go into the souks on my own, and also to avoid leaving the hotel after nightfall. He also warned me to stay away from Le Petit Socco, which, I deduced from his frown and sniff of disapproval, speaking of the bad women there, was a centre of prostitution or at least immoral business.
Le Grand Socco swarmed with people in the bright sunlight — mainly Europeans, Americans and British, for this was where foreigners to Tangier spent their time. Dressed in fine clothing, they sat under crisp awnings or on cafe terraces, eating and drinking deep green absinthe or vermilion wine from small glasses. The women smoked cigarettes or thin dark cheroots in decorated holders, and the men had their cigars or sucked the mouthpiece of a winding tube leading from a huge bubbling container that sat on the floor — sheeshas, they were called. Many of them also smoked kif, with its distinctive sweet grassy odour and form of intoxication that gave its smokers a sleepy, pleased expression. In the squares the shops had signs announcing their wares in English, French and Spanish, and the visitors shopped for overpriced items to take home. There was the atmosphere of a holiday, and also, as Elizabeth had spoken of, a certain laissez-faire attitude amongst these men and women who had come to Tangier for their own reasons: a sense of everything and anything being acceptable. I saw that some of the women wore clothes far more daring than I had ever witnessed, and sometimes, inadvertently, I saw these same women leaning against men — or other women — in doorways. I always looked away, and yet I was drawn to watch them as they murmured and touched each other so openly in public places. And more than once I witnessed young men walking about holding hands, also stopping to kiss in the open streets.
This was what I saw. I could only imagine what took place in the hotel rooms and the back rooms of the cafes. I wondered what the people of Tangier thought of these bold foreigners. It was clear the Tangerines preferred to stay in the narrow, darkened souks leading off the bright and busy squares; this was where the real life of Tangier throbbed, for the souks were the heart of Arab life. More than once I wondered at their chaotic thrum, wanting to venture in even for a few steps, and yet, mindful of the concierge's warning, and my own insecurity in this very new world, I stayed where I was safe.
I also spent a great deal of time on the roof of the Continental. With the calls from the minarets echoing around me, I looked at the towering Rif mountains, the setting sun turning them the same blood red every evening. Somewhere, far beyond the mountains and into the heart of the country, was Marrakesh.
And in Marrakesh was Etienne.
I grew ever more impatient and nervous. I had to get there.
Although I regularly saw Elizabeth Pandy and Marcus and other Americans, I tried to avoid them. I found their constant drinking and loud voices and laughter exhausting. One afternoon I sat in the empty lounge, partly hidden by a high banquette, sipping a mineral water as I attempted to understand a rough map of Morocco I had purchased in Le Grand Socco. I finished my water and folded the map, but before I had a chance to stand I heard Elizabeth and her crowd enter. They had come from Rue de la Plage, where Elizabeth, and one of the other women had braved the wild Atlantic waves and plunged into the frigid water.
'Marvellously refreshing,' Elizabeth said, her voice carrying. I was desperate to leave, but didn't want to be seen and to then have to stop and talk to them. I reopened the map, again studying it and hoping they would have one drink and leave. I tried to ignore them, but found it difficult to concentrate, and finally sat back, idly listening to their uninteresting chatter and gossip. But I stiffened as I heard my name.
'I wonder if she's found a way to get to Marrakesh yet,' Marcus said. 'She's determined, it appears, if nothing else. After all, she even has some sort
Le Grand Socco swarmed with people in the bright sunlight — mainly Europeans, Americans and British, for this was where foreigners to Tangier spent their time. Dressed in fine clothing, they sat under crisp awnings or on cafe terraces, eating and drinking deep green absinthe or vermilion wine from small glasses. The women smoked cigarettes or thin dark cheroots in decorated holders, and the men had their cigars or sucked the mouthpiece of a winding tube leading from a huge bubbling container that sat on the floor — sheeshas, they were called. Many of them also smoked kif, with its distinctive sweet grassy odour and form of intoxication that gave its smokers a sleepy, pleased expression. In the squares the shops had signs announcing their wares in English, French and Spanish, and the visitors shopped for overpriced items to take home. There was the atmosphere of a holiday, and also, as Elizabeth had spoken of, a certain laissez-faire attitude amongst these men and women who had come to Tangier for their own reasons: a sense of everything and anything being acceptable. I saw that some of the women wore clothes far more daring than I had ever witnessed, and sometimes, inadvertently, I saw these same women leaning against men — or other women — in doorways. I always looked away, and yet I was drawn to watch them as they murmured and touched each other so openly in public places. And more than once I witnessed young men walking about holding hands, also stopping to kiss in the open streets.
This was what I saw. I could only imagine what took place in the hotel rooms and the back rooms of the cafes. I wondered what the people of Tangier thought of these bold foreigners. It was clear the Tangerines preferred to stay in the narrow, darkened souks leading off the bright and busy squares; this was where the real life of Tangier throbbed, for the souks were the heart of Arab life. More than once I wondered at their chaotic thrum, wanting to venture in even for a few steps, and yet, mindful of the concierge's warning, and my own insecurity in this very new world, I stayed where I was safe.
I also spent a great deal of time on the roof of the Continental. With the calls from the minarets echoing around me, I looked at the towering Rif mountains, the setting sun turning them the same blood red every evening. Somewhere, far beyond the mountains and into the heart of the country, was Marrakesh.
And in Marrakesh was Etienne.
I grew ever more impatient and nervous. I had to get there.
Although I regularly saw Elizabeth Pandy and Marcus and other Americans, I tried to avoid them. I found their constant drinking and loud voices and laughter exhausting. One afternoon I sat in the empty lounge, partly hidden by a high banquette, sipping a mineral water as I attempted to understand a rough map of Morocco I had purchased in Le Grand Socco. I finished my water and folded the map, but before I had a chance to stand I heard Elizabeth and her crowd enter. They had come from Rue de la Plage, where Elizabeth, and one of the other women had braved the wild Atlantic waves and plunged into the frigid water.
'Marvellously refreshing,' Elizabeth said, her voice carrying. I was desperate to leave, but didn't want to be seen and to then have to stop and talk to them. I reopened the map, again studying it and hoping they would have one drink and leave. I tried to ignore them, but found it difficult to concentrate, and finally sat back, idly listening to their uninteresting chatter and gossip. But I stiffened as I heard my name.
'I wonder if she's found a way to get to Marrakesh yet,' Marcus said. 'She's determined, it appears, if nothing else. After all, she even has some sort
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