It turned out my instinct was right. When I reached the third floor, where the bedroom Annette and I were sharing was located, I caught sight of Monsieur Guigner at the end of the long corridor, disappearing into our room. After a second’s silence, I heard a faint scream so I ran along the hall as fast as I could and flung open the door. That awful man had grabbed Annette and was trying to kiss her while she was twisting and struggling to get out of his grip. His hands were on the buttons of her dress. I realised he was far too strong for the two of us to wrestle to the floor （knowing that I couldn’t count on Annette to be of much help in that department）， so I decided to try the element of surprise. I said loudly, ‘Why, good evening again, Monsieur. Are you staying in the hotel too?’ He spun around and behind him I caught a glimpse of Annette’s pale, shocked face. She looked terrified, and fear is something my big sister rarely seems to show. She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and then fumbled with the buttons of her dress, trying to do them up where he’d torn at them, even though several were now missing.
‘Papa and Maman are on their way,’ I said, as if I was talking to Annette. ‘They said they’d come and give us a hand getting everything packed up tonight to save having to do it in the morning.’
Vulture Man backed away from Annette, closer to the door, and I quickly slipped into the room, putting myself between him and my sister. She reached her hand out and grabbed my arm and I noticed she was shaking quite badly.
‘Ah well,’ said Monsieur Guigner, smiling and showing those yellow teeth again, ‘I too have an early start tomorrow, so I’ll say goodnight to you two charming young ladies. It has been a very great pleasure meeting you.’
‘Goodnight,’ I said, and I shut the door very firmly in his face. Annette reached past me with her trembling fingers and turned the key in the lock.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked her. She was still looking awfully pale.
She nodded. ‘I . . . he just appeared. I thought it was you coming in but . . . oh, thank goodness you appeared when you did!’
She hugged me so tightly I could hardly breathe. And, for once, I really felt like hugging her back. We agreed that we wouldn’t say anything to Papa and Maman. That would only have meant getting the police involved and we knew how much that would upset Maman. She’d never let any of us go anywhere ever again. So we kept it to ourselves and just hoped we wouldn’t be seeing anything more of Monsieur Guigner.
On the long drive home the next day, I heard Maman say to Papa, ‘What on earth was that dreadful man doing in Taza anyway? I know he said he’d been in the Foreign Legion, but do you think he could have been a deserter? He didn’t seem to have the slightest bit of military bearing about him. It was very annoying, him latching on to you like that in the restaurant.’
Papa just sort of grunted and changed the subject pretty smartly and then he seemed to be concentrating very hard on the road ahead. I didn’t know whether any brown envelopes were exchanged with Monsieur Guigner. But I did know that I never wanted to see him again.
So that was the end of our family trip to the mountains. And then, sure enough, I just happened to look over the banisters as Miss Ellis was leaving after my English lesson the day after we got back and saw Papa handing over some folded-up papers, which he withdrew from the pocket inside his jacket. ‘Well done, Guillaume,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll get them to Stafford straight away.’
Of course, it could have been Bert and Gert in Fez, or even the artist Gustave Reynier in Meknes, who had given Papa those papers but, using my powers of deduction, I decided that the most likely real contact was Monsieur Guigner. Whatever the information was that vulture had gathered during his lengthy trip to the desert, it was clearly of importance to our friends in the American consulate.
Zoe – 2010
When I need to take a break from sewing, I spend my time either at the library or walking through the Habous. I feel close to Josie and her family there, not wanting to break the spell of her story as it unfolds on the pages of her journal. I’ve become a regular visitor to the shop beneath the arches where I bought the tin mobile and the music box for Grace’s room. I may only have spent a few dirhams, but the owner – Monsieur Habib – always greets me like one of his very best customers, with great courtesy and the usual exchange of formalities. We speak a mixture of English and French, peppered here and there with phrases in Darija.
‘Bonjour, Madame Harris.’