I slept late, then spent the afternoon wandering the city. It was just before five when I stepped into the Pub, and already the place was packed with expatriates. Bare-shouldered English girls and sunburned Australians flirted with each other over shandies and pints of porter. I ordered a lager and wandered back toward the dartboards and pool table.
Except for the small slice of Tangier that was visible through the front window, I could have been on any London corner. A large television over the bar broadcast Premier League soccer. A blackboard beside it listed the daily specials: scampi and chips, ploughman’s lunch, and kidney pie. Save for a framed operating license, there was not one scrap of Arabic in the establishment. The man Joshi had called Brian was nowhere to be found, so I grabbed a free seat in a back corner of the bar, ordered some scampi and chips, and settled in to wait.
I didn’t have to wait long. I was tucking away the last of my greasy french fries when the front door opened and a group of girls stumbled inside. Pulling off long-sleeved shirts and jackets to reveal half T-shirts and navel rings, shedding their outerwear like crabs ready for mating, they headed for the bar. I was watching them with fascination when the door opened again and a man stepped inside.
He had traded his raincoat for faded jeans, a gray cotton sweater, and running shoes, but it was the same man I’d seen on the Continental’s veranda and in my hotel room early that morning. Yes, I thought, watching him make his way to the bar, he was definitely an American. He ordered a beer and started in my direction, evidently heading for the dartboards. I leaned my elbows on the table and watched him. He was handsome up close, his hair slightly mussed as if he’d just woken from a nap. He passed right by me, his eyes skimming my face, then moved on.
I ordered another pint and let him play a game of darts. When he made his second trip to the bar, I elbowed my way in beside him.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
He signaled for the bartender, then looked over at me nonchalantly. “I don’t think so.”
“No. I’m sure I know you. It’s Brian, right?”
He shrugged. “I’ve got that kind of look.”
“Maybe this’ll jog your memory,” I told him. “Four o’clock this morning. Hotel Continental. Room two-oh-five.”
The bartender came over. Brian ordered another pint and slid a twenty-dirham note across the bar.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded. “And what do you want?”
He picked up his glass, took his change, and turned to move away. “Listen, I really think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
I watched him walk back to the dartboards, exchanging brief hellos as he went. Most of the Pub’s patrons seemed to know each other, and Brian was no exception.
A young woman with dreadlocks muscled her way in next to me.
“You a regular?” I asked.
She smiled. “Regular as I can be.”
“You know that guy over there?” I pointed to Brian.
“Sure.”
“His name’s Brian, right?”
“Cute, huh?” She nodded.
“You know anything about him?”
The woman lit a cigarette and waved the smoke away. “American,” she said. “From California, I think. Poor guy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s down here looking for his brother,” she explained. “Disappeared about a year ago.”
“Did you know him? The brother, I mean.”
She shook her head. “Before my time.”
“What happened?”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? No one knows.”
The bartender appeared, and the woman ordered a vodka tonic.
“He was some kind of do-gooder,” she offered. “You know, trying to modernize the medina, bring the Internet to the carpet dealers.”
I watched Brian put his beer down and start for the men’s room.
“Don’t get any ideas,” the dreadlocked woman said wistfully as her drink arrived. “He’s single as they come, and appears to like it that way. Believe me, we’ve all tried.”
I smiled. “Well, then, wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” I heard her say as I started toward the rear of the bar.
The rest rooms were tucked in a small hallway behind the pool table. I set my beer down next to Brian’s, slipped into the little corridor, and leaned against the wall next to the men’s-room door, listening to the sound of the faucets running. Something was wrong. No one took that long to wash his hands. Moving my ear to the door, I knocked lightly and got no answer.
I put my hand on the knob and pushed. The bathroom and its single doorless stall were empty. The one small window was too small and too high to have provided an exit. Stepping back into the hallway, I surveyed my surroundings. Next to the men’s room was the women’s. Across the corridor was a door marked Office and a second, unmarked door. I tried the blank door and felt the knob give way in my hand. The door swung outward to reveal the dank and putrid alley beyond.
Something moved in the darkness. I craned my head out to see a knot of rats swarming on the Pub’s garbage, a tangle of teeth and furless tails. Farther away, near where the alley opened onto the street, a shapeless beggar coughed, the sound hoarse and hollow as a death rattle. There was no sign of Brian.
SEVEN
Figuring I’d try the El Minzah later, I took a taxi back to the Continental. I was doubtful I’d find Brian at the piano bar that night, more doubtful still that he’d tell me anything if I did, but Joshi’s tip was the only trail I had to follow and I planned on pursuing it to its end.
Abdesselom had evidently quit for the night, and a middle-aged Moroccan woman with a bad orange dye-job and too much makeup had taken his place behind the desk. When I asked her what time things usually got started at the El Minzah, she folded her arms across her chest and eyed me skeptically.
“You are going to Caid’s?” she asked.
I gave her a look of confusion.
“Caid’s. The piano bar,” she elaborated.
I nodded.
“Ten, ten-thirty.” The woman shrugged. “But you can’t go like that. Caid’s is very fancy, very fancy.”
I looked down at myself, at my convent work boots, faded canvas shirt, and patched jeans. The change of clothes in my pack wasn’t much better, and certainly less clean. “It’ll have to do,” I told her.
Making my way up to my room, I locked the door and rummaged in my pack. I pulled out a rumpled black sweater and laid it on the bed, smoothing the wrinkles with the back of my hand, dabbing it clean with a damp washcloth before putting it on. I ran a brush through my hair and pulled it back off my face. With a little luck I hoped I could pull off the slumming-rich-girl look.
Yes, I thought, giving myself a good once-over in the mirror, it would have to do. I tucked a stray wisp of hair behind one ear, turned, and headed for the door. That’s when I noticed the little book that lay open on my nightstand. I stopped short and stepped toward it. It had not been there before, of that I was certain. The maid must have left it, I told myself, glancing at the two open pages, the Arabic script. And yet if a maid had come while I’d been out, she had not stayed long enough to fold the two towels I’d tucked haphazardly over the chrome bar next to the sink.
I picked up the book. The text was divided into short, numbered sections, verses, it seemed. A religious book, but not the Bible, the Koran most likely. I closed the cover and, taking the book with me, picked up my rucksack. No doubt it wasn’t appropriate attire for the El Minzah, but I couldn’t leave it, not now, knowing someone had been in my room. Hoisting the pack onto my shoulder, I stepped into the hallway and headed down to the lobby.
“Is this the hotel’s?” I asked the clerk. I set the Koran down on the counter in front of her.