I heard the car roll forward, its German engine speaking the language of engineering perfection. The hood appeared, then the front windows, and I caught a glimpse of the driver. He was a North African, with powerful shoulders and a heavy jaw. In the seat next to him was another man, a familiar face, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. One of the men from the train, I thought, though I couldn’t be sure. Then the rear windows slid into view, and I knew I was not mistaken. Through the window closest to me I could see another man, this one a European, middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair. Next to him was a young Moroccan, his features unmistakable as those of an old friend. But he wasn’t a friend. It was my other fellow passenger, the one who had called himself Salim.
He glanced in my direction, and I held my breath, as if by not breathing I could keep from being seen. But Salim must not have noticed me. The Mercedes kept going, toward the Boulevard de Safi and the heart of the Ville Nouvelle.
The trip through the medina and the subsequent taxi ride had left me somewhat disoriented, but I had a vague idea of my location in the Ville Nouvelle. I knew the Jardin Majorelle lay almost dead north of the Place de la Liberté. And from there, it was just a short walk through the Bab Larissa and down the Avenue Mohammed V to the Koutoubia Mosque and the Hotel Ali. A brief detour would take me to the Place du 16 Novembre and the All Join Hands offices. I’d give it one more try, I told myself, heading in what I hoped was a southerly direction, wending my way finally to the dusty axis of the Ville Nouvelle.
I found the door to the All Join Hands offices still locked, but one of the windows on the second floor of the building was open, the shutters thrown ajar to let in the afternoon breeze. I knocked hard and took a step back, peering up at the window. Someone moved inside, a white-shirted figure rising, then flitting out of sight. I heard footsteps on the stairs and the deadbolt rattling; then the door opened, and a sunburned face appeared.
“Can I help you?” the man asked. He was short and stocky, uncomfortably pink, with the flaccid, overfed look of so many Americans. He wore a badly wrinkled white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled above his elbows, and his dirty-blond hair was coarse and unruly.
I had not prepared myself for the question, so it took me a moment to answer. “I’m an old friend of Pat Haverman’s,” I said finally.
The man squinted at me, his face nearly swallowing his eyes. “Hannah, right?”
I nodded.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “We only met that once, at the pool at the Ziryab, I think. I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”
“Of course,” I told him. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Charlie,” he said, “Charlie Phillips.” He motioned for me to enter, and I stepped into the foyer. “We thought you’d come by,” he said. Closing the door behind me, he started up the narrow flight of stairs. He was breathing heavily from the exertion of climbing the stairs, and when we reached the second-floor landing Charlie paused a moment to catch his breath.
“Look who I found,” he called out, before stepping through an open doorway into a space crammed with a vast array of electronics.
In the far corner of the room was a sitting area furnished with some old chairs, a coffee table, a badly scarred dartboard, a small refrigerator, and a TV. And there, sprawled on a sagging couch, his long, athletic legs stretched out before him, a bottle of Flag Spéciale in his hand, a copy of the Herald Tribune in his lap, was Brian Haverman.
“I had a hunch you’d show up here,” he said, smiling. He set the paper down, swung his feet to the floor, and stood. Something about the ease with which he moved unnerved me.
“You shouldn’t have followed me,” I told him, lingering in the doorway.
“You shouldn’t have run out on me,” he countered, taking a swig of his beer.
I glanced quickly around the cluttered space that seemed to serve both as office and as meeting place for the homesick Americans’ club. Some shelves above the refrigerator held a selection of U.S. supplies, most of which I had only seen in movies. There were several boxes of Pop-Tarts, an unopened bag of Doritos, and a healthy supply of Jack Daniel’s.
“You want a beer?” Charlie asked, his face flushing a deeper red. He was clearly working on an early drunk and didn’t want to have to go it alone. “We’ve got a stash of Budweiser, though Brian here prefers the local stuff.”
I shook my head. “No, thanks.”
Charlie shrugged, already heading for the fridge. “So where’d you disappear to?” he called over his shoulder. “Brian says you just came back to Morocco a few days ago.”
“I’ve been in France,” I said, looking at Brian as I spoke, wondering what else he’d told the man.
My answer seemed to satisfy Charlie; he didn’t ask for details. I was just another expatriate drifter, like how many others who’d stopped here for beer and satellite baseball games, just another girl from the pool at the Hotel Ziryab. A displaced American with a little money and a lack of ambition. What had he said? I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.
Charlie grabbed a Budweiser and popped the top. “I guess this blows my theory out of the water.”
“What theory is that?” I asked, stepping toward the two men.
“That he ran off with you.” He winked at me, then threw his full weight onto the sagging couch.
“Any other theories?”
Charlie looked philosophically at his beer. “None that make any sense.”
“Did you see him when he came through here on his way to Ourzazate?”
“We had a drink that night, at the Mamounia.”
“What did you talk about?”
He shrugged. “The date plantations. You.”
“What about me?”
“That boy had it bad,” he said. “Head over heels.” He took a long pull off his beer, then motioned to the shelf of foodstuffs behind him. “You sure you don’t want anything?”
“No, thanks,” I told him. In truth, I wanted to try everything-the strangely unfoodlike food, the shelf-stable pastries and corn chips, the box of neon macaroni and cheese-but I shook my head. I had the odd feeling that if I stayed too much longer, or ate what was offered, I’d be trapped, like some unfortunate fairy-tale princess.
“What about this project with the date plantations?” I asked. “What did he say about that?”
“Just the same Pat Haverman bullshit. Save the world and all.” Charlie waved his beer toward me as if it was an important visual aid. “He wasn’t like the rest of us fucks, come down here to get laid. It’s summer camp for most of us, you know, but not Pat. He was going to go down there and convince those farmers they needed his help.”
I glanced over at Brian and saw him looking back at me, both of us thinking the same thing. Whatever All Join Hands did have to offer, today wasn’t the day to find it. Charlie’s drunk had taken a turn for the maudlin, and if we didn’t leave soon we’d be here for the long haul.
“I should get going,” Brian said. “Got some things to take care of.”
Charlie winced, a quick, bitter smile. Drunk, but not stupid, he knew when he was being pushed off.
“I guess it’s just you and me,” he said, slightly sarcastic, his tone saying he knew full well I was on my way out, too.
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
“I don’t like being followed,” I said, as we emerged from the dim stairwell into the bright daylight.
“Well, I don’t like being lied to.” Brian closed the door behind us and started for the Place du 16 Novembre.
“I told you,” I said, keeping pace with him. “You’re not safe with me.”
“Thanks for the warning, but like I told you, I’ll take my chances.”