talked over it because their ears weren’t used to it. The kemia were brought out—preserved lemon salads, marinated feta and fried beet greens flavored with pepper accompanied by almond breewats . Richard hovered by the doors and looked at his watch repeatedly as the kemia were set down. He seemed to give up on his late arrivals and did not draw attention to them as he begged his guests to tuck in. Across from him, Day noticed the two place names that had not been claimed by the English couple. Some part of himself preferred, he had to admit, that the Hennigers had not arrived.
Plates of pigeon pastilla were brought in. Day found himself talking to an old Irishman in a filthy beret.
“I was driving along with Maisy when we saw a white couple by the road,” the Irishman said. “They had obviously just had sex, so we left them alone. ‘Never interfere with people who’ve just had sex,’ I said to Maisy. They get violent.”
“Was that the English couple?” Day said.
“How would I know? I didn’t stop. They might have been bandits dressed as English people. Or English bandits.”
The Irish couple laughed, throwing back their heads.
“Are you a homosexual, too?” the woman asked.
“That couple,” Day said, ignoring her. “Were they having a row?”
“Obviously,” the Irishman snorted.
Rowing couples: they never turned up on time.
“We thought it best to let them get on with it.”
Day looked down the table, at the far end of which sat Dally peeling eggs with his fingers. The appetizers had lit it with the wet color of peppers and lemons, of salted olives and tomatoes. The man playing the oud stared back into their gazes with slightly shocked eyes, like someone who has seen a ghost. Day tried to hold his gaze. It was easy enough to see what he was thinking. These were unimaginable human beings, large, glossy, and loud. They didn’t eat with their fingers, and they didn’t believe in God. They had descended from far-offlands with their leggy, terrifying girls, and here they were, entities to be reckoned with. They drank wine. Around the walls, the boys stood like caryatids, their hands folded in front of them, their eyes held quite still and expressionless. They were desert boys, Aït Atta or Glaoua, recruited in Errachidia or Taza and paid with food and lodging. They were paid not to react, but to look formidable in a frozen position.
As the meal progressed, a gold clock behind the table made its fussy European sounds marking the hours. The bottles emptied. Soon it was one o’clock. The tagines were served, then the pastries. Day talked to a secretive Dutch woman seated to his right, an archaeologist. She had been invited for her expertise and nothing else, and knew no one. Under her breath, she opined that the renovation of the ksour was “a farce.”
“They are typical infidels,” she said seriously. “They have no taste.”
He wanted to get to bed. Was no one else tired from the day’s travels? The rosewater ice cream made his mouth tired. Dally made some toasts, drunk on his feet, his complexion burning with alcohol, and in this state he described, with some difficulties of speech, the long labors that had gone into the ksour to make it conform to what he called “our vision of paradise.” A place in which to receive the people they loved.
“Richard and I never thought it would turn out so well. And we couldn’t have done it without the help of our wonderful Moroccan friends.”
The Irishman leaned over to Day. “Without their friends in the Ministry of the Interior, he means.”
“—I’ve always been skeptical about that phrase, the global village. But when you actually buy a village—”
AS THE LAUGHTER ROSE, DAY NOTICED RICHARD RISE AND walk to the doors. He looked at his cell phone, then shot a glance across the table at no one in particular. There was a Moroccan servant on the far side of the glass peering in with a noticeable anxiety.Richard quietly opened the door
Plates of pigeon pastilla were brought in. Day found himself talking to an old Irishman in a filthy beret.
“I was driving along with Maisy when we saw a white couple by the road,” the Irishman said. “They had obviously just had sex, so we left them alone. ‘Never interfere with people who’ve just had sex,’ I said to Maisy. They get violent.”
“Was that the English couple?” Day said.
“How would I know? I didn’t stop. They might have been bandits dressed as English people. Or English bandits.”
The Irish couple laughed, throwing back their heads.
“Are you a homosexual, too?” the woman asked.
“That couple,” Day said, ignoring her. “Were they having a row?”
“Obviously,” the Irishman snorted.
Rowing couples: they never turned up on time.
“We thought it best to let them get on with it.”
Day looked down the table, at the far end of which sat Dally peeling eggs with his fingers. The appetizers had lit it with the wet color of peppers and lemons, of salted olives and tomatoes. The man playing the oud stared back into their gazes with slightly shocked eyes, like someone who has seen a ghost. Day tried to hold his gaze. It was easy enough to see what he was thinking. These were unimaginable human beings, large, glossy, and loud. They didn’t eat with their fingers, and they didn’t believe in God. They had descended from far-offlands with their leggy, terrifying girls, and here they were, entities to be reckoned with. They drank wine. Around the walls, the boys stood like caryatids, their hands folded in front of them, their eyes held quite still and expressionless. They were desert boys, Aït Atta or Glaoua, recruited in Errachidia or Taza and paid with food and lodging. They were paid not to react, but to look formidable in a frozen position.
As the meal progressed, a gold clock behind the table made its fussy European sounds marking the hours. The bottles emptied. Soon it was one o’clock. The tagines were served, then the pastries. Day talked to a secretive Dutch woman seated to his right, an archaeologist. She had been invited for her expertise and nothing else, and knew no one. Under her breath, she opined that the renovation of the ksour was “a farce.”
“They are typical infidels,” she said seriously. “They have no taste.”
He wanted to get to bed. Was no one else tired from the day’s travels? The rosewater ice cream made his mouth tired. Dally made some toasts, drunk on his feet, his complexion burning with alcohol, and in this state he described, with some difficulties of speech, the long labors that had gone into the ksour to make it conform to what he called “our vision of paradise.” A place in which to receive the people they loved.
“Richard and I never thought it would turn out so well. And we couldn’t have done it without the help of our wonderful Moroccan friends.”
The Irishman leaned over to Day. “Without their friends in the Ministry of the Interior, he means.”
“—I’ve always been skeptical about that phrase, the global village. But when you actually buy a village—”
AS THE LAUGHTER ROSE, DAY NOTICED RICHARD RISE AND walk to the doors. He looked at his cell phone, then shot a glance across the table at no one in particular. There was a Moroccan servant on the far side of the glass peering in with a noticeable anxiety.Richard quietly opened the door