Murder in the Medina

She wished she spoke Arabic. It would make navigating the web of alleyways in the old medina a lot easier. As it was, she listened for the laughter of children or women talking to customers in the shops to determine which way to turn. While she didn’t feel unsafe, she didn’t want to end up being stared down by a café full of men whose peace had been invaded by a strange Amazonian woman.

The lengthening shadows and subdued light told her that it would soon be dark in the narrow alleys of the medina, but the shadows also made for stunning pictures of doorways and silhouettes, fezzes and veils, and proud stances and bashful smiles.

Finley wasn’t sure what she had captured. She just kept shooting, trying to remember the sounds that went with each image. The hush of voices, the clanging of pots, the rhythm of the music, the cries of babies that echoed off the walls of the old city.

She had collected a cadre of small boys who had agreed to help her make her way to one of the gates nearest the sea for a few coins. Or at least that’s what I think I agreed to. As they made their way, she kept taking pictures, sometimes of the boys, to help keep them with her, sometimes of other things or people who were nearby.

After a while, she caught a glimpse of the sea. She paid the boys and started her trek toward the hotel. It was so much brighter outside the medina. The sea breeze felt good. The saltiness of the water was sharper than it had been in Tangier, but it was a clean smell that invigorated her.