“Is he coming back?” Emma had asked once.
“I’m not waiting for him to make up his mind,” her mother had said, which was, to Emma, scarcely an answer at all. “I’ve got my life, too. I mean,” she amended, “we have, Emma. We’ve got a life, too. We’ll go away. We’ll go on a cruise or something.”
“Maybe he’d like that,” Emma had said, with such innocent accuracy that her mother, presented with the thought, stared at her, alarmed. “Then he could have the place all to himself.”
In November, they joined the cruise. They had come aboard wearing summer dresses, confident in the climate promised by travel posters — the beaches, the blue-painted seas, the painted-yellow suns. Their cabin was full of luggage and flowers. Everything was new — their white bags, the clothes inside them, neatly folded, smelling of shops.
“It’s a new life, Emma,” said Mrs. Ellenger.
Emma had caught some of the feeling, for at last they were doing something together, alone, with no man, no Uncle Anyone, to interfere. She felt intensely allied to her mother, then and for several days after. But then, when it became certain that the miracle, the new life, had still to emerge, the feeling disappeared. Sometimes she felt it again just before they reached land — some strange and unexplored bit of coast, where anything might happen. The new life was always there, just before them, like a note indefinitely suspended or a wave about to break. It was there, but nothing happened.
All this, Emma sensed without finding words, even in her mind, to give the idea form. When her mother, helpless and lost, asked why they had come, she could only sit on her bed, playing with her doll’s shoe, and, embarrassed by the spectacle of such open unhappiness, murmur, “I don’t know. I don’t know why we came at all.”
Answers and explanations belonged to another language, one she had still to acquire. Even now, in Tangier, longing to explain to the Munns about the summer dresses, she knew she had better not begin. She knew that there must be a simple way of putting these things in words, but when Mrs. Munn spoke of going ashore, of the importance of keeping the throat and ankles warm, it was not in Emma’s grasp to explain how it had come about that although she and her mother had shopped all summer and had brought with them much more luggage than they needed, it now developed that they had nothing to wear.
“Perhaps we shall see you in Tangier, later today,” said Mrs. Munn. “You must warn your mother about Tangier. Tell her to watch her purse.”
Emma nodded vigorously. “I’ll tell her.”
“And tell her to be careful about the food if you lunch ashore,” Mrs. Munn said, beginning to gather together her guidebooks. “No salads. No fruit. Only bottled water. Above all, no native restaurants.”
“I’ll tell her,” Emma said again.
After the Munns had departed, she sat for a moment, puzzled. Certainly they would be lunching in Tangier. For the first time, now she remembered something. The day before (or had it been the day before that?) Emma had invited Eddy, the bartender, to meet them in Tangier for lunch. She had extended the invitation with no sense of what it involved, and no real concept of place and time. North Africa was an imaginary place, half desert, half jungle. Then, this morning, she had looked through the porthole above her bed. There was Tangier, humped and yellowish, speckled with houses, under a wintry sky. It was not a jungle but a city, real. Now the two images met and blended. Tangier was a real place, and somewhere in those piled-up city blocks was Eddy, waiting to meet them for lunch.
She got up at once and hurried back to the cabin. The lounge was clearing; the launch, carrying passengers ashore across the short distance that separated them from the harbor, had been shuttling back and forth since nine o’clock.
Emma’s mother was up, and — miracle — nearly dressed. She sat at the dressing table, pinning an artificial camellia into her hair. She did not turn around when Emma came in but frowned at herself in the glass, concentrating. Her dress was open at the back. She had been waiting for Emma to come and do it up. Emma sat down on her own bed. In honor of the excursion ashore, she was wearing gloves, a hat, and carrying a purse. Waiting, she sorted over the contents of her purse (a five-dollar bill, a St. Christopher medal, a wad of Kleenex, a comb in a plastic case), pulled on her small round hat, smoothed her gloves, sighed.
Her mother looked small and helpless, struggling with the awkward camellia. Emma never pitied her when she suffered — it was too disgraceful, too alarming — but she sometimes felt sorry for some detail of her person; now she was touched by the thin veined hands fumbling with flower and pins, and the thin shoulder blades that moved like wings. Her pity took the form of exasperation; it made her want to get up and do something crazy and rude — slam a door, say all the forbidden words she could think of. At last, Mrs. Ellenger stood up, nearly ready. But, no, something had gone wrong.
“Emma, I can’t go ashore like this,” her mother said. She sat down again. “My dress is wrong. My shoes are wrong. Look at my eyes. I look old. Look at my figure. Before I had you, my figure was wonderful. Never have a baby, Emma. Promise me.”
“O.K.,” Emma said. She seized the moment of pensive distraction — her mother had a dreamy look, which meant she was thinking of her pretty, fêted youth — and fastened her mother’s dress. “You look lovely,” Emma said rapidly. “You look just beautiful. The Munns said to tell you to dress warm, but it isn’t cold. Please, let’s go. Please, let’s hurry. All the other people have gone. Listen, we’re in Africa.”
“That’s what so crazy,” Mrs. Ellenger said, as if at last she had discovered the source of all her grievances. “What am I doing in Africa?”
“Bring a scarf for your head,” said Emma. “Please, let’s go.”
They got the last two places in the launch. Mrs. Ellenger bent and shuddered and covered her eyes; the boat was a terrible ordeal, windy and smelling of oil. She felt chilled and vomitous. “Oh, Emma,” she moaned.
Emma put an arm about her, reassuring. “It’s only a minute,” she said. “We’re nearly there now. Please look up. Why don’t you look? The sun’s come out.”
“I’m going to be sick,” Mrs. Ellenger said.
“No, you’re not.”
At last they were helped ashore, and stood, brushing their wrinkled skirts, on the edge of Tangier. Emma decided she had better mention Eddy right away.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if we sort of ran into Eddy?” she said. “He knows all about Tangier. He’s been here before. He could take us around.”
“Run into who?” Mrs. Ellenger took off the scarf she had worn in the launch, shook it, folded it, and put it in her purse. Just then, a light wind sprang up from the bay. With a little moan, Mrs. Ellenger opened her bag and took out the scarf. She seemed not to know what to do with it, and finally clutched it to her throat. “I’m so cold,” she said. “Emma, I’ve never been so cold in my whole life. Can’t we get away from here? Isn’t there a taxi or something?”
Some of their fellow passengers were standing a short distance away in a sheeplike huddle, waiting for a guide from a travel bureau to come and fetch them. They were warmly dressed. They carried books, cameras, and maps. Emma suddenly thought of how funny she and her mother must look, alone and baffled, dressed for a summer excursion. Mrs. Ellenger tottered uncertainly on high white heels.