Riad Mimosa

By James Orr

Steve travels out to Morocco for a holiday, starting in Tangier, and then travelling down to Marrakesh. There he meets Salim, a meeting that changes his life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781291047882

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Riad Mimosa

Riad Mimosa

James Orr

Copyright 2012 by James Orr

LEGAL NOTICE

Riad Mimosa

James Orr

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happenings.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publishers and/or author.

While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibilities for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of information contained herein.

All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

Book design by Sabaijai Design

Chapter 1

We all believe, to some degree, in fate, coincidence, destiny, fate, kismet, in one moment, lives can collide and change forever. Fate is something that unavoidably befalls a person; their fortune; their lot. The universal principle or ultimate agency by which the order of things is presumably prescribed; the decreed cause of events; time. It is something which is inevitably predetermined; our destiny. A prophetic declaration of what must be. Yet chance encounters aren't necessarily accidental; in fact, you can make your own luck by opening yourself to the world.

Steve could offer up stirring examples of paths crossed and possibilities realized.... to some degree, most of the time. Mostly minor things, like crossing the road at the right time to catch the bus coming round the corner, the chance meeting that seemed like a fluke, but as Steve explained to Jim, scientific research backed up the notion that you can influence your own destiny. The first step is to smile. The simple act of smiling could lead to such changes.

Do you believe in fate? Steve asked.

That's one hell of a question! Jim replied.

Sometimes I believe that things are meant to happen for a reason, and can't really be changed, however, much you try. This I would call fate.

He hadn’t lost that habit of ostentatiously holding back a yawn each time he spoke.

Steve reached over the table and took a plate then rested it on his knees. Jim opened the bag containing the bakery items and let them fall onto the large plate. Steve had gone to the gourmet food store on his way to the flat. They had a wonderful delicatessen counter that always tempted him to trying something new. Besides the guy serving him was cute.

But, sometimes I also believe, again, that things happen for a reason that they can be changed, and that it is through human flaw we don't see them, yet still we blame ourselves.

The first option is easier on yourself, Steve said.

I don't really know to be honest though, Jim replied. I think it is nice to believe that we are in control though, and fate is there merely for the things we can't. So maybe it is a case of looking at individual situations and deciding whether it was fate? I am not sure! I hope you aren't looking for any definite answers.

I believe in fate and signs and think everything happens for a reason. I believe you can't change fate, because what is meant to be will always find a way, Steve added, smiling. Some people look specifically for things that they can list as fate, for instance, being in the ‘right place at the right time’, based on a random thought in their head about the fact that they have maybe met someone that they've got on with well, doing something they don't usually do. ‘If I hadn't have gone, I would never have met him, it's fate, it has to be.

More coffee? Jim asks as he lifts up the steaming pot.

Please, Steve said as he stretched over his cup towards Jim.

Thank you.

Jim laughed out loud after setting the coffeepot back on the table, That’s because you are a Buddhist.

I am, and proud of it, Steve said.

Don’t you call it Karma or something? Jim asked.

Steve looked confused but recovered quickly.

"No, Karma is a Sanskrit word, to do or to make, and simply means ‘action’. It operates in the universe as the continuous chain reaction of cause and effect. It is not only confined to causation in the physical sense but also has moral implications. A good cause, gives a good effect; a bad cause, a bad effect. In this sense karma is a moral law.

Human beings are constantly giving off physical and spiritual forces in all directions. In physics we learn that no energy is ever lost; only that it changes form. This is the common law of conservation of energy. Similarly, spiritual and mental action is never lost. It is transformed. Thus Karma is the law of the conservation of moral energy.

Man is therefore the sender and receiver of all these influences. The entire circumstances surrounding him are his karma.

With each action-influence he sends out and at the same time, receives, he is changing. This changing personality and the world he lives in constitute the totality of his karma."

Jim shrugged, Too deep for me Steve, you’ve lost me I’m afraid.

Philistine…..

Steve picked up one of the warm croissants and took a bite. Crumbs scattered and tumbled down onto the carpet missing the plate perched on his knees entirely.

Ooops, Steve called out.

Don’t worry the cleaner is due today, Jim said. So when are you going back to Morocco?

Next week . . . on Friday.

Are you sure it’s what you want, really sure?

One hundred percent.

Jim shrugged; he looked across the table and spoke in a soft voice, Do you love him?

I believe I do, Steve answered looking slightly embarrassed.

Another shrug. Obviously, he was.

He saw Jim’s hair fall over his eyes – the bouncy thickness of it, the soft sheen that made him want to press it with his palm.

Does he love you? Jim asked quickly.

He says he does.

Only you would know, Jim smiled, Well, if it doesn’t work out you just come home.

I know it’s my destiny.

Jim disappeared to the bathroom.

The living room must have been as modern as the rest of the building, but Steve couldn’t see beyond the furniture, which was dark and tangled, ornate ponderously antique. Also there was far too much if it set far too close together, as if it had once filled several larger rooms.

Steve got up and walked over to the window. They had curtains like fine white gauze, draped at the sides with red tiebacks. He stared out into the dark void of the morning, at the lights of the car park across the road and the distant lights of the city of Brighton, and heard the moan of the chilling wind from the sea. He felt the wintry draught that came through the ill-fitting casement window. The heavy brown drapes moved gently.

Dawn was creeping up slowly, casting eerie shadows on the dampened tarmac. People huddled together at the bus stop on their way to work. Parked cars began to move from their resting places. He watched as the postman walked up the street carrying his over-laden sack. The man had a handsome face, and dimples; he wore his hair in a ponytail. He disappeared now and again, stopping in front of doors, occasionally out of view, as he delivered pizza vouchers, unwanted brown envelopes, and the silly promises of cheaper insurance.

In his mind he convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. He was leaving the cold damp climate of his England in winter, to spend his life, in the warmth of the North African sun, in Morocco, in Marrakesh.

Jim walked into the room.

Is the apartment all sorted out then, the guy ready to move in, he asked.

Steve had decided to rent out his apartment, thereby keeping his connections with the city, just in case things didn’t go to plan.

Yes, the agency has been very good, they’ve organised everything and they’ve been very helpful. Tim, the tenant, will move in the day after I leave, Steve replied.

Here, I have something for you, said Jim as he thrust a bag over to Steve.

What is it?

Open it up, you can take it with you, when you go back.

Steve stuck his hand into the bag and withdrew a teddy bear.

He’s lovely, Steve said.

How do you know it’s a he? asked Jim.

Oh, I know, believe me I know, laughed Steve.

That’s very kind of you, thank you.

In other circumstances, he might have been amused, but now he felt touched. He glanced at Jim.

He was staring out of the window.

Finally Steve stood up and hugged him. Steve was going to miss his dear friend. Although Jim had promised to visit, after all it was only three hours away, it wouldn’t be the same. Jim had been a good friend especially when Bobby died. He was supportive and helpful, practically organising everything. Jim sniffed loudly in Steve’s ear.

When Steve sat down again on the lumpy sofa, the cat wove around his ankles, purring.

See, even Oscar is going to miss you, he knows you are leaving, said Jim.

Steve waited, as if hoping for more, but he said nothing else.

Chapter 2

Good night Sheila, Steve called out to the secretary as she was closing the main door.

Good night Mr Steve.

He heard her footsteps clunk down the wooden stairs. He looked out of his office window into the street below, at the ever changing view of life outside, watching Sheila cross the road to the bus stop. It was starting to rain.

There was a moment of silence.

The room had an atmosphere that he always found energizing. The soft glow from the table lamps were in stark contrast to the sharp halogen spotlight on his desk.

Located in the heart of Brighton, it looked like many of the grand Victorian buildings that had been converted into offices. It had grey walls, functional grey carpeting and bright blue leather chairs, a modern workstation, filing cabinets and a selection of paintings by local artists. The huge casement windows had the blinds pulled two thirds of the way down.

It was the last day of October. He checked his watch: 7.10. Time to go. Time to quit his hopeless attempt at clearing his desk and head for home.

It was the same every Friday, he reflected. He always promised himself that he would tidy up, deal with all his paperwork and start the next week with a clean slate. And he always failed. He would be coming back in the following week to yet another hopeless mess. Even bigger than the week’s before. Which had been bigger than the one the week before that.

All the cases he had worked on during the week were stacked on the floor. Next to them were small, precarious tower blocks of brown cardboard boxes and blue plastic crates crammed with unresolved divorce cases.

Although his work was predominately concerned with divorces and other marital problems, Steve cared about his cases very much, to the point that he felt a personal connection with each client. But he had been unable to dedicate much time to these files, because it had been a strangely busy year.

Perhaps it would be better. Certainly it was filled with promise. A new partner was starting on Monday. Also starting on Monday, which would greatly relieve his workload, was an articled clerk.

However, that was next week. Tomorrow he was off to Morocco. He had promised himself a holiday a long time ago. So he researched the internet and finally came to a decision to visit the North African country.

The new clerk, the new partner and all his files would still be here when he got back.

As he dipped the last of the digestive biscuits into his cup of coffee he started to wonder what it would be like. Suddenly he came to his senses when he realised he had let the biscuit soak too long in the hot liquid. It had fallen inside. He reached across for the teaspoon and started to scoop it out.

He scooped several piles of documents around on his desk, narrowly missing the potted geranium. By packing one pile on top of the other, it made the surface look organised, even if the assignments persisted in being the same amount of work.

Strange how life had changed, he thought to himself. He used to hate going on holiday alone. When Bobby and he got together, they always went everywhere together. But, after the car accident and Bobby died, he was left alone again. That was two years ago.

For the next few months he grieved. He would stay up all night crying and playing CDs and writing love sonnets. He cried when someone got mad at him for dropping the basketball. In the past he would have his pain but he just slowly walked off the court, tears spurting out of his face, and never returned. He took a shower, still crying, and dressed forlornly and walked the empty hall. He no longer cared about rules. He let his hair grow. That was two years ago.

He couldn’t wait to get home. He was keen to add the finishing touches to his packing.

Just one thing stopped him.

All those annoying brown boxes and blue crates on the floor. He needed to have everything in order for Monday. This meant that he had numerous hours of work still ahead of him.

The old radiator that ran the full width of the window hissed and gurgled.

For a time, this past year, he had managed to delegate all the simple cases to a colleague. But that hadn’t worked out and now he had inherited them all back. Where did he begin?

He began at the beginning. Just ten minutes, he thought and then he would quit and head home. His phone pinged with an incoming text. It was from Alex, the senior partner, asking if he was joining them for a drink in the pub next door.

He sent a text back, declining the offer.

Opening the first file, he grabbed a piece of paper and started to make notes. Hopefully the new clerk could read his handwriting.

He closed the file, leaving one finger inside as a bookmark. He stared down at the front cover. Mr Jones vs Mrs Jones, married for thirty eight years, no children, fighting over assets that came to thirty four thousand. Why bother?

The second file proved to be more difficult. Mrs Dunbar was asking for too much. He scribbled more notes and clipped them inside. Steve turned the pages of the thick file, glancing through the correspondence. She should be grateful for two million, it was a good offer.

His phone vibrated again. It was a message from Jim, wishing Steve a good holiday.

By the time he came to the last file, an hour had passed. He yawned as he threw down his pen, which simply rolled off the desk.

As he stood at the doorway he looked back into the room.

Bye desk.

There was no point sending one last look backward. He knew every detail of that room by heart – every nail hole, every seam in the wallpaper, and the way the paw-footed radiator, in the furry half-light from the street light, resembled some skeletal animal crouching on the floor.

He turned off the light, closed the door and locked it.

At the bottom of the stairs, he set down his bag, containing sun lotions and a swim suit, his briefcase and then put his coat on. Still buttoning his coat he walked out into the wet street, smelling the salty sea air, jingling his car keys as he strode towards his car

Chapter 3

He got up early, a grey morning, drizzle, he’s done most of the packing last night. He only had to pack his shaving materials.

He had an uneventful journey to the airport. He saw someone he knew at the check-in desk for Malaga.

The easyJet flight touched down in Gibraltar on time. He was treated to a magnificent first view of the Rock from the top of the aircraft steps.

Friends and relatives could be seen waving goodbye from the first floor café which had an open air roof terrace overlooking most of the parked planes. There was a very special family atmosphere here rarely seen in this day and age as passengers were welcomed home. The airport was located about two kilometres from the town centre adjacent to the frontier with Spain. Steve squeezed into one of the many taxis and gave his destination to the driver.

The strategic location of Gibraltar explained why, for centuries, the Rock had been used as a naval fortress and why so many battles have been fought over this tiny peninsula at