Stabs at Happiness (16 page)

Seated musicians played slow Berber trance music, with stringed instruments and little drums, taking time out every so often to smoke kif and then begin anew, re-inspired. The party was seated in their own private niche, on cushions around a low table, and they were served what turned out to be a sumptuous meal.

Sitting on the other side of Lauren, Anthony was asked by her, after a few preliminaries, “Where did you go to school?”

“Yale. And then Columbia J School.”

Anthony spoke differently in this company than he did with Patrick alone. Nothing “street” about him now. He went on to describe how he had first written for UPI, but since he had majored in economics he was very pleased when the Journal had eventually hired him. He said he wanted to understand how America really worked.

Lauren gave Patrick a little glance after a few moments as if she found this sort of sentiment naïve.

Anthony was trying not to look at her. He found her “difficult” and yet was sexually attracted to her, somewhat against his will. He was mostly just guessing about how difficult she might be, guessing and/or relying on telepathy.

Meanwhile the others at the table were talking about how vulgar the young female tourists seemed who came up from the beach with little on. Fiona thought it was mostly Germans, the German women, while Bret said it was Scandinavians, in any case mostly blondes. The sun made their skin look bright pink and cooked. It wasn't attractive, nor was it a good idea to expose your body in this culture. This wasn't Ibiza or Miami Beach.

Ian and Fiona discoursed on Algeria and Tunisia, some undisturbed perfect spot they'd discovered near Sfax. Carthage had been in Tunisia before the Romans attacked and destroyed it in 146 BC. Tomorrow morning they were driving south, to Meknes and Fez, then across the Sahara.

Emily removed a kind of turban she had on, revealing a spiky soft henna'd punk-style haircut. She was traveling on her own, with little money, on her way to Spain. She had split up with her boyfriend, for undisclosed reasons, down in the walled city of Fez. Emily seemed to be on good terms with Sara, who was rather older, in her early 30s at least.

During a lull in the general conversation, Emily began talking of the local police and how they had hassled her for some reason (or no reason), and Jay mentioned flatly how Bret had been briefly arrested for taking photographs of someone related to King Hassan, all unawares. This was in Rabat. And then, the train from Casablanca, Casa, how slow it was, all crowded with children and live chickens and chanting marabouts who got on for free. The “insane ones,” holy men: no one liked to interfere with them no matter what they did. Emily did not like this country much.

In the hotel room later that night, Lauren said, speaking of Anthony, “He's a tormented soul. What do they call them? A buppy.”

“You don't have to call him a buppy.”

“Well, that's what he is.”

“I don't care. Don't call him that.”

“That's right. I forgot. He's your new best friend. He gives you credibility in the ‘hood.'”

They went to bed together, and Patrick's irritation with her dissipated. She smiled into a kiss. He was to remember later how he had intended to ask her about Sara—who had spoken with a slight but definite accent, who while not really pretty was exotically attractive—Lauren had met her in the medina looking at scarves and then spent most of the day with her. Sara had said almost nothing at dinner, but seemed aloof rather than especially shy. Patrick forgot to ask about her, falling asleep in the afterglow of lovemaking, dreaming of making his way through crowds in some futuristic/ancient crowded medina infinitely larger than this one here in Tangier. It went on forever.

The next day, after coffee and croissants, Lauren said that she was going for a walk. When Patrick offered to accompany her, she said no thanks, but why didn't they meet at about say 2:00, for lunch at the Claridge. She had heard they had French-style sandwiches like croque monsieur. That sounded like a welcome change. Patrick said okay.

He called at Anthony's hotel, and found that Anthony, although he let him come up, was not yet really awake. He was yawning. It was only when they got to the Café de France, a few blocks away, and Anthony got some caffeine into his system, that he told Patrick there had been a disturbance in his hotel during the night.

Emily had come out into the hall on the 3rd floor when there was all kinds of noise and smoke and screaming beginning at about 2 a.m. Emily seemed to be enjoying the turmoil, and she told Anthony what was going on. She had been staying at the cheap hotel for a week and was friendly with the main character involved.

A Czech woman named Marenka had come here a year or so ago with her husband, and she'd fallen in love with a Moroccan bank clerk. So she'd stayed on when her husband, presumably unhappy, returned home to Prague. The Moroccan bank clerk, who was in any case married, eventually lost interest and quit giving her money. It wasn't clear how Marenka had supported herself, though Emily assumed from certain things she'd said that she had been working here as a prostitute. Late last night, after some argument with a man, she had put the mattress up against her door, then set it on fire. She cut her wrists as well. The police broke in and took her away.

Anthony put a bar of sugar into a second cup of strong café au lait. “You know,” he said, “Ian asked me if I wanted a ride along with them to Marrakesh. I was so tired this morning, I just said fuck it. I think I'll hang on here a few more days then take the hydrofoil to Spain. What're you and Lauren doing today?”

“She mentioned going out to the caves of Hercules. I don't know where she is right now. Tomorrow we might rent a car and go to Tetouan. Do you want to come along?”

“Nice of you to offer. Thanks. I'm not sure. Who is this ‘Sara' that was at dinner last night?”

“I don't know. Why?”

“Did Lauren say anything about her?”

“Not really. Actually, it's funny you say that, because I was curious too.”

“I think that's part of her trip: seeming mysterious. What nationality is she?” Anthony asked. “Was that ever made clear?”

It hadn't been. After a bit more fencing, Anthony said he thought she was American, he even thought he might have seen her once, at a party in New York on the Upper East Side.

“It's that accent,” he said. “I'm probably imagining it, but I feel like I've heard her before. I seem to remember that, like, she's a Jewish girl from Hoboken, from a manufacturing family or something… she's the black sheep. I might be making all this shit up, I don't know.” He half-yawned, smiled to himself, shook his head.

The day turned out to be very long and unhappy. Lauren never made it to the Claridge. She just never showed up. At a certain point Anthony had gone about his business, Patrick was alone, and where was Lauren? Had she completely forgotten? Was she punishing him? Had she run into someone she knew?

She didn't show up at the Claridge, and after that he waited all afternoon at the hotel. Her passport was still there, her clothes, all of her things. Ultimately, Patrick had several badly mixed drinks downstairs, watching Spanish TV during the evening with the bartender, then went to sleep up in the room, clothes on, reclining uneasily upon the bed.

When he woke up it was 5 a.m., and he thought very dejectedly that he better contact the police. He pushed himself, robot-like, to walk downstairs and tell the clerk he wanted them to make the call. He didn't allow himself to think. In fact, he ordered himself not to.

The first policeman who came was not especially friendly —his questions seemed to amount to not-so-indirect criticism of Patrick not taking better care of his woman, whom he kept referring to as Patrick's wife. In Islam, one did not let one's woman walk out at night alone. Lauren had left during the day, but…

Another policeman came at about noon, and he seemed much more worldly, much nicer, his English was better as well. Finally, too, Patrick saw Anthony, and discussed the situation with him. Lauren had been missing twenty-four hours by now.

What were the possibilities? Back in the U.S., your immediate assumption would be kidnapping and rape, psycho killer, Lauren's corpse to be cut in pieces or buried in a shallow grave out in the woods, to be dug up some day by a curious dog. Here in an Islamic country, you might think melodramatically of white slavery, of Lauren being sold into a Saudi Arabian harem, or a whorehouse in Istanbul or Cairo, something like that. Taken hostage because she was American, or because she was Jewish. Patrick went over these possibilities with Anthony, sitting together outside at the Café.

“What seems to be the attitude of the police?” Anthony asked.

“They hope it's a ‘domestic problem,' naturally. They hope she shows up on her own. Amnesia, maybe, or got sick again, and someone took her in. Amoebic dysentery. Epilepsy. They don't want an international problem, you see. This one guy who talked to me, another Mohammed, has been to the States, he seemed reasonably – hip, if that's the right word.”

One of the Moroccans who'd played basketball with them came by, and sat with them. Anthony told him what the story was, and he became very concerned. He said he would tell all of his friends to ask around.

A while later, when this fellow had gone and they had been silent for about ten minutes, Patrick said, “Do you want to go down into the medina?”

“Sure,” Anthony replied. “Do you have a picture of Lauren to show around?”

“Back at the hotel.”

“Let's go and get it.”

Anthony spoke French and Spanish, so he could communicate with virtually anyone here in Tangier. Patrick would have been ridiculously ineffectual without him. As it was, they got nowhere, but there was some comfort in taking action: they went from souk to souk, etc.

Mohammed Qasir, the police detective, came by the hotel and spoke to Patrick again that evening. He said that his counterpart in Meknes had seen Ian and Fiona; they said they knew nothing of Lauren's whereabouts, nothing of any unusual plans. Jay and Bret were still around and Mohammed Qasir had spoken to them as well. Emily had traveled via hydrofoil to Tarifa, then taken the bus to Algeciras, in company with two other “punks” she met on the boat. They were traveling together up the coast to Barcelona.

The local police were doing their own canvassing of the medina and all the small hotels, all the restaurants and discos, Qasir told Patrick. The only person they hadn't been able to interview yet, of the foreigners, was this “Sara.” Patrick responded with what Anthony had said about her. That she might be American.

The next day, Anthony revealed, matter-of-factly, they'd grilled him pretty hard.

“I might not hang out here much longer. How long are you going to stay yourself ?”

“Another week or so. That's all I can afford, realistically,” Patrick said. He still seemed in a kind of shock. “I could check into a cheaper hotel, but then, if Lauren was to wander in and I'd checked out… I know, the desk clerk would recognize her and call the police, but… it doesn't seem like good karma, if you see what I mean.”

“Yeah. Listen,” Anthony said, lighting a Gaulois, “when you come home, if you're coming through New York, you can stay at my place in Manhattan. I'm subletting a loft from this terrible artist, and the place is huge. I'll give you my phone number and address, and my phone number at work.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said softly. “I will have to come there… because I'll need to talk to Lauren's parents. I don't know what the Embassy might have put in motion, but I know I need to meet them face to face. It's so weird,” he said, looking into Anthony's eyes now, “I can't get over the feeling that this isn't inevitable, that it's gratuitous, it could be reversed. It doesn't have to be this way. It wasn't written in the Koran.” He laughed, bitter, then more lightly, and took up one of the cigarettes, though he didn't smoke.

“I feel like I never even knew her,” Patrick said. “I didn't. I'm ashamed at how much more interesting she seems to me now. I'm falling in love.” he said, and nearly sobbed, his hand shaking as he held out the cigarette for a light. This was the first cigarette he'd smoked since he was thirteen.

Two days later, Anthony left, by plane to Casa, then on Royal Maroc Airlines back to New York. Just to consider everything, not to rule anything out a priori, Patrick examined the question of whether Anthony might have done it… while he tried not to be overly influenced by his liking for the man. He went through some obscene territory in his mind, imagining it as a living hypothesis, before deciding that no, it wasn't possible, it didn't make any sense.

Mohammed Qasir took him to the morgue a couple of times, to view unidentified female corpses. Lauren's Semitic coloring was lighter than most Moroccans, but not by all that much. One young woman's dead face really stuck in his mind. She was French, on the run from Marseille, a heroin addict and thief. Dead, at nineteen, she looked strangely beautiful, washed cleaned of all sin.

Patrick was also shown photographs from Casablanca, where there were many more candidates than anywhere else, prostitutes and such, it was a huge city—and one time Patrick saw one who looked pretty close. He thought it might be Lauren. (Maybe he never really did, but he wanted it to be her, somehow. But then on second thought he didn't want this at all.)

Further information, however, revealed that the woman had tattoos not shown, tattoos several years old, typical of a Casa prostitute. Additional photos proved that it was not Lauren, no chance. Patrick felt a surge of disappointment, and then immediately after, guilt. He had wished Lauren dead.

The night before he was to leave for the States, Patrick found himself in a room with ten Moroccans, males, some of them the students he and Anthony had played basketball with. They were talking with great relish about something, in their own language. The air smelled of kif, but no one offered him some. One of them, Akbar or Abdul, something like that, translated some of the repartee, but then became tired of this, or bored, which was okay. The strangeness of it, the atmosphere—the different way they gestured, acting things out, one now walking like a woman, lithely, imitating someone, making the others all laugh. Patrick saw that he could not bridge the otherness. Sometimes he caught a glimpse, but he knew there was an inaccessible realm.