The Blue City
She didn’t know that this many shades of blue existed. Everything was a stunning, different blue and artistically tiled. Had she already walked this way? She wasn’t sure. It was all pretty similar looking but every part of it was so beautiful that she didn’t actually mind if she was lost. Still, she was aware that the last bus was leaving the city at 7pm, and she had to get back to the bus stop before then. She just couldn’t believe how majestic this place was. “The Blue City” was what the travel guide had called it. The actual name was Chefchaouen and there were mixed opinions on why it was blue, but she liked that there wasn’t an actual, factual reason that anybody could confirm. She liked the mystery behind it – maybe it was religious? Maybe it was to keep the locals cool in the heat? She wasn’t sure but she knew she could stay here forever. It was like being underwater, with the sun shining down, rippling off the mosaics all around her.
She had already taken thousands of pictures, capturing the colourful doors, the detail in the tiles, the floors, the rooftops, the shadows that the doorframes cast around the sunlight, the cats, so many cute cats, sitting, enjoying the heat, their eyes reflecting the blue world around them. It really was so hot, it must be over 30 degrees, her t-shirt stuck to her skin and her backpack was heavy. Looking around, she noticed that the streets were eerily quiet – most of the tourists who were on her bus had taken some snaps and then headed for a long lunch or a museum tour to avoid the afternoon heat. She preferred it this way, having the whole place to herself. Just her, the blue tiles and the cats.
She had been walking for a few hours now and the thought of a cool drink was a good idea. The “city” wasn’t that big but she had wandered away from the main square where all the cafes were located as she journeyed deeper into the maze-like town. It really was much quieter here.
Shielding her eyes from the glaring sun that had started to set below the minaret of a colourful mosque directly in her line of sight, her focus blurred for a second. Turning to her left, she spotted a small marketplace. The fading sun and emptier streets were a vast contrast to the daytime markets she was used to; the usual vibrant colours, rich smells and musical chatter she loved so much were a distant echo. She walked closer, noticing a small stall situated away from the other sellers that were dotted around. This one was selling fresh orange juice: blood oranges. It was exactly what she needed. She realised then just how thirsty she actually was – her two-litre bottle of water was almost empty and she had probably sweated it out by now anyway.
She tentatively approached and smiled at the man behind the stall. He stepped nearer so she could see his face. “Hello,” his soft voice greeted her. “You must be thirsty, I saw you pass here an hour ago, the sun is rather vicious today.” His smooth accent sent goosebumps across her skin. There was something about his smile that didn’t quite match the expression behind his dark eyes. It took her a second to react; why were her words getting caught in her throat? Nodding, she replied, “Yes, you have exactly what I need,” gesturing to the precariously piled fruit.
He laughed, picking up a few of the oranges and placing them in the juicer. They made eye contact as the juicer rumbled, flashing an even brighter orange. He grabbed a few mint leaves and threw them in quickly, making sure not a drop of juice was lost. After a few seconds, pouring the delicious-looking drink into a tall plastic cup, he delicately handed it to her. “Thanks, thank you, how much do I owe you?” she stammered out. He told her the price and she paid, adding a little more to the bill. She took a sip of the refreshing, sweet juice, and instantly felt better, shaking off the weird nervousness that had overcome her moments before.
He was watching her through his dark, almost-black eyes and she noticed once again there wasn’t anybody else around. She cleared her throat, placing her half-finished drink on the counter. The sun had almost completely set now and the atmosphere started to shift, to cool. She fiddled with her camera and took a peek at the seller again. His facial expression hadn’t changed: he really was beautiful. Clearing her throat and trying to control the chills running through her, she motioned to the camera that was hanging around her neck. Holding it towards him, she asked “Would you mind if I took a photo?”
He raised an eyebrow and looked at the almost-setting sun behind him. Long shadows stretched onto the ancient buildings and cobbled stone floor all around. He uttered “Sure, be my guest,” leaning forward again, the last of the sun almost reaching him. He smiled and this time the light touched his eyes, causing her heartbeat to quicken. She stayed poised and brought the camera up to her eyes, positioning her finger on the shutter button, peering through the lens – but what she saw made the hair on the back of neck stand. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, so loud. She peered over the top of the camera and he smiled a knowing smile. A wide, confident smile. She stepped back, brought the camera up again and pressed the shutter button quickly. She needed to be sure.
Looking down at the camera screen, she saw the stall, the pile of blood oranges, her half-finished drink resting on the counter, and the towering buildings in the background. She saw all of this and nothing more. The sun set completely, the sudden darkness choked her.
Hannah Glennie
@dreamer_ofwords
Illustration by Balthazar Mattar
