“This?”
“Pastilla. Like a meat pie. Except this one is fish filled.”
She screwed up her face, like a small, disgruntled child.
“Gemma, don’t judge by appearance. Put something in your mouth,” he berated. “You must be hungry. I want you to eat.”
“It’s just.... I know what I like, you know, pasta and rice dishes.”
“Shut your eyes. Go on, shut them,” he murmured, leaning towards her.
She did.
>
“Open your mouth. I’m going to feed you. You’re going to judge this food using your nose and tongue. Nothing else. Open!” he insisted.
With resignation, she parted her lips. She barely chewed the mouthful before swallowing quickly.
“No. Not like that, savour it.” He put the fork to her mouth again. “Well?”
The dish tasted fine. Flavours of ginger, honey, and citrus fruits. The fish, light and flaky. “Okay. I like that one.”
“It was tagine. Let’s try another.”
The meal progressed, and she tried each dish. She didn’t especially enjoy the pastilla but acknowledged the rest as quite nice.
“Mmmm nice. I provide you with new and exciting cuisine, and I get the ubiquitous nice,” he growled.
“All right. Delicious. There, happy?” She opened her eyes.
She thought his face showed delight, his white teeth visible, blue eyes sparkling, pleasing her greatly.
Food was a major feature of the bustling, crowded central market, along with fish and spices. Gemma strolled amongst stalls selling clothing, spices, and handicrafts, hunting for a souvenir that would give her the sense of being in Africa.
Jason prodded her arm. “Stay close. Remember to barter if you want to buy something.”
For a brief while, they walked hand in hand, but when she started to touch the goods, hold them to her nose, and rummage through baskets of trinkets, they separated. She wandered deeper into the market. The smell of food and fragrant spices called her to explore. Loud voices shouted in Spanish and Arabic. Cigarette smoke drifted by, and the dust kicked up about her heels.
Weaving in and out, she headed towards a display of colourful pots and pans. At long last, something artistic and ethnic. The crowd swarmed around, knocking against her arms, and the discord of noisy indiscriminate sounds grew. Her head throbbed, and she wanted out of the market with its narrow passageways and confusing layout. The stall she sought vanished, plucked out of sight. The alien market quickly lost its charm and appeal. Turning around to re-join Jason, she stared wildly.
Where is he? Lubinsky and Dufour?
The sensible, rational part of her mind told her to stay put and wait to be found.
But she was drowning in a sea of human bodies, suffocated by the crowd, fear of abandonment consuming her. The panicking element of her brain, the adrenaline-soaked nervousness, said run.
Anywhere.
There had to be space somewhere nearby, quiet and dust free. She elbowed her way through the morass of people. She weaved about women and children huddled together. A gesticulating man grabbed her arm, pointing at a stall until she wrenched free. Everywhere, old people with sticks to trip over and bags of goods knocking into her legs. She almost stumbled over at one point, her shoes not the best for walking briskly.
Heart pounding in her ears, she put her hands to her head and suppressed the need to scream.
Stay put! She froze like a statue. Somewhere, hunting her down, would be Jason. She sensed his presence, his control over her—his command.
***
Jason couldn’t believe how quickly the crowd had swallowed his wife. One minute there and the next gone. Not a tall woman, she was dressed inconspicuously in a long cream dress and a scarf about her neck and head. Tracking forward, Jason swivelled around.