Midnight in Marrakech – Part 1: The Lost Key

A riad, a lost key and a rooftop at midnight.

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The medina at night was not quiet. It hummed. Motorbikes whined through narrow lanes, a boy shouted prices over a cart of oranges, and somewhere a radio played an old Oum Kalthoum song that drifted over the walls like smoke.

Leila walked through it with her suitcase bumping behind her and a map she had stopped looking at twenty minutes ago.

The riad was hidden behind an unremarkable wooden door on a lane that smelled of mint and cedar. She had found it online after a lot of reading, and the photos had promised a courtyard with a fountain, orange trees and a rooftop terrace.

The photos had not mentioned that the key would be in a box with a combination lock, or that the combination would be wrong.

She tried it four times. Then she sat on her suitcase in the lane and laughed until her eyes watered.

It was after eleven. Her phone had one bar of signal and the owner's number went straight to a voicemail in French.

"You look like you need help," said a voice above her.

Leila looked up. A man was leaning over the wall of the neighbouring riad, a mug in one hand, a sketchbook tucked under his arm. He had untidy brown hair and the sort of sunburnt forearms that came from days spent outdoors.

"I need a key," she said. "And possibly a new life."

He grinned. "I can offer a cup of mint tea, a rooftop, and a view that's worth at least one of those."

"Are you a serial killer?"

"Very unlikely. I'm an architect from London. I've been here a week drawing the minarets and failing to get the arches right." He nodded at the wall. "I'm Sam. The Riad Zahra has a spare cushion and a very forgiving owner. Her son runs the locks."

"I'm Leila."

"Come up, Leila. The mint's good, and the locks will still be broken in the morning."

She hesitated. It was late, and she was alone, and she had been told a hundred times to be careful. But the lane was lit by lanterns, and the courtyard gate beyond Sam was open, and there was a warmth in his face that made her think of home.

"Show me the tea," she said.

The rooftop of the neighbouring riad was wide and flat, with low cushions in faded reds and golds and a wooden table covered in pencil sketches. Above them the sky was a deep, velvet blue, and the minaret of the Koutoubia Mosque rose lit against the stars.

Sam poured the tea from a silver pot, lifting it high so the stream arced into the glass, the way the men in the square did.

"Do you always show off like that?" Leila asked.

"Only when I have an audience." He handed her the glass. "Is it your first time in Marrakech?"

"First time anywhere on my own."

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, as if he understood more than she had said.

"Then let me show you the best view in the city," he said. "Before the tea goes cold."

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Next: Part 2, The Rooftop. The key turns up, the night stretches on, and Leila decides what she wants.