12

Touareg TeaCaf Mahenni hadnt changed since Id last found myself in Chefchaouen.Tucked away in an alcove on a narrow side street, Caf Mahenni sold the best Touareg tea at the least outrageous price; it could be stumbled upon only by accident, or sought out after eavesdropping on a morsel of knowledge via word of mouth if you spoke Berber.Right around the corner, the neighborhood bazaar bustled with shoppersmaking last-minute purchases of cumin and garbanzo beans before preparing the evening meals. To me, their presence was a comforting reminder that the old quarter had stayed precisely the same. To them, I represented the nuisance of the West, sticking its fat fingers into every remote little corner of the world, infiltrating even the most sacred and secluded nooks of every city.I inched past women in hooded burgundy garments who followed my shadow with glimmering coffee-colored eyes, men in tight white caps and flimsy leather sandals who hollered at me in an Arabic dialect about the superiority of their turmeric, waving burlap sacks of dried couscous in my face. Unless my memory had failed me after four years, it was right beyond this chaotic scene, right down that alleyway, partially shrouded by overgrown palmettos in pots slick with Mediterranean-blue glaze.Breaking free of the muddle, I crept along the chalky path. Like scattered gems on an ocean floor, the mosaic tabletops twinkled in the late-afternoon light, greeting my return as I approached. Even the peeling wrought iron chairs were the same as in the early autumn of 35, when Id unexpectedly laid eyes on them, and on Leo, for the first time.The head server could only communicate with me using basic broken English, and studied my blue eyes and light brown hair suspiciously. I managed to obtain a small table near the footpath outside and ordered a glass of Touareg tea with the mint leaves left in, the same thing Id gotten before. Other than the far-off din of the marketplace, the shaded patio of the caf was quiet, save for the occasional passing mule led by a youth in a loose-fitting shirt. Only an old man with cataracts and gnarled knuckles sat nearby, smoking hashish from a glass pipe and staring at me in peaceful contemplation. Over the rooftops of the medina quarter, the lowering sun reflected gold and vermilion on the lapis lazuli-blue paint of the doorways, for which Chefchaouen was famous.When the server returned to refill my glass, the gaze from beneath his thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows revealed itself to be more out of recognition than distrust. American, sir? Yes. The strong mint odor blended with the steam and pricked my nostrils. You come before?Though I doubted he knew enough English to comprehend my response, I tipped him two dirhams and answered, after a quick nip of the tea, Ive been here before, quite a while ago, yes. Perhaps you remember.

That time, itd been an unplanned visit. Five days after my father was discovered hanging from an exposed beam of his hotel room ceiling, I arrived in the tiny morgue of a modest Andalusian village hospital, nodded when the coroner drew a crisp linen sheet away from my fathers puckering pasty face. With a stub of pencil lying nearby, I scrawled the address of my apartment in Paris on the back of an old playbill in my jacket pocket, along with the address of a funeral parlor back in Philadelphia. After I paid for the body to be shipped home to the States, the owner of the hotel gently pressed a folded letter into my hand. I recognized it immediately as the one my father had written to me about, in which my mother demanded a divorce from him at last. Tucked into his shoe, the owner explained. He then produced a wallet and handed it over with the same delicacy as before. It was made of thin, flimsy leather, hardly something that wouldve satisfied my fathers nouveau riche tastes. He had no money in here? I asked, rifling through the inner folds and finding only a crumpled ticket. He did not.So I left, pocketed the letter, threw the wallet in the garbage, and boarded a boat to Tangier.Fes was my ultimate destination, where Florence had taken a clerical position for a French publisher she had found out first. Her telegram to me had read:Conrad, Dads gone and finished things for good this time. Im told he hanged himself. Hes such a complete idiot, isnt he? Was. Address of hospital will be in separate message. Most inconvenient time for me to leave Morocco right now. So I insist that you tear yourself from whatever youre doing in Montmartre a bit and see that hes shipped home in one piece. Mother can deal with him then. FlorenceThe only confirmation that hed made it back to Philadelphia came in an even choppier telegram from my mother, waiting for me upon my return to Paris:Your fathers body arrived. His luggage sent home too. Asked Rollins & Hynde to keep the service short, had a bridge tournament the same day. Gabe agreed to take over the factory since you probably wont. Will you and Florence ever come home?My sister had requested that I visit her after attending to our father, but, after a series of events that involved broken glass in my luggage and cologne soaking every garment in my trunk, that train screamed south, bound beyond the Atlases, without me. Instead I boarded a bus, teeming with Polish and German tourists, headed for Chefchaouen, smashed up against a window by two gentlemen whod been raised on potatoes and kielbasa. Florence never bothered to ask what became of the plans.The city itself was like most others in the Maghreb, a veritable mess of cultures, a simmering stew of the leavings of past invasions and occupations a pinch of the Moors here, a spoonful of the French there, a hefty slice of the Spanish. Remnants of the ancient world still reigned supreme, the mystical mingling with the tangible, and immediately I suspected that someone in the city had unknowingly awaited my arrival.

Nursing my fourth glass of tea, I turned the photo over and over again in my fingers, running my thumb over the stamp and the inky address that had technically rendered it a postcard. It was of he and I, of course, standing before Bab al-Ansar, the eastern gate to the oldest district of the city. By sheer luck it had reached me, arriving at my Paris apartment three days before I was to move out. The body of the message comprised a single lengthy sentence and was unsigned:Tried cocaine for the first time and thought I died, came around and realized Id dreamt about us talking at Caf Mehenni until dawn, coming to Chaouen on November 3rd, maybe.The evening call to prayer from the minarets at Place Uta Hammam haunted the blue-frosted plaster walls of the low houses, slipped between the potted palm fronds and into the grooves of the freshly swept mosaic floor. I slipped a cigarette between my lips and glanced in the direction of the old man with the hashish, hoping for a light. But hed vanished into the labyrinth of side streets, absorbed by the indiscernible fuzz of the growing dusk.Ive got it. A gentle hand cupped my chin and tilted my head up towards a face I knew well. He struck a match and lit my cigarette, then his own, then the tiny bayberry candle stump that sat in a glass on the middle of the table. All I gave you was a date. I didnt realize until later that I shouldve included a time. Leo slipped into the chair across from me and took a deep drag from his cigarette.I guess I was prepared to sit here all night.What if I didnt come? He wasnt asking teasingly; the giant grey eyes regarded me with a genuine question.Then I wouldve left eventually. Somehow I doubted that I would have. Maybe visited Florence this time around.She still in Fes?I dont know, actually. We havent spoken since before I last came here.Acknowledging my statement with a faint twitch of his dark eyebrows, he unbuttoned the top of his shirt and removed his cuff links. Unlike many Western travelers in the Orient, Leo never bothered with absurd attempts at assimilation. Even I had settled for a thin cream-colored muslin shirt, forgoing French cuffs and tiepins for the sake of appearing less conspicuous as a foreigner. Leo adhered to a separate dress code. Boater hats, striped bowties, and airy light-blue blazers gave him the look of a Princeton boy, even though hed dropped out of Williams College after one semester, even though he was pushing thirty and would probably lose whatever youthfulness still remained in his face within a few more years.Is Yani still serving tea? Tapping the ash onto the tabletop, he glanced toward the bolted door to the main part of the caf.His name is Yani?If I remember correctly. I dont think that was his name. He closed the place, anyway. You can finish mine. I pushed the half-empty glass at him and he took up my hand instead, putting my ring finger to his lips and pursing them. He then leaned forward and pressed his mouth to mine before I could exhale the smoke Id just taken in.I pulled back, averting his eyes as I breathed out. Someone could be watching.Nobodys watching. He went in again, this time taking my face in both hands, nearly disrupting the candle and tipping over the tea.Move away from the flame. Your shirt is about to catch on fire. It wasnt, really. I shied away again. Aloof, I told myself. Must remain distant, or else youll be crawling across the table right now, sending that candle flying, starting a fire thatll burn the entire medina to cinders.Leo sat back and took the slim tea glass in his hand, downing the rest of the lukewarm liquid in one tilt of his head. Nearly retching, his features twisted into a grimace. Still excellent. Best in the country. But too strong. You always leave the mint leaves in there. You shouldnt do that. I like it.Its unbearable. So are you.Smiling wryly, he crushed the cigarette into the sandy ground using the wingtip toe of his shoe. Slowly he reached across the table, barely missing the candle again, undid my top button with his forefinger and thumb, and stroked my neck softly. Neither of us spoke, and the balmy night absorbed any sound I attempted to make.An English couple dressed in shimmering eveningwear prattled faintly as they glided through the alley, cracking the silence between us. They were the first people to pass by in hours, and it took them a while to realize we were there. When they did, they grew hushed and side-eyed us as they rushed by; each pair regarded the other as an intrusion on a dream of sorts, and we exchanged no words.Leo glowered after them and lit a match. Must be going to one of Mnards moronic parties. I dont know who that is. He turned his head to watch them disappear, blowing smoke after them. Wealthy Frenchman who lives in a riad down that way. He gestured vaguely, and I didnt bother to follow his hand, only felt dismayed that hed taken it off me. The partys going to be over soon, you know. For all of them. Germans will be here soon enough. Or the Italians.How do you know? Its what I think. Its only a matter of time. At least itll get rid of all these sequined and starched shirt Westerners who treat the Maghreb like their exotic personal playground. You do that. Not anymore. He didnt even seem to believe himself. I told Blanche I was meeting my brother in Casablanca. Shed rip my head off if she knew I was here. Or shed get the Lord to do it for her, somehow. You two are still married? Something about Leos postcard had given me hope that they werent. I thought of the two return tickets that waited in my trouser pocket, which Id bought in a fit of optimism at the bus station. The tea in my stomach began churning to froth.He looked at me in mild surprise. Of course we are. Oh. Someone has to be given the task of dealing with her, I suppose, he said. Especially lately. I dont feel like hearing about her. How is she? Same Christ-driven nut as always. We live in Ttouan now. The Seventh-Day Adventists sent her there to teach at the orphanage theyve set up. She loves them more than me, I think. Spends more time with them, no doubt. She might be having a baby. When? Im not sure. Its not looking well. The pregnancy might not work out. Shes unhealthy. Often she drives herself into illness. She always says shes scared. Of what? The Germans coming. Or the Italians. Tuberculosis. Her orphans becoming heathens, perhaps. Me leaving her, or being tempted off the Path of Righteousness. Or the baby. Something. Ive never thought to ask exactly what. And you? Are you scared?He shrugged. Id rather she didnt find out about us. Well, I was thinking of the Germans. Are you scared of the Germans? It depends. Maybe. Are they coming to North Africa? I dont know. I thought you knew. What about the baby? Does Blanche want it born in Morocco? I dont know. Maybe there is no baby.I realized the irritation that had been making itself more and more evident in my voice. Softer, this time, I asked, And what about us? Is there an us?I repeated the question to myself under my breath. I certainly want there to be. The place is exactly the same. Surveying the outside wall of the caf, painted sky-blue with cheap pigment hundreds of times, he ran his finger across the dusty plaster. You expected it to be different? I drew out a second cigarette. Honestly, I figured it would be gone. Little holes-in-the-wall like this usually dont last long.I plucked the cigarette from my lips before Leo could reach across to light it. Look, is this what you lured me back from Paris to talk about? The goddamn Germans and Blanche going insane and having a baby, and orphans, and Yanis Touareg tea? I thought you said his name wasnt Yani. Who cares, Leo? Why did you send me that photo? Why are we back here?Conrad, you should know that. He guided the cigarette back to my mouth and lit it with the already-burning match. Then, with a conspiratorial smile, this is where it started for us. And where it ended, too, if you want to get reminiscent about it. Where you gave me that garbage about how Blanche was waiting in Tangier and how I should go back to Europe or the States to find a publisher. You just wanted to get rid of me, didnt you? You never even read the manuscript.Yes, I did.You read one chapter.I read two.What is this? You called me back to tell me youre still living a lie? You wanted to sit and talk until dawn again? It seems like theres nothing left to talk about. So why are we here when Blanche is still still waiting?His eyes reflected the last of the sunlight before the whole flaming star slipped into the Atlantic some 90 miles away. The thing about Blanche,"he said, choosing his words carefully," is that well, the element of our marriage that might result in childbearing is not useful for much else. Companionship, I mean, and pleasure. The thing is, I think Blanche has someone else who gives her that, because she knows about me, somehow, even if she can't put it into words yet. But, yes - I'm quite sure she has someone else, whoever it might be, for that." He paused. "And I have you." So there really is nothing left to talk about. I tried to admit it aloud for my own benefit, my own sense of closure; it was what Id suspected but tried to push away out of hopefulness, or stupidity, or something. I blinked and hid my tear-blurred eyes in the shadow of my hand. Lets not talk, then, he said. Im staying at the Al-Massi.It wasnt what I wanted anymore, but it meant another chance. Then lets go. Alright.

The suite was puny and smelled overpoweringly of incense. I nearly stumbled over a stack of trunks as we pushed into the room and slammed the iron lock home. Cant you move that away from the door? I only felt obligated to make a complaint because I knew he anticipated I would. Leo had left several candles burning, just enough light for my quavering fingertips to find his multitude of buttons.He was considerably less patient and yanked my shirt off in one quick gesture, pulling his lips away from my face just enough to get the garment over my head. Nibbling at my chin and throat, he eased me gently onto the bed, like a mother placing an infant in a crib. Somehow he saw the five-year age difference as an excuse to treat me like Blanche mustve done with her orphans. Remember the last bed we slept in? The mattress felt like it was stuffed with cabbages. He slung his trousers over a nearby rattan chair and flung mine to the floor. Strange you say that. This one feels like that, too.The tip of Leos tongue found the hollow under my ribs and I tried my damnedest to relax among the scratchy wool sheets, which he hadnt made since last sleeping in them earlier this afternoon. Youve gotten thinner, he murmured when he reached my hips, prodding delicately at all the places where bones stuck out. I guess you cant really eat the pages of your rejected manuscripts. I winced when nipped at my hipbone. He moved on, leaving a slight mark on the thin skin.Did you ever send that novel around? Try to get it published? I thought we werent going to talk. I ran my fingers through his chestnut waves and tugged on a handful to shut him up.What was it about, again? And the title? Its on the tip of my tongue. He tittered upon realizing the inadvertent double entendre.Who cares? I threw it away. It was terrible.Oh. Have you written any new material lately?No. I decided the only sure-fire way to stop his mouth from running was to occupy my own, so I did, pushing down on his chest and stroking his left thigh while I labored for twenty minutes, and it worked.Another hour went by of sweat and saliva and teeth and tears (his teeth, my tears, of course), and we stayed silent. Then another hour, and another. Afterward, I buried my face between his neck and shoulder partially to block out the nauseating smell of the incense, partially to avoid the strange way he liked to stare at me when we were finished. Running his fingertips along my backbone, he turned on the tiny wooden radio nearby with the other hand. Amid the crunching and crackling of the poor transmission, I picked up snippets of a French-language broadcast and listened with half an ear. The rest of my mind was occupied with suckling at his neck and trying to forget that the bus departed in less than nine hours. What are they saying? Leo asked. Something about Poland and Czechoslovakia. I understood that much and I dont even speak French. Its unsafe here. Or it will be soon. This entire part of the world is, I mean, or maybe even the entire world. I think, anyway.I raised my head, unsurprised that he was staring right at me. Then lets go to Philadelphia. We can be in the States together. Conrad, we only found each other because we werent in the States. What does that even mean?Ignoring my question, he went on. Besides, it didnt work here, it wont work there. Also, Ive got Blanche. I cant leave her alone in this godforsaken place. Or them. If there is a baby. Theres no goddamn baby. How do you know that? You dont even love her.Leo considered this briefly. Thats not true. I do, in some ways. I have to, I suppose. So this was all you wanted? I gestured to the bed, to our rumpled clothes strewn on the floor and over the furniture.He combed his hair with his fingers and fixed his eyes on the stucco wall. I dont know what I wanted. Honestly, I hoped you wouldnt be there today. It doesnt benefit either of us, really.Those words lingered in the air like the final chord of a somber nocturne. For a few more moments I remained in the crook of his arm, letting those words sink into my bones.Abruptly I leaned over and snatched my pants off the floor, rifled through the pockets until I drew out the pair of tickets. Thrusting them in his face, I laughed pitifully and said, Look at this."Leo sat up and looked quizzically at the tickets, a hint of fond amusement in his eyes."What am I looking at?""This." I pushed it even closer for emphasis. "Arent I a complete idiot? No, youre not, he replied at last. For what felt like hours I remained in that position, brandishing the tickets in his face, looking at Leo, who looked at the tickets."The only way I'd believe that," I finally said, "would be if you went with me. Otherwise -" I trailed off and lowered my hand, watching miserably as it dropped onto the bed next to me.Leaning forward, he kissed me, tenderly took the second ticket from my fingers, and crumpled it in his hand. My bus for Ttouan leaves Tuesday. Thats the one Im taking.Tearing the photo down the middle, I made my way back to Caf Mahenni through the dark maze that Id somehow come to memorize. Pressing gently on a fresh bruise at the base of my throat, I found the same chair Id been sitting in before, the empty glass still abandoned, the candle burnt down to a cooled puddle of wax. Glimmering in the moonlight were Leos cufflinks, left carelessly on the tabletop when wed taken off for his hotel.I slipped them into my pocket, placed a cigarette in my lips, and sat down. I crossed my legs and sat waiting, waiting for the old man with the hashish pipe to return the next morning so I could ask for a light, waiting for Yani to step out of the doorway at dawn and refill my glass with more of his famous Touareg tea, maybe waiting for the Germans to arrive and blow the whole city to smithereens.