The Moroccan Spice House is no place to recuperate from a broken heart. And surely it is no place to fall so bones and heels in love it feels as though your soul is bruised. It’s a restaurant where the air is fragrant with incense and Middle Eastern spices such a cinnamon and ginger and cloves. Dim lights dangle in cast iron lanterns from a spotted ceiling. Heavy drapes cordon off rows of tables, providing diners with a small measure of privacy. The waiters wear fezzes and baggy pants and pointed shoes with the toes curled up. A centre aisle juts from the double swinging kitchen doors and cleaves the main dining room in half. It serves as a makeshift stage for the floor show, one for each seating, where belly dancers gyrate in veils and sequined bikinis to the scant applause of a semi-interested audience.
If I had never let Mike talk me into coming, I never would have met her. The host’s name was Ruben and he sat at our table flanked by two women, giving him the illusion of a pimp with his flock. One woman was Mila, a voluptuous Filipino whose eyes disappeared into the tops her plump cheeks when she smiled while introducing herself and shaking our hands. The other sat so close to Ruben I thought perhaps she was his wife or girlfriend.
She was not beautiful, not by any strength of imagination. But she was striking. Long lustrous hair, too blonde to be natural, rippled in curls down the front of her blouse. Her face was heavily made up to hide, quite unsuccessfully, the furrows around her eyes. Shiny scarlet lipstick seeped into the shallow wrinkles around her mouth as though she pursed her lips too often and for too long, leaving behind the tracts of her habit. Pink rouge dusted her high cheekbones; her eyes were the colour of spring violets and framed in false eyelashes thickened with layers of mascara. She wore costume jewellery; large knobby beads rattled at her wrists and throat like drunken bones when she stood and extended her hand. Semi-precious stones glittered from rings on fingers lined at the knuckles. But her handshake was firm and the skin was dry and warm.
“I’m glad you could make it.” Her voice was throaty and low, the voice of a seasoned smoker. “I’m Addison.”
“Dan,” I replied and she moved on to Mike.
“Nice to meet you, Addie,” he said. “I’m Mike.”
“Addison, if you please.”
We took our seats at the table and stared at one another, five strangers, who would most likely never see one another again, gathered to share a meal. Mike was always getting involved in things like this. Since his divorce two years ago, he’d been joining one social group after another that he found on the internet. Most were clubs based on some interest or hobby, such as cycling or tennis or hiking—or fine dining. He claimed to meet many interesting people that way, though few women. Those he saved for the matchmaking websites where he boasted about his business acumen and sexual prowess. It was, he claimed, a splendid way to get laid, and much cheaper than a brothel. The man is a pig.
I’m not so fortunate. When Anna left I spiralled into a well of despair and self pity that it would have made Sylvia Plath proud. It was only after weeks of goading and cajoling that Mike managed to pull my head out of the oven, dust me off, knot my tie and persuade me into joining him at the dinner club he’d recently joined.
“It’s full of lonely schmucks just like you,” he said as he slapped a generous dose of Paco Rabanne on his cheeks while I dressed. “You’ll fit right in.”
“I don’t know,” I whined and slipped my legs into my pants, scrambling for some excuse why I shouldn’t go. “I won’t know anybody there.”
“Neither will I,” he said. “No one will know anybody there. But what are these people going to do? Rape you?”
I should be so lucky. At least then I’d have an excuse never to go again. I put on my jacket and inspected my image in the mirror. I’d lost a lot of weight since Anna left. She’d been a stellar cook who collected cookbooks and whipped up gourmet concoctions on the weekends. I could use a good meal again.
“You look great, Danny-Boy!” I hated it when Mike called me that. He patted my shoulders and headed for the door. “Let’s go.”
It was dark by the time we arrived and a misty rain had begun to fall. The gutters were filled with grainy water that we dodged as we crossed the street from the parking lot to avoid getting splashed by the ceaseless traffic. Bit by bit, more people began to arrive, a faceless rabble that introduced themselves to the rest of the table and took their seats. Soon there were over a dozen people wedged among the purple drapes that surrounded our section, all making small talk but no one really connecting.
Addison wove her fingers together and leaned her elbows on the table, regarding me coolly with those captivating eyes. A Chivas and soda sat by her dinner plate untouched.
“So what do you do Dan?” she asked.
“Construction,” I replied and thought I sounded like the dumbest fool in the universe. “But my real job is a poet.”
“Poet, eh?” When Addison smiled I could see her two front teeth were crooked, one folded slightly atop the other, and stained yellow. “Is there much money in that?”
“No.”
I didn’t know what else to say. When I spoke with Addison it seemed as though my words garbled before they even left my throat and I came off sounding infantile and foolish. I glanced beside me at Mike for help, but he was already engaged in a lively discussion of the weather with a woman named Maureen. She’d been the last to arrive, shaking rain water from her umbrella and rumpled coat while wiping the fog from her glasses.
“I do a little writing myself,” Addison continued. “But I don’t think it’s exactly your cup of tea.”
Not my cup of tea? Hell, anything and everything Addison did would be my cup of tea. How could I tell her, after all these years locked in what I thought was a stable relationship, being out of the dating loop so long? I wanted to read everything she wrote, type love letters on an old fashioned manual typewriter, recite Shakespearian love sonnets while standing on the table. Instead, I said, “I’m quite well read. I don’t think anything you write would shock me.”
Our appetizers arrived before she could respond: steaming platters of fresh baked pita breads and bowls of warm hummus glazed with a layer of olive oil with bits of roasted red peppers scattered over the lot. Relieved that the food provided a reasonable distraction, I grabbed at the nearest piece and tore it in half. Addison laughed and helped herself.
She had a fiery strength in her hands as she tore the bread into chunks and dipped them in the hummus. The baubles at her bony wrist rattled down her hands. They were like the wings of wounded butterflies, streaked with blue bulging veins, the skin opaque and wrinkled and pale with willowy fingers tipped in scarlet polish. She bit into the dripping bread and sighed through her lips as her shadowed eyelids fell to half mast.
“Mmmm…this is delicious,” she cooed. “You must try some.”
She held out her piece to me, directly under my mouth. My own bread lay stupidly torn in my hands, forgotten. I opened my mouth and she slid it in, the same piece that had been her own mouth only seconds before. The flavour of garlic and olive oil flooded my senses but I barely noticed. I could only taste the jasmine of her hands.
“Good, isn’t it?”
I nodded, my mouth too full to respond.
“I hope I have some mints or gum in my purse,” she continued. “This garlic is really strong.”
It wouldn’t have mattered. She could gargle with sewer water and I still wouldn’t hesitate kissing that sensuous mouth. It would all taste like jasmine to me.
We finished the bread and Ruben ordered three more bottles of wine for the table. I’m not much of drinker and when it comes to wine I wouldn’t know the difference between a chardonnay and a merlot. But Addison knew her way around a bottle magnificently. The waiter carafed the wine and poured a dab into her glass. She raised it to her lips but didn’t drink it right away. Her breasts rose like awakening baby rabbits and pulled taut the buttons of her blouse as she inhaled deeply and savoured the scent of the wine. She ran the pink nub of her tongue tip across those glossy lips after taking a sip and nodding her approval to the waiter. A drop escaped and beaded on her lower lip.
“Let me get that for you,” I offered, appalled at my own audacity but by then it was too late. I dabbed my white linen napkin against her mouth where the wine seeped into the fibres like a drop of blood.
“Thank you, Dan,” she said and placed her wine glass down by her plate.
The waiter filled her glass and went around the table filling everyone’s glass in turn, pausing only to open the second and third bottles that Ruben sampled before nodding his approval. Mike, ever the extrovert, tapped his fork against his water glass to hush the table and lifted his wine glass over his head.
“A toast!” he said. “To good food and good fun and good friends!”
“Here! Here!” Everyone chanted and clinked their glasses together.
What a farce, I thought. There were no good friends around the table, save for me and Mike. These people were all strangers to one another. You could tell by the awkward and stilted attempts at conversation, at the exaggerated politeness. It was very unlikely these people would ever see each other outside the dinner club. And the prospect of never seeing Addison again made me panic.
“Cheers!” She smiled and tapped her wine glass against mine. It must have been made from high quality crystal; I could feel the vibration down to the marrow of my bones.
“To your health,” I said and sipped the wine. It tasted like cough syrup.
Our main course arrived, a tagine of lamb and stewed dried fruit, fragrant with spice, and warm fluffy couscous laced with almonds. The waiter mounded the food on our plates and offered another round of fresh baked pitas.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Addison asked, her fork poised over her plate. “It’s really very good.”
I shrugged and picked an apricot out of the stew. I don’t care much for fruit with my meat and I found the cinnamon flavour overpowering. But mostly, I was too distracted to eat.
The floor show began and the whole dining room erupted in applause. Three women in chatoyant belly dancing outfits scooted out of the kitchen and gyrated down the centre aisle, each taking her place among the groups of tables. Waiters with trays of food balanced on their shoulders expertly dodged the dancers on their way to and from the kitchen. Addison laughed and clapped her hands in time to the music piped in through speakers mounted in the ceiling. Our dancer wore a purple veil draped across her face so that only her eyes were visible, but her hair was long and dark and lustrous and bounced down her back and shoulders with each movement. Small cymbals were strapped to her fingers and she clanked them together in time to her swaying hips that she shook faster and faster until they became a blur. The chimy music reached a crescendo and all three dancers collapsed to their knees and tossed back their heads, their plump breasts bulging out of their sequined bras.
Mike whistled and hooted amid the applause. The music resumed, slower and more languid, and the dancers slowly rose and peeled off their veils. The girl looked as though she was barely in her twenties. I was overwhelmed with a sense of pity. Surely, this was no way for a girl her age to earn a living. She sashayed between the tables, eyeing everyone there and looking supremely bored. She found her target in Mike. He was ready, more than eager to participate. She swished her veil over her head and wrapped it round the back of Mike’s neck. It didn’t take much persuasion to get him out of his chair and onto the dance floor.
Mike did a valiant job of keeping up with the dancer’s gyrations. He shimmied and shook his hips in time to her movements. She kept the veil wrapped around his waist and the two of them gambolled across the dance floor, suggestively moving their bodies in time to the music. The people at our table taunted him and egged him on, fanning his fervour. I could never do something like that. I loathe being the centre of attention. It takes all my willpower just to stand up and deliver a speech at meetings. That’s probably why I never got anywhere with my poetry. I couldn’t bear to do a public reading.
“He’s quite good, isn’t he?” Addison laughed.
“Yeah, he’s the life of the party.” I tried not to sneer but it was getting difficult to hide my derision. He was making a fool out of himself, and in turn, out of me.
The music ended and the dancers and their victims took their bows. Mike was panting and sweating by then. He grabbed the dancer by the waist and planted a hard lingering kiss on her cheek. She swatted him with her veil and stomped back through the kitchen doors, nearly toppling a waiter who was passing through with a tray of desserts balanced on his shoulder.
“You looked ridiculous,” I said to Mike as he took his seat.
“Lighten up, a little,” he said. “It was fun. You could use a good dance with a pretty girl yourself.”
“I like to dance,” Addison piped in.
“Maybe you and Danny-boy here could go out dancing sometime.” Mike chuckled and patted my shoulder.
I was mortified. Good god! If she could only see me struggling with my two left feet on a dance floor she’d never want to have anything to do with me again. Ever.
“Mike…” I stammered, unsuccessfully hiding my chagrin. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“I think that would be a splendid idea!” Addison’s eyes lit up as she spoke.
“Good, then it’s settled,” Mike said.
“No it’s not!” I protested.
The manager was a stocky middle aged man with a dark complexion and a moustache so thick and shaggy it concealed his entire mouth. He leaned his head between me and Mike and placed a reassuring hand on Mike’s back.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said in a hushed voice. Mike looked at him as though he’d materialized out of thin air.
“Yes?”
“The lady tells me you took liberties with her when she invited you to dance.”
“Liberties?” Mike looked to me for support but I offered none. “Oh, you mean that! I just gave her an innocent little peck on the cheek to thank her.”
“I’m afraid we don’t allow our guests to touch the entertainers.” The manager’s voice turned low and serious. “Besides, she is my daughter.”
“I’m sorry.” Mike sounded flustered for the first time since I’ve known him. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”
“Nonetheless, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The manager straightened and stared down at Mike.
All conversation abruptly stopped and everyone—Ruben, Mila, Maureen and all those people we didn’t know, stared at us.
“The rest of your table can stay, of course,” the manager continued, “and enjoy some dessert and coffee.”
Mike looked back at everyone. Mila shifted uncomfortably in her chair and Maureen flicked her eyes to the bread platter as though she’d never seen pitas before. Everyone else just continued to stare.
“Fine,” Mike huffed and tossed his napkin onto to his plate. He dug into his pocket for his wallet and flipped through it for his share of the tab. “Coming, Dan?”
Relieved to finally be getting out of there, I nodded and dipped into my own wallet. Sixty-seven dollars for a few pitas and a lamb stew which I didn’t eat. Mike pressed the money into the manager’s hand.
“Here you are,” he said. “To cover our share of the bill and a few extra dollars for you as an apology.”
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” the manager said.
“Take it.” Mike insisted and pushed his arms into the sleeves of his coat.
“I’m going with you,” Addison said and snatched her purse from under the table. She dropped a few bills on the table beside her plate and grabbed her raincoat and umbrella.
I knew everyone at the table was staring at our backs as we left. Addison walked between us, her arms hooked through our elbows as though we were three soldiers marching into battle. She strode with a mighty dignity, her chin raised and her gait heavy and deliberate. I didn’t realize how tall she was when she sat at the table. She stood a half a head taller than me, at least as tall as Mike in her heels.
A cold drizzle pierced the fog. The traffic had subsided somewhat. Blurred headlights floated by in the street. Addison opened her umbrella and the three of us huddled under it, looking at one another and wondering what to do next.
“It’s been an interesting evening,” Addison laughed.
“Sure has,” Mike agreed. “Want to go somewhere for a drink with us?”
“No thank you,” she replied. “It’s getting late and I really must be getting on.”
I swallowed hard. This was my chance.
“How about we get together some other time?” I suggested and Mike flashed me a million watt smile of encouragement.
“I’d like that.” Addison held out her hand. “Give me your phone. I’ll put my number in it for you.”
She seemed pretty adept with cell phones. It had taken me days to figure the damn thing out. She used her thumb to punch in the number and save it.
“Call anytime,” she said and handed it back to me.
“It was really nice meeting you,” I said and tucked it back into my coat pocket.
“Ditto,” she laughed, “You two are a lot of fun. I’m really looking forward to getting together again.”
She leaned forward and planted a hard deliberate kiss directly on my lips. I was about to kiss her back when I felt the prick against my lower lip. Shocked, I pulled away.
“Bye, guys!” Addison turned and ran into the fog, her yellow umbrella bouncing over her head like a mushroom in bloom.
Mike laughed as he watched her go.
“Well, I never thought she’d be your type,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I still felt the sting in my lip.
“Didn’t you notice?”
“Notice what?”
Mike tapped the Adam’s apple bulging from his neck.