The Slow Train to Marrakech – Part 1: Delayed

The train from Fes to Marrakech stopped at four in the afternoon, in the middle of a field of olive trees, and did not start again.

"Normal," said an old man in the corridor, shrugging.

Hannah checked her phone. No signal. She was thirty, from Leeds, on a three-week solo trip that had so far gone exactly to plan, and she disliked the feeling of her plan sliding away.

"It is quite normal," said the man opposite her. He was thirty-three, lean and tanned, in a cream linen shirt, with an easy smile and a battered leather satchel on his knee. "The engine is old. It needs a rest."

"How long?"

"One hour. Maybe three." He opened the satchel and took out a thermos, two small glasses and a paper bag of oranges. "Tea? It is very sweet. I apologise in advance."

She hesitated, then laughed and held out her hand. "Hannah."

"Youssef."

The tea was hot, minty and almost syrupy. He peeled an orange in one long spiral and handed her half. The sun poured through the dusty window, gold on the seats. Out in the fields, a shepherd moved a flock of black goats across the horizon.

"I'm a bit annoyed at how happy I am," said Hannah.

"Why annoyed?"

"I had a schedule."

"The schedule was wrong," said Youssef gravely. "The train is right."

They played cards. He taught her a Moroccan game, and cheated outrageously, and she accused him of it, and he swore on his mother's tagine. By dusk she had lost four rounds and stopped caring.

"Can I ask you something?" said Youssef.

"Yes."

"Where do you sleep in Marrakech tonight?"

"A hostel. Somewhere near the square."

"The train will arrive after midnight. It is not safe to find a hostel in the dark." He hesitated. "My sister has a riad. A guest room. Would you stay?"

Hannah studied him: the open face, the careful eyes. "Green?" she said, trying out the word.

"I do not know it," said Youssef. "But I think yes. Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Riad.