of the powder caught in the creases of the deep wrinkles around her eyes, and the thinness of her lips pulled back over the dentures, I knew she would have, when much younger, possessed an attraction to men. And yes, certainly she would have inspired passion in them.
Surely she could see I was not such a woman.
I smiled politely at her and excused myself, going to my cabin, not waiting to see America — my home — growing ever smaller in the distance. I had stayed in my tiny cabin for most of that week of sailing, not feeling well enough to eat much or even walk about the deck, not wanting to have to talk to anyone, afraid that if I ran into the old woman she would pressure me for answers. I had no answers, only questions.
I had trays of plain food brought to my cabin, and spent my time alternately trying to sleep or read. I had little success with either; I was too distraught to sleep deeply or concentrate on the printed page.
I felt a deep sense of relief when we docked at Marseilles. I had made a promise that once I was across the Atlantic there could be no turning back. To have come this far spoke of determination, I told myself. I would not use the word desperation.
But now, in Tangier, I didn't want to think of Marseilles, or anything that had happened before then. I couldn't.
I rose swiftly, pressing my fingers to my temples for a moment. I drank a glass of the bottled water on the dressing table, and then, despite the boy's earlier warning, went out into the hallway, looking for the stairs to the roof. I wanted to see Tangier from above; my vision of it, feeling ill and disoriented as we went through the narrow streets from the docks, had been as if I observed this new world through a long tunnel. I may well have had the same blinkered view as the donkey who pulled the cart, unable to see left or right, only straight ahead.
I found the stairs at the end of the hall, behind a closed door with a simple latch. They were steep, with no handrail. Such steps usually presented difficulty for me, but still I set off up them, thankful the passageway was so narrow that I could help pull myself along by planting my hands firmly on each side of me. There was a strong smell of sewage wafting from somewhere, but when I reached the top and stepped up into blinding light, the darkness and odour were washed away, and I could smell the sea.
The climb had left me panting, and I had to lean over, my hands on my knees. But when I straightened, what I saw threatened to again take away my breath. On one side of me the sea tilted away, glinting in the sun, and on the other I saw mountains. The glorious Rif mountains, the setting sun staining them a blood red.
Standing alone in the sweet breeze, Tangier encircled me, the buildings blinding white in the late afternoon sun. Unfamiliar feathery and broad-leafed trees, as well as palms, stood in variegated shades of green. There was a clarity to the scene in the play of light that made me think of the most brilliant of paintings — the colours were not blue and red and yellow and green, but cerulean, indigo, they were vermilion and crimson, amber and saffron, celadon and olive and lime.
My leg ached; I looked for a place to sit down, but there was only the narrow edge of the roof. I understood the boy's earlier cautioning; one small misstep would be disaster. Had someone else, perhaps someone like those in Elizabeth Pandy's group, come up here after too many glasses of alcohol, and tumbled to certain death?
I closed my eyes and opened them, each time letting the small thrill run through me. I thought of Pine Bush, the barrens a few miles from my home, or the nearby lake, or simply the countryside in Albany County. I had spent so much time in those places, walking and sketching the flora and the wildlife. I thought of my own botanical watercolours, the muted greens of the shade-loving ferns and mosses, the delicate lavender of the speedwell, the shy, nodding pink of the moccasin flower, the
Surely she could see I was not such a woman.
I smiled politely at her and excused myself, going to my cabin, not waiting to see America — my home — growing ever smaller in the distance. I had stayed in my tiny cabin for most of that week of sailing, not feeling well enough to eat much or even walk about the deck, not wanting to have to talk to anyone, afraid that if I ran into the old woman she would pressure me for answers. I had no answers, only questions.
I had trays of plain food brought to my cabin, and spent my time alternately trying to sleep or read. I had little success with either; I was too distraught to sleep deeply or concentrate on the printed page.
I felt a deep sense of relief when we docked at Marseilles. I had made a promise that once I was across the Atlantic there could be no turning back. To have come this far spoke of determination, I told myself. I would not use the word desperation.
But now, in Tangier, I didn't want to think of Marseilles, or anything that had happened before then. I couldn't.
I rose swiftly, pressing my fingers to my temples for a moment. I drank a glass of the bottled water on the dressing table, and then, despite the boy's earlier warning, went out into the hallway, looking for the stairs to the roof. I wanted to see Tangier from above; my vision of it, feeling ill and disoriented as we went through the narrow streets from the docks, had been as if I observed this new world through a long tunnel. I may well have had the same blinkered view as the donkey who pulled the cart, unable to see left or right, only straight ahead.
I found the stairs at the end of the hall, behind a closed door with a simple latch. They were steep, with no handrail. Such steps usually presented difficulty for me, but still I set off up them, thankful the passageway was so narrow that I could help pull myself along by planting my hands firmly on each side of me. There was a strong smell of sewage wafting from somewhere, but when I reached the top and stepped up into blinding light, the darkness and odour were washed away, and I could smell the sea.
The climb had left me panting, and I had to lean over, my hands on my knees. But when I straightened, what I saw threatened to again take away my breath. On one side of me the sea tilted away, glinting in the sun, and on the other I saw mountains. The glorious Rif mountains, the setting sun staining them a blood red.
Standing alone in the sweet breeze, Tangier encircled me, the buildings blinding white in the late afternoon sun. Unfamiliar feathery and broad-leafed trees, as well as palms, stood in variegated shades of green. There was a clarity to the scene in the play of light that made me think of the most brilliant of paintings — the colours were not blue and red and yellow and green, but cerulean, indigo, they were vermilion and crimson, amber and saffron, celadon and olive and lime.
My leg ached; I looked for a place to sit down, but there was only the narrow edge of the roof. I understood the boy's earlier cautioning; one small misstep would be disaster. Had someone else, perhaps someone like those in Elizabeth Pandy's group, come up here after too many glasses of alcohol, and tumbled to certain death?
I closed my eyes and opened them, each time letting the small thrill run through me. I thought of Pine Bush, the barrens a few miles from my home, or the nearby lake, or simply the countryside in Albany County. I had spent so much time in those places, walking and sketching the flora and the wildlife. I thought of my own botanical watercolours, the muted greens of the shade-loving ferns and mosses, the delicate lavender of the speedwell, the shy, nodding pink of the moccasin flower, the
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