The Port of Dreams
Chapter 16
The convoy slowed as they entered the outskirts of Tunis. The air here was different, saltier, carrying the faint, oily odor of the busy harbor mixed with the dust of the desert. The trucks rolled through narrow streets where the shadows of the buildings disappeared into dark alleys, running through the gutters like spilled ink.
At 23:00, the lead vehicle signaled a halt. The engine of the personnel carrier cut out, leaving a sudden, ringing in the ears that was worse than the noise. The rear gate squealed as it was lowered, and Gertie and Brigid stepped down onto the cobblestones. Their legs felt stiff, unused to standing still after hours of riding.
Brigid turned, her silhouette sharp against the dim glow of a gas lamp. "This is where I arrive, and you continue your journey," she said, her voice low.
Gertie nodded, the fatigue settling deep in her bones. She had expected more instructions, perhaps a briefing on the next phase, but Brigid simply handed her a canvas shoulder bag. It was worn, the fabric frayed at the edges, but sturdy.
"Here," Brigid said, pressing it into Gertie's hands. "Some personal items. Things you'll find useful."
Gertie felt the weightiness of it. It wasn't heavy, but it felt important, like a delivery. "What's inside?"
"Currency. A Baedeker. A compass. And a few other things," Brigid replied, her tone evasive but not unkind. "Arrangements have been made for your passage to Egypt. A freighter leaves in the morning. Go to the harbor at dawn. Look for the manifest; your name will be on it. You'll join the passengers on the civilian deck."
She paused, looking at Gertie with a strange intensity. The ambiguity that had characterized their entire alliance seemed to crystallize in that moment. Brigid was letting go, returning to Gertie the reins of her own fate, once more.
Then, a rare smile appeared on Brigid's lips. It was quick, fleeting, but genuine. "Good luck, Field Marshallerin," she said, the German feminine suffix landing with soft, ironic aplomb.
Gertie blinked. The title, the feminine ending—it was a tease, a nod to the absurdity of her self-appointed rank, and a hint of the adventures that lay ahead. A diversion, indeed. "Vielen Dank, Commander Brigid," Gertie replied.
Brigid turned and walked away, her figure disappearing down the dark street, soon to be forgotten. Gertie shuddered, the silence of the street closing around her.
She turned to the hotel, a modest establishment with a flickering sign above the door. The clerk behind the desk was sleepy, barely looking up as she checked in.
The room was small, sparse, with a single bed, a chair, and a window that looked out onto the darkened street. The air smelled of dry wood and damp plaster.
Gertie dropped the canvas bag on the floor and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress was hard, the sheets rough, but she didn't care. The exhaustion of the long road journey, the weight of the bag, and the lingering echo of Brigid's words about “The Plague” crashed down on her. Her eyes felt heavy, her limbs leaden.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, musing on the moonlight which shone through the window. The sounds of the city faded, replaced by a low, rhythmic droning that seemed to come from everywhere.
Gertie's consciousness drifted, slipping through the cracks of reality. She was no longer in the hotel room. She was somewhere else, somewhere distant and strange. The bed beneath her became the deck of a ship, rocking gently in a sea of words and gestures.
Then she was asleep. And in the silence of her dream, the North African night watched, indifferent to the cares of a woman who was no longer playing a part in a narrative, but in reality.