Lulu in Marrakech Read Online Free PDF

huge pots and eucalyptus scented the air, and a little fountain plashed in the center, near other tables and chairs.
    “It’s all so much more beautiful than I’d imagined,” I said. “So seldom in life do things exceed expectations.” He laughed at this sententious remark and said I was too young to be so cynical. He’s a decade older than I.
    “I suppose it’s the mark of an optimistic nature at that, always having expectations too high to be exceeded,” he conceded. He took my breath away with the warmth of his smile.
    I was a little off balance. I was prepared to forget my personal history, but I wasn’t so sure I could obey the instruction about emotional involvement. Seeing Ian again, I knew I was emotionally involved with him. But I also knew from experience that I could handle it. The great love of my life was behind me; this was something lighter and more delightful. I had reasoned that if you’re going to have a fling, a little respite from the gruesome realties in the Balkans, you had to be involved to a certain extent; your heart had to be in it, had to flutter a little. It remained to be seen whether the same attraction, the same fascination, would still be there in Marrakech, but from first indications, it was.

6
Michael Barclay did not think of himself as a spy. Nor would he even say he belonged to the secret service or the security service—though he’d agree security was at the root of much of his work. If pressed, he might nod towards the word “Intelligence.” He liked the word. It meant knowing a lot.
—Ian Rankin, Witch Hunt
    W e sat for a moment near the decorative pool and were brought some tea. When Tom and Amelie had gone, Ian said he would take me to my room, his reference to “my” removing one ambiguity, for though we were lovers, I hadn’t been sure what my new status would be or how connubially we would be living.
    My room was as austere as a nun’s cell, with high, whitewashed walls and a wooden ceiling. The ceiling was domed, with an open lantern that let in light, and a filigreed lamp, shaped like the inverted dome of a mosque, hanging in the center. A large bed festooned with netting was almost the only furniture—the netting a bad sign, I feared, thinking of mosquitoes and scorpions; there was a little closet and a table to use as a desk. A small bookcase was set into the wall, with a few English paperbacks on its shelves and a picture over it of a genie on a carpet floating above a pond. Heavy wooden shutters would close out the light.
    This room led to a cavernous bathroom lined with marble and rustic tile, slightly musty, with a shower of stucco and a toilet with a chilly-looking marble seat set into a box. Ian’s razor, shaving soap, and a bottle of vetiver eau de toilette were laid out on the marble sink. Ian’s room adjoined on the other side. As we stood in the bathroom, he kissed me properly and said he was glad I had come. Then he left me to unpack and told me lunch was at two. It was a little abrupt, but I had seen that he was, here, a host responsible for more people than just me. Still, this casualness was slightly disappointing; I’d imagined a more rapturous welcome. But it was hardly important yet.
    I unpacked my bathing suit, tennis clothes, paddock boots—for Ian had mentioned pack trips in the mountains—some low-cut dresses for dinner, covered-up dark dresses for public excursions, underwear. I arrayed my objects—my laptop; my ordinary‐ looking clock radio, so chockablock with useful capabilities; my clever James Bondish fountain pen; and bottle of secret ink. There were the versatile utensils in my writing portfolio—little sticks of wax made up like pencils, a supply of cellophane, my camera with its several lenses; all could be turned over by a maid without seeming to be what they were.
    I plugged in my computer. I was working “bare”—if I got caught at something, my colleagues would deny knowing anything about me. No official