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problem,’ the plump kid said, his face even more greasy as he came right up to me. ‘We’re friends.’
    I tried to move forward, but the hunched guy had his bony fingers around my arm. Not in a restraining way, more as if he just wanted to touch me. My mind was racing. I figured the plump kid would make a grab for me, though at the moment he was simply hovering behind me, laughing a low laugh. And the old guy, though now in close, was just watching, clearly enjoying my fear.
    â€˜We like you,’ the plump kid said with another unnerving laugh. The hunched guy’s hand was tightening around my right forearm. I took a deep steadying breath, quickly calculating that I was close enough to catch him squarely, cripplingly, in the groin. I began to count to myself: one, two . . .
    Then all hell broke loose. A man came running towards us, a stick in his hand, shouting one word over and over again:
    â€˜
Imshi, imshi, imshi
.’
    It was the night man from the hotel, brandishing the cane over his head, ready to lash out. All three men scattered, leaving me there, frozen to the spot, terrified.
    As soon as he reached me the night man took me by the arm the way a father would reach for a child who had gotten herself into deep trouble, pulling me along the alley and out of danger.
    When we reached the hotel he all but pushed me inside. He had to sit down for a moment and compose himself. I too slumped in a chair, shocked, benumbed, feeling beyond stupid.
    The night man reached for his cigarettes, his hands shaking as he lit one. After taking a steadying drag he spoke two words:
    â€˜
Jamais plus
.’
    Never again.

Six
    JAMAIS PLUS. JAMAIS
plus. Jamais plus
.
    I sat on the balcony of our room, watching light break through the night sky, still reeling from that incident in the alleyway.
    Jamais plus. Jamais plus. Jamais plus
.
    But my ‘never again’ exhortations had less to do with the behaviour of those men and more to do with my arrogance and inanity. What was I thinking? Why did I even dream of following the loudspeaker voice out into the shadows? The accountant in me was trying to separate the menace and dread of the scene from the hard cold facts of what I’d walked into. Would they have actually attacked me, tried to rape me? Or was I just an object of curiosity for them?
    My hero from the front desk served me mint tea, deftly entering the room and placing it on the balcony table without waking Paul. He was still collapsed flat out in the bed, oblivious to all that had just transpired. Sitting there, looking out at constellations diminishing with the emerging dawn, I came to the conclusion that, though deeply creepy and offensive, this encounter hadn’t had a serious sexual threat behind it. But there had been, without question, some sort of recklessness on my part that sent me out into the shadows. And I wouldn’t forgive myself for such impetuousness until I fathomed what had pulled me towards trouble.
    â€˜Well, hello there.’
    Paul was standing in the doorway of the balcony, dressed in the white djellaba that the night man had brought up along with the mint tea.
    â€˜You really slept,’ I said.
    â€˜And you?’
    â€˜Oh, I was out almost as long as you.’
    â€˜And I see that I have no clothes.’
    â€˜They’re being washed as we speak. That djellaba suits you.’
    â€˜The French have a word for an ageing hippy still dressing as if he’s just come off an ashram – a “
baba-cool
”
.
Even during my year here I never wore a djellaba.’
    â€˜But it now suits your ageing-hippy look.’
    He leaned down and kissed me on the lips.
    â€˜I walked into that, didn’t I?’ he said.
    â€˜Indeed you did.’
    Now it was my turn to lean over and kiss my husband.
    â€˜Tea?’
    â€˜Please.’
    I poured out two glasses. We clinked them.
    â€˜
À nous
,’ he said.
    â€˜To us,’ I repeated.
    He