A turist.

He had commissioned his assistant with the task of finding him a house in an exotic country where he could retreat for a year and have some "adventures". Ever since he was a kid, he had dreamed about escaping his dull life as the son of an overprotective and rich mother, who had never in her life left the comfort of her mansion in East Boston other than for the "bare minimums" that is; shopping and attending balls.

Finding the house was not an easy task, even though he was not as picky as his unbearable mother, he had grown accustomed to certain commodities and was used to splurge grandly every now and then.

Morocco was the chosen destination, it was friendly enough with foreigners while still giving the illusion of exoticness, and the very nature of the houses and their innate secretiveness provided a perfect environment to conceal him when he didn't want to be bothered or just wanted to be, let's put it this way, eccentric.

The house was located in the heart of the Medina, a difficult place to reach in the middle of a  maze of streets. A four story home built around a ten by ten patio, all decorated with Moroccan tiles in white and blue. The ground floor had a big lounge room perfect for an afternoon tea. Each floor had two mirroring rooms, each decorated in the traditional Moroccan style but with a different color scheme. It was perfect to receive his friends and party hard, friends who, giving one excuse or another, never showed up.

The roof-top-terrace had a grill and an amazing view of the Medina and the near-by mosque from up high, t was possible to hear the hypnotic prayers emanating from it five times a day.

Even though she tried, her mother could not stop him from going, so, instead she had handpicked four servants to have him watched 24/7. He was never to be left alone, never to walk by himself in that ocean of filth (as she kindly referred to the place).

The first few days he did not notice the big British guy with sunglasses walking at exactly fifteen meters away from him and following his every move. He was high on life, high on the thrill (he was finally away from home), he was intoxicated with spices and drunk of people. He had never felt this way before.

The sudden realisation of his fake freedom came after turning left in a small alley trying to find a short-cut to the main square; he felt comfortable enough to try this, but the nine thousand and six hundreds streets of the Medina said otherwise. He quickly found himself facing a dead end, and the big guy with the glasses was just standing behind him not knowing what to do.

That was it for him. He will need to figure out how to escape. He spent the following days walking around the house, being extra observant, every corner, door, window and staircase became part of a mental map he was creating; an escape map. The afternoons, while sipping tea on the terrace, were spent trying to come up with the actual plan. It took him a while to realise that the obvious way was the best way; he would sneak out the window to the roof terrace and from there he would jump through the roofs until he found a way down, it was a bit dangerous, but it was a risk he was willing to take. Surprisingly, it turned out to be much easier than he originally anticipated; in no time he found himself jumping though the roofs, however, looking for a way down was not going to be easy.

After a while, by struck of destiny, he found a ladder leading to a tiny square. Just off one of the Medina streets. Three moroccan guys were loudly chatting and smoking cigarettes.

- "My friend, are you lost?", said one of the guys.

Being naturally suspicious and filled with fears and the voice of his mother sounding in the back of his head, his stomach clenched and his fists closed as a natural reaction.

- "No, just escaping", he answered automatically and wondering why he had said such thing to a complete stranger.

- "Hey, aren't we all escaping from something", said the moroccan with a sympathetic face. "My name is Tamo"

- "I'm Mario", he answered him with an obviously fake name, afraid of revealing his true identity.

Tamo offered him a cigarette and a gulp of what seemed to be a very strong home made alcohol. They shared stories, Tamo told him how he had grown up in the streets of Fes, pickpocketing at first and becoming one of those annoying touts harassing tourists for coin.

- "They have full pockets and are willing to pay for the stupidest shit", said Tamo without the slightest hint of remorse (Why would he feel that?).

When the time to share his story came, and still afraid of these people, he made up a story of a boy growing up in an orphanage who finally escaped to Europe to marry a chick. Having some troubles with the law in Spain and jumping into the Ferry towards Morocco.

- "I really don't want to get into too much detail", he concluded.

The story was less than believable, after all, his clothes and the way he spoke and conducted himself told a different story. But Tamo thought that it was ok, everyone had their own reasons to be stranded in the streets after all.

Mario said goodbye and started walking away; he had no idea where to go or what to do.

- "Hey, listen", said Tamo. "We are going to the Mosque to get a hot plate of couscous, you interested?"

And interested he was, he hadn't had dinner yet and the alcohol had just opened his appetite

- "Why not?", said Mario considering it for a while.

- "Great, then come, let's finish this drink", Tamo said pointing at the plastic bottle containing the booze.

The food was simple a hot bowl of couscous and vegetables, a heavy hint of moroccan spices. A meal so simple yet so fulfilling. Two spoons in and his soul was warm and ready for an adventure, by the third spoon he came out of his introspective trance and started analyzing the people around him

The guy that gave him the food looked at him oddly, why was a well dressed foreigner getting the free food for the homeless? He knew that the people here were not stupid and immediately realized what he was, but he appreciated that no one was questioning him nor were they digging any deeper.

Tamo and the other people around shared a look in their faces, it was just like the plate of couscous, simple yet complex, a certain air of confidence surrounded them, a timid smile that showed their enjoyment of the simple things and deep melancholic eyes, easily mistaken with sadness, but it was more like acceptance and understanding of the shittiness of the world yet longing for better times that would never come.

They came out of the atrium of the mosque (is it called an atrium?) into the streets, a couple of German looking guys were smoking nearby. Tamo bumped into them seemingly by accident, only to proudly present a few meters alter a freshly pick pocketed pack of Lucky Strikes and a purple gas lighter.

- "Come", said Tamo grandly, "I have a place to show you."

They walked the streets swiftly, and every turn took them into a smaller street than before, until they reached a dead end. He was getting nervous and immediately pictured himself lying on the ground, stabbed between the third and fourth rib on the right side, warm blood dripping down his side and quickly getting cold, the moon peeking in between the buildings as the sole witness of this crime. Left to bleed to death. Tamo was already a couple of meters above him, his back against the wall and pushing the other wall with hands and feet, slowly climbing. There was no need to explain, he shook his head to get rid of his thoughts and followed Tamo up the wall. They quickly reached the roof and jumped to the next one, there, Tamo approached a cistern, opened it and fetched a ziploc bag with a plastic bottle inside, a crystal clear liquid filled the bottle, probably the same home made wine they had before. They leaned down on the roof and spend the rest of the night smoking cigarettes and getting drunk.

The morning sun burning his face woke him up, no signs of Tamo. Flashbacks of laughter and booze invaded his mind, suddenly the smell of freshly baked bread brought his mind back to focus, he was indeed hungry. He considered acquiring some of that bread, but decided to go back home instead. There would probably be a generous breakfast waiting for him. It wasn't complicated to come back, he knew the streets by now. And in no time he had sneaked back into the house without anyone noticing. Orange juice, olives, goat cheese and bread served on the table. No one around to share it with. Perfect.

It was probably enough adventures for a life time, but inside him something kept telling him he needed more, and so, for the next sixteen nights, he sneaked out and met up with Tamo to explore the city, smoke, drink and learn how to pick pocket.

It had been nearly three weeks since he had 'spoken' with his mother, more like blindly nodding at her image in Skype while she blabbered some racist comment about the gardener, he felt good about his new found strangeness with his mother.

The bodyguard was nowhere to be found, he was either starting to trust him more or had gotten better at stealthily navigating the city behind his boss (was he the boss or was it his mother? Most likely the latter).

When he arrived to the fountain, Tamo looked a little bit off, a little bit more uneasy than his usual self (Tamo was always restless and a bit nervous), living in the streets can make you weird, some days more than others. He decided not to comment (who was he to judge?).

-"Where to?", said he while approaching Tamo.

Without saying a word Tamo started walking into the Medina lighting up a cigarette. They walked the streets swiftly, and every turn took them into a smaller street than before, until they reached a dead end.

- "I'm so sorry Mario", said Tamo

Tamo took a small blade from his pocket and stabbed him between the third and fourth rib on his right side, warm blood dripping down his side, quickly getting colder, the moon peeking down in between the buildings as the sole witness of this crime. Tamo caught him before he collapsed and slowly put him down on the ground. Tamo avoided eye contact, dropped the blade and started running out the alley stumbling upon the body guard, who, in shock left Tamo run so he could reach his master's body.

He wasn't sure of what had just happened, the last thing he saw was the dumb face of his bodyguard as he lifted his motionless body and transported him to the hospital.

Twenty thousand dollars could have set Tamo for life, or so he thought while counting the money sitting on his favorite roof top. It will take him fifty seven days to spend the money and come back to the streets. But for now, this money given to him by a crazy rich woman from Boston, meant salvation.

He recovered quite fast from the stab wound. It was as if Tamo had aimed for a spot where nothing internal would be damaged. His mother died soon after his return, feeling betrayed by the world he will find comfort in his mother's legacy. He will keep that house in Morocco as his last piece of freedom, telling himself that he would be back and be adventurous again. He will never explore the world again.