument. The two guys were clearly enjoying the confrontation. The older was being bold and arrogant, eyeing me up and down, making flip comments (‘Don't you want a date with me?' . . . ‘I love American women' . . . ‘You don't need your husband, you need a younger man') amidst this heated interchange with my two protectors. Eventually the older man, who was tall and heavily lined, a cigarette clutched between his teeth, ash dropping on his brown suit jacket, mentioned the word ‘police' and the two operators backed off, but not before Mr Arrogant winked at me and said: ‘Maybe some other time.'

Once they were gone the older man handed me a card and explained in French that he worked for a small hotel within the walls, and he could offer me a very clean, safe room for 300 dirhams . . . discounted from the usual 500. If I was hungry he could persuade the cook to stay on and make dinner for me. I pulled out Paul's passport and showed him the photograph, asking if he knew where I might find my husband.

‘When did he arrive?'

‘On the bus before mine.'

‘That's impossible.'

‘Why? I saw him leave on the earlier bus.'

‘I met that bus – as I meet all buses here. And there was only one Westerner on it – a German of around seventy, travelling alone.'

‘Couldn't he have gotten off when you weren't looking?'

‘
Madame
, I promise you, I see everyone who arrives by bus in Tata. You can check the other hotels, if you wish.'

I was suddenly in free-fall again.

‘I'll give you fifty dirhams if you take me to every hotel in town.'

‘But I assure you—'

‘One hundred dirhams.'

The man shrugged, then nodded for me to follow him.

We went through the archway that led into the centre of Tata. The town was something of a maze. Dark, twisting streets. Little in the way of street light. We stopped by a true dive of a place, which from the outside looked like a flophouse. A man with a haunted face – his eyes sunken, forlorn – came out from behind the desk and greeted my escort. They embraced. Words were exchanged. I was asked to show Paul's passport. The desk clerk shook his head, pointing out into the darkness of the night. I asked him to study the photo again to make absolutely certain that he hadn't seen him. Again he shook his head.

Ten minutes and three hotels later we had come to the end of the line, apart from the place to which I was now being brought to spend the night. At each of these establishments it was the same routine: the passport photo, the question about whether this man was staying there, the shake of the head.

As we left the last hotel I asked my escort his name.

‘It's Naguib,
madame
.'

‘What time is the first bus back to Ouarzazate?'

‘There's one at five a.m.'

‘So I should leave my hotel when?'

‘Four-forty-five will be fine. It's all downhill and just a ten-minute walk.'

From the shadows a voice began to chant: ‘Downhill, downhill,' the tone mocking, amused.

Out stepped those two young tough guys who had harassed me just half an hour earlier upon my arrival. They lit up cigarettes and the flirtatious one even tipped his baseball cap in mock salute. When Naguib snapped at them – hissing something angry in their direction – Mr Arrogant said to me in French:

‘We were not trying to be disrespectful,
madame
.'

Then they disappeared back into the shadows.

‘Do you know them?' I asked.

‘I'm afraid so. They come from Marrakesh. They work on the crew that is resurfacing part of the road near here. They've been here for two weeks and think they're big men from the big city. They're stupid, but harmless. Shall we head to my hotel now?'

We began to ascend the narrow pathway that led up a Babel-like hill. It was a steep climb, but the moon was full tonight, so we weren't stumbling in the dark. When we reached the summit I was panting and feeling parched. It had been quite an ascent. Immediately an elderly woman in a hijab insisted that I sit down and found me a bottle of water. Naguib took my passport and 300 dirhams, saying he would fill in all the necessary registration forms. The woman asked if I liked lamb couscous. I indicated that would be just fine, as I had hardly eaten all day and was now famished. Naguib returned and led me through an extraordinary structure: castellated, with great open spaces and an outside walkway that looked down on the village below. The sky was dominated by the very full, spectral moon.

My room was under the eaves: simple, well-furnished, clean. There was a double bed and a decent shower. I handed Naguib 100 dirhams and thanked him.

‘I am back on duty here at six-thirty tomorrow morning,' he said. ‘You don't have to take the five a.m. bus, as there is one that leaves at eight. You could sleep in a bit and have breakfast and still be back in Ouarzazate by two o'clock.'

‘Is there any chance whatsoever that my husband could have gotten off somewhere between Ouarzazate and here?'

‘The bus can stop at assorted villages – but only if a passenger requests it. So, yes, he could have possibly done that – but these places have little in the way of hotels or restaurants.'

‘Might the driver of the earlier bus be here now?'

‘No – because he returned as a passenger on the evening bus back to Ouarzazate. He won't be back until tomorrow and I have no way of contacting him. You could wait until he returns tomorrow, and we could ask him together.'

‘I think I'm going to head back on the early bus,' I said.

‘As you wish,
madame
. But here's my phone number if you need me.'

Taking a notebook and a pen from his pocket he wrote it down and handed it to me.

‘Thank you so much, Naguib.'

‘How long will you need before dinner?'

‘Fifteen minutes at most. I just want to shower and freshen up.'

‘I'll tell the cook to expect you shortly.'

A quarter of an hour later, I arrived at the outdoor terrace that served as a dining room. It was a wonderful open area with six or seven tables. There was only one other guest in situ – a lean grey-haired man, with round wire-rimmed spectacles, a blue short-sleeved shirt, tan shorts, orthopaedic sandals on his feet. There was a book propped up against his wine bottle:
Der Zauberberg
by Thomas Mann. This must be the German who arrived on the earlier bus. The same bus as Paul! Someone who can confirm his whereabouts. Immediately I approached his table. He looked up, his face somewhat lined but still strong, with deep blue eyes that seemed to be harbouring some quiet sadness . . . or was that just me projecting my own sadness on everyone?

‘I'm sorry,' I said in English, ‘but I don't speak German.'

He smiled at me. I continued:

‘But I am very competent in English and not bad in French . . . My apologies for interrupting your dinner.'

‘My dinner is finished,' he said, also in English, pointing to his empty plates. ‘But if you are about to eat and would like company . . .'

He indicated the empty seat opposite his own.

‘That's really kind of you. But before I sit down I have a rather urgent question.'

‘By all means.'

‘Were you on the bus that left Ouarzazate at two o'clock this afternoon?'

‘Indeed I was.'

‘Did you see this man?'

I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out Paul's passport, flipping it open to the photo page. The gentleman studied it carefully for several moments.

‘I'm afraid there was no one at all like this individual on the bus.'

‘Are you absolutely certain of that?'

‘When I got on in Ouarzazate I took a seat right at the back, so I walked by everyone who had already boarded.'

‘But he got on right when the bus was leaving.'

‘I remember looking up when the last person got on, but that was the driver.'

‘Sir, please, I saw him get on the bus.'

‘Who's “him”?' he asked, pointing to the photo.

‘My husband.'

That got his attention.

‘Sit, sit,' he said, motioning to the empty chair. ‘My name is Dietrich.'

I told him my own. We shook hands. I changed the subject.

‘Germany is one of around fifty countries that I keep telling myself I should visit,' I said.

‘If you come, besides Berlin and Hamburg and Munich, you should drive along the
Romantische Strasse
– and stop at Rothenburg ob der Tauber. A medieval city between Würtzburg and Nürnberg. Completely restored after much bombing in the war.
Sehr gemütlich
, as we say. A very quiet, beautiful town – and the place I've called home for thirty years. I had a very faithful congregation in Rothenburg until I stepped down last year.'

‘You're a priest?'

‘A pastor. Lutheran. And recently retired.'

‘If I may ask – what brings you to the Sahara in midsummer?' I asked.