Tri-fold Brochure

A muffled voice called from the edge of the storm.

“Ride’s over, kids!”

Amaal opened her eyes and looked around. No wind. No rain. But there, across her lap, with her hands gently laid on top, was her flute case. What’s that doing there, she wondered. Again, the voice called out, closer this time, “Ride’s over!”

Amaal became aware of the animals that hung leaping all around her and vaguely recalled boarding a carousel and sitting on the royal throne. Children slid down from their steeds, jumped gleefully off the platform, and ran away. The operator came by to check that his riders hadn’t left anything behind. He smiled as he spoke. Amaal saw his lips moving, but his voice was barely audible.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” she asked.

“I said you’re lucky you caught the last ride.”

Amaal echoed, “The last ride?”

“Haven’t you heard? They’re gonna take down this old carousel.”

Amaal was distracted by a memory of leaves blowing away in a storm and a big group of people all trying to get somewhere. She was struggling to bring their faces into focus, but they were receding into a sepia grey fog. The carousel operator was still talking.

“…build a new sports center right here on this spot. Hey, are you okay? You look a bit dazed.”

“I…I must have fallen asleep on the ride.”

The operator laughed. “I doubt that very much. You would have fallen right off your seat if you had. Daydreaming, maybe.”

The world was coming back to her now. She remembered that the carousel had meant something special to her. “What’ll they do with all these animals…and the royal throne?”

“That old thing? Probably go for firewood. You want it? I can give you a good price.”

Amaal sighed, “No, I guess not.”

“I always say,” he said, patting the zebra on the haunch, “riding on a carousel is like dancing with a friend.”

The last of the characters had vanished in the back of Amaal’s mind. “Lots of friends, seems like.”

He nodded as he stepped toward the central controls. “Anyway, it’s time to go.”

Amaal slung her flute across her back. It felt like an accessory that she didn’t really need anymore. She walked across the empty lot and started up the steps. The cool kids stopped to watch her pass. Amaal calmly straightened her spine.

“Hey, Amaal, did you enjoy the kiddie ride?” the one boy teased.

Amaal tilted her head and said gently, “Like a queen on a throne.”

The kids rolled their eyes and chortled. One of the kids hit the boy hard in the arm. “Still wanna marry her?”

The boy looked bewilderingly at Amaal as she continued up the steps. “Not sure she’ll have me.”

When she reached the promenade, Amaal stopped to look out at the beach and the sparkling sea beyond. She had the feeling of having left something undone. Or maybe it was something she hadn’t yet started. She couldn’t tell which. The carousel stood silent in the empty lot; its “closed” sign hung askew on a rope across the front. Amaal felt a sadness to think that the children of La Marsa would no longer know the joy of a ride on the carousel.

She turned away from the beach and crossed the main road, past the café, the ice cream shop, the travel agency. The carousel music was gone, and the air was strangely quiet. Two steps later, she stopped. The travel agency. She had passed it a hundred times, squeezed inconspicuously between the ice cream shop and the jewelry store. Never before had she noticed the tri-fold brochure in the window. She stared at the color photo on the front: a nude statue with ruby red eyes, gold choker, bangles and anklets, and an upturned crescent moon crown. The little bell above the door jingled as Amaal entered the small office. The agent behind the desk set her glass of tea down on a coaster and blotted her lips with a napkin. “Welcome” she said in a friendly voice. “May I help you?”

“The brochure in the window—the one with the goddess?”

The woman pointed to the display rack against the wall.

Amaal took a brochure and opened it. The first article was entitled, “The Legend of Queen Dido.” She skimmed the text: an exiled queen, a fleet of ships, a new city. Whether it awoke a sudden interest or a distant memory, she couldn’t tell, but somewhere inside her, a light came on. It all sounded so dramatic and fascinating and weirdly familiar. A photo inside the brochure showed the ruins of an ancient city with the turquoise sea in the background. “Where is this?’ Amaal asked.

“Why, it’s Carthage,” the agent said. “Surely you know of Carthage. It’s right up the road.” She pointed vaguely in that direction.

“Carthage?” Amaal replied faintly. Of course, she knew of Carthage. She had lived there, or close to it, her whole life, but it was as if she were hearing the word for the first time.

“Carthage,” the agent repeated. “It’s written right there on the front.”

Amaal read it again. “You mean Qart-hadasht?” she asked quietly.

The agent chuckled softly. “Well, yes, that’s the ancient name for it.”

“How did I know that?” Amaal murmured, slowly shaking her head.

“Maybe you learned it in school.”

“Maybe.” Amaal turned to the back of the brochure. There was a sketch of a ship with a broad, square sail and two rows of oars. The terrifying eyes painted on the front of the ship took her to the brink of a memory, but the agent interrupted.

“You know the old Saint Louis cathedral up on the hill? The one you can see from just about anywhere in town?”

“Yes, I live near that hill.”

“That’s the hill where Queen Dido built Carthage.”

 “But now it’s just ruins?”

“Oh, yes,” she said woefully, “the Romans came later and destroyed Carthage. Burned it to the ground and sowed the earth with salt so nothing could grow here. People say that’s why our couscous tastes so delicious…because the vegetables are already salted.”

They shared a quiet chuckle.

“Are you interested in history?” the agent asked.

“Yes, I guess I am.”

“Well, Carthage is a good place to start. They have a wonderful museum with loads of artifacts. I know the docent who works there; she’s always looking for student volunteers. Take the brochure. There’s a map on the back.”

Amaal thanked her. “Do you know if there are any books about Queen Dido?”

“Not many. Most historians are more interested in the end of Carthage and the wars with Rome. Few are interested in how Carthage started. Maybe you’ll write one.”

Amaal folded the brochure. “Maybe I will.”

“Come by again some time. If I’m not too busy, I’ll make tea. You know how history is—no matter how much you learn, there’s always more to the story.”

“Thanks,” Amaal said. “I’ll do that.”

She stepped out of the travel agency and stopped to study the map on the brochure. She knew every street by name, but as far as she could remember, she had never gone to the top of the hill. Already, the questions were bubbling up in her mind. She started to walk on, but first she stopped to take note of the office hours stenciled on the window: Open on Saturdays.

The End

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