Flashback

TEN

Imagine spending ten hours in a paint mixer stuffed with humans, and you will come close to the experience of taking the train from Tangier to Marrakech. In spite of a well-spent extra thirty-five dirhams for a first-class seat, I knew my body would be cursing me for days.

The first five hours, from Tangier to Rabat, I shared a compartment with three loud Australians, college friends off for a winter-break adventure, who’d just come from a week on the Costa del Sol. Despite their penchant for off-key drinking songs, I was happy for the company, grateful for their enthusiastic bad jokes and stories of their drunken misadventures. When we rolled into the now-dark outskirts of Rabat, I was sorry to see them collecting their things to go.

The passengers who boarded in Rabat were different from the ones at the station in Tangier. There were fewer tourists here, for one thing, and the Moroccan travelers were well dressed, stylish, and cosmopolitan. The women wore business suits and French high heels, and the men’s ties matched their shirts. The train filled up quickly, and five men crowded into the compartment with me, stowing their briefcases and bags, claiming their seats, as we pulled away from the city.

The man directly across from me, an older businessman in an elegant gray suit and shiny black shoes, snapped open a fresh copy of Le Monde and buried his head behind the paper. Next to him was a pair of slightly shabbier urbanites, salesmen of some kind, I figured, from the mammoth proportions of the leather cases they’d hauled on board. In the middle seat, next to me, was a younger man in a leather jacket and slacks. He was good-looking, though in a dangerous kind of way, his nose slightly aslant as if it had been broken once. The fifth passenger sat next to the door on my side of the compartment, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, his long slim legs crossed delicately over each other. More than one of my fellow passengers was wearing too much cologne, and the compartment reeked of dueling fragrances.

There was an air of sated lethargy to the travelers, the long day’s fast broken not long before. People lingered in the corridor, smoking leisurely, faces turned toward the train’s open windows. One of the salesmen in my compartment unwrapped a sugar-dusted pigeon pie, cut thick wedges, and offered them around. I took my piece and thanked him, grateful for the food.

As we passed the outskirts of the city and headed into the countryside, the man next to me, the one with the crooked nose, turned in my direction. “American?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Française.”

He looked me over, unconvinced, then shrugged.

What was it, I wondered, that was so unmistakably American about me? What was it that told even this man that I was not really what I claimed to be?

“You are alone?” he queried, in heavily accented French.

“I’m meeting my boyfriend in Marrakech,” I told him, hoping to head off any unwanted attention, but the man was undaunted.

“Salim,” he said, pointing to himself. “I am a student. You are a student as well?”

I shook my head and yawned. “Sleepy,” I said, though I wasn’t. I leaned my head against the window and feigned fatigue. No doubt he was harmless, but it was going to be a long trip south if I had to fend him off the whole way.

“Why are you alone?” Salim prodded.

“I’m meeting my boyfriend,” I repeated.

Salim opened his mouth to say something else, and the man in the sunglasses clicked his tongue disapprovingly. I gratefully watched my interrogator sink dejectedly back into his seat, scowling like a scolded child.

About an hour after we’d left Rabat the train slowed again for the Casablanca stop, and the two salesmen and the man with the newspaper gathered their things and let themselves out into the passageway. The man named Salim got up and took one of the now-empty seats on the opposite banquette.

There were fewer passengers to get on in Casablanca, and as the train started southward again the three of us had the compartment to ourselves. The man with the sunglasses and the long legs dozed, but Salim, evidently still holding a grudge, fixed his eyes on me and stared unabashedly. Four hours to go, I told myself, trying to concentrate on the dark landscape. Outside the window the countryside was black, pocked and dimpled here and there by a lone electric light or a pair of headlights where the train tracks ran close to the road. Ten hours, I thought, to carve through this tiny slice of Africa. And yet people had imagined they could conquer this continent.

Some two hours out of Casablanca a conductor appeared, checking our tickets before heading on to the next compartment. Except for the tongue clicking earlier, my fellow travelers had not spoken, and I had taken them for strangers. But as soon as the conductor had left us, they nodded to each other, briefly exchanging words. Their manner was disconcertingly businesslike. The man in the sunglasses peered out into the passageway, evidently watching the conductor. After a few minutes, he reached up and pulled down the privacy shade on his side of the compartment. The man named Salim did the same, completely obscuring the view from the passageway. Then, quickly and efficiently, he flipped the door lock.

I sat up, my skin prickling with fear and adrenaline. The Beretta, I told myself, but there was no time to retrieve it. Salim had already grabbed my pack. In another second the man with the sunglasses was on top of me, his hand on my shoulder, his legs straddling mine. Salim set the pack down on the seat opposite me and undid the top flap.

I shrank back into the seat and stilled myself, my mind considering the possibilities. There was no point in calling for help. The noise of the train would drown out any sound I could make, and in the end I’d just wear myself out. I took a deep breath and brought my knee up into the man’s groin. My bones connected perfectly with the soft flesh, and the man doubled over. He swore in Arabic, then staggered, thrust off balance by the rocking of the train.

I brought my leg up again, and this time the sole of my shoe found his chest. He reeled backward, knocking into the wall, and sank to his knees, retching.

Leaving the pack, Salim reached into his pocket and produced a little bone-handled knife. “I see you haven’t forgotten how to be a bitch, Leila,” he sneered, his English perfect now, British public school. Planting his feet firmly on the floor of the compartment, he brandished the knife in front of him.

We stood for a moment like that, bodies balanced over the jerking and swaying carriage, eyes hard on each other. You can do this, I told myself, half of one eye on the crumpled figure in the corner of the compartment, the man still wheezing to catch his breath. You can do this.

Salim smiled slightly, the expression exaggerating the crook in his nose. He took a step toward me, and the train jerked violently to the left; the car careened wildly. I slid my foot around his ankle, my boot hooking the back of his calf, and threw my right fist against the front of his throat. The man tottered for an instant, hands gripping his windpipe; then he fell back into the banquette.

Grabbing my backpack, I opened the door and slipped out into the passageway. I hurried backward, passing from one car to the next, glancing over my shoulder as I went. What damage I had done would only be temporary; I knew my pursuers could not be far behind. Faces peered out at me from the compartments, an old woman and a child, four young backpackers, a strange group of women in black chadors, only their dark eyes visible beneath the folds of fabric.

I paused outside the women’s compartment, looking ahead toward the dark window that marked the end of the car and the train. Beyond, there were only the tracks falling dizzyingly away. And behind me, Salim and his long-legged friend.

Sliding the door of the compartment open, I stepped inside. The women turned to me in unison. There were four of them, two older than the others, the skin around their eyes delicately puckered. Even in Morocco, a Muslim country, it was not usual to see the chador, and there was something otherworldly about the foursome, something almost perverse about these silent and shadowy women.

“Help me!” I pleaded in French, my breathing labored.

The women remained silent. One of them shifted slightly under her cloak, then blinked up at me.

“Help me!” I repeated my request in English, stepping deeper into the compartment.

One of the older women pressed her head to the window and peered down the passageway. Turning back, she barked something to the other three; then she and the woman opposite her pulled down the privacy shades. In an instant the women were up. One of them grabbed my rucksack and stuffed it in the overhead storage rack while another pulled down one of her own bags. Unzipping it, she removed a wad of black fabric. It took no more than twenty seconds for the eight hands to cover me. There was a knock on the door, and someone pushed me down into a seat.

The knock came again, and the same woman who’d first spoken lifted her shade. My pursuers peered into the compartment, Salim’s crooked nose almost touching the glass. The older woman opened the door a crack and said something to the two men, her tone severe, reproving. The man in the sunglasses smiled at her and made a little bow, a show of mocking respect. She slammed the door in his face and turned away.

The two men hesitated a moment, their eyes ranging across each of us; then the man with the sunglasses said something to Salim, and they moved off toward the rear of the train. I took a deep breath and exhaled. A minute passed, and another. Finally, the men reappeared, heading in the direction they’d come from, hurrying now. The woman next to me reached over and grasped my hand through her cloak. Her grip was tight, her hand cool and smooth.

“Thank you,” I said, and the four veiled heads nodded together.

The silence broke, and there was a relieved rush of conversation. Until that moment, I realized, I had not really heard Arabic spoken by women. It was entirely different from the language spoken by men, softer and rounder, more like a song. One of the women gesticulated, and her chador unfurled like a great black bird, like a wing opening to take me in, like the walls of the convent, the community of women they enwombed.

They spoke animatedly, as if to cleanse themselves of the earlier tension, and as they did, I began to see how different they each were. Here was the joker, and here the bossy one, and next to me, the serious one of the group, the one who had squeezed my hand. Each one was unique, as each of the sisters had been. The sisters. I shuddered under my chador, thinking of that night at the convent, Heloise’s pale face. Pushing back the folds of fabric, I glanced at my watch. Two hours to Marrakech and no stops.

The train slowed slightly, and I got up and went to the window. Up ahead, some dozen small lamps flickered along the berm of the rail bed, the lights like fireflies, arcing and bobbing in the darkness. The train slowed further, crawling to a stop. In the glow of each lamp I could see a small boy, a cluster of dark faces and white teeth. The boys approached the cars close to the front of the train, holding up pottery and trinkets, pleading with the unseen passengers. Several hands thrust bills or coins out in exchange for the meager goods.

Two hours for Salim and his friend to find me, I thought, glancing at the women. I stood and unwrapped myself, folding the chador, laying it on the seat.

“Thank you,” I said again to the women. “Shukran.” The Arabic word came easily to my tongue.

“You’re welcome,” the woman next to me said. She stood, helping me with my rucksack, then took my hand once more before I slipped out into the corridor. “Be safe.”

Moving quickly, I headed for the rear of the train, opened the door, and stepped out onto the little apron that jutted off the back of the last car. Making sure the backpack was secure on my shoulders, I grasped the handrail, swung myself free of the car, and dropped down onto the berm. I hit the ground with a thud and rolled once. The train clattered forward, slowly picking up speed.

I stood up and dusted myself off, watching the lights of the rearmost car move away. Several of the boys had seen me jump from the train, and the whole group was heading toward me now, running along the berm like some ragtag Lilliputian army running into battle. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a wad of dirhams, and held them above my head, waving the bills like a white flag of surrender.

“Here,” the oldest of the boys insisted, pointing toward a squat, near-windowless structure.

“The bus,” I said, repeating the request for the dozenth time. “To Marrakech.”

“Yes, yes.” He nodded, grasping my wrist, pulling me while the other boys followed behind. “No bus now.”

Besides being the eldest of the group, he spoke a kind of fractured urban American English, the language of the new colonialism, of movies and music and satellite TV.

“Relax, lady,” he reassured me. “First you eat something.” He said something to the other boys, and they fell away, scattering into the darkness with their lanterns. I allowed myself to be led into the little building, dragged along like some exotic creature he’d discovered, some long-awaited messiah or prisoner.

“My crib,” the boy explained as we stepped inside.

From somewhere inside the house I could hear laughter and music, the sounds of revelry. The boy slipped his shoes off, and I followed his lead, tagging along as he led the way down a short hallway and into a plush room lined with wool rugs. Some dozen adults were crowded into the small space, women in bright robes and men in typical brown burnooses.

We had evidently interrupted some kind of dinner party. A carpet in the center of the room was set with dishes and cups, with half-eaten platters of lamb, vegetables, couscous, and a fowl pie similar to the one I’d eaten on the train. The crowd went silent when I entered, all faces turning to me.

The boy pointed to me and spoke, as if I were a lost puppy. Whatever he said, the mood lightened considerably. At the end of the short speech, one of the women smiled graciously in my direction and motioned for me to take a seat. Another woman disappeared through a curtained doorway.

“Sit,” the boy directed, settling himself on the floor, and I did as I was told.

“In the morning,” he explained, as I crossed my legs and offered my biggest smile to the diners. “The bus goes in the morning. My uncle will take you there on his machine. Tonight you stay here.”

He said this firmly, not offering, merely stating what was fact. There seemed little point in arguing with him.

The woman who had disappeared returned with a small copper decanter, a bowl, and a towel. I washed my hands as shown. When I was done, a cup and a plate were placed in front of me, and I was poured a frothy cup of mint tea.

“You will please eat,” the boy said.

I nodded, following his lead as he helped himself to the food. “What’s your name?” I asked, between bites of lamb. The meat tasted faintly of lemons.

“Mohammed,” he said. “And your name?”

“Eve,” I told him.

“Eve.” He repeated the name to himself, acquainting his mouth with the strange syllable.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Twelve.”

“You speak excellent English,” I told him. “Did you learn in school?”

He beamed, shaking his head, and pointed to a large television that occupied one corner of the room. “American programs,” he explained. “You are American?”

“French,” I said.

Mohammed shook his head. “American,” he insisted. “I know America.”

I smiled. “I used to live in America.”

“Then you are American.” He said this matter-of-factly, as if teaching me the rules and rigors of nationality.

“You are married?” he asked after some time.

I shook my head.

“Kids?”

I thought for a second, and when I finally said no, he seemed saddened by my response. I must have seemed old to him, an impossibly old maid.

“Why not?” Mohammed asked.

I shrugged and took a sip of tea.

I slept in a small chamber at the back of the house, the bedroom, Mohammed explained, of his newly married older sister. There was one small window in the room, a square opening high up on one wall, through which I could briefly see the moon. Before I went to bed, I took the black case from my pack and flipped through the passports until I found the one I was looking for, the British one. The photo inside was the darkest of the bunch, my hair in it long and square at the ends, the skin around my eyes gray. Leila Brightman, the name said. What had Salim told me on the train? I see you haven’t forgotten how to be a bitch, Leila. I put the passport back in the box and closed the lid.