The Blue Hour by Douglas Kennedy Read Free Book Online

his knees the cop responded with a direct blow to the head. The other tough began to cry out, but was slapped across the mouth with an open hand by the officer holding him. The bus picked up speed, shrouding this brutal tableau in a cloud of dust. Behind me the young headphones dude began to sing his toneless song again. I buried my head in Paul’s shoulder, feeling profound guilt. As if my presence here had caused it all. Sensing my distress, Paul tightened his arm around me.
    â€œIt’s all in the past now,” he said.
    And the bus sped off into the future.

FIVE

    IF THE CAT could talk, she would have said: How did this happen? She looked dusty, grubby, world-weary; a cat who lived on the streets and had no human home to which to retreat. And tonight she was hanging off a wall. The way her claws were digging into the chalky texture of the brickwork made it appear as though she had been glued into place, her back in perfect parallel with the wall. There was something spectral and unsettling about the way she seemed to be frozen. I was reminded of images I’d once seen of wildlife that had been caught in volcanic lava flow and had fossilized into place; their final steps as sentient creatures frozen in time. I must have spent a good minute looking at the cat and the place in which she now found herself. How was she able to sustain this absurd, improbable physical position? And what fear or apprehension had forced her to take refuge on a crumbling bit of whitewashed stone down a dark alleyway within the labyrinthine confines of a walled city?
    How did this happen?
    And what was I doing down this black passageway in the middle of the night?
    To jump back around twelve hours . . .
    The bus deposited us at its terminus—the depot at Essaouira—just before two p.m. As we staggered off that motorized steambath, the headphones dude—still singing that wonderful ludicrous tune (was that the only song on his iPod?)—gave us an amused wave goodbye. The bus driver, smoking what was evidently a much-needed cigarette, also nodded farewell as we grabbed our luggage and fended off several touts who were trying to convince us to take up their offer of cheap accommodation.
    â€œYou want room . . . very clean . . . good price.”
    â€œ Nous avons déjà une chambre, ” Paul replied, steering me toward a line of beat-up taxis nearby.
    â€œBut I have better room . . . you come with me I show you everything in Essaouira.”
    Paul waved him away while I sidestepped several women holding up woven shirts and multicolored shawls and cheap beaded necklaces. The afternoon sun was still punishing. This concrete plaza was thick with gas fumes and dust. I grabbed my scrunched-up field hat out of my shoulder bag, then pulled it down so squarely over my head that it shielded my eyes. The crowd of hawkers followed us as we moved toward the taxis. They were relentless in their need to hound us. They wouldn’t take no for an answer.
    â€œJust keep walking,” Paul told me. “They are a nuisance, but harmless.”
    The first cab we approached—a blue-colored Peugeot that appeared to have been in a demolition derby—was driven by a man who looked like he’d last slept in 2010. He had a cell phone to his ear, and was shouting into it. Paul approached him and gave him the name of our hotel.
    â€œTwo hundred dirhams,” he said in English, even though Paul addressed him in French.
    â€œBut the hotel is maybe ten minutes’ walk from here,” Paul said.
    The cabbie put down the phone for a moment.
    â€œThat’s the price. You don’t like it, walk.”
    â€œ Charmant, ” Paul said.
    The cabbie just shrugged. Paul, shaking his head, led us to the car behind this unpleasant fellow. When the first cabbie saw us approaching the next driver, he was immediately out of his taxi, shouting. The new cabbie—a rather stubby man