The Lost Letter from Morocco. Adrienne Chinn
‘Where are we going?’
‘To be alone, darling. We can swim.’
‘I didn’t bring a swimsuit.’
‘Mashi mushkil. You can wear your underwear. It’ll dry quick in the sun. No one will see. It’s a private place.’
He leads Addy along the riverbank until they reach a flat rock jutting into a quiet pool. It’s hidden from view of the others by a screen of oleander bushes. He pulls off his blue gown and white T-shirt. His faded Levis cling to his hips. His naked chest is lean like a swimmer’s, tanned to the colour of milky coffee.
Addy lifts the camera strap from around her neck and sets the camera down on a rock, covering it with her straw hat. She begins to undo her belt, but Omar brushes her hands away.
‘It is for me to do it.’
He unfastens the belt and discards it on the riverbank. Slowly, he peels off her jeans, running his hands over her body as her skin is revealed to the sun. She stops him as he is about to lift her T-shirt over her head.
‘I think I’ll keep this on, if you don’t mind.’ She ties the T-shirt into a knot under her bra.
He smiles, his teeth gleaming against his brown skin. ‘As you like, Adi. Anyway, it’s better to imagine. It’s more spicy.’
Omar shrugs out of his jeans and sandals until he wears only red jockey shorts, which cling to the contours of his body. He climbs over rocks to the top of the cascade feeding the pool. He looks over at Addy to see that she’s watching, then he executes a perfect dive into the centre of the pool.
Addy scans the surface of the pool, waiting for his head to surface.
‘Omar?’ She searches for a sign – bubbles on the pool’s mirror-like surface, the gleam of skin under the water. ‘Omar?’
His hands grab her ankles. He surfaces, spouting water.
‘You been worried, weren’t you, darling? I watched you underneath the water.’
Addy splashes his face with water. ‘I was worried about how I was going to get the tourists back to the village if you drowned.’
‘That’s not nice.’ He pulls at her ankles and she loses her balance, splashing into the pool. She surfaces next to him, spewing water and blinking.
‘Bastard! I’ve got contact lenses.’
‘What you say?’
She slaps the water, spraying Omar’s face. ‘Bastard.’
‘It’s rude, Adi.’ He dives underneath.
Addy treads water, scanning the surface for where he’ll reappear. The tight wool of his head brushes between her legs. He slides up the front of her body, running his lips over her naked belly as he rises to the surface.
He bursts through the water, gasping. ‘I forgot to breathe, darling. I wanted to stay to kiss you under the water and I lost my air.’
Addy reaches her arms around his neck and folds her legs around his body. He leans his head back, closing his eyes as she kisses her way across his neck. His hand cups her head and he kisses her. She’s hungry, ravenous, wanting to taste him, to devour him, until there’s no Addy and no Omar. Only their essences, together, in a pool of water under the hot Moroccan sun.
‘Alli estan!’
A gigantic splash. And another.
Addy pushes away from Omar. The Spanish students have found them.
Omar slaps the water. ‘Habss. It’s a place for us to be private. Not to have people here.’
Addy swims to a rock by the riverbank and heaves herself out of the water. Her heart’s racing. She wipes the dripping water from her eyes. She’d almost made a huge mistake.
Omar swims over to her, but she’s already pulling on her jeans.
‘Fuckers,’ Omar says, gesturing rudely at the laughing students. ‘I’m so sorry, darling. I wanted to make a special day for you. I knew you would love it here.’
‘It’s okay.’ She unties the knot in her T-shirt and twists it to wring out the water.
He hoists himself up onto the rock. ‘Wait, darling.’
She shoves on her straw hat and reaches for her camera. ‘I should be getting back. I have a lot of work to do.’
She turns away, unable to meet his eyes. Is she a coward, or just being sensible? She knows what Philippa would say. You’re making a fool out of yourself, Adela. He just wants to shag you. And get you to pay for things. You’d be stupid to think anything else.
She’s damaged goods. How could she let him see her breast? No one has seen it outside the hospital. Not Philippa. Not Nigel. No, it’s better to stop this right now, before it was too late.
Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009
Omar and Addy stand outside a whitewashed building beside the mosque. A hand-painted sign reading Douches Publiques hangs over the door. On the left, men sit on a covered terrace drinking orange juice and watching European football in French on a large plasma-screen television.
‘Wait here, honey.’
Addy hovers in the shadows and tries to make herself inconspicuous. She lifts her T-shirt away from her soaking bra. A few of the men glance at her, but when the television commentator’s voice rises in anticipation of a goal, they quickly turn back to the screen. A collective moan when the player overshoots the goal.
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