Page 230 of Never

Kiah did not really think the prices were cheap, but she had never bought clothes – just the fabric with which to make them – so she did not actually know.

‘And don’t rush,’ Abdul said. ‘We have plenty of time.’

Kiah found that not worrying about the cost was a strange feeling. It was pleasant but also a bit unnerving, because she was afraid to believe she really could have anything in the shop. Tentatively she tried on a checked skirt and a lilac blouse. She felt too self-conscious even to step out and show Abdul. She then tried blue jeans and a green T-shirt. The shop assistant offered her black-lace lingerie, saying: ‘He will like it.’ But Kiah could not bring herself to buy what looked like underwear for prostitutes, and she insisted on white cotton.

She was still embarrassed about what she had done in the car, that first night after their escape. They had slept in each other’s arms for warmth, but when daylight came she had kissed his sleeping face, and once she had started she could not stop. She had kissed his hands and his neck and his cheeks until he woke up, and then of course they had made love. She had seduced him. It was shameful. And yet she could not bring herself to regret it, because she was in love with him and she thought he was beginning to love her. All the same, she felt worried that she had behaved like a whore.

She had everything put into a bag and told Abdul she would show him when they got back to the hotel. He smiled and said he could hardly wait.

As they left the shop she wondered longingly whether she would ever really wear these clothes in France.

‘We have one more thing to do,’ Abdul said. ‘While you were trying on clothes, I asked if there was somewhere we could get photos taken. Apparently, in the next street there’s a travel agency with a photo machine.’

Kiah had never heard of a travel agency or a photo machine, but she said nothing. Abdul often referred to things she did not know about, and rather than pester him with questions all the time she waited for the meaning to become clear.

They walked around a couple of corners and entered a store that was decorated with pictures of aeroplanes and foreign landscapes. A businesslike young woman sat at a desk wearing a skirt and a blouse a bit like the ones Kiah had bought.

To one side was a little booth with a curtain. The woman gave Abdul some coins in exchange for banknotes, and he explained to Kiah how the machine worked. It was easy, but the result seemed like a miracle: within seconds a strip of paper came out of a slot, like a child poking out its tongue, and Kiah saw four colour photographs of her face. When Naji saw the photos he wanted the same, which was good because Abdul said they needed pictures of Naji too.

Like any two-year-old, Naji did not see the point of sitting still, so it took three tries before they got good photos.

The woman behind the desk said: ‘Tripoli International Airport is closed, but Mitiga Airport has flights to Tunis, where you can catch planes to lots of destinations.’

They thanked her and went out. In the street Kiah said: ‘Why do we need photographs?’

‘So that we can get you travel papers.’

Kiah had never had papers. Identifying herself at borders had never been part of her plan. Abdul seemed to think she could enter France legally. As far as she knew that was impossible. Otherwise why would anyone pay smugglers?

Abdul said: ‘Tell me your date of birth. And Naji’s.’

She told him and he frowned, memorizing both dates, she guessed.

But there was a worry. She said: ‘Why didn’t you have your photo taken?’

‘I already have papers.’

That was not really her question. ‘When Naji and I go to France…’

‘What?’

‘Where will you go?’

The tense look came back. ‘I don’t know.’

This time she pushed him. She felt she had to have an answer. She could not stand the anxiety. ‘Will you come with us?’

But his reply brought her no relief. ‘Inshallah,’ he said. ‘If God wills it.’

***

They had lunch in a café. They ordered beghrir, Moroccan semolina pancakes, drizzled with a sauce of honey and melted butter. Naji loved them.

All through the simple meal, Abdul had a strange feeling that was a bit like the warmth of the sun, something akin to a glass of good wine, and vaguely reminiscent of Mozart. He wondered if it was happiness.

While they were drinking coffee, Kiah said: ‘Are you American?’

She was very smart. ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked.