Alexandra Singer (8 page)

Sardonically bowing his head, he let her past, and when he was out of earshot, she turned to Mahmoud. “Who is he?”

“Someone you must learn to ignore.”

Maia looked up at him, but Mahmoud was no longer smiling. “But – ”

“No!” He lifted his hand, and Maia feared he was going to strike her, again doubting his friendly exterior. But then his hand fell, and he placed it upon her shoulder in a firmly
paternal manner, and seemed to relent a little. “His name is Armand. He is French. He likes to visit the bar. He is little, insignificant. No need for you to bother with him, no need at all.
You only like the big fish, no?”

But Maia already felt the warning had come a little late. Armand had given her a shock. His expression was set firmly in stone; his eyes almost photographic. For reasons she could not yet
comprehend she sensed that Mahmoud suffered from a jealousy of Armand. Mahmoud’s warning served only to pique Maia’s curiosity.

“You will soon learn not to ask questions. This is a haven! Don’t forget how lucky you are to have me here! I will protect you!”

As Maia returned from getting changed, Mahmoud dragged her around the bar area, “Make her a drink, Tariq.” And the rest of the night passed in a haze.

Armand and Maia did not speak, and she purposely avoided him. She tried hard not to be struck by curiosity as to his behaviour, but she was aware of his enigmatic presence drawing her in. When
he glanced only once in her direction, she found herself promising herself to him with an acquiescent smile. Mahmoud was relishing his role as the friendly, welcoming host and he succeeded in his
quest to introduce her to many people, other inebriated foreigners, whose names she instantly forgot.

When with his offensive bulk Mahmoud pressed her towards the British group, he whispered, “You’re not going to like these people.”

“And how have you decided that?”

“I already know you. You will see.”

The group turned and looked at her as she approached, as if studying some new and strange animal.

“Who is this specimen you have brought us now, Mahmoud?” said the bored looking tanned man Maia noticed earlier.

“Maia is working for Mihai Farcu. She is an artist, and his new assistant, isn’t it.”

“Isn’t
she
,” said the arrogant young man. “Isn’t she. That is what you say. In fact, it isn’t appropriate to say that anyway.” With that comment,
he rolled his eyes to the emerging stars. Maia watched Mahmoud’s face, but even at this disdain for him, nothing flickered, and his grin remained fixed and frozen upon his face.

“I see, the Historian’s new assistant,” said the effeminate man, and a short silence ensued. It was finally broken by the large woman. She looked as if she was the sort of
person who could not bear to remain silent for long, and Maia was grateful for this.

“Have a little drink with us,” said the woman. “It’s so pleasant here. A little run down, but rather charming all the same.”

“If you insist.”

“I do insist! Lucy Bambage. Hello! So you are an artist? Have I seen your work?” She was a very jolly sort, and, assumed Maia, well intentioned, if slightly overbearing.

“I cannot tell you, Mrs. Bambage, perhaps you have.” Maia examined her more closely; she was a dough faced woman, immediately identifiable as one desperate for affection but
determined to hide it. The heavy makeup made her pathetic even in the fading light. Maia was able to see the grease, sad and ridiculous on her face, the gaping crimson mouth, an open gash grinning
madly, like the Joker on a pack of old and used cards.

“Well, where would it be shown then?”

“London. The odd gallery.”

“Stop it, Lucy. You’ll scare the poor child,” said a large man coming from the bar who appraised her with goggling eyes. He possessed the manner of someone who was subjected to
excessive nagging.

“Well, you are lucky enough to look like one!” she said, and grabbed Maia away from Mahmoud, who seemed happy enough to relinquish her. With an unfortunate lantern jaw and such a
large body, Maia looked upon her with a mixture of trepidation and pity. Lucy seemed like a name fit only for a young girl, but this woman was in her sixth decade at least, and she had not aged
well. She possessed that florid, floral look so beloved of middle class English women who have spent too long under a foreign sun. Maia gathered that Martin Bambage was some sort of salesmen who
had made enough money to pass his time taking his portly wife on as many holidays as possible. The couple talked about themselves so much, or rather, Lucy Bambage talked for them, they had barely
any time to listen to Maia.

The tanned man’s face was symmetrically handsome, but his beauty was marred by a constant smirk of disgust, which made him irksome to his companions. Maia had entered in the midst of a
conversation about food.

“My dislike of Moroccan food,” Lucy Bambage was saying, “derives from two of my major food hates. There are not many foods that I dislike but two of them are deeply linked with
the food of Morocco. Horror number one is the combination of fruit and meat. And the second is mint. Time for a gin and tonic,” Lucy Bambage barked promptly, to nobody in particular.

“You are quite simply unadventurous, Lucy,” said the young man, lying back languidly. “Why not admit it?”

“That is how I feel about it, Rupert. I would never expect you, of all people, to agree with me. You only care about the waiters!”

“There is no need to be so very crude, my darling,” said the young man who Maia now knew as Rupert.

“Have you been to Tangier, Maia? How did you find it? We came from there... ”

Maia recalled her own time in Tangier, a city where the heat seemed to have allowed her to relinquish all responsibility. When she had looked around, it was full of awful little hills that
channelled the energy of the town down to the waterfront where the developing world was still slavering to get out. Visiting the city was like being in a time warp, filled with scores of old
cafés, relics from the days when Tangier had played a more significant international role. Tangier was still holding on to it’s former charms, reminding her of a beguiling, but ageing
beauty who had now grown a little long in the tooth. She erased her memories and fought her way back to the present.

“We got so very lost in Tangier, didn’t we Martin?” She was saying. Her husband didn’t reply; he was too busy snuffling over his food. Maia watched him; Martin Bambage
and his wife resembled each other, a couple who over the years had grown to look the same. They had the same wide jaw, the flaccid face and sagging skin, the thick, glutinous lips. Rupert saw her
watching Martin and he caught her eye. He evidently thought himself a superior being, and his dislike of the couple was obvious. Lucy Bambage was desperate to talk, so Maia enquired about their
journey and health, but she soon discovered that questions asked innocently served only to encourage another unwelcome monologue.

Maia attempted to change the subject. “How did you find the souk?”

“The place was revolting! So many awful, shuffling people, and then there were the children, always following, begging, so disgusting. We got ourselves lost and went into a shop and
Martin, can you believe it, left me alone!”

She could believe very well. Martin looked up from his plate; he was a man with a face like an angry toad. His eyes protruded and a vast inane smile filled the entire lower half of his face. His
arms were too long for his body, and looked strangely out of place. Lucy Bambage continued, breathlessly, keen to empty it all out onto somebody sufficiently unwitting to listen to her. Rupert
rolled his eyes again. She wondered why Rupert stayed with these people if he disliked them.

“And then there was the smell. Putrid, just putrid. All the boys were shouting at me in French, but I could barely understand anything. The last time I studied French was at St
Alban’s secondary, and that was many years ago.”

“What exactly did the boys say to you, Mrs. Bambage?”

“Call me Lucy. They shouted something like
balene
,
balene
. They kept repeating it and running after me and they just would not leave me alone. It was awful. Do you speak
French? If you have been granted a job here, I certainly hope so.”

Maia could only smile at her comment. She spoke in that proprietary manner that is so typical of tourists who come to feel that they own a slice of the places they are visiting. She made it
sound as if Maia was a privileged impostor.

“I’m afraid that I can’t actually tell you what the boys were saying to you. I seem to have forgotten that word.”

“Saying to me? They were calling me something? How can you forget a simple word like that? You said you spoke French!”

The two women stared at one another with a mutual suspicion that neither yet had the grounds to voice.

“Obviously I don’t speak French quite as well as I thought I did.”

Rupert was smiling at her again, one that the redoubtable Lucy Bambage did not miss.

Maia stood up. “I’m going to the bar. Let me buy you a drink. What would you like?”

“Well, my dear I’ll have a brandy.”

“
Quelle
surprise,” said Maia for absolutely no reason at all, and for the first time in the brief interchange, Lucy Bambage looked somewhat discomfited. As Maia walked to the
bar, her voice did not recede, but remained excruciatingly loud. Maia decided that she needed a vodka.

“But you said she could speak French!” she was saying.

Maia allowed herself a small smile. From the bar she watched these people; their false influence, the accumulation of their manners, which were not so scrupulous as to appear innate. So quickly
she had been drawn into their group, and then just as quickly she was cast out. Lucy Bambage was continuing her monologue.

“I didn’t listen to them really. I was just trying to get Martin’s attention. He can be so intolerably slow.” Maia looked back at the woman, whose jaw was wobbling
emphatically. As she repeated her story, she relived the experience; the injustice that she perceived had been done to her. Maia was amused. The woman was a truly comical sight.

As Maia waited at the bar, someone tapped her arm, and she turned to find herself accosted by Rupert.

“Hello.”

“Rupert.”

“I know.”

“Where do you normally live, Maia, when you aren’t working for shady historians?”

“Shady? Is he shady?”

“Well, the great Mihai Farcu does have his detractors. So where do you normally live?”

“Sometimes in Paris, sometimes in London.”

“And what brought you here? Wait – don’t tell me, a lost lover, a broken heart,” and he began to snigger at his own witticisms.

“Don’t be so ridiculous.”

“It isn’t so ridiculous, Maia. Most of the people I meet here are running away from something. Are you?”

“You are a little inquisitive, aren’t you?”

“I’m just curious.”

“In London I bumped into an old university Professor, who found out I was at a loose end. He mentioned the Historian, and,
voila
.”

Rupert nodded, apparently satisfied with her explanation. She had nothing else to tell him. She certainly was not going to go into details.

“And what will you be doing for Mihai Farcu?” asked Rupert.

“You seem so different to that couple. What exactly are you doing here with them?” said Maia, swiftly changing the subject.

“She is my mother,” said Rupert, and winked.

“I don’t believe that for a second!” Then, discerning his true meaning, Maia could understand the strange enmity between Rupert and the husband. Martin Bambage was a cuckold,
being routinely humiliated by his unattractive wife. She did not trust Rupert; she had caught a facetious look in his eyes.

“They both have their little eccentricities,” he said.

“Lucy Bambage is in charge of both you and Martin.”

“As you say. She supports me, anyway. She has her needs.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Rupert lowered his voice and whispered in her ear. “Poor old Martin. He just can’t keep the pace any more. Anyway, I’ve sent him straight home!” and he cackled wickedly,
slipping away from her, taking Lucy Bambage’s brandy with him. Maia stared at him in horror as he left.

Under Mahmoud’s watchful eye Maia avoided Armand all night, but still she seemed to gravitate towards him. As she heard him speak, his words had all the urbane fluency of a highly educated
man. Later in the evening she saw him sitting at the bar, flanked protectively by two dark women, both anxiously competing for his attention. As she passed, she looked at him puzzled, and as he
smiled at her, she unsuccessfully tried to avert her eyes from his. Neither of them spoke, and Armand looked at her questioningly, raising a sardonic eyebrow.

Maia realised that she had drunk far too much. Mahmoud had handed her so many differently coloured drinks prepared by Tariq, that she lost count.

Later that summer, she could recall only flashes of that first night at the Grand Tazi bar. She remembered Tariq’s pitted face and the father and daughter at the bar, whose grieving faces
were painful to look at. The father was sobbing and inebriated whilst the daughter remained pitiful and silent. It turned out that the commotion that Maia had encountered that afternoon as she had
made her way to the bar was due to a death of a British woman named Pamela. The family had been living in the city for some time, and the father had decided to give his wife what he thought was the
most romantic gift of all: an amorous camel. It seemed that incident in the streets with the camel had attracted more customers than was usual.

The lime green light that spewed forth, casting a theatrical glare upon the bar, lent Mahmoud’s listeners a ghoulish appearance as Mahmoud extolled on the excitement of the Friday
afternoon camel market. The family had been perusing in their search for the perfect present. The camel market sounded very much to Maia like a weekly feast of drama and cruelty. Beaten into
defecating ranks, the hobbled camels were overseen by traders who disregarded the emaciation of the animals; dead beat from their long, hard trek across the Sahara desert.