No Direction Bears Fruit

The cloudburst spitting dime-sized droplets of rain all over their holiday did not trouble Hattie & Tarana. It hasn’t troubled them nearly as much as the distance required to procure a proper cocktail. Of course, had this been their virginal Marrakech experience, the shite weather would’ve been devastating for the sun-starved women. Hattie & Tarana, however, had already witnessed the sunsets of the Red City on prior weekends-away. Encountering Marrakech as it is now – a mud-slick metropolis stinking of wet camel & diesel – is almost a blessing as it provides fresh gripe-fodder beyond Hattie’s political dread & Tarana’s marriage woes. Yes, they were fine. They were in their element, no less, as familiar as they were with the ways of the Old Medina. They had been trained to dodge the scooters zipping through the medieval streets. They were experienced enough to instruct haram masseuses to keep their hands where they could see them*. They were hardened against the seduction techniques of the saffron-tongued spice pimps. They even participated in local superstitions** by jangling their house keys whilst traversing the more sinister alleys where Djinn were known to haunt. Yes, Hattie & Tarana knew Marrakech well and would prove themselves resilient. As long as they could find legitimate gin & clean ice, they would win the day. 

*after their first haram visit years ago, Tarana joked to Hattie: was that the first time a woman made love to you?, or just your first time in Morocco?

**when in Rome, innit?, Tarana would say

And what’s a little rain?, to them? Marrakech, though, is not built like Manchester. The stone streets are ideal for sweeping away desert sand, not draining monsoonal waters. The marbled interiors are meant for preserving cool temperatures, not for traction in wet conditions. Hattie & Tarana did not mind the rain, but they did mind the bruised shins & tailbones resulting from slips & slides up & down stairs as well as the occasional mistimed matador hip-pivot out of the way of charging motorbikes. 

Arab proverb, Hattie says after the last scooter sprayed mudslop all over her kecks. Arab proverb: the drowning man is not troubled by rain.

Drowning man?, Tarana says as she shakes the wet from the navigation app on her phone. You’re chatting shit there, mate, she says to Hattie. Drowning men make for poor bedfellows. Your guidebook make any mention of that? Drowning men so bloody impatient. No sense for foreplay.  

I’m trying to put some perspective on the situation, love, Hattie says with a gasp. For a better line of sight down the meandering alley, Hattie risks pulling back the hood of her raincoat only to receive a thrust of windblown rain. What?, she asks of Tarana’s cackle. Tarana says, your face is ass-slapped red, mate. But I think we’re closing-in on the jazz bar. 

After shaking their shared umbrella outside the threshold of Riad Monceau, Hattie approaches the hostess of Le Bistro Arabe. Bonjour, une table pour deux? No… they did not have reservations. The Moroccan hostess excuses herself, leaving Hattie & Tarana to themselves. Drowning man…, Tarana says, can suck my dick. Your drowning man can suck my big brown metaphorical dick. Lovely, Hattie tuts at her girlfriend, if you’re going to swing your metaphorical dick around, why brown? Why not solid gold? Ha!, Tarana laughs, good recovery, mate! Thought for a moment you were straying into bigotry. “Why brown?”, you cunt. Hat, do you know how heavy gold is? I’d need a stronger metaphorical back. I’m troubled enough lugging my bristols, let alone a solid gold cock. 

Hattie shushes her friend as the hostess returns. Alas: no tables available. They could, however, climb the hazardous wet marble stairs three flights to the rooftop bar. Rooftop? Are you joking? There is shelter from the rain, they are assured. And there they would be able to order cocktails. Al-co-hol, Tarana says in slow English, not juice. Morocco uses the “cocktail” term a bit loosely, yeah? We require more than bloody juice, mate, she explains to the hostess who assures there is alcohol. Splendid.

After brief scrapes falling arse-over-tit upstairs, the two Englishwomen summit to the roof. Lovely, Hattie says with as much relief as awe. The riad architecture is like a square donut, allowing for an open interior down to the paradisiacal pool deck below. Rain continues to drizzle, but La Pergola’s rooftop bar is adequately protected from the wind & the wet. Pardonnez-moi, Hattie asks a nearby bar patron if the adjacent seats were occupied. Huh?, what’s that?, the patron grunts in English. Tarana asks him, seats taken, mate? Nah, he says with a wave of his hand, yeah go ahead. 

Tarana, always quick to be curious about strange men, reaches for to the seat beside the stranger, but Hattie politely guides her girlfriend to the outside seat, taking the middle seat herself. In his brief barely legible English, Hattie recognized in this solitary man the generic fast-food accent of an American. And in that accent, Hattie suspects everything being an American could possibly entail, which is why she insists on shielding her girlfriend. By no means is Hattie savvy in any art of defensive maneuvering – should this bloke become uncivil – but, in the very least, Hattie represented a flesh & bone barrier between the American and Tarana. 

What was the genesis of this protective predilection of hers?, Hattie often wondered, musing, perhaps it was an underutilized maternal instinct. While Tarana had her misfit progeny to obsess over, Hattie was a childless divorcée and had undirected paranoia in droves. Hattie considered herself post-modern, post-colonial, too long post-coital, post-patriarchy, perimenopausal and most-interested in heightening her own walls, widening her moat, allowing only the rare few loved ones within the fortress. Tarana, chiefly. Hattie feels compelled to sit between Tarana and this hairy rogue American because… bloody fucking hell because. 

Any recommendations?, Tarana leans forward to inquire of the stranger. He responds with slightly inebriated speech, giving a resounding approval of the aubergine falafel burger. Even Hattie would admit, if she must, the recommendation sounds delightful. She & Tarana order one to share. Hattie unpockets her phone to feign study of an itinerary while actually employing her peripheral vision to examine the threat to her side. The American has an incoherent wardrobe strategy. Forgivable, perhaps, if it prioritized weather resistance, but the man’s attire only resisted good taste. The flower-printed shirt is ghastly, the linen suit is a soggy napkin and his grooming is chic only by Al Qaeda standards.

“Vic Neverman”?, Tarana laughs with schoolgirlish delight after introductions. Where’s your family from, mate?, she asks, not to pry or nothing, I’ll tell you mine, no surprise, born in Manchester to Bengali immigrants, but I’m not in an arranged marriage mind you – though not necessarily not in an arranged marriage either, yeah?, cannot escape familial meddling, what?, and you’re doing what exactly in Morocco?, Vic? “Fortunate & glory”?, ha!, what’s a self-described “Egyptologist” doing on the wrong side of Africa looking for fortune & glory in a jazz bar, mate? 

The American explains how he spent most of his day trapped in the Atlas Mountains at the Tizi n’Tichka pass. The route eastward into the Sahara Desert had become blocked with snowfall. As his party waited for the snow to clear, the retreat west back to Marrakech also became blocked by snow. Vic nearly had to overnight at a truck stop waiting for spring thaw. It wasn’t until a significant amount of baksheesh was paid to mountain tribal warlords before an exit west was plowed through the snow by a team of reluctant donkeys. Shamefully, Vic the American, returned to Marrakech where he sought to drown his sorrows here, at La Pergola. 

Hattie & Tarana devour their shared burger and order further mezze – hummus, zaalouk, tabbouleh – to share with their new friend. They also order each of the mahia cocktails recommend by Vic Neverman. What’s this mahia you speak of, mate?, Tarana asks. Vic explains while Moroccan Muslims were not keen on alcohol, the large Jewish population within Morocco had been. They distilled an eau-de-vie from fermented figs called mahia. Much of the Jewish population immigrated out of Morocco at the time of the Second World War during the Vichy French influence, but their recipes remained behind. Today, mahia is considered the spirit of Morocco. 

Her defensive posture lessened by the booze and a general warming-up to the American, Hattie became confident enough to slip away to the bar where she ordered three shots of the best mahia on the shelf. Presented with a glass of the liquor neat, Vic is delighted. They sip the mahia, Hattie & Vic slower than Tarana, who toasts, when in Rome, what?, and downs her sample in one triumphant go. Bully for you!, Hattie laughs at her friend who is coughing at the excess. Hattie & Vic take their time with the mahia, comparing notes of jammy spiciness, alcohol forwardness and the botanical finish.  

The Moroccan rooftops – before their contemporary conversion to bed & breakfast nooks and bars – were historically the realm of the traditional wife where she would bathe and hang laundry, Hattie says as she gazes through the wet night at the low sparkling skyline. Yeah, Vic says, these rooftop perches always make me think of King David spying on Bathsheba, falling in love with her and plotting her husband’s demise. Right?, Tarana says louder than necessary, King Davo up on the roof, having a quick one off the wrist!, filthy bugger. Wouldn’t be there, would he?, if not for one lucky slingshot. 99 times out of 100 Goliath slays the pervy cunt, Tarana says with a laugh as Hattie cringes. 

David had that Old Testament luck!, Vic says as he slurps from his glass of Casablanca Lager. Must be our Old Testament shit-for-luck with this rain. It’s the most rain Morocco has seen this century. It’s not luck, is it?, Hattie says, rather the irresistible force of climate change. Vic continues as if he didn’t hear Hattie, saying, I’ve learned to embrace bad travel luck thanks to an accidental mantra: no direction bears fruit. Tarana says, sounds rubbish, but do go on…

Thirteen months ago, Vic says, I was in Alexandria overlooking the Mediterranean when I had my I-Ching read by a Cathay flight attendant. Drunk on shisha smoke & Maerotic wine & the hips of belly-dancers in this ancient Egyptian city of prophecy & doom, I watched the bones tossed upon the table and listened to the flight attendant’s flawless Hong Kong English as she interpreted the I-Ching, “no direction bears fruit”.

Tarana’s laughter is insuppressible. As if she had sat upon a helium pump and would float away if she didn’t release somewhere. In tears, she cackles, you’re fucking mad. You out to sea, mate? Did your brain get frost-bite in the mountain passes? Bears & fruit? Christ man. Vic, ever hear of “cognitive overload”? 

Tar!, Hattie scolds her drunken friend, really? Hattie turns back to the offended American, saying to Vic, never mind her. She gets surly when she’s in her cups. 

Tarana scolds Hattie by mimicking her friend, saying, Harriet!, really? We’re all in our cups. I’ve asked for toast with my tea and Vic’s serving the Full English. Slow down, mate, she says to Vic. Take a breath. Calm your tits. Crack on, but one detail at a time, right? What’s this about bears & fruit?

Timidly Vic continues. He says, “no direction bears fruit”. The Cathay flight attendant’s interpretation was that there is no good path ahead… every road ends in failure. I, however, have my own interpretation of “no direction bears fruit”. For me, to not force direction and accept the whimsy of external pressure, this is where we could find benefit if we look for it. Embrace the mystery. Y’know? Inshallah, as the Moroccans say, trust in god, but tie your camel well. 

More proverbs, Tarana says with a giggle, drowned men and camels. Vic, mate, are you for real? Yeah, he says and crosses his arms. Prove it!, Tarana says with a teasing grin. She says, let me run my fingers through your hair. Tar!, Hattie says. What?, Tarana defends herself, I’ve been wanting to tug on his hair since we sat down. What say you, Vic?, prove your head of hair is real. The American, with no other choice, swivels his seat towards Hattie and leans forward, allowing Tarana to reach over her girlfriend to entangle her bejeweled fingers in his knots of wet hair. Brilliant, she says softly. 

Desperate to change the subject, Hattie asks about Vic’s time in Florida. Ever travel to Sarasota?, she asks. My mother lives in Sarasota, he admits, therefore it is as much my home as anywhere. Ever stay at the St Regis on Longboat Key?, Hattie inquires. Vic’s face goes blank for a moment before he shakes his head. I am not going to pay for luxury when I can sleep on my mom’s couch.

Mum’s couch for mister fortune & glory, ha!, Tarana cackles. 

I only mention St Regis, Hattie says, because I found their pillows to be the greatest pillow I’ve ever rested my head against. Best sleep of my life. I asked the hotel staff if I could purchase their pillows and was denied. I asked where they sourced their pillows and they kept it secret, as if I was asking for the recipe to Coca-Cola. They looked at me as if I were daft.

Christ, Hat!, Tarana says, we didn’t come to Africa to discuss pillows. Don’t mind her, mate, she’s a control freak and her zen is interior design.

Vic is silent a moment. Hattie checks the time on her phone. After a subtle belch, Vic announces he has a plan. If you really want those pillows…, he says. Hattie raises an eyebrow. Tarana’s eyes sparkle with intrigue. How’s that, Vic?, Tarana asks. 

I’ve got a plan, Vic repeats. Tarana nods, crack on. But pace yourself, mate.

Downtown Sarasota has a dive bar called “the Gator Club”. You do not want to be there after midnight without a recent tetanus shot as you’re likely to be stabbed by something rusty. But if you arrive slightly before midnight, ask for Bucky Joel. He’s your guy. Bucky Joel is essential to this plan. 

I’m listening, Hattie says. 

Bucky Joel has a gift for capturing gulls. Sea gulls. 

Shitehawks?, Tarana says, ghastly creatures, really…

Negotiate terms with Bucky Joel. As far as timing, he shouldn’t require more than 3 days notice. That’ll suffice for him to capture the right specimens and get them well-fed. With your room at the St Regis booked, coordinate timing with Bucky Joel to come on-site. He should arrive with a catering trolly. We can’t have CCTV spoiling our heist. 

Heist!, Tarana says with a cackle. We’re bloody heisting! Brinks-Mat, what?, more like Kinks-Mattress, ha!

Get Bucky Joel & his livestock up to your room. Have the pillows secured in protective casing. Garbage bags. Whatever. Bucky Joel removes the bird cages from his trolley and replaces them with the pillows. Leave the windows to the hotel room closed. Bucky Joel releases the birds before exiting the room. He transports the pillows off-site in his truck to an agreed upon location for you to transfer to the trunk of your rental. I’d advise holding the pillows in storage before shipping them immediately back to England. Your paper-trail should obscure more than it illuminates.

Go on, Hattie says with an insistence which surprises her.

Your story is this: you were out shopping. You left the sliding door to the balcony open. Of course, our secret is no door was left open. You returned to your suite to find it ransacked with shit. Terrorized by gulls. Sea gulls. Before you alert the front desk to your ordeal, Bucky Joel will enter the suite, open the sliding glass door and shoo the gulls away. Maybe all but one. He then disappears. You call the front desk in a panic. Oh my god, you say, my room! Speak gibberish alarmist chatter, have them send security immediately. They send security to find your suite has been ravaged by sea gulls which, Vic says and provide air quotations, “flew in” through the patio door before shitting literally everywhere. Aghast!, the front desk will give you a new room, comp your stay and torch the old room. They will burn ever linen they find. They will not bother to count the pillows which are or are not there. You will get away with the loot scot-free. The resort will write off the loss of linens as an act of a nature. A really shitty, briny, winged-freak of nature. 

Are you for real, mate?, Tarana asks with awe. 

You are some kind of idiot savant, are you not?, Hattie asks Vic. 

I’m from Florida, man. We think a little different, Vic says with a humble shrug. 

But…, Hattie says, if I am going to steal the pillows why not just purchase cheap pillows and swap out with the quality? If the hotel inquires, deny everything. No need to involve Bucky Joel and his stabby pirate friends. Or endanger any birds. 

Bollocks to that, Hat!, Tarana says. Where’s your sense of adventure, mate? Needs must the full monty, sea gulls & all. Remember our true purpose here, Hattie: fortune & glory!