My hair, hanging over the edge of the bed, almost touches the floor, brushing against the overflowing ashtray, no doubt. My legs are outstretched, the soles of my feet pressed against the cool white wall above. Without my glasses, my toes are blurred and indistinct. I stretch out my arm slowly, squinting at my hand, eyes narrowed, gauging how far I can see the wrinkles around my knuckles before they, too, recede from view. I have no desire to move, or dress.
Music washes over me, and I close my eyes and let a reel of images play in a loop inside my head. I see the one who got away, sitting on his balcony, unable to meet my eyes. My eyes are burning. He never will. There is no explanation for this; I must simply accept it. I sit in the courtyard outside my room, sipping mint tea and chewing on a sweet, oily pastry.
The maps in my possession offer little in the way of reassurance. Two or three main thoroughfares are labelled north of the place Djemma El-Fna, but from what I saw when the owner, Hamid, met me at the taxi rank and led me along a warren of tiny, unmarked passageways to the hotel, there are literally hundreds of snaking alleyways joining the dots.
But somehow doing all of this alone is less attractive. And more panic-inducing. The heavy door swings closed behind me and I look back at the entrance, searching for distinguishing features. There is a number 8, but no name. The passageway snakes left, under a dark tunnel, then right, left and right again.
A misspelling of the French pute? A girl who led a local on, perhaps? And with good reason. As I plunge into the narrow passageways my nostrils are assaulted by a million unfamiliar odours. Leather, scented wood and incense, sewerage, donkey droppings and spices. The heat and blinding light of the open alleyways give way to cool dimness; light filters through the woven ceilings in dusty diagonal stripes.
