Flashback

THIRTEEN

Among Holocaust survivors, periods of retrograde amnesia are not uncommon. I once spoke to an old woman, another of Dr. Delpay’s patients, who had been to Bergen-Belsen as a child and was still haunted by the fact that she could remember nothing of the eighteen months she had spent there. It’s tempting to think of this as a blessing, the brain’s way of saving itself. But to her, for whom bearing witness was the greatest salvation, for whom dozens of loved ones could be known only through memory, the loss was unspeakably painful.

“We were always hungry,” she told me, pulling a chocolate bar from her pocket, proof of her compulsion. Some sixty years later she still could not leave her house without food. “My sister says we were,” she said guiltily, “but I don’t remember it.”

“Your past is not a bouchon menu,” Dr. Delpay had said when I’d first told him of my plan to go to America. “It all comes together on one big plate: quenelles, andouillette, tablier de sapeur. You can’t pick and choose.”

“Yes.” I’d nodded, but Delpay could see I didn’t believe him.

“He’ll find you, you know,” he’d insisted. “Your friend from the rooftop. He doesn’t care that you don’t want to be found.”

I’d told myself he was wrong, but even then I’d thought of the woman with her chocolate, the way her speckled hand had reached for it in her pocket.

Now, as I watched the taxi make a U-turn and head back to the Bab Doukkala, I thought of her again, and of that morning in the kitchen with Heloise, her cruel God. Yes, I told myself, there was no picking and choosing, no answers but all the answers, and the certainty that knowledge, even the worst kind, is worth the risks.

I headed across the street, trying to make like a tourist out for a stroll. The large iron-and-wood gate, the villa’s only visible entrance, was closed and, I assumed by the keypad and intercom on the outer wall, locked. A tall, thick, pisé wall, topped with jagged shards of broken glass, ran the length of the grounds. A porcelain plaque on the gate gave a street address but no name. Short of ringing the bell and asking, there seemed to be little I could do to get any more information about the house or its owner.

Ringing the bell, I thought, was a crazy idea, though not so crazy as it might at first seem. Stepping closer to the gate, I pushed the little round button below the intercom.

There were a few seconds of silence, then the speaker crackled on and a static-garbled yet polite female voice asked me to identify myself.

“It’s Chris Jones,” I said in English, choosing the most generic American name I could think of, ignoring the fact that my unseen inquisitor had spoken French. “I’m here to see Mr. Thompson.”

There was a confused pause on the other end, then, in impeccable English, “I’m sorry, Madame. Did you say Thompson?”

“Yeah, Fred Thompson.”

“There is no Mr. Thompson here,” came the reply.

“Sure there is,” I said. “We met last winter in Chamonix. He gave me this address.”

“There is no one here by that name,” the voice repeated.

“Just tell him it’s Chris,” I persisted, “from Dallas. He’ll remember.”

“I’m sorry, Madame,” the woman apologized again, her tone showing exasperation this time. “This is the Werner residence.”

“Well, where does Fred live, then?” I asked, incredulously.

“I don’t know, Madame,” she said, curtly. “Good day.” Then she clicked off, and the intercom went dead.

I lingered by the gate for a moment longer, then cut back across the street. The Werner residence, I thought. Werner. Walking the length of the wall, I shadowed the perimeter of the property. The villa was on a corner, and two sides of the enclosed grounds came right up to the street. The house’s remaining boundaries bordered the equally imposing villas on either side. Besides the main gate, a large wooden door near the rear of the property, which I assumed was a service entrance, was the only opening in the unbroken plaster wall. The whole place looked as if it had been built to withstand a siege, from prying eyes or angry rabble or both.

I did a tour of the neighboring homes, making a loop around the large block the Werner villa was situated on, sticking to the far side of the street. Each of the properties showed evidence of at least some kind of security system. A discreet army of surveillance cameras studded the walls and rooftops. The sound of barking dogs could be heard from inside one of the compounds. Here was the price of wealth, the penalty of privilege in a place of such abundant poverty.

Finishing my tour, I turned back onto the street where the taxi had let me out and stopped several yards from Werner’s main gate. There was a limit to the amount of loitering even a dumb blond playgirl could do in a neighborhood like this, and I figured any more snooping would have to be done at night.

As I took in the villa and its walls one last time, I heard the electric gate beep in warning. The latch unlocked, and the two iron doors swung slowly outward. The black prow of a Mercedes appeared, sun blazing off its chrome bumper and hood ornament. The car paused for a moment in the driveway; then the wheels turned in my direction, and the hulking sedan moved out into the street. I ducked back around the corner, flattening myself against the wall.

I heard the car roll forward, its German engine speaking the language of engineering perfection. The hood appeared, then the front windows, and I caught a glimpse of the driver. He was a North African, with powerful shoulders and a heavy jaw. In the seat next to him was another man, a familiar face, his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. One of the men from the train, I thought, though I couldn’t be sure. Then the rear windows slid into view, and I knew I was not mistaken. Through the window closest to me I could see another man, this one a European, middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair. Next to him was a young Moroccan, his features unmistakable as those of an old friend. But he wasn’t a friend. It was my other fellow passenger, the one who had called himself Salim.

He glanced in my direction, and I held my breath, as if by not breathing I could keep from being seen. But Salim must not have noticed me. The Mercedes kept going, toward the Boulevard de Safi and the heart of the Ville Nouvelle.

The trip through the medina and the subsequent taxi ride had left me somewhat disoriented, but I had a vague idea of my location in the Ville Nouvelle. I knew the Jardin Majorelle lay almost dead north of the Place de la Liberté. And from there, it was just a short walk through the Bab Larissa and down the Avenue Mohammed V to the Koutoubia Mosque and the Hotel Ali. A brief detour would take me to the Place du 16 Novembre and the All Join Hands offices. I’d give it one more try, I told myself, heading in what I hoped was a southerly direction, wending my way finally to the dusty axis of the Ville Nouvelle.

I found the door to the All Join Hands offices still locked, but one of the windows on the second floor of the building was open, the shutters thrown ajar to let in the afternoon breeze. I knocked hard and took a step back, peering up at the window. Someone moved inside, a white-shirted figure rising, then flitting out of sight. I heard footsteps on the stairs and the deadbolt rattling; then the door opened, and a sunburned face appeared.

“Can I help you?” the man asked. He was short and stocky, uncomfortably pink, with the flaccid, overfed look of so many Americans. He wore a badly wrinkled white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled above his elbows, and his dirty-blond hair was coarse and unruly.

I had not prepared myself for the question, so it took me a moment to answer. “I’m an old friend of Pat Haverman’s,” I said finally.

The man squinted at me, his face nearly swallowing his eyes. “Hannah, right?”

I nodded.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “We only met that once, at the pool at the Ziryab, I think. I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.”

“Of course,” I told him. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”

“Charlie,” he said, “Charlie Phillips.” He motioned for me to enter, and I stepped into the foyer. “We thought you’d come by,” he said. Closing the door behind me, he started up the narrow flight of stairs. He was breathing heavily from the exertion of climbing the stairs, and when we reached the second-floor landing Charlie paused a moment to catch his breath.

“Look who I found,” he called out, before stepping through an open doorway into a space crammed with a vast array of electronics.

In the far corner of the room was a sitting area furnished with some old chairs, a coffee table, a badly scarred dartboard, a small refrigerator, and a TV. And there, sprawled on a sagging couch, his long, athletic legs stretched out before him, a bottle of Flag Spéciale in his hand, a copy of the Herald Tribune in his lap, was Brian Haverman.

“I had a hunch you’d show up here,” he said, smiling. He set the paper down, swung his feet to the floor, and stood. Something about the ease with which he moved unnerved me.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” I told him, lingering in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t have run out on me,” he countered, taking a swig of his beer.

I glanced quickly around the cluttered space that seemed to serve both as office and as meeting place for the homesick Americans’ club. Some shelves above the refrigerator held a selection of U.S. supplies, most of which I had only seen in movies. There were several boxes of Pop-Tarts, an unopened bag of Doritos, and a healthy supply of Jack Daniel’s.

“You want a beer?” Charlie asked, his face flushing a deeper red. He was clearly working on an early drunk and didn’t want to have to go it alone. “We’ve got a stash of Budweiser, though Brian here prefers the local stuff.”

I shook my head. “No, thanks.”

Charlie shrugged, already heading for the fridge. “So where’d you disappear to?” he called over his shoulder. “Brian says you just came back to Morocco a few days ago.”

“I’ve been in France,” I said, looking at Brian as I spoke, wondering what else he’d told the man.

My answer seemed to satisfy Charlie; he didn’t ask for details. I was just another expatriate drifter, like how many others who’d stopped here for beer and satellite baseball games, just another girl from the pool at the Hotel Ziryab. A displaced American with a little money and a lack of ambition. What had he said? I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.

Charlie grabbed a Budweiser and popped the top. “I guess this blows my theory out of the water.”

“What theory is that?” I asked, stepping toward the two men.

“That he ran off with you.” He winked at me, then threw his full weight onto the sagging couch.

“Any other theories?”

Charlie looked philosophically at his beer. “None that make any sense.”

“Did you see him when he came through here on his way to Ourzazate?”

“We had a drink that night, at the Mamounia.”

“What did you talk about?”

He shrugged. “The date plantations. You.”

“What about me?”

“That boy had it bad,” he said. “Head over heels.” He took a long pull off his beer, then motioned to the shelf of foodstuffs behind him. “You sure you don’t want anything?”

“No, thanks,” I told him. In truth, I wanted to try everything-the strangely unfoodlike food, the shelf-stable pastries and corn chips, the box of neon macaroni and cheese-but I shook my head. I had the odd feeling that if I stayed too much longer, or ate what was offered, I’d be trapped, like some unfortunate fairy-tale princess.

“What about this project with the date plantations?” I asked. “What did he say about that?”

“Just the same Pat Haverman bullshit. Save the world and all.” Charlie waved his beer toward me as if it was an important visual aid. “He wasn’t like the rest of us fucks, come down here to get laid. It’s summer camp for most of us, you know, but not Pat. He was going to go down there and convince those farmers they needed his help.”

I glanced over at Brian and saw him looking back at me, both of us thinking the same thing. Whatever All Join Hands did have to offer, today wasn’t the day to find it. Charlie’s drunk had taken a turn for the maudlin, and if we didn’t leave soon we’d be here for the long haul.

“I should get going,” Brian said. “Got some things to take care of.”

Charlie winced, a quick, bitter smile. Drunk, but not stupid, he knew when he was being pushed off.

“I guess it’s just you and me,” he said, slightly sarcastic, his tone saying he knew full well I was on my way out, too.

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“I don’t like being followed,” I said, as we emerged from the dim stairwell into the bright daylight.

“Well, I don’t like being lied to.” Brian closed the door behind us and started for the Place du 16 Novembre.

“I told you,” I said, keeping pace with him. “You’re not safe with me.”

“Thanks for the warning, but like I told you, I’ll take my chances.”

I put my hand on his arm and stopped walking, pulling him up short alongside me. “Someone wants me dead.”

“Then you need my help.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help,” I told him, but in truth I wasn’t so sure. I was tired of being alone and afraid.

We walked in silence for a while, down the Avenue Mohammed V and in through the red walls of the Old City. The familiar late-afternoon torpor had settled on the town. Most shops were closed already, and the few people on the streets walked slowly, dragging themselves along.

If you’ve never lived by the cycles of prayer, it might be difficult to imagine the effect of such a schedule. The sisters at the abbey, like Muslims, prayed five times a day. Though I rarely even made three services, and was not expected to, still there was the quintuple ringing of bells to remind me of the divine. Because it’s nearly impossible to forget God in the three or four hours between devotions, you live almost constantly with some sense of His presence. That’s not to say all people who pray like this are particularly holy; some are more afflicted than blessed, while others, misconstruing God’s intentions from the beginning, become even more deeply confused.

To live in the convent had been powerful enough, but even I had difficulty understanding what it would mean to live in a larger society governed by the rhythm of prayer. It would be, I thought, a kind of profound surrender. Wasn’t that the meaning of Islam? Surrender. Submission.

“You want to go get something to eat?” Brian asked, as we passed the Koutoubia Mosque.

I nodded, realizing just how hungry and tired I was.

“There’s a place I like near the Djemaa el-Fna,” he said. “Local food.”

“Sounds fine,” I told him.

It was just before sunset when we arrived at the Restaurant El Bahja, a clean, simple place just south of the square. Save for a Senegalese waiter and a German couple, the little café was deserted.

“It might be quite a wait,” Brian warned. “I think everyone’s gone to pray.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

The server hustled over to greet us, arms outstretched, his face one wide smile. He and Brian exchanged pleasantries. It was the first time I’d heard Brian speak French, and his accent was nearly flawless.

“This is Eve,” he said, motioning in my direction, and then to me, “Eve, meet Michel.”

The man reached out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mademoiselle.”

“And you,” I said, returning the handshake.

“The cooks are gone,” Michel explained as he led us to a table, “but they’ll be back shortly. I’ll bring you something to snack on.”

“Thanks,” Brian said. “And could you bring a bottle of Valpierre, if you have it?”

“Of course.” Michel beamed.

“Your French is good,” I said when the man had gone.

“I took it in college,” Brian explained, shrugging off my compliment. “You should have heard me when I first got here.”

“Where did you go to school?” I asked.

“Brown,” he said.

“That’s in Rhode Island, right?” Another piece of knowledge I hadn’t realized was tucked away in my brain.

Brian nodded. “Providence.”

“No graduate school?”

“It’s a wonder I finished my undergrad. I moved out to California when I graduated and started my own company. I was one of the lucky few who got in on the ground floor and got out before the tech market took a nosedive.”

“Retired at thirty,” I commented.

“Thirty-two,” he corrected me.

Michel reappeared with a bowl of olives, a chunk of bread, some pistachios, and a bottle of white wine.

“Thank you,” Brian said, as the waiter opened the bottle and poured out two glasses. Taking a sip of his wine, Brian picked up our two unopened menus from the table and handed them to Michel. “Tell Jamal to make whatever he thinks is best today.”

Michel nodded, then left.

I watched Brian crack open a pistachio. He wasn’t a pretty man, but he was handsome in the best kind of way, his face softened by its imperfections. There was a scar on his chin, a single cut that was almost hidden by the crease below his lip.

Sliding an olive into my mouth, I separated the flesh from the pit. The meat was perfectly rich and briny, flecked with bits of fiery harissa. Eight months, I thought, of dead ends and cold leads, and nothing was getting any warmer. It seemed to me his sojourn here had long outlasted any hope of finding his brother.

“It’s not just Pat that keeps you here, is it?” I asked, watching him dismantle another nut. He seemed to have mastered this strange place and all its nuances. He was one of those people who were profoundly at home in their voluntary exile.

He looked up at me but said nothing.

“Would you go back if you found him?”

Pausing a moment, he shook his head. “I don’t know.” There was nothing false about his statement, not a single hint of trickery, just the uncomfortable truth.

“So,” I said, changing the subject, “you don’t think this thing with the date plantations had anything to do with Pat’s disappearing?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. It wasn’t even really a project yet. As far as I can tell, that was his first trip down there. He was just scouting things out.”

“And the other projects he was working on? Can you think of any reason why he might have pissed someone off?”

“All Join Hands helps a lot of people down here. And I’m sure they step on some toes in the process, but there’s nothing that really jumps out at me.”

“You ever run across the name Werner?” I asked.

Brian took one of the olives, spitting the pit discreetly into his hand, then depositing it on a little white plate that had been put on the table for exactly that purpose. “Not that I can remember. Why?”

“It’s probably nothing,” I told him, taking a sip of my wine, watching his face through the glass. “Just a name I thought I remembered.”

I wanted to tell him everything, but something inside me wouldn’t let me do it. I told myself it was out of concern, that he’d be better off not knowing, but the truth was that there was something about him I didn’t trust. Maybe it was just the effortless grace of American privilege, or the ease with which he slipped into the colonial culture. Maybe it was my memory of him in my dark room at the Continental, or the fact that he’d followed me to Marrakech. Whatever the reason, I discarded the subject of Werner as quickly as Brian had set aside the scoured olive pit. Maybe tomorrow, I told myself, setting the wine glass down, watching him crack another pistachio.