He stopped trying to drink the coffee and sat back. As far as he could tell, he was the only American. He stared into the mirror, taking in the occupied tables, the backs of people’s heads, but apart from the two elderly ex-pats, everyone looked Moroccan, or at least was speaking French or Darija. When he’d imagined Tangier, he’d pictured groups of people like him, talking in the cafés by day, watching life hustle past, drinking by night and smoking kif on the rooftop of some riad, making love and art fuelled by cheap living and the distance from home. He’d heard stories of how it had been for others, not so many years ago: how they’d slept peacefully on the streets of the casbah wrapped in berber blankets, cooking tagines on gas stoves and washing in the fountains, all for free.

Not any more. Picking up the glass, he downed the rest of the coffee with a grimace, and rose to leave. Twenty-eight dirhams. Perhaps Madame Sarah would let him pay for half a week, until he could figure something out. He was almost out of the door and bracing himself for the heat when he heard a voice, the words snatching at his attention:

‘Mais, look, c’est suffit, no? There!’

The speaker sounded British, with a terrible French accent. Looking back into the café, he saw one of the younger waiters standing over a man in the far corner, someone with a blur of reddish-blond hair. Sam couldn’t help himself. He stepped back into the café, trying to look casual.

‘… simply refuse to believe,’ the agitated voice continued, ‘that this is not enough money. I demand to see the manager!’

Rounding the central island of banquettes, Sam was able to see the person at last. Young and filmed with sweat, in a beige checked jacket and a tie. New arrival, the pale face and shiny leather shoes screamed. A moment later, the young man caught his eye.

‘Oh,’ he half rose out of his chair, ‘excuse me, do you speak English?’

Sam managed to keep most of a smile from his face. ‘Sure do,’ he said, glancing at the waiter. ‘What’s up?’

The two of them began speaking at once, the waiter pointing to the young man’s empty coffee cup in frustration and exclaiming in Darija, and the young man holding up his wallet.

‘It’s not on!’ he said loudly. ‘I refuse to believe that a cup of coffee is more than fifty dirhams, he’s trying to stiff me!’

Sam couldn’t help but stare. The young man’s wallet was stuffed with banknotes. And he was waving fifty dirhams around as if it were a handkerchief. No wonder the waiter was looking pained.