The Heat of Betrayal Read Online Free PDF

cop in the booth called us forward, his hand out for our passports and landing cards. As he scanned them and peered at the computer screen I could see Paul working hard at masking his distress. I reached over and took his hand, squeezing it, willing him to calm down.
    â€˜You stay how long?’ the officer asked in choppy, cadenced English.
    â€˜
Quatre semaines
,’ Paul said.
    â€˜You work here?’
    â€˜No way. We’re on vacation.’
    Another glance at the screen. Then a thorough inspection of all the pages of our passports, during which I could feel Paul tense even tighter. Then: stamp, stamp . . . and the cop pushed the passports back to us.
    â€˜
Bienvenu
,’ he said.
    And we stepped forward into Morocco.
    â€˜See, they let you in,’ I said, all smiles. ‘Why so nervous?’
    â€˜Stupidity, stupidity.’
    But as we moved towards the baggage carousels I caught him whispering to himself:
    â€˜Idiot.’

Four
    JULY IN NORTH Africa. Heat and dust and gasoline fumes enveloping the parched air. That was the first aroma which hit my nostrils as we left the airport terminal: petroleum intermixed with arid, motionless oxygen. Up in the sky the morning sun was at full wattage. It didn’t matter that Casablanca was on the Atlantic coast. The first sensation on leaving the somewhat cooler confines of the arrival hall was: welcome to the blast furnace.
    â€˜We would have to arrive in hell,’ Paul said as we waited at the packed bus stop for the coach into the city centre.
    â€˜Well, you did once live here in July, right?’ I said.
    â€˜It will be cooler in Essaouira.’
    â€˜And we’ll be there in just a few days. No doubt the hotel in Casablanca has air conditioning.’
    â€˜Don’t be so sure of that. This is North Africa. Discomfort at the cheap end of the spectrum is part of the deal.’
    â€˜Then we can find a hotel with AC.’
    â€˜Or we can change our plans now.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Back in a moment.’
    With that he disappeared off into the crowd. I wanted to follow him but our four sizeable pieces of luggage were there in front of me. They had clothes for many weeks and all of Paul’s art supplies as well as the collection of twelve books I had envisaged myself reading while facing the waters of the Atlantic. Were I to leave the suitcases and pursue my husband I would be inviting theft and disaster at the start of what was already shaping up to be a rather dubious adventure. So all I could do was shout Paul’s name. My voice was drowned out by everyone crowded around the bus stop: veiled women, men of varied ages in ill-fitting suits, one or two backpackers, two grandfatherly types in long flowing robes, and three very dark-skinned Africans carrying their worldly goods in cheap canvas bags – making me wonder if they were here looking for work and, judging from the bewilderment sketched on their faces, as adrift here as myself.
    Buses, most of them ancient, came and went, belching clouds of exhaust as they heaved away towards assorted destinations. I peered into the distance, but could see no sign of my husband. Ten, fifteen minutes passed.
God, maybe he really has decided to do an about-face. He’s probably back inside the terminal building, using a credit card to send us home to the States.
    But then, amidst the crowded theatre of this street scene, a tall man emerged. Paul. He was walking towards me, accompanied by a diminutive fellow who was half-shaven with a small knitted skullcap on his head, a cigarette clenched between blackened teeth. He carried a battered tin tray on which sat two stubby glasses, while his other hand clutched a pot of tea. The man smiled shyly. Placing the tray on the empty space next to me on the pockmarked bench he raised the teapot a good foot above the glasses and began ceremoniously to pour a green liquid into them. The heady, aromatic properties of the tea were