Thirteen in the Medina Page 3

  Standing slightly to one side, as if to highlight her presence, stood a glamorous lady sporting a figure hugging thin jumper with a mane of thick wavy, suspiciously golden hair who on closer inspection was more mature than on first glance. With one arm casually draped around her waist as if claiming her as his property, and his other arm leaning against some pristine, expensive looking luggage, lounged a dapper man with a rather smug grin plastered across his face.

  We were soon joined by a very tall man with a little wispy beard and faded straw-coloured hair slicked back in a comb-over which, as a gentle breeze wafted, lifted up in one piece like a lid on a tankard pot and he irritably slapped it down and covered it with a tweed flap cap, which might be standard wear in Margate but looked a little out of place in Morocco. He was accompanied by a short, drab, dumpy woman who really should have bought a larger size pair of trousers. A tall thin woman with close cropped dark hair escorted a slightly shorter, plumper man who shuffled along behind her before stopping and donning a Phil Harding style hat; I could not help thinking that these two couples could have swapped partners.

  Beards seemed to be the order of the day (for the men at least) as another tall, painfully thin elderly man with receding hair on his head but sporting a rather neat goatee beard and wearing extremely worn faded jeans appeared along with a woman with blonde hair streaked with white, some of which bobbed loose around her face whilst other strands were tied up in little plaits secured with pink ribbons. She wore a voluminous floaty dress in various pastel shades comprised of two, possibly three layers, and several strings of beads around her neck, whilst her fingers were adorned with sparkling rings that glinted in the sunlight as she helpfully pointed out their names on the guide’s list.

  Finally, a little black-haired man scuttled up, like a little beetle, his hair smooth as a carapace, shiny with oil, his head sunken into his body on a short, squat neck. Furtively he leaned forward to whisper his name to the guide as if not wanting anyone else to know his identity. The guide, when he had completed ticking off his list, closed the cover over his clip board as if signalling that the group was now complete.

  The female in the flowing gown uttered one word in a thoughtful tone:

  ‘Thirteen.’

  Chapter Three – Sunday Evening

  The pilot, on nearing our destination, had informed us that the temperature was 38 degrees. As I wheeled my case along following the traveller in front, a snake-like procession of newly arrived tourists, I wallowed in the warmth - sheer bliss.

  One of the best parts about a holiday in a faraway country is the arrival; that feeling of strangeness and foreignness that says “I’m on holiday, far from home.” It’s that first impression, the people in the airport, the officials looking you over. It’s feeling the heat of a foreign sun, that even at night time it’s so warm you don’t need a cardi, let alone a coat. It’s that first ride on the bus from the airport to the hotel, looking out the windows at dusty roads, passing buses crammed full of the natives, standing room only, like cattle in a truck, heaped every which way, small boys’ noses pressed to the glass staring back.

  I glanced at Keith. Maybe not everything is different; he too had his nose pressed almost on the window as he looked out in wonder.

  Despite his battered suitcase I speculated whether this was in fact his first trip overseas. After that day when he turned up on my doorstep with his invoice in his pocket and we had booked the taxi for the airport we had not discussed our forthcoming trip; I had surmised that maybe he had had second thoughts about his off the cuff booking but perhaps he had just been nervous about a holiday abroad.

  Whilst I was an old hand at holidaying without friends or family possibly he had seized the opportunity to book a holiday with someone he knew. I felt a little sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, which could have been due to one of the many pot holes in the road, or just maybe it was the thought that Keith had not booked because he wanted to take a trip with me.

  As I gazed out the window of the bus as we travelled to our hotel the overriding first impression of Marrakesh is that it is pink; the buildings, the road, even the dust motes in the air.

  We soon reached the hotel, an imposing structure situated slightly set back from the main road. Tall palm trees shrouded the entrance and provided some shade as we entered the foyer and milled about, eyeing each other a little nervously as we waited for instructions from our guide, who passed amongst us giving out the registration cards we were required to fill in. These contained the usual sort of questions: name, address whilst on holiday, dates of holiday, occupation and the most difficult of all - the tourist number off the stamp in our passports, the ink of which was very faint and we took the first steps in bonding as a group as we conferred as to whether the numbers were “0’s” or “8’s” and who went through which customs queue and had the same official stamp in their passport and hence had the same numbers, which might be more legible.

  My pen decided it did not like travelling and refused to work so I had to wait for Keith to finish in order that I could borrow his. This took some time as he appeared to have decided to use his best handwriting so as to make a good impression, leaving me the last person to hand in my completed card, unfortunately giving the impression that I was a little on the slow side.

  After this came the traditional giving out of room keys – or little plastic credit card type cards, which you swipe down. Often it is the first time you hear the names of your travelling companions and you discover who is travelling together. And then it’s the “fun” of finding your room.

  Armed with our little plastic cards and instructions from the guide, who had informed us that his name was Abdul, such as which restaurant to visit for dinner and which for breakfast, (I noted Keith’s eyebrows raise at the mention of there being more than one restaurant), the times of meals and finally the time of departure in the morning, Keith and I set off to locate our respective rooms.

  The bedrooms were in two separate blocks reached via courtyards of shrubs, bushes and palm trees. As we walked I made a mental note that the restaurant for our evening meal was on our left with the swimming pool to our right. A native chambermaid, her hair piled up in a white mob cap, smiled as we passed and said, ‘Bonjour madam, monsieur.’

  I smiled back and greeted her, ‘Bonjour,’ in my best schoolgirl French accent.

  Keith stopped open mouthed and grabbed my arm. ‘Do I have to speak French?’ he gabbled. ‘I don’t speak French.’

  I laughed, I could not help it, he looked so horror stricken. No, I assured him, he did not have to speak French; most people abroad speak English and very often are only too keen for an opportunity to practise it.

  ‘But you could try the odd word, if, like now, the hotel staff greet you in French, you can reply in kind,’ I informed him and all the way up the path I could hear him muttering under his breath in practice, ‘Bonjour madam, bonjour monsieur…’

  Our rooms were on the second floor; mine at the front of the block looking towards the restaurant area whilst Keith’s was on the opposite side of the corridor overlooking the tennis courts and a children’s play area hidden in amongst the palm trees. My room was a decent size, with twin beds, two armchairs, a desk with TV, and just inside the door by the bathroom, a massive wardrobe with extra pillows and blankets. Blankets?

  I adjusted the air conditioning, which was blasting out freezing cold air, and went to look at the bathroom. It contained a massive bath with overhead shower, basin, toilet and bidet, plus hairdryer and freebie shampoos and soaps etc.

  As I started to unpack a few necessities out of my suitcase a knock at the door heralded, as always, Keith and he launched himself onto the nearest bed and proceeded bouncing up and down, looking pleased with himself. It had taken him a suspiciously short time to unpack and make his way across to my room.

  ‘I think I’m going to enjoy this holiday!’ he announced. I looked up at him slightly taken aback. I always think I am going to enjoy a holida
y, until circumstances prove me wrong and often that is a few days in, when the promised sun has not appeared and I am cold and wet, and far from home in a strange land, surrounded by strange people who don’t speak my language, and my stomach does not like the food. Thus far we had a smallish group of people who looked civilised and we were preparing for our first night’s stay in a luxury hotel in comfortable rooms.

  ‘I mean,’ continued Keith, ‘those people… they’re like…something from a film, they’re so, so odd.’ He screwed his face up in thought. ‘Like something out of… of Agatha Christie, you know, that film where they go around on the coach trip and people get bumped off.’ Umm, not sure I’ve seen that film. ‘Who do you think is the villain?’

  Looking at Keith with his close-cropped hair, long frizzy beard sculpted at the sides and pierced ears I thought he would be pretty high on anyone’s list of suspects; add in a tattoo and well. .. Actually, not sure whether Keith has a tattoo or not, perhaps this fortnight I might find out.

  ‘Well, as the person who booked at short notice, under suspicious circumstances, I would say the villain is you,’ I answered. Our eyes met over the top of the open case lid. His held a worried gaze.

  ‘Suspicious circumstances?’

  ‘If this was a film,’ I added, ‘the villain needing to join the holiday tour at short notice would have bumped off another unsuspecting innocent traveller in order to obtain their plane ticket and hotel room.’

  Keith considered this. ‘Why? For what reason?’

  ‘Oh, to escape justice. You might have just committed some crime and be on the run.’ I closed my case with a snap. Keith, however, was determined not to be distracted from the idea that one of our fellow travellers might have a hidden agenda for taking this trip.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he encouraged, as I bent to change the heavy shoes I wear for flying for a more comfortable pair of sandals. ‘What about the man who looks like the original Master from Dr Who?’

  ‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘you mean the tall man with the short hair and the goatee beard? I do agree that men with beards look suspicious,’ Keith narrowed his eyes at me. I picked up my brush and proceeded to try and coax my own hair into some sort of flattering style.

  ‘Or the man who sat next to you on the plane, he looks very sinister, sort of Richard the third with his stoop and bad back.’

  ‘I think that’s called discriminating against the disabled, and perhaps his joints were a bit stiff from sitting for a couple of hours in a cramped space with little leg room.’ I looked Keith in the mirror. ‘Mind you,’ I continued, getting caught up in his argument, ‘his wife or whatever she is, looked a bit of shrew. She was a right bossy cow all through the journey. She would make a perfect villainess.’

  ‘And hippies,’ added Keith enthusiastically, ‘I never trust aging hippies it’s so, so, uh, I don’t know, immature, not to have grown up, to still behave like a teenager, all falseness, peace and love.’

  I was momentarily distracted by memories of Keith with his nephew Colin running up and down my driveway, vintage cloaks billowing whilst playing “Roman soldiers.”

  ‘And very tall people,’ I said. ‘I don’t trust very tall people. They just look right over your head.’

  ‘Now you are just being silly,’ Keith said, a little sulkily.

  ‘And you are not being silly?’ I countered. ‘We’ve only just arrived here. We have just met a group of strange people…’

  ‘Very strange,’ he muttered.

  ‘…just met a group of strangers,’ I amended, ‘and you are looking for a whodunit when nothing has been done. This is a nice holiday, the sun is shining, and we’ve got a good trip lined up for tomorrow. Let’s just go down for dinner and enjoy ourselves. Nothing is going to happen.’

  As usual I was wrong.

  We took a wrong turning somewhere on the way across to dinner. The hotel was one of those complex types, comprised of low level blocks of rooms scattered around the grounds with interconnecting pathways bordered by profusely flowering shrubs. Somewhere was the restaurant and, hopefully, a bar.

  As Keith and I turned off one pathway and started up another a dark figure loomed in front of us, one arm out barring the way and at the same time helping to guide us back the way we had come in a firm but friendly manner.

  ‘I think that must be the way to the pool,’ Keith decided as we retraced our steps. I turned and glanced back. The security man, if that indeed was his function, to keep drunken revellers from accidentally falling into the pool in the dark, was still standing on the path watching us walk away. I don’t think I have ever encountered anyone doing such a job before and it made me shiver despite the warm evening. It must be a mind numbingly boring job, yet obviously essential or else he would not be there, dressed head to foot in black like an Italian mobster, lurking in the bushes and only appearing when someone gets too close. Keith’s whodunit just took a step closer (Professor Plum knocks Colonel Green over the head with an inflatable swimming aid and dumps him in the pool).

  Perhaps due to the fact that we got lost we were the last couple (couple?!) to arrive for dinner. As the evening was warm the dining tables were set outside. Our party had been seated at one large oblong table, with six seats down each side plus one at each end. The single man in the party, whose name turned out to be Robert, had seated himself at the head. I glanced at the other vacant seat at the opposing end and remembered the woman’s comment about our party numbering thirteen and shivered in spite of the warm evening air. Why is thirteen considered an unlucky number? I mused, and is it an omen?

  The couples had arranged themselves in pairs along the length of the table. There were two vacant spaces at the bottom end of the table. As we drew closer the woman with the mass of platinum blonde curls (they had not seemed that curly earlier at the airport) patted the seat next to her and beamed at Keith.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’re not late,’ she greeted us, well Keith. ‘We’ve only just started. There’s a buffet inside. Help yourself.’ She waved a fork in the direction of the building. ‘I’m Diane,’ she introduced herself as Keith sat down. He mumbled his name in return.

  I sat at the end of the row, with the empty foot of the table to my left and opposite the squat man with large glasses who nodded at me as I sat and said in a low husky voice, ‘Graham.’

  ‘Who?’ I enquired. ‘Where?’

  ‘I’m Graham,’ he repeated. ‘And this is my wife, Karen.’ He indicated the thin birdlike woman with cropped dark hair to his left.

  I smiled at them both and told them my name and so various introductions went around the table like a Mexican wave. I doubted I would remember any of them the next morning.

  Diane had meanwhile helpfully instructed her husband to usher the wine waiter over to Keith who was looking blankly at the wine list.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked me.

  ‘What do you prefer?’ Diane replied on my behalf. ‘Red or white? Myself,’ she giggled, ‘I like a nice pinot grigio.’ I wondered how many she had already consumed. ‘Or perhaps you prefer something more manly, like a beer?’

  I glanced at Keith, all five foot six and a half inches of him and suppressed a smile. He passed me the list.

  ‘How about a bottle of house red?’ I suggested, running my finger down the list where the prices – in Moroccan dirhams – were shown, letting it come to rest at the cheapest. Keith nodded and I turned to the waiter to order. However, he remained standing just behind Keith’s other shoulder and as I opened my mouth to speak he said, ‘Is sir ready to order?’

  I shut my mouth. Realisation dawned. This was an African country. Whilst they may permit women to drink alcohol and sometimes to purchase, they obviously preferred men to take charge in such proceedings. I sighed. When in Rome…Keith was hesitating, not used to being deferred to.

  ‘You order what you like,’ I prompted. ‘It was just a suggestion.’ I passed him back the wine list. ‘While you do that I’m going to have a look at the starters.
’

  I walked around the buffet about three times, gazing at the mounds of food laid out for our party plus a scattering of other tables. Perhaps there were some late diners yet to take their seats. There was an impressive array of salads; shredded lettuce and carrots, beetroot, various cheeses, humus, couscous. Tucked away in a corner were two large urns containing a choice of soups and stacked nearby were bread rolls in a choice of white or wholemeal brown with little individual packets of real butter perched atop slivers of ice.

  Next to the salad selection stood large heated serving dishes containing the main courses – chicken and beef (possibly - in another country what I had thought was beef a fellow traveller had whispered in my ear could be goat or even camel), in rich gravies, strips of battered fish and white fish with lemon slices, huge mounds of pasta, boiled potatoes and boiled rice (in separate heated dishes, not together, naturally) and finally masses of sliced green beans and cauliflower, and more carrots.

  If that was not enough, along one wall desserts were laid out – small squares of cakes, sponges with fruit toppings, caramels and jellies. Finally, there was a platter of fresh fruit, bananas, apples, grapes and peaches.

  With one eye still on the puddings I piled what looked like shredded white cabbage and lettuce on a plate with some sort of cheese plus a smattering of shredded carrot and a few (small) cubes of beetroot. I might as well start the holiday in healthy mode and see how my stomach held up. As I turned to go back outside to our table Keith appeared at my elbow.

  ‘All ordered,’ he confirmed. He nodded at my plate, querying, ‘Is that okay? I thought when abroad we should only eat cooked foods, and not salads or anything that might have been washed in the water?’