Sam stood completely still, letting the fusty air of the storeroom surround him. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to be alone, but now that he was, he could feel anticipation prickling beneath his skin, like the surface of water just before it boils.

He took one step forward, then another. The smell of salt-damp and rust grew stronger. His eyes traced the forms of shelves crammed with objects; frayed electric cords, glass seltzer dispensers clouded by time, miscellaneous fabrics long-folded, stiffened into parchment. There was something thrilling about all those things, left to decay. He felt like an archaeologist, unravelling the secrets of lost decades, of countless lives, one ordinary object at a time. Was it a lie, to say he was writing a book about Tangier, about the past? For all he knew he was: that’s what the letter had been. An arrow, shot back through the centuries.

The space grew cramped, shelves closing in. He had to turn sideways to squeeze between them. One was stacked high with squarish objects. The light from the bulb barely stroked the darkness here, and Sam wished Mohamed would hurry back with the torch, while simultaneously hoping he would not. Against one wall, a broken mirror was propped, shards of glass clinging to a frame. Carefully, he worked one of them loose and crouched down. Sure enough, when he angled it this way and that, a few inches of light flashed across the shelves, illuminating leather, rusted metal, paper.

Luggage. He was looking at a huge shelf full of luggage; suitcases and valises, trunks and hatboxes. He stared, opening his eyes wide, trying to see more in the gloom. What if A. L. had left his belongings, all those years ago, through absentmindedness or misadventure?

He began to move the beam of light back and forth across the shelves. He tried to be methodical, but there were so many cases, stacked floor to ceiling, and he didn’t even know what he was looking for.

Gold flashed in the darkness and he stopped. Hardly daring to breathe, he inched the beam of light back across a shelf until it caught on something. There, on the front of a leather suitcase, two gold initials were glinting, half obscured by grime:

A. L.

Continental Sour

Take a bar glass and fill with shaved ice. Into this add a teaspoon of sugar dissolved in water and the juice of half a lemon. Add a jigger of whisky, shake and strain into a sour glass. Dash with claret. A marriage of two worlds.

When I awoke on that beach, I became aware of three things, above all others. First was the smell: baked seaweed and tarred rope and sun-scorched wood. Second was the feel of sand, in my hair, clinging to the sweat on my skin. And third was hunger, like I had never felt before.