Still the image haunted him, no matter how hard he fought it off. It was sick, he knew, and he was afraid to yield to it again, fearing a fall so deep he'd never find his way out of the abyss. He'd decided to draw the line, and kept to his resolve, for it was one thing to revel in degradation and quite another to yield so completely that he'd be addicted the remainder of his life. This way, guarding it as a fantasy, he could maintain the balance of his mind. And he recognized that he sublimated in many ways, absorbing himself in gossip, becoming a raconteur.
Boys—mere children: though he lusted after them terribly, he repressed that desire now too. Better to imagine a young man as a boy, hold him in his arms and transform him in his mind, than to corrupt a child who deserved something better than to be used as a receptacle for a sick man's lust. Still it was difficult—he suffered over his fantasies and accumulated guilt.
He looked over at Kranker, seated at his table, his piercing eyes focused on the boy. Suddenly Robin was filled with envy. Kranker did what he wanted and never suffered a pang. Why couldn't he do the same? It was so hard to fight off desires, to immerse himself in the foolish gossip of Tangier, to care what Peter Barclay thought, or about the absurd antics of Patrick Wax. Sainthood! Martin Townes had been wrong about that, but Robin wished he'd been light. If only he could pass through the barrier that kept good and evil apart, become a true immoralist and leave the guilt, like a whiff of smoke, trailing behind him in the breeze. Then he could turn evil into a festival of joy and revel in the dirt.
Suddenly he hated Kranker, sitting there so guiltless, so steely and cold. He was an unattractive man who'd always had to pay his boys. He was horrible, a man who'd never known love and never would.
All of us in Tangier, he thought, live in our grubby little holes.
At that he stood up, stretched, then walked back to the Oriental, where he mounted the stairs, entered his shabby room, flung himself onto his bed, lit up a pipe, and dreamedof a boy flying a kite in a meadow, woolen shorts glowing in the light.
The End of Spring
On the last Sunday in May the weather in Tangier began to change. Gone were the chilly nights and the sparse rains of spring. The wind was finished for a while, and the sky, which had been blue since the previous autumn, began to haze. Summer was coming to the city. The proprietors of the restaurants that fringed the town beach prepared to open up, and all the seats in the café s on the Boulevard were filled.
On the west side of Tangier, on the Mountain, in the light-filled studio of his house, Inigo, the Paraguayan, was staring at a canvas he'd been working on for over a month. It was of Pumpkin Pie in Moroccan pantaloons, bare above the waist, his feet spread and planted firmly on the floor, looking directly out from a background of the sea. Inigo had put more into this canvas than into any he'd painted before. He'd been working frantically, from dawn to dusk every day, striving to make a statement of his feelings about Tangier.
He wanted to paint the boy as an archetypal hustler, strong, savage, willing to please. But there had to be a measure of vulnerability too—a haunted fear of poverty in the eyes. This, he thought, was the key to the portrait—a Nietzschean savagery, a powerful contempt, softened, even bankrupted, by a storekeeper's greed. He'd set himself the task of catching these two elements at once. If he succeeded he had no doubt the painting would fetch a fortune in New York.
But it was even more complicated than that—there was a third quality he wanted too: a decayed sensuality, a barely putrefied eroticism, the allure of vigorous young flesh slightly used, soiled, worn out. It was like painting the Mona Lisa, he thought—so many levels, so much complexity: he needed to peer with great depth into a personality in constant flux.
It was a difficult project, and Pumpkin Pie, as expected, gave him little help. The boy was restless all the time, bored with his model's role. Often he relaxed his pose or simply wandered outside, where he gunned his motorcycle, knowing that Inigo detested the noise. Several times he simply vanished, flew off to town without a word, disappeared for hours and then returned with torn clothes and disheveled hair.
Inigo knew better than to ask where he'd been—he was tired of his own supplicating voice, and of Pumpkin Pie's cunning lies. By now he was inured to the boy and simply accepted him for what he was. He carried on as best he could, continuing work from his preliminary sketches and from the image he carried in his mind.
On this particular Sunday morning the boy sent word by a servant that he was resting in bed, fatigued and indisposed. He's probably masturbating, Inigo thought. Then he shrugged and returned to work. He'd been filling in the background, searching for a perfect clash of shades where the sea would meet the sky. But as he paused and contemplated the half-completed face, he decided to work more on the lips. He wanted to combine charm and arrogance there, catch the two qualities at once.
The painting had come to obsess him. One part of him wanted to finish it quickly, and another to work on it for months. He was repelled by it, and fascinated. Often, not against his will, he found it drawing him into the amoral twilight world of his friend.
Laurence Luscombe walked to town early, his empty shopping basket swinging from his arm. He knew he'd find himself a lift if he waited until the Mountain people left for church, but he had no desire to see them—their questions and glances disturbed his mood.
He'd spent the last weeks keeping to himself. All people did anyway was ask him about the feud—the talk of the Mountain, it seemed, fanned by frequent mentions in Robin's columns. One time when he did accept a ride in Camilla Weltonwhist's Rolls—he couldn't refuse; her driver had pulled right up to him—she talked the whole way of how much "fun" TP was getting to be now that it had "come of age." He knew damn well what she meant: that he was too serious, and that Kelly's vulgar humor made good relief.
This particular Sunday he walked early to the Socco, bought himself fruit and a quarter kilo of fish, then trudged over to Derik Law's flat, a cozy place on Campo-Amor.
Derik, off from his travel agency, met him at the door. "Bathroom's all ready, Larry. Dry towel and fresh bar of soap."
It was kind of Derik to let him use the shower. He'd given Laurence a set of keys to the flat so he could use it whenever he liked, but Sunday was best, since Derik was at home and after the shower the two of them could talk.
"You going to church?" Derik asked, as Laurence emerged from the bathroom combing his hair.
He shook his head. "I've no particular desire to see Peter Barclay in his glory. I've got enough problems of my own."
Derik nodded. "What're you going to do, Larry? Call a special meeting and read Kelly out?"
"Not sure yet. Still have some thinking to do. Be stupid of me to go through with that if I didn't have the votes."
"I know Kelly's got the Calloways and Whyte. David Packwood doesn't like him, though—he and Jill would probably split. "
"What about the Drears?"
"Jessamyn's sold on the Yank, but Jessica's still up in the air. What you've got to do is bring in the patrons. They're entitled to vote, and if enough of them show up you'll win."
"I know. But I don't want to win that way. It would be a Pyrrhic victory and would split the group. I have to think beyond Kelly, to the seasons ahead. If we read him out, with the patrons throwing their weight behind me, we alienate the active members, and when Kelly cries in his coffee they'll all go off with him. The Drears, the Calloways, and the Packwoods are the hard core. That's the problem—what happens after Kelly's out?"
"Well—maybe the best course would be to let everything cool down. Don't call any meetings and forget the summer production. In the meantime you and Kelly could try to work things out."
"Never!" said Laurence, pounding the arm of his chair. "Not after he called me 'dear old hack.' "
"Oh, forget that. He didn't mean it. Suppose Kelly apologized—would that make things all right?"
"He won't do it. Man doesn't have a decent bone in his body."
"But suppose he
did? Suppose some of us went to him, told him how we felt, and tried to patch things up? Neither of you wants to see TP go down the drain."
"Kelly doesn't care a fig about TP."
"But suppose he agreed to split productions with you? Each of you would do two a year, and the rest of the time you'd stay out of each other's way. What would you think of that?"
Laurence sat up straight.
"Have you been talking to Kelly behind my back?"
"Oh, come off it, Larry. You know me better than that. It's just the only way I see. Each of you has to come halfway."
"I founded TP, damn it! Now you ask me to give half of it to a man I don't respect."
Laurence wondered then whether to confide his calculations or wait until later when he was sure. A glance at Derik's sympathetic face convinced him to confide. "I've been thinking about this a lot lately," he said, "and I've a few ideas in mind. Maybe TP is getting stodgy. Maybe we ought to bring in new blood." He paused, gave a little smile. "Not at the top, necessarily, but among the actors. The way I figure it, if I go out and recruit new people it'll throw the old hard core off. I mean they might forget about Kelly and start worrying about their own hides for a while. They all think they're indispensable, but if I brought in Mr. Fufu, for instance, and, say, launched him in Emperor Jones, or the Knowles'—damn attractive couple; they could do situation comedy for sure—then you might see Jack Whyte's hackles rise, and a jealous pout on Jill Packwood's face. See what I mean, Derik—put them on the defensive, make them feel insecure. Then you can bet they'd forget about Kelly and be around to curry favor with me."
Derik thought a while before he replied. "It might work, Larry," he said. "And then again it might not."
Robin Scott came early to St. Thomas—he wanted a good seat for what he'd billed in his column as "the ecclesiastical event of the year." After Camilla Weltonwhist showed him to a rear pew, he began to jot down notes on the personages filling up the church.
The Foster Knowles‘: elastic bodies—lanky minds
The Ashton Codds: out-of-date clothing; a last hurrah
Patrick Wax: cold, flawed steel
Dr. Sedgewick Radcliffe: wrinkled neck
The Willard Manchesters: sloppy socks
The Clive Whittles: imperious airs
Deborah Gates: squishy wench
Darryl Kranker: malformed queer
Percy Bainbridge: fragile pride
Lester Brown: barracks buttermilk
The Drears: God help us!
Vincent Doyle: old literary lion nibbling on his own claws
Lord and Lady Pitt: wrinkled parchment
Heidi Steigmuller: cigarettes-and-whiskey voice
After a while Robin gave up—too many people were thronging in. Tessa and David Hawkins appeared in riding garb, their crops stuck into their boots.
In the last minutes before the service began there was a feverish rush for seats. There was suspense too—the sort one might expect at an arena just before someone is due to be thrown to a lion.
When Peter Barclay walked in, late as usual, all heads craned. He went to the front pew, cool as anything, Robin thought, head held high, upper lip stiff, stabbing methodically at the floor with his cane. Some dastard in the church had done him a nasty deed, but Robin could read nothing on his face but a decadent aristocrat's pride.
Soon the overcrowding and the pleasant weather outside began to build up the heat. People's foreheads gleamed, and by the reading of the first psalm Robin felt wet patches growing beneath his arms. He'd worn a ratty tweed jacket, and cursed himself for the mistake.
He hadn't been in a church in fifteen years, but it seemed to him the service was running much too long. It was as if Vicar Wick, enthralled by his captive audience, wanted to unleash every bit of hocus-pocus in his Anglican bag of tricks.
Robin was disappointed at the sermon. Taking Christ's Golden Rule as his theme, the Vicar preached a full ten minutes on the virtues of loving one's neighbor as oneself. Robin was lulled and about to doze, believing his excitement had been falsely aroused, when suddenly, after the reciting of the Lord's Prayer, the Vicar stepped to the middle of the transept and made a gesture with his hands. He'd been holding them together, fingers touching at the tips, with the meekness of a pastor ministering to a patient flock. But then, without any warning, he clasped them smartly behind his back. That moment his eyes became flinty, and he resembled a sergeant addressing raw recruits.
"Members of St. Thomas," he began, in a new, brusque tone of voice, "I have the sad duty to report to you this morning on an occurrence that has taken place within these walls. Someone, some member of our flock, has seen fit to use our little church as the launching pad for a personal attack. In an act of craven cowardice unworthy of a Christian, this person, behind an anonymous cloak, used our collection plate to deliver a slanderous attack upon the gentlest, kindest, most noble-hearted man to have ever graced our community in Tangier. It saddens me to say this, but in all my years as a vicar I have never before heard of such an act. I do not know whose twisted mind is responsible for this sin. Nor do I care to know his name. Since the act was clearly premeditated, the heat of anger cannot be an excuse. It is sad for us to know that there is such a creature in our midst, someone so evil, so vile, so lacking in grace and tact as to perpetrate such a deed. This person has defiled this holy place, but our church is strong and cannot be hurt. And the man who was attacked is also too strong and good—yes, I say good, and honorable too—to allow this injury to fester long. I conferred with him today, before the service, and he told me that he has forgiven the transgressor in his heart. He has, in Christ's own way, turned the other cheek. Now it remains for us to do the same. I ask you all now to join me in a prayer. May God forgive this poor creature for what he's done. May He show him the way to confession and repentance. And may this creature, so long as he does not repent, wander godless, without grace, lonely and scorned, until he must face his Maker and be judged."
There was such exquisite silence as the Vicar spoke that even Robin restrained a burp. When he finished the Vicar bowed his head, and everyone else did the same. Then, for a full minute, there was silence while the entire congregation prayed. Finally, when the Vicar said "Amen," the organ burst forth with "Jerusalem," and while Peter Barclay passed the plate everyone stood solidly and sang.
By far the best touch of the morning, Robin thought, was the way he and everyone else were scrutinized as they left. Wick stationed himself just outside the door, with Colonel Brown on one side and Barclay on the other. Since Robin had sat in the back, he was among the first to run this gantlet, receiving a stiff "Good morning" from the Vicar while the Colonel, short, bull-necked, his bald head gleaming in the sun, peered searchingly into his eyes, and Peter Barclay looked him over with a grin.
After he was through (found innocent, he hoped), he watched the others endure the same scrutiny. When, finally, all had passed, he watched them form themselves into muttering groups.
Ah, the English, the poor, antiseptic English, he thought as he wandered back to the Socco for a beer.
It was only later, at six that afternoon, that he heard what happened next. He was with Hervé Beaumont, prowling the medina, when they ran into Kranker, who stopped to report the news.
"Everyone," he said, "thought old Wick put on a damn fine show, and that would be that until Scotland Yard and the Colonel cracked the case. Barclay sauntered back into church to count the money, and then, a few minutes later, we heard a scream."
"What happened?" Robin's eyes gleamed with excitement.
"Well, my dear, it was something! A piece of writing paper, the same as was used for the infamous note, was pierced by a steel needle. Something moist and squishy was pinned inside. Peter took it apart, and, to and behold, he found a freshly killed sheep's eye streaming with blood."
"A sheep's eye! That's Moroccan voodoo!"
"So it seems. One can apparently buy such things from a man who sells spells a little ways down from
the church. Lester Brown hurried over to him, steaming with rage, but the Moroccans shooed him away. The medicine man's a mystic and a cherif, and he wasn't about to answer a lot of silly questions from an angry infidel. No one knows who did it, of course, but we seem to have a maniac in our midst."
On Sundays Peter Zvegintzov opened La Colombe at twelve to catch the Mountain crowd as they made their way home from church. Lake knew this (he'd become a regular customer and close observer of the shop), and also knew that Peter kept irregular hours on Sunday afternoon, closing sometimes at two, sometimes as late as four, depending on his sense of the needs of his clientele. In the few weeks that Lake had been frequenting the shop he'd tried, as often as he could, to come in just as Peter was closing up. He felt there was some advantage in being the last customer—opportunities to ask Peter how his business day had gone and to project himself as a sympathetic friend.
Thus on the last Sunday in May he waited nervously in his office in the deserted Consulate, anxiously calculating the best time to arrive. These planned intersections with Z had become a game. Lake had never willed himself into a friendship before, but he found the process exhilarating, a distraction from the frustrations of his work.
On his way over to La Colombe, driving through Dradeb, he asked himself why he was doing this, what goal he was hoping to achieve. He wasn't clear about it, had only the vaguest sort of idea. It had something to do with the forging of a link, creating a relationship with a man who seemed very different from himself, and yet with whom he felt a bond.
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