Christine Mangan - Tangerine

Perhaps I had always been moving toward this day, all on my own.

There was a comfort in the thought, I realized as I moved onto the bed. I crawled, pulling the duvet back and slipping under the sheets.

It sounded now as though a large body was pummeling the wooden frame, over and over, so that I worried the sound of it would never stop, that it would go on and on forever.

But then, I remembered, looking down into my hand, it would stop.

All of it. Soon.

And nothing that had come before would matter ever again.

IN FRONT OF HER, THE QUEUE WAS FINALLY MOVING. “TICKET, please,” the man commanded, opening his hand in expectation. For a moment, she considered turning back. Pushing through the line she had waited in for nearly an hour, making her way through the port and into the heart of the city, just as she had done the first day. She could almost feel it, the heat of the medina pushing up against her, the frenzied excitement that ran through it, as though a vein that kept the city alive—pumping and rushing, working relentlessly so that the rest of Tangier could survive. She longed to be in the midst of it again, suspecting—no, perhaps already knowing—that she never would be. That Tangier would be a stranger to her, now and forever. Well, not really a stranger, but a piece of her past. One that she might take out and examine from time to time, holding it up to the light—but one that she would never revisit. That was impossible.

If only Alice had not called Maude.

If only Youssef had not blackmailed her.

Lucy handed over her ticket to the attendant and found a seat toward the back, away from the screaming children, their faces sticky with sweets, their parents already wearing the resigned look of those who know they are facing a losing battle. It was an expression they no doubt shared—for Lucy also knew that this was the end for her and Alice as well. There would be no more chances between them.

She felt the fabric beneath her shift, and she half turned, surveying the occupant of the seat beside her. The woman was older, perhaps a decade or more than Lucy’s own years, but there was something soft and inviting in the way that she smiled and nodded her head. Just a slight tilt, nothing too intrusive, but Lucy found herself returning the easy gesture, suddenly eager to leave her heavy thoughts behind.

The woman sighed loudly. “It’s a relief, isn’t it?”

Lucy frowned. “What is?”

The woman gestured to the window beside Lucy, which had grown hot and hazy from the afternoon sun. Already she could feel the force of it pressing up against her cheek.

“Leaving this behind,” the woman said. She let out another sigh, moving farther into the cushion. “Not that I don’t love Morocco, of course, but it’s always such a relief when it’s time to return home. Like I’m, oh, I don’t know, shedding my skin, or something. Like suddenly I can breathe again.” She turned back to Lucy. “Isn’t there some saying about it?”

“Saying?” Lucy repeated. She was staring at the woman more intently now. There was something about her, in the way that she moved—theatrical, Lucy thought—with an elaborate flourish of her gloved hands. There was a sturdiness to the woman’s voice, a confidence that Lucy found herself enthralled with, and she found herself wondering whether the woman did this often, talking to strangers as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Her tone confident, self-assured, as if she was already certain that such a quote existed and that the question she put to Lucy of its validity, its existence, was nothing more than a mere formality.

There had been a time when Lucy had been that certain—when everything had seemed easy and fitted into place. But then the world had tilted upside down, and when it righted itself at last, she had stood in front of the burning wreckage, suddenly unsure of everything. This time more of a change would be required, something more than a simple relocation and fabricated résumé. She thought of Tangier and its many names and alterations. Of the people who had claimed it as home over the centuries—a vast array of nationalities, of languages. Tangier was a city of transformation, one that shifted and altered in order to survive. It was a place where one went to be transformed. And it had, in a way, changed her. Gone was the girl, the young woman who had loved so carelessly, so blindly, that she was willing to do anything to keep that love. For while she still believed that Alice had loved her once, she could no longer pinpoint the exact time in her mind.

Lucy turned back to the woman—to the present—and smiled. “I don’t think I know that saying.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “No? Well, perhaps I’m just imagining it then.” She stuck out her hand, still gloved. “I’m Martha.”

Lucy took the outstretched palm, the sweat on her own transferring to the starched material. “Alice,” she said, trying it out, shifting her voice just a bit, so that the a was higher, more rounded.

Martha frowned. “Now, am I wrong, or do I detect a bit of a British accent?” she asked, leaning in. Her own vowels were long and drawn out, like the lazy flies that circled overhead, so that Lucy imagined hot, dusty weather, with mud the color of burned ochre.

Lucy smiled. “My mother was American, but my father was British.” She paused, feeling the gears of the boat as they began to churn at last. “Though I was raised by my aunt in London.”

“By your aunt?” Martha questioned.

“Yes,” Lucy said. She felt the boat pull away, but she resisted the urge to turn and look out of the window. She had already said her good-bye to Tangier. “My parents died when I was young.”

Martha’s hand flew to her cherry-stained lips. “Oh, my dear, that is awful.”

Lucy lowered her eyes. “Yes, yes, it was.” She let out a deep sigh, feeling the movement as it made its way through her entire body, until she was no longer certain whether it was the exclamation of relief or the churn of the mechanics that rumbled there. “But that was a long time ago now.”

“Of course,” Martha said, nodding eagerly. She started to speak, but then hesitated. Lucy thought that she could read the conflicting emotions there—politeness and interest, the two of them fighting within the woman. Her back pressed against the window, refusing to look backward, Lucy waited to see which one would win.

The boat surged then, and the woman gave a sudden lurch, slapping Lucy lightly on the shoulder. “I’ve got it!” she exclaimed.

Lucy frowned, startled. “What?”

“The saying,” Martha replied, shaking her head, as if she couldn’t believe that Lucy didn’t know what she was referring to—as if they were already fast friends. “There is a local saying here—or there, rather,” she said, indicating over Lucy’s shoulders, toward the retreating image of Tangier and her shores. Martha paused, watching Lucy expectantly. And then she said: “‘You cry when you arrive, and you cry when you leave.’”

IN HER DREAMS, SHE’S SITTING AT CAFÉ HAFA. THERE IS A glass of mint tea before her, only recently delivered, and she marvels at the colors. A rich forest-green on top, a golden amber on the bottom. It is one of those perfect Tangier days, she thinks. The skies are a deep blue, the clouds a startling white. She wishes, not for the first time, that she was able to capture it all somehow—perhaps with words on a page, or paint on a canvas—just so she can keep it with her, always.

Her reality upon waking isn’t entirely different. The sun still shines, set against an azure sky. Only instead of the sapphire blue of the Mediterranean, she faces mountains—green and budding in the first days of spring.