"The Vicar was in to see me this morning, in the strictest confidence, of course. He wanted a full investigation, which I refused. But I see the story's all over town."
Robin laughed, then pounded the little table with his fists. "Oh, the English, the English!" he said. "They're so antiseptic and they have such complicated lives." He laughed more, and then began to cough. He was fascinated by gossip, excited by it, collecting it the way other men collected stamps.
"We're holding a quintet of British ballet dancers on account of you."
Robin beamed. "Oh, Hamid. I loathed those nelly queens. They were rude to me—nasty little snobs." He did a quick imitation with a free-flowing limp wrist. "Wanted me to drink their sherry, share their Russian cigarettes, then thought I was a Philistine when I ordered beer and lit a cheap cigar. But I could tell at once they shared my vice. Mind you—with me it's all mental now, ever since my arrest."
"Yes," said Hamid. "Of course."
"Anyway, I heard around the Socco they were on the lookout for little boys. And I said to myself: 'My friend Hamid hates anything that smacks of the corruption of Moroccan youth.' Thought I'd do you a service and turn them in. A sweet revenge when I saw them taken away."
"Were they caught in the act? I didn't read the dossier."
"Caught with their pants down. A veritable orgy at the hotel. I could hear their squeals even in my room, though they were three floors above."
Their relationship had begun ten years before when Robin was twenty-five, and Hamid a mere detective in the foreign branch. When Hamid first saw Robin he was lying nude on a great, old, sagging bed with two boys working him over and another four looking on. Hamid had been furious, determined to see him expelled, but in their interviews something about the Canadian boy mitigated his disgust. Maybe it was his honesty, and his irony about himself. Whatever it was, Hamid had been touched, and when he'd discovered how much it meant to Robin to live in Tangier, how much he loved the town and wanted to stay, he'd offered him a bargain which in the decade that had passed he'd found no reason to regret. Robin would be allowed to stay on providing he kept clear of younger boys. In return he had to become an informer and turn in others indulging in his vice. To Hamid's great surprise, Robin had leaped at the chance. He loved to pry into people's lives and felt no scruples about being a traitor to his kind.
"What's going on with the Americans and Zvegintzov?" Hamid asked. "First it was Knowles, now it's Lake hanging around the shop."
"Yeah. Someone told me he and Lake have gotten thick, that Lake's in there a couple times a day."
"What's it all about?"
"Beats me. But the American's a curious bastard. Does his work all right, but his eyes are strange. He thinks he's some kind of mechanical genius. Always working on his car or down in the cellar fixing the water heater."
"I saw Luscombe on the way up. Looked awful. What's happening with him?"
"Poor Larry." Robin lit up one of his cigars. "Big brouhaha at the theater club. They're all ganging up on him, especially Kelly, who wants to take over the stupid group. There's a play Saturday. You ought to come. Even if it's lousy I'm going to give it a good review. Pathetic, isn't it, the way people take things so seriously here? These theater people, Larry excluded, are the worst trash in town. Mountain crowd's what interests me. Have you heard the latest on the Codds?"
Before Hamid could say he hadn't, Robin began his tale, twinkles embellishing his face as he came to the juiciest bits.
"Seems old Ashton and Musica were fighting a lot last year, and Ashton, bless him, told her off. Said he wanted an 'open marriage.' That's one of these arrangements where the husband and wife live together, Hamid, but get their sex in other people's beds. I got to hand it to Ashton—he's seventy-three. Musica, I think, is sixty-eight. They don't look like much now, but he's got a name, famous in Ireland, you know, though I think his poems all stink. And Musica isn't all that dried up—there's still a little juice in that bag of bones. Anyway, they spread the word among the younger set—bargaining fame for youth, or something like that. God forbid, of course, that anyone on the Mountain would hear. Someone told me they approached the Manchesters, though I find that hard to believe. No takers, finally, so the 'open marriage' idea faded away. But old Ashton, who's got a few quivers left in him, decided what they really needed was a good old-fashioned partouze. Seems they've actually approached some hustlers in the Socco, but nothing's happened yet because Ashton's too stingy to come to terms. But who knows what the future will bring? Ashton told me once that he's written five pornographic plays, all stashed away in some Swiss bank vault, to be released only after his death. Can't bear the shame now, poor man—afraid his friends in Dublin will turn their backs. Meanwhile Musica bides her time, planning to cut loose as soon as she gets her mitts on all his hoarded pounds."
Just the thought of those two old people making love with a hustler and a prostitute made Hamid shiver as he smiled.
"Makes you lose your appetite, doesn't it?" Robin said.
"Now that you've told me I don't think I can look them in the face."
"Never could myself."
They both began to laugh.
"By the way, is Barclay really upset about the note?"
"Doubt it. Man's a stone wall. Couldn't care less. But he's telling everyone what happened because he loves being in a scandal, and of course everyone listens and bows and scrapes. Wouldn't be surprised if he wrote the damn thing himself. Reminds me of an incident that'll show you how cold he is. Do you remember that weird case when David Klein was attacked by his houseboy in bed?"
"Yes. He was knifed by Achmed Ben Riffi. His penis was half cut off, and then Dr. Radcliffe sewed it back."
Hamid prepared himself for a good story, full of superbly imitated accents, expansive gestures, and pauses to build up the suspense.
"Yeah, the good doctor's greatest feat. Anyway, the instant after Klein was stabbed, he reached onto his bedside table and picked up the phone. He was in shock, of course, so his mind wasn't functioning too well. Instead of calling the doctor or the police he rang up Barclay at his home. Typical. They all think Barclay can solve everything here. Anyway, David rings him up and Peter answers the phone. 'Oh, Peter,' David whines, 'the most awful, the most frightful thing has just happened to my cock. I think my Achmed has cut it off.' 'Sorry, David,' Peter says, 'but I can't talk now. I'm bidding for a slam.' Then he hangs up. Klein, you understand, was bleeding to death. Thank God he found Radcliffe at home. It must have been the only night he wasn't with pretty Miss Gates."
"Oh, Robin." Hamid was laughing away. "You know more stories than Zvegintzov, and certainly more than me."
"Actually I don't get around all that much. I'm not invited anymore into the great houses on the hill. But because of the column they still keep in touch. They come to me all the time and tell me terrible things. The malicious ones always bring the best. Like Kranker—he's full of dirt. I don't like him, so I try not to use his stuff. But every once in a while he gives me something good, and then I can't resist."
"Any new personalities you want to tell me about? I rely on your antenna, you know."
"Thanks, Hamid. I appreciate that. Aside from the church affair, Tangier's had a very dull week. But our high season begins in a month. Then everything'll pick up."
Hamid nodded. There was a pause. "I'm concerned about you, Robin," he said. "How long are you going to stay here and waste your life?"
"Now don't start that again—"
"I will. When we met you were a real hippie—not one of these imitations I see around today. You were wild and passionate about life, but now I see you're settling in your ways. You neglect your work and bury yourself in gossip. Watch out, Robin. The years will pass, and in the end you'll find you're just another Tangier writer, a shadowy presence who doesn't finish his books."
"Hmmm. Maybe so. But I'll have one distinction left."
"What's that?"
"I'll still be an informer for the police."<
br />
"Oh, yes. You'll always be that. Perhaps, as you've said, it's your real métier."
"You know, Hamid—" Robin began to laugh. "You're the only Tangerene who dares to speak to me like this. The others are too terrified because of the power of my column. They come around regularly to kiss my ass, and I adore them for it since I've kissed ass all my life and now, finally, I'm in a position where people must kiss mine."
"Still—"
"I know. You think I should leave, become serious, start a new life. Actually I'm thinking of starting a business here. My clients will be rich people who want to make it in Tangier. For an extravagant fee I'll set them up. Sooner or later they'll get to Barclay's for lunch—he'll try out anyone once. My final payment is delivered the day they get the invitation, but after that they must keep me on retainer if they don't want to be blasted in my column. I could make myself a fantastic living and enjoy the pleasure of being completely corrupt."
"But you wouldn't sell out your column, would you?"
"No. I suppose not. As much as I adore the idea of being your informer, and long to roll about in the gutter, the integrity of the column must be preserved. We're alike in that way, Hamid. I've often wondered why you haven't allowed others to make you rich."
"Oh—I don't know. I'm a simple man. I want to be respectable. An honest cop."
"Oh, Hamid, you're beautiful. And lucky too. I live alone, picking up scum here and there, whatever crosses my path. But you have Kalinka, and you're in love."
Back at the Sûreté at two o'clock, Aziz greeted him with a grin. "I've completely terrorized the ballet dancers. They want to see you and beg for mercy on their knees."
"Spare me, Aziz. You take charge of the case. If the prosecutor agrees, ship them out tonight. Take them in handcuffs to the airport. The humiliation will do them good."
"Marvelous idea. Why didn't I think of it?"
"Because you're only a detective. A long time yet before you become the chief. I want you to contact our informants at the American Consulate, find out what you can about Zvegintzov and Lake. Has Zvegintzov been there for dinner? If he has, what did he say? See the butler and check with the maids. Also there's Kranker, the American. See the visa people downstairs and tell them to harass him a bit. When he comes in they should hold up his renewal. I think he's messing around with children, and I want him scared."
There were a few more matters to dispose of, then Aziz left and Hamid began to go through the motions of his job. He read dossiers and checked the status of his cases, but his mind kept returning to Kalinka. He thought of her sitting in their salon, or lying in their bed, smoking, filling her lungs with the harsh, acrid smoke of hashish. He must get her to stop, slowly, gradually, lead her out of her world of dreams. Then maybe he would marry her. But would she be different, a different person? Would he love her as much as he did now?
It was a difficult afternoon; the problem of Kalinka nagged until he grew impatient and telephoned her at home. She was in a daze, as usual, and there were long silences as they spoke. She asked him to buy her a television set. He said he'd think about it—it depended on the cost. He didn't think much of Moroccan TV—Saudi Arabian love dramas and propaganda from the Ministry of Public Works—but he knew she needed something to amuse her as she sat alone at home. She needed stimulation. In the summer, he promised himself, he'd take her regularly to the beach.
By the end of the afternoon he'd cleared up all his papers. A few minutes before six he set off for the Prefecture. He waited in the Prefect's anteroom for ten minutes, until a young man in a sharply tailored European suit approached him with a nod. "Inspector Ouazzani, I'm the Prefect's new assistant. He's ready to see you now." Hamid followed the assistant, a type he didn't like—glossy, smooth, educated at a French lycée, a young man destined to grow rich on bribes.
The Prefect was another sort, fat and charming, dressed in a traditional Moroccan robe. Hamid knew he was corrupt, but with a moderation his assistant would never understand. The Prefect stole just enough to keep his family in a decent style. It would never occur to him to milk a fortune from his job, or to look away from an injustice which might do a poor man harm.
"Sit down, Hamid," he said, waving toward a leather couch. "I already have one complaint today. The British Consul called, said you refused to investigate some nonsense at the British church. Well, don't worry. You did exactly right. I defended you, as I always have."
"Thank you, Prefect," said Hamid. "Now listen to a complaint of mine. Over the weekend we arrested some British ballet dancers. When they asked to see their consul, his wife lied and said he was out of town."
The Prefect laughed. "I'll remember that. Really, Hamid, you have the most difficult job."
"It's going to become even more difficult. Among the diplomats now we have two philanderers—Mr. Fufu, the UN man from Uganda, and Baldeschi, the Italian Consul. Both of them are accumulating mistresses at a greater than normal rate. Of course I'm grateful they're heterosexual—such a rarity among the foreigners here. But eventually someone's husband's going to find out, and then we're going to have one of those 'diplomatic affairs.'"
The Prefect laughed again. "I know you can handle it, Hamid. But I didn't call you here to gossip. A serious matter's come up. The Ministry of Interior has received information from Egyptian intelligence through our Cairo Embassy. The Egyptians claim an Israeli assassin is coming to Tangier.”
Hamid was puzzled. It didn't make any sense. There were no important personalities in Tangier who could possibly interest an assassin, and as for the King, he espoused the Palestinian cause in a half-hearted way, but he was unpopular in the north and rarely used his palace in Tangier.
"Perhaps they've confused Tangier with Algiers. They've been that stupid before."
"Any ideas, Hamid?"
"The only thing I can think of is that there's an old Nazi here they want to get."
"Very good. Anyone in mind?"
"That's the trouble, Prefect. I don't think there're any left. But I'll look into it and let you know."
Driving home, he thought about the problem. A Nazi hunter made sense, but who could the target be? He thought and thought, sifting through hundreds of names. The implications were difficult to accept, for if he was right there was someone living in Tangier, someone quite poisonous, who lay dormant and had escaped his scrutiny for years.
That night when he made love with Kalinka all his tensions ebbed away. She was a mystery to him—she smoked hashish, her mind worked the opposite way from his. But none of that mattered when she touched him with her tiny hands, curled her long, thin legs around his thighs, tickled his genitals with her toes. Feeling himself grow hard within her, feeling her fragile, glistening body throb beneath him and hearing her gasps against his ear, he was inspired to a tenderness he had never felt with any other woman, a sense that she was exquisite and that it was his pleasure to make her body sing. In bed with other women he had cared only for himself, but Kalinka's moans and embraces made him as interested in giving as in taking, and so he let her guide him in his moves rather than thrusting to his own release. He treasured this new-found gentleness and loved her for provoking it. It was far better, he had learned, to make love to a woman than merely to use her to allay desire.
Yes, she had taught him about love, and now he could not imagine experiencing it any other way. She'd come into his life strangely, romantically, providing him with a refuge from the harshness of his work and from all the struggles that consumed Tangier.
A Night at the Theater
Laurence Luscombe stood on the empty stage facing the place where the curtains met. He liked to do this on an opening night, stand silent, listen to the house fill up. He looked at his watch. Twenty to eight. In a few minutes The Winslow Boy would go on, and then all the agony of rehearsal, the tantrums and the temperament, would fade before the magic of the play. He would marvel then, as he had so many times, at the power of performance—the way it could seize an audience, hold it i
n thrall.
But suppose, he thought, they all walk out?
He'd had that anxiety for over fifty years, ever since he'd first gone on the stage. He couldn't overcome it—at the age of seventy-five he still couldn't rid himself of the nightmare of an empty house. He didn't act anymore himself, but the fear had followed him to Tangier. Here he'd founded the Tangier Players, his gift to the city that had embraced him in old age.
Peter Barclay had put it another way. "Thank God for Larry Luscombe and TP. They're something to talk about at our barren dinner parties, fill out our wasted afternoons." Peter was being amusing, of course. He didn't think his dinner parties were barren, or that he wasted his afternoons. Still Laurence believed his remark had been well meant, and now Peter, "pasha" of the Mountain, was a patron of TP and the club's most loyal fan.
It hadn't always been like that. The struggle had been lonely and hard. Laurence thought back as he stood on the empty set. At sixty-five he'd retired to Tangier with the dream of founding a theater club. He'd begun slowly, organizing readings in people's houses while he gathered the corps of loyal amateurs who shared his love for the stage. People had scoffed at first, Peter Barclay among them, but slowly the group had prospered and grown. Someone went to London and brought back lights. Someone else donated canvas and lumber. Gradually the productions grew more lavish and the ragged ends were smoothed. TP became a success, a permanent part of European life in the town.
But now, after all the struggles, the arduous climb to success, the club was facing its greatest crisis, a threat to its integrity and to Laurence's capacity to carry on. Kelly—that American swine, Joe Kelly—was trying to organize a putsch. He didn't yet have the backing, but if tonight's production failed there were people in the group who would take his side. The Drears, the Packwoods, the Calloways, Jack Whyte—that hard core of amateurs Luscombe had made into minor celebrities in the town—they'd turn on him sure as death, and TP would melt to mud.
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