Brogan looked at the strange houses that were built just above the shoreline, their flat roofs showing cables and masonry as though each of them was in the process of being constructed. Had he known it, this was a traditional method of building: each new storey ready and prepared for an expanding family that included the older generation, something that typified the culture of North Africa.
But Billy Brogan knew nothing of this, and even less about the village beside which they were now landing. Near Marrakesh, he had supposed, not knowing that Carlos had actually sailed his boat many hundreds of miles away from Brogan's desired destination.
Billy had never known such hospitality, even in Glasgow, a city famed for its kindness to the strangers within its gates. They were seated on cushions around a low square table in the main room of the house that belonged to some distant relation of Juan's. Brogan couldn't make out what was being said but he reckoned from all the back-slapping, smiles and hugs that Juan had received from the men and women of the house that he was a long lost cousin of some sort. And any friend of Juan's… he grinned, sipping the strange tasting tea that he had been offered. It was like drinking peppermints and treacle, he thought, eyeing the dark green liquid floating in the tiny gilt-edged cup. They had been sitting here for what seemed like hours now and were at that stage when after dinner sweetmeats were being offered and the hookahs brought out to smoke. Food had been conjured up from a kitchen somewhere and the younger women had carried enormous, brightly painted bowls of spicy meats and fragrant rice to each of the men sitting cross-legged around the central table.
None of the women had joined them for food, Brogan noticed.
But some of them had looked at him with shy almond eyes, giggling as he attempted to thank them in his broad Glasgow accent. They haven't a clue what I'm saying, he thought. And for the first time Billy Brogan felt a pang of homesickness for the place where everything he said and did was understood. A nod, a grunt or a particular gesture could speak volumes when you were with your own kind, he realised wistfully, listening to the excited voices raised all around him.
A tap at his back made him turn and there was Carlos, standing grinning down at him.
The Spaniard made a motion with his head towards the door and Brogan rose to follow him, bobbing a little bow to the rest of the company as he made his way from the smoke-filled room.
'Now is time to settle our account, Setior Brogan,' Carlos smiled at Billy. 'And then we go on our way,' he waved a hand at the boat whose hull was glistening in the sunshine out on the bay. 'Eh, sure thing, Carlos. What do I do?' he asked, looking around him. All Brogan could see was a narrow trail disappearing around a corner of the shoreline. 'Is there, urn, a bus… like… that I can get to Marrakesh from here?'
'Bus, yes. Get a bus at the next stop around the corner. Maybe a mile along the road,' Carlos assured him, wagging his head.
'Right, pal,' Billy said, delving in to his pocket and taking out the dollars that he had kept folded inside his pocketbook. 'What we agreed, eh?' he said, frowning slightly as Carlos licked his thumb and flicked through the notes to check on the amount.
The Spaniard gave him a grin as the money disappeared into a leather bag on a string that he kept around his neck, hidden under the same blue cotton shirt that he had worn for the entire journey. The haces reir;* Carlos said suddenly, giving such a guffaw that Brogan began to laugh with him.*You make me laugh.
'What time's the bus?' Billy asked as Carlos made to walk away.
'Oh, you stay here until tomorrow,' Carlos told him. `Juan's family be very upset if you leave them too soon. Comprendesr 'Aye, comprende right enough,' Brogan agreed. The laws of hospitality were the same the world over, after all; to fail to show appreciation of one's hosts was to give offence. He grinned back at the Spaniard who slapped his back as they returned to the house.
Billy woke up, trying to figure out where he was. The swell of the boat was making him sway from side to side, but as his eyes opened, he saw that he was lying on a couch in an unfamiliar room, silken curtains blowing gently at the windows. It was not the boat that was making him feel so weird, but perhaps, Brogan reasoned, he was still feeling its motion. A scent of something sweet filled his nostrils and he saw twin wisps of smoke coming from a dish beside the couch. Joss sticks, he thought, smiling in remembrance of the many times he'd had pals round for a session.
In Glasgow you burned them to mask the smell of the joints; here they were part of the ambience. Brogan let his eyes close again with a sigh of contentment.
He had little recall of the previous evening, a smoke-filled haze of laughter and girls dancing to the music of tabor and sitar. But he did have a memory of gentle hands guiding him along a darkened corridor and a black pointed lantern pierced with stars that swung to and fro as he staggered away from the throng.
Suddenly he remembered that he hadn't said goodbye to Juan or Carlos. Sitting up, he swung his legs over the edge of the couch and felt the tiled floor beneath his bare feet. Padding towards the window, he parted the curtains and looked out across the palm fringed bay.
The boat was gone.
Brogan twisted his mouth into a moue of disappointment. Och, well, they had a long way to go, he told himself. But the idea of being quite alone with people who could not understand his speech was disconcerting, no matter how kind they had been.
He dressed quickly and made his way down a narrow wooden staircase that was painted in stripes of red and green.
The room where he had spent such a joyous time last night was empty. The square table had been spread with a piece of embroidered linen and someone had stacked the cushions in a corner, neatly, out of the way.
'Hello?' he called out, but his voice fell dully against the whitewashed walls and somehow Brogan knew he was alone in this house. Whoever had lit the joss sticks couldn't be too far away, though, he reasoned. Sauntering through to the back, he found a small kitchen with a refrigerator that hummed loudly as though its thermostat were working overtime. "I 'he table in the middle of the room had been swept clean of crumbs and on one side was a mat of fringed cloth laid with a bowl, a spoon and a plate. Had they all gone to work? Brogan wondered. And was this their way of saying help yourself to breakfast?
Shrugging off a feeling of unease that was threatening to make him nervous, Brogan opened the fridge and drew out a jug of milk and a carton of orange juice. He gave a sigh of relief. His throat felt as though someone had sandpapered it during the night.
Pulling open the corner of the carton, he swallowed greedily, wiping the drops that fell over and under his chin.
A cupboard high up on the wall revealed a packet of cornflakes that had been tied up with a pair of knotted shoelaces. An expression of puzzlement crossed his face until he remembered the pavement cafes back in Cala Millor and the hosts of tiny ants that had gathered under the tables. Nodding to himself in sudden understanding at the makeshift precaution, Brogan dumped the cornflakes onto the table and began his meal.
He'd emptied two bowls full of cereal before he thought to look out of the front door to see if anyone was around. Raking a hand through hair that was already damp from the heat, Brogan opened the door on to a wide veranda that looked out onto the ocean.
Looking from left to right he could see nobody at all on the deserted sand, not even one of the old folk who had grinned toothlessly at him from across the table the previous evening.
'Right, Brogan,' he said aloud. 'Time to move on.' He grinned as he squinted up at the acres of blue above him, as fathomless as the stretch of water he had so recently crossed. 'Marrakesh, here I come.'