Aerogram from Bermuda

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Gabriel has never been anywhere before. Except the pub. Pub good: lectures bad. Especially mechanical engineering lectures. Gabriel goes to the pub. Then later, after he fails his tripos and gets booted, he goes to Morocco through the power of his thumb and two ferries. Or so he thinks. But he is in Ceuta, which is Spain. Morocco is a no man's land away

Slumped drunk in the ferry terminal in Algericas, he was found by Vaarti and befriended. The friendly human was tall, blond, male: claimed to be Finnish. He limpetted onto Gabriel and now, they stand together, by a sign in a scrubby wasteland indicating they are about to leave Spain. It is November. They are the only humans in sight who resemble anything but Moors, though Gabriel feels like a blasted heath. A hundred metres later, Morocco resembles nothing so much as the scene in Lawrence of Arabia when Omar Sharrif's men emerge from the sands.

I have cousins in Australia - I am cousin in Canada - I Ireland cousin - Massed spivs engulf the travelers and press postcards into their faces - Jay coozeen en France - Tengo primo en Espana - Ho cugino - Ich have ein Bruder.

Gabriel shouts, "Jism arsen arsen nob, cloacae quim!" The hustlers convulse with glee and present an aerogram from Bermuda.

'I will do this," announces Vaarti."Olen kotoisin Suomen. Etsin serkkuni. Kuka voi auttaa minua?" Silence descends. In a kraal of green Mercedes, a circle of hustlers clears as they negotiate fares to Tetouan. They don't know where Tetouan is, merely that it is the nearest town. A shark surfaces, "Jeg beklager, vennen. Jeg snakker ikke finsk. Har du, av noen sjanse, snakker norsk? Voi eesti keeles?" Vaarti's face, at first just ghostly, turns to gypsum.

The fat taxi drivers devours a super-sized sandwich and drives with one hand. Pulling up in central Tetouan the driver whistles, summoning a host of cousins and brothers-in-law not currently resident in Tegucigalpa or Tallinn. Vaarti grabs his backpack, absconds up an alley and is never seen again. Gabriel pays the fare and wanders ambivalently away from the square. The wake of pushers and pimps dwindles till the last gives up outside a shop which claims, and appears, to be Tourist Information. A languorous man in a sackcloth jelaba suggests a hotel, recommends a restaurant, proposes a guide and urges vigilance, indicating manifold dangers.

That night, Gabriel's cowering is interrupted by a tap at his door: the languid man. Does Gabriel have needs? Does Gabriel want anything? Can anything be done for Gabriel? Gabriel is embarrassed and needless, he wishes the Moroccan would leave. The man oozes around Gabriel's room, touching things. Nothing he needs? Nothing? Gabriel steers the man into the corridor, but he bows every time Gabriel tries to close the door.

Alone later, after a turgid wank, Gabriel regards the ceiling. How will he ever score some kif and a beautiful boy is a dump like Tetouan?

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