Page 77 of The Last Postcard

The workspace was cluttered, carbon copies strewn around a typewriter, newspapers in French and English piled up next to it. This could have been his own life, Sam realized, with a bizarre rush of clarity. If he had followed a different path, if he had studied harder at college and made the right connections, he might have been sitting at one of these desks working, rather than skulking like a thief. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Quickly, he began to search. No one seemed to be looking his way. The only man within eyeshot was smoking and reading a copy of Al-Alam. He found a handwritten note and snatched it up only to discover that it was all in shorthand, like a taunt. Think. The passport was Norton’s proof. He wouldn’t just leave it lying about in the open.

Beneath the desk was a squat metal filing cabinet. The top drawer opened with a metallic squeal, and the man opposite gave him half a glance. Sam smiled back. Be calm, he told himself.

The drawer was full of cardboard files, all the same shade of beige. The passport could be in any one of them. He started to lift covers at random, peering at the papers inside. They were full of cuttings, edited notes, picture references. He began to scrabble through them faster. It would make him look suspicious, but he didn’t care; he didn’t know how much longer his nerves would hold out. He opened the fourth file down and felt smooth card beneath his fingers, thicker than carbon copy. He yanked it out.

PASAPORTE.

Thank god.

The photo of Alejandro looked up at him, defiant and sullen. He recognized Ale now, so young, and felt his chest tighten with sympathy, with admiration. What had happened, during those dark, hot days of July 1928? He still didn’t know.

Englishman Drowns in Strait.

Skin prickling, Sam shoved the passport into his back pocket. He was reaching down to close the drawer when something else caught his eye, a photograph of a familiar location. He pulled it out.

The picture was black and white and grainy, as if taken in low light, but he could tell it showed the entrance of The Hold. Two blurred figures were standing by the door. He squinted, trying to make them out. Only when he saw the shape of a cigar did he realize that one of the figures was Bet. Bet and Kline, his head near hers, as if in quiet conversation. Sam’s fingers tightened on the print. What the hell was Norton playing at? Abruptly, he remembered the intent way the journalist had stared at Bet across the bar, the way he’d feigned drunkenness as he declared, I’ve just been hearing the most marvellous stories from Giles. He said that you were a smuggler!

‘Bastard,’ Sam hissed.

‘Hackett!’

He shot up from the chair, the picture still clutched in his hand. Norton was striding across the office, pale beneath his sunburn. ‘What in god’s name are you doing?’

People were looking now, but Sam didn’t care.

‘What in god’s name are you doing?’ he said. ‘What the hell is this?’

He threw the photograph at Norton, who barely managed to catch it. When he saw what it was, his face went even paler.

‘It’s my job,’ he said, with deliberate control. ‘I’m doing my job, Hack, investigating what I think needs to be reported. This isn’t personal.’

‘Yeah, right.’ People were standing now, craning to see what was going on. Let them, Sam thought recklessly. ‘Stalking isn’t doing a job. Neither is stealing from my suitcase. It’s theft.’

‘That suitcase wasn’t yours,’ Norton snapped. ‘And that passport is a fake. I called the consulate, they have no record of any Alejandro del Potro—’

‘I asked you to wait.’ Sam stepped towards Norton. ‘There are people who could be hurt by what you’re doing!’

‘People who deserve it.’ Norton shook his head, as if Sam were a child, throwing a tantrum. ‘You have no idea, do you, the kind of people you’re dealing with? I found Langham’s record. He was a crook, just like this del Potro character, or whoever it is living in that house.’

‘You don’t understand!’ He was shouting.

‘No, you don’t. You’re so bloody naive. That lot at The Hold, Bet, Kline, all of them, they’re criminals. They’ve charmed you with their stories, flattered you into thinking you’re special, but I’m not fooled, I can see them for the scum they are—’

Before he could think twice, he raised his arm and punched Norton square in the face.

Between the Sheets

Take three quarters of a pony each of brandy, Cointreau and white rum. Add just a dash of lemon juice, shake well and strain into a glass. How you drink it is nobody’s business.

June slid into July like butter on a hot plate. I was used to Andalucían summers; the fierce sun and the darkness of shuttered rooms, the constant thirst of those who cannot escape the city for mountain or coast, who only emerge in the greyness of dawn to crawl to mass and pray for rain. But Tangiers heat was different. It was the heat of the desert, come to try its luck by the sea. It was an old god, one who laughed to see us sweat and swoon. It found me wild with anxiety and joy and fear and desire shaken up together.

The night with Langham turned into another, then another. My morning meetings with him – ostensibly to discuss the day’s menu – would more often than not descend into a frenzy of fingers on buttons and loosened garments, up against the locked door. There was no hiding it from Bouzid, of course, or Hilde. Early one morning she had walked into Langham’s room and found me there, in my strange collection of male underwear and the tight brassiere. She had laughed, and I felt a huge wave of relief. I wanted her for my friend.

‘I see he took your news well then,’ she said, helping herself to a cigarette from the box on his dresser. By the time Langham emerged from the bathroom, Hilde and I were standing at the wardrobe, holding up suits, trying on hats, Hilde with a cravat looped about her neck.

‘What’s this?’ he said, with his secretive half-smile. ‘A pantomime?’