It was endless, thirsty work, but it held the possibility of money, and anyway, I did not know what else to do. As the sun began to dazzle overhead, my voice grew hoarse and cracked from pleading. The cars grew less frequent, for no one, not even the British, were fools enough to venture out on the roads at noon. Eventually, the other beggars began to wander off, to pass the rest of the day asleep in the shade. I would have done the same, had I known where to go. Walking away would mean abandoning myself to the streets of La Atunara once again, where someone might recognize my stolen clothes.

One more car, I told myself, as the sweat trickled from beneath my cap, one more.

I was the only beggar left, apart from a pair of boys who were more interested in taunting the soldiers. Every time I blinked the stinging brightness of the road from my eyes, it became harder to open them. When I fought my eyelids up for what must have been the tenth time, I thought that I must have been dreaming.

An automobile was roaring towards me, flashing silver in the sun, like nothing I had ever seen. Through the dust and the dazzle of the windscreen I saw a face; white teeth shining, a slick of dark hair, a bright eye, peering over smoked lenses. It was the face of an altar saint, surrounded by brilliant gold.

To this day, I can’t say what made me do it. Was it the glamour of that car, the heat and my hunger? Was it desperation? Or was it the pull of the future, a bolt of electricity lighting up all that was to come?

I don’t know. All I know is that when the beautiful, shining car came within ten feet of me, I met the eyes of the driver, and stepped into its path.

Part Two

Tangier

July 1978

Sam wrote for hours, by the light of the cheap little bedside lamp. Around him, he heard the house settle; stairs creaking, bedroom doors closing, lights being switched off. Outside the open window, night began to bloom. It seeped through the plaster walls, fluttered in the form of the tiny moths that found him, wedged in the corner of the room, the pen scratching at sheets of paper, the edge of his hand ink-stained a deep, ocean blue.

Eventually, he squeezed his burning eyes closed, easing out a crick in his neck. He had no idea what time it was. Not morning, but not far off either. Outside, the streets seemed utterly still, as if the hustlers and grifters had finally given up, and night had rolled down the hill to the beach, to disappear into the cool, grey sand.