We lived in Morocco in the suburbs of Marrakesh.
We left a dinner party in the old part of town, crowded until you drove past thick doors of wood and metal and inside was another world. As is the Arab way of architecture so you never know what ’s going on behind the great walls.
Inside it’s all calm and uniformed servants and orange trees and gardenias and ornate everything and mosaic ceilings.
And the guests. Pairs of the strangest lovebirds. Including us, we didn’t really like each other but after nearly a year of marriage we were adjusting for the long haul, despite niggling reservations.
After dinner we thanked our hostess, Boule, as she insisted on being called which was odd since she was in fact exactly the shape of a very large bowling ball.
Boule stood on the steps of her manse and waved us all goodbye as cars pulled out of the driveway.
In every car I imagined the conversations. Everyone talking about each other, about the food, about their hostess, how she’s aged.
Their comments contradicted each others and overlapped in some places. I laughed alone in the dark of the back seat of the taxicab. Hubby never asked what had me giggling. I was outlining the play in my mind.
I envisaged a stage with cut outs of cars, each with a passenger or three. The stage is dark, only one ‘car’ is illuminated at a time, and then the actors in that car speak.
And maybe one car takes a slide toward the end, the denouement in Act 3? Who shall I kill? Boule?
I did start writing that play. It was to be a one-Act play but I lost that piece of work, along with plenty else.
It was supposed to be a simple observation on the steadfast human determination to have as few dealings with reality as possible.
Alone together we never spoke except to say ‘I love you’.
I killed my own character.