Page 49 of The Last Postcard

‘With patatas a lo pobre,’ I told him quietly. ‘And aioli. Sardinas en salsa de limón. Queso con miel y romero.’

‘Peasant food,’ he murmured. ‘You’ve given yourself away, boy.’

‘Bon appétit,’ I said. It was a challenge.

I stood in the shadows, watching as Langham’s guests fell upon the food, as they laughed at the novelty of scooping aioli straight from the bowl, picking up salt-scattered potatoes with their fingers, their lips flushed and tingling with chilli. I watched as the woman from the pool fed a slice of honey-slicked cheese to a man, following it up with her lips. I watched as another man, his waistcoat hanging open, dropped a whole sardine into his mouth, imitating a gull. It was grotesque, it was glorious, and I was torn. Half of me wanted to fling myself into that revelry, drink until I was like them, until I could no longer taste the bitterness of the world. The other half of me held back, an outsider, thrilled by the power of what I had done, how I could affect people’s behaviour, with nothing more than kitchen scraps.

I looked for Langham. I tried to see him eating, tried to guess at his face, but every time I thought he was about to bend towards a dish I lost sight of him. Eventually, the platters were emptied down to scrapings and skin, and people began to drift off, towards pools of light or quiet shadows. Only then did I come forwards to clear the plates, relieved and frustrated. For all his words, I had never once seen Langham eat my food.

On the cushions, Lady Bailey lay insensible with her head in the lap of another man. The long, slim pipe hung loose in her hand. If she and Langham truly were together, then where was he at such a moment?

‘Leave that,’ a low voice told me. I turned and found Bouzid. ‘Monsieur wants to see you. In the study.’ He pointed to the farthest end of the veranda, where I could just see a pair of glass doors, open to the darkness.

My body gave a thud of anticipation. ‘All right,’ I muttered. Bouzid was holding out his hand for the apron. It obviously wouldn’t do to wear it in there. Gritting my teeth, I took it off, hunching my chest. I wanted to go back to the kitchen and fetch my jacket, but Bouzid blocked my way.

‘You should not keep him waiting.’

I had no choice but to walk into the shadows, trying surreptitiously to check that the bindings were still tight around my chest, praying they hadn’t slipped in all of my activity. Too soon, I came to the glass doors. I was sick with nerves, all my arrogance, my kitchen magic seeping away. Had I fooled Langham? Would he actually consider hiring me? The others had eaten my food; I had bewitched them, in whatever small measure, but him …

‘Del Potro?’ His voice drifted from the darkness. ‘Come in.’

I stepped through the doors. Beyond was a large room, lit by a single oil lamp that rested on a desk. Its flickering light caught varnished wood, papers, the corner of a leather writing case, where two initials glinted gold. A flare of orange in the darkness made me look up. Langham was leaning there, barely visible save for the end of his cigarette.

Abruptly, I became aware of the cooking smells that clung about me; hot oil and onions, garlic and lemon sharp on my fingers.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Another flare of the cigarette. ‘I did.’ He moved forward to sit on the corner of the desk before me. He was so close that his own scent began to mingle with mine. I breathed waxy pomade and sweat-damp silk, tobacco and roses, the blunt sting of liquor. His voice was as quiet as the smoke. ‘I want to know what you’re doing here.’

The scant light caught the side of his neck, his cheekbone, the very edge of his mouth. I sensed that we were playing some game and that I had to tread carefully, because I didn’t know the rules.

‘I came here to find you,’ I said, gambling that the truth would be more potent than a lie.

‘Why?’ The smoke from his cigarette was filling the space between us. ‘Why me?’

‘Because …’ The truth ran out. It was something that didn’t exist in words, yet, only in the stab of my heartbeat, the singing of my blood, the yearning in my constricted chest. Because you have everything I want.

He didn’t ask me to continue. Instead, our breathing filled the silence until he moved abruptly, reaching along the desk.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.

It was my passport. Bouzid must have gone through the pockets of my jacket. I tried to see Langham’s face, but it was lost in shadow and his voice gave away nothing.

‘From the consulate.’ I tried to keep my voice steady.

‘The consulate here in Tangiers?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’ve been here before?’

‘No. I lost my papers. A friend helped me to replace them.’

‘A friend,’ Langham said softly. He opened the passport, to where my face stared up sullenly. ‘Del Potro,’ he read, and half laughed, ‘what a name.’

‘It’s the only name I have,’ I told him.

He looked at me, and I could tell he knew everything; that the name was false, that I was here because I was desperate, because I was running from something. Almost everything, I thought, as the bindings squeezed my chest.