"I don't think I can help you, Hamid. I'm a surgeon—not a psychiatrist. But I think maybe this is good for you, to have something in your life you can't easily understand. You look for rationality in foreigners where only irrationality exists. What harm is there in just living with Kalinka, accepting her as she is? You must learn to live with mystery and ambiguity, put aside your compulsion to analyze. . . ."
Achar had brushed his thick fingers across his mustache and had smiled at Hamid. It was an old issue between them: Hamid's hope that he would someday come to understand the foreigners, and Achar's insistence that there was no logic to their acts. And it amused him to hear Achar promote the virtues of mystery and ambiguity, since he was a man who prided himself on the rigor of his analysis of justice and politics and power. Still, after their conversation, he'd asked himself: Why can't I just accept her as she is?
He knew now why he could not. He loved her too much, wanted to marry her, and yet could not marry a woman he did not understand. It was his life's work to understand people, had been since he'd been a boy and become infatuated with the foreigners who owned and ruled Tangier—those rich men with the fine villas and automobiles whose women went about with uncovered faces and lay nearly naked on the beach. Boulevard Pasteur had been their street then—the medina belonged to the Moroccans, but the European city and the Mountain belonged to the people with the golden hair. They were the ones who bought the bodies of his friends, who'd corrupted Farid, the brother he loved but on whose behalf he'd felt such shame. (He had not been ashamed of Farid, but for him.) And when the time had come for him to decide what he would do, the old cherif who'd coached him so he could enter the Lycée Regnault had talked to him, after Achar had gone off to Cairo to study medicine, and suggested that since he was so interested in people's motives he take the examination for the police.
He'd liked the idea of that, especially when he foresaw the possibility of policing the foreigners of Tangier. Understanding them had become his work, and now, many years later, he was living with Kalinka, a foreigner, who contained all the mystery of all the foreigners he'd stared at and wondered about so long. He lived with her, but holding her in his arms, covering her with his body, kissing her and being kissed by her, loving her and being loved by her, he felt in her the mystery of all of them, close to him, closer than any foreigner had ever been to him, yet apart from him, illogical, incomprehensible—foreign.
It's because of that, he thought, parking his car, walking into his building on Ramon y Cahal, that I must finally understand who and what she is. For if I can unravel her, I shall come to understand them all, their whole world, which has baffled me and repelled me and attracted me so long. And then the mystery will be solved. I will be free of it. I will marry Kalinka. We will be happy. I will be a happy man.
He rode the elevator to his floor, stepped out, walked the corridor to the doorway of his flat. He paused outside, knowing that in a few seconds he would find her waiting for him, lying on the bed, the afternoon light painting her curled body, her pipe set at an angle on the table, a cloud of smoke above her head.
Robin
Harsh insistent knocking woke Robin from his dream—of a boy flying a kite in a meadow, of dazzling sunlight catching his gray woolen shorts, causing them to glow like lustrous pewter.
"Entrez," he growled, semi-comatose. "Come in, whoever you are."
The form of a man appeared at the door. Robin recognized the catlike step. "Inspector Ouazzani. Come in. Come in." He brushed some newspapers off the stool by his bed.
The Inspector advanced through the gloom, then stopped. A moment later he was at the window throwing open the shutters.
"Christ, no, Hamid! You'll wake me up!"
"Can't stand the smell of hash."
He came then and sat down, his black leather jacket gleaming in the light.
"You don't usually call so early. I hope there's nothing wrong."
"There's always something wrong, Robin. You ought to know that." He put his feet up against the side of the bed. "This morning, fortunately, it doesn't have to do with you."
"Well, I'm glad of that." Robin sighed, then pulled up his naked body and arranged a decaying pillow behind his head.
"How can you live in such filth? The poorest Moroccan wouldn't put up with this."
They both gazed around at the mess. Suitcases were piled into a teetering tower, books were scattered everywhere, along with boxes of newspapers and other trash. Broken phonograph records and unwashed laundry littered the floor, ashtrays overflowed, and the little table where Robin worked was piled with dishes and a typewriter covered with dust.
"This place is disgusting—absolutely foul. Even your sheets are filthy. What a hole!"
"It's my lair, Hamid. All my treasures are here."
"At least you could change your sheets."
"I will. Today is washday. On my way to breakfast I'll take them out."
"I smell something. Do you keep a cat?"
"They come and go—come and go."
"Well, I'm disgusted. You live like a pig!"
"This is just my little niche in Tangier."
Hamid offered him a cigarette.
"No thanks. My throat's still raw."
Hamid shrugged and lit up. "Why don't you get an apartment somewhere, get out of this stinking hotel?"
"I should. I keep telling myself that. But I like living day to day. Also, it's nice to have the Socco Chico downstairs. It makes a good salon."
Hamid shook his head. "You're lazy. You need a good kick in the ass."
Robin brushed some crumbs out of his bed—he'd had a picnic the night before. There were some kif seeds too, where his body depressed the mattress. He rolled over and swept them out.
"Ugh!"
"All right, Hamid. Enough about my habits. Please tell me what you want."
"Nazis," the Inspector said.
"Nazis?"
"Ex-Nazis—you know what I mean."
"You mean former Nazis who might be living in Tangier?"
"Yes. That's it."
"Well—what about them?"
"I want their names."
Robin shrugged. "There aren't any since Dr. Keitel left."
"Keitel?"
"Awful little man. He's in Liberia now."
"Well, there must be others. Tangier's filled with scum."
Robin shook his head. "There're plenty of old collaborators. Lanier, the surgeon. Princess Leontieff—they say she had an affair with Von Stuelpnagel. For that matter there's Madame Diplomante, but she was more of a Fascist type. Plenty of those left, but not the real thing. I guess there were a few in the international days."
"Some of them must still be around."
"Of course, Hamid, if you insist."
"Damn it, Robin, think. You know all the seamy types."
Robin shrugged. "There's a German boy who lives in the Casbah, but he must have been an infant during the war. He's writing a book about Himmler, who was 'vastly underrated' he says. I don't know him very well."
Hamid shook his head. "That's not what I mean."
"I'm sorry. I can't help you."
"All right." The Inspector stood up. "Call me if you think of anyone else. And clean this damn place out."
"Ha!"
When Hamid was gone, Robin slumped back in his bed. He scratched his chest and then a sore on his rump. The Inspector had looked tired, as if he wasn't getting sufficient sleep. What did he mean—he couldn't stand the smell of hash? With Kalinka he lived in it all the time. Everyone knew she was stoned to the ears.
He pulled himself up, limped over to the mirror above his wash basin, and inspected his unshaven face. His hair was a mess, a halo of tight red curls. He needed a bath and a good combing out. He splashed on some water and scratched at his rear again. Suddenly a burst of laughter spilled into the room. He turned to the window and saw two little Moroccan girls watching from a roof across the way. They were giggling at his nudity, their hands covering their mout
hs. He made a threatening gesture and slammed the shutters closed.
Oh, the medina, he thought, how I adore this stinking place. There wasn't any privacy, and the Oriental Hotel was one of the seediest around, but at least there was life in the medina, not the sterility of the European town. He cupped his balls and bounced them several times. Good exercise, he thought. He tore a comb through his hair with no result, then brought it to his nose and shrugged.
He struggled into a pair of jeans, pulled on a red turtleneck, and stooped to tie his sneakers. Still bent, he gathered up his laundry: socks, underwear, numerous shirts and pants. When he had everything together he ripped the sheets off the bed and stuffed the whole lot into a burlap sack. He loved this sack, for it was stenciled with a pair of shaking hands and the slogan "A Gift from the People of the United States." He had a scheme to buy up a truckload, then have the sacks converted into hippie clothes. He was sure he'd make a killing if he ever got around to it, and equally sure he never would.
He was a flight and a half from the lobby, the sack on his shoulder and an unlit cigar dangling from his lips, when he remembered it was Thursday, the day his column was due. He'd have to get it in by noon or face his editor's wrath. Damn, he thought. He didn't feel like work.
Out on the street he paused, wondering which way to turn. He'd given up trying to find an honest laundry—whichever one he came to would have to do. All of them stole, either socks or underpants—the Moroccans were short of both, it seemed. But though they all charged outrageous fees, they were far better than the hotel. He'd had a terrible row there the year before, when the maid had taken all his clothes and washed them without his consent. Furious over that and the outlandish bill, he'd gone to the desk to complain.
"Your things have been washed," said the manager, "so you have to pay."
"But the point," Robin protested, "is that I didn't ask that they be washed. I prefer to take my washing out."
"Take it out. By all means take it out. But pay this time, or we'll dirty your clothes before we give them back."
"Dirty them? How will you dirty them?"
"Use them as dust rags, I expect."
It was absurd and hilarious—a typical situation with the people of Tangier. They'd do anything for money, anything to cheat, but later they'd want to discuss existentialism over sweet mint tea. Robin loved them, and hated them too. Though frequently they drove him to despair, he found them irresistible. What can you do with people, he often wondered, who throw up their hands and say "God's will" no matter what miserable thing happens in their lives? Their submission to destiny made them passive about everything but money—the one subject about which they were impossible all the time. They'd steal most cleverly, but not blame themselves if they were caught. It was always God's will—Imchalah, as they said, until Robin swore he'd scream the next time he heard that word. Their religion had most certainly destroyed them, but had also made them great. It had set them back centuries, if one counted up all the months they'd lost during their annual Ramadan fast, but it had given them a kind of grandeur—there was nobility in their helplessness in the face of fate. He much preferred their style to the North American one he'd left, but he never failed to be amazed when he gave a few francs to a beggar, then watched the man stare at him and thank Allah instead.
After depositing his sack at a laundry, where it was weighed on a crooked scale, he walked back to the Socco Chico and slid into a table at the Centrale. He loved this dilapidated café , which abounded with hustlers day and night. People constantly passed by—Moroccans on their errands, young Europeans in walking shorts lost in the medina maze. Here, for the price of a glass of tea, he could sit for hours and admire all their legs. Boys or girls, it didn't matter—smooth, tanned skin was his delight.
He ordered a coffee and lit his cigar. Two girls with stringy hair sat a table away, their eyes blue and empty from a night of kif and sex.
The season, he thought, is beginning—the parade of the sensuous young. They came, girls like that, proud, independent, with their bedrolls and their cash. Tangier welcomed them and gave them everything they sought: drugs, rape in their hotel rooms, unspeakable penetrations on the beach at night. When they left it would be without regrets, though later, back in Stockholm or Montreal, at the universities where they prepared themselves for wholesome competitive careers, they might find cause to worry about venereal disease.
Oh, he thought, to be young again, tanned and strong and smooth. To have a virgin asshole and be full of hope. To smoke my first pipe of Moroccan kif. He sipped at his coffee and stared out at the street. No cars allowed in the medina—just people walking back and forth. He knew all the regulars—the hustlers, rug merchants, bazaar keepers, and whores.
"Hello, Robin."
"Good morning, Robin."
"Hey, Robin—hi!"
He'd been in Tangier a decade, and his face was part of the scene. He was one of the fixtures around the place, like the one-legged fellow who guarded cars in the Casbah or Mustapha, the mailman, who worked the Mountain Road. Everyone read his column too, though he couldn't imagine why. They loved his gossip, though it was about people they didn't know, lives that had nothing to do with theirs.
Pumpkin Pie walked by, pacing the little square like a high-stepping Harlem dude.
"Hello, Robin. Where you been?"
"Around, Pie. Around."
"Yeah. Around. Always around. Good to see you, Robin babe."
And then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd. A beautiful specimen, Robin thought, though beginning to lose his looks. Yes, he'd been here ten years—ten years of nothing, he sometimes thought. But he never wanted to exchange that time for a decade anyplace else.
A boy in a faded jeans jacket sat down with the girls, setting his backpack on the terrace floor. Robin closed his eyes and listened to their dialogue, mellifluous counterpoint to the guttural Arabic spoken around.
"Didn't I see you last night?"
"Did we see him, Carol?"
"I don't know. Where was he last night?"
Good, he thought. A classic ritualistic beginning. He'd tried to capture that idiotic tempo once, in a long poem he'd called "Medina Voices."
"Hey, where do you get your stuff?"
"Don't tell him, Cynthia."
"What's the matter with her?"
"She's a slut."
"Now, look, Carol. I told you not to say that—"
"Who cares anyway."
"You're really nasty this morning."
"Shit—why don't the three of us get stoned?"
"Hey—wow!"
"We don't know this creep."
After a while Robin turned off—he'd heard that conversation a thousand times. The same petty insults, the same probing around, and all it ever came to was a lumpy mattress in a fleabag hotel and a third-rate screw. Still it was life, and there was something to be said for that. Or, he asked himself, is it really a kind of death?
He watched the threesome firming up their deal. In a few minutes they'd be pooling their cash and then the hustlers would crowd around. Someone would have some "special stuff" to sell; someone else would offer a "terrific freaky room." It was all marvelously degrading, but that was what he loved about the town—the crumbling buildings, the seediness, made a perfect backdrop for bringing fantasies to life.
He loved the medina and the Casbah, especially at night, loved to roam the littered streets, loved the stink of excrement, the quarrels, and the slops that were constantly being emptied from windows overhead. The medina had an intricate rhythm, was a slum, but not a serious one, nothing like Dradeb. The same rats, of course, the same ooze and fights and overcrowded Arab life, but with a sort of grim humor that redeemed it in the end. The people of the medina had a cosmopolitan style. They were poor, but they didn't starve. In Dradeb, on the other hand, life was all despair.
Well, he thought, it's time to go to work. He left a coin for the waiter, pocketed some sugar cubes, and nodded to the three Americans, who g
lanced back curiously at him. Perhaps someone had told them he was a man to see. But long ago he'd decided to deal only to his friends.
At the Oriental he began scrupulously to clean his desk. When everything was dusted off, he stared down at his battered Olivetti and wondered what to write. It hadn't been much of a week, though he had enough material for a column. He rolled in a piece of paper and began to type.
ABOUT TANGIER
by Robin Scott
PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT two parties on the Mountain Tuesday night, at Peter Barclay's and Françoise de Lauzon's. The rivalry between these two hosts has reached the point where their friends don't know what to do. Our informants tell us that at least one of Barclay's guests accepted with Francoise first. Was he right? We hear that Françoise gave a better time. Champagne flowed, and Mr. Patrick Wax gave an imitation of Barclay saying "Hello." Then Inigo, our Paraguayan genius, drew OBSCENE pictures with lipstick on the Countess's lavatory mirrors, and the Mesdames Drear, also in attendance, pleased everyone with a dance. At Barclay's the usual crowd, plus the Governor and our esteemed chief of customs, Omar Salah. Madame Joop de Hoag was accompanied by Monsieur de Hoag's confidential assistant, young Jean Tassigny, whose good looks have taken Tangier by storm. Camilla Weltonwhist complained to Mr. Salah about the shortage in town of Camembert cheese. The talk then turned to the price of aubergines, and the quality of grapefruit and courgettes. General Bresson complained to the Governor about his difficulties with his telephone. The Governor replied that he'd look into the matter the next time he had a chance.
THE NOTE: Much talk this week about the note delivered on the collection plate at St. Thomas Church. No one knows who wrote it yet, but rumors are all over town. Will our amateur sleuth, Colonel Lester Brown, be able to smoke the villain out? He's an avid reader of detective novels, we hear. The Vicar's up to something too. The service this Sunday may be the ecclesiastical event of the year.
OTHER SCANDALS: Sad scene at the airport a week ago Monday night. Members of a certain British ballet company were escorted to the London plane in handcuffs by Tangier police. Tourists gawked and flashbulbs popped. What was it the dear boys did?
Tangier Page 10
