Moroccan Traffic

by Dorothy Dunnett

  We didn’t. Mr. Morgan said, ‘We’ll find out, don’t worry. Meanwhile, I owe you.’ He had pulled out some money, and I let him.

  The other man said, ‘Not a bit of it. Look. It’s not far. I’ll take you. We can have a drink some other time.’ He smiled and said, ‘You’re English too? My name is Rolly. Here with some chums, trying not to make a film.’

  ‘Wendy and Mo,’ Mo Morgan said. ‘I’m climbing, she’s here with her mother. Not making a film?’ We were walking to the far end of the square.

  ‘Actually, we are making a film, at Ouarzazate. In the south. If you climb, you probably know it. Nice cheap film studios; snow; mountains; sand. It needs scenes in Marrakesh and the director’s going spare, trying to avoid the dyed wool and the chimps and the snake-charmers. Not my headache: I’m just an accountant. Here’s your place.’

  There were several openings off the end of the square, some of them wider than others. He had turned into a street lined with low shops and houses which opened into a small market place, its centre laid with blue plastic and heaped with ordinary things like babies’ bootees and small children’s clothing. He approached a pair of closed doors and banged on them. After a while, Mo Morgan banged too, and they both went round the back and returned.

  If this was where the old woman had brought the sugar-lump message, then she hadn’t been able to deliver it. The place was closed. And there was no sign of the old woman anywhere. Rolly, ever courteous said, ‘Your friend isn’t there. I’m so sorry. But at least, now you can come back another time. Look. It’s really bloody hot by this time. We’ve got an awful sort of lodging nearby. Why don’t you come and have a drink there? We’ll send out for the odd bun if you’re hungry. Or Rita’s always got food in the house.’

  ‘Your wife?’ I asked politely. He wasn’t young, but he had the sort of confident style that Val Dresden would give up his locket for.

  ‘Rita? I wish she was. No,’ he said. ‘Make-up technician by trade, and a hanger-on otherwise like myself. Natural den-mother to a film crew of hopeless eccentrics. Do come. It’s just along here.’

  We had no reason to worry. We went.

  For quite a while the alley remained sunny and open, although the nature of the trading had altered. We passed a row of lacquered sheep heads, the flies buzzing about their taut skulls. Then presently, our path narrowed and darkened: the first manifestation of the souks. Here, the crowds were all Arab, and the cubicles lining our passage were workshops. Deep in their recesses men smoked and drank tea and played cards, worked and talked and glanced at us as we passed. There were smells of leather and sawdust and cannabis. A boy, sitting outside his shop, turned the leg of a chair with the help of his hands and his toes; a veiled woman took a jar from a fountain and hurried away; the open door of a mosque, heavy with stucco, afforded a glimpse of prostrate forms and heavy carpets.

  A drum beat, half-heard under the noise became insistent and threatening. From round the next bend in the souk approached a slow procession of men, women and children, their faces impassive. They carried, glinting with spangles, life-sized figures on poles. The figures were headless: drooping ferns hung from the neck sockets. The man called Rolly held us back with his arm as the crocodile made its way past, its drums beating. From inside the shop at our backs came a tinny, thunderous roar. The Africa Cup was flickering on.

  I didn’t like it. I didn’t like not knowing what was real, and what was being done for the tourists. I looked at Mr. Morgan for reassurance and saw that he, too, had lost his small smile. Then he saw me and winked, and tucked my hand into his arm and kept it there when we began moving again. He was short, but he had a lot of big muscles. Then Rolly said, ‘So here’s our little inglenook. Sorry about the surroundings: they drove a souk right past the front door. Do come in.’

  The alley had widened. Instead of unbroken shops and ramshackle dwellings, a high wall ran along on our right. In its centre was a small postern, and a pair of closed double doors wide enough to admit a film van, or a fairly large car. Our new acquaintance unlocked the small door and, stepping through, revealed a fair-sized paved patio with a fountain playing drunkenly in the centre. I hesitated, but Mr. Morgan, nodding, persuaded me through. While we looked about, the man called Rolly shut and locked the small door behind us. Then he turned, lifted his head, and yelled, ‘Rita!’

  The inglenook surrounded three sides of the patio and rose to two storeys, and in some places to three. At middle-floor height ran a wooden gallery, reached by a set of narrow carved steps. Behind the pillars that upheld the second storey were handsome peeling grilled windows and a few open-leaved doors leading to a variety of unspecified apartments. Loud rock music poured from one of the windows. As we watched, an orange head poked from another. It belonged, unsurprisingly, to one of the ladies from the Place Jemaa board game and shish-kebab party. Instead of dark glasses, she now wore a pair of enormous rose-coloured spectacles, pushed to the end of her nose. Our escort addressed her. ‘Two nice English guests with a thirst. What’s on offer?’

  ‘Depends how English they are,’ she said shortly. She disappeared.

  The man Rolly slapped his own forehead and grinned at us. ‘She’s from Scotland. Don’t hold it against her.’

  My mother’s cassettes came into my mental focus. Coping with a Blank Mind might have helped, had I been going to speak. Mo Morgan disentangled his arm and, ceasing to stare, trained his attention on Rolly. He said, ‘Man, we ought to be treating you, not the other way round. Have you rented this place?’

  ‘Knowing him,’ said the voice of Rita, ‘He probably won it in a cheap carpet speculation. Didn’t I see you in the square?’

  She stood in the door, surveying us. She was short and made like a gymnast, her legs encased in brilliant gauchos. I had put her down as a girl but close to, in the sunshine, she looked nearer Rolly’s age than my own. Beneath her touched-up natural red hair, her make-up was bold verging on the outrageous. She suddenly grinned. ‘They’re English,’ she said. ‘Got in trouble?’

  ‘Not their fault,’ said the man Rolly. ‘Mo is in Morocco to climb, and Wendy is here with her mother. They’re thirsty.’

  ‘So you said,’ said the small orange lady. ‘Well, come in. The chaps are looking at rushes: we’ll get some peace for a while. What are you climbing?’

  The kitchen was tiled and cool, with an ancient refrigerator in one corner from which she produced plates of jellied meat and a bowl of cold soup and some pastries. She cut up French bread, the rings on all eight fingers sparkling. Mr. Morgan said, ‘But you’ve already eaten. We mustn’t trouble you.’ In that company, he looked nearly normal.

  The woman said, ‘We only go to the square to meet pals and fleece them. Watch Rolly. He’ll have two dinners any day. What, then?’ She threw back the question again. She had brought out bottles of beer and a jug of orange juice, and dropped cutlery on to the table. Mr. Morgan didn’t reply, but as we sat, he leaned over and put his plastic bag on the table before her. She laid down plates and glasses and sitting down, pulled the bag over and opened it. Inside were all the Kodak wallets. She pushed her spectacles up, picked out one and took out the photographs.

  We ate, served by Rolly, while she looked at them. When she’d finished the pack, she rapped Rolly’s arm and held them out to him. Then she shifted her gaze to Mr. Morgan. ‘You’re not in films?’

  With a face like a lupin, Mo Morgan was not, I should have thought, God’s most obvious gift to the cinema. He hesitated and said, ‘No.’ Beneath it, you could tell he was flattered.

  The man Rolly in his turn was leafing through photographs. He said, ‘By God.’ After a while, since I hadn’t said anything, he turned and said, ‘Have you seen these?’ And when I shook my head, ‘Then have a look. They’re not your ordinary snaps.’ He held one towards Mr. Morgan. ‘Where the hell were you when you took that shot?’

  On Toubkal. I could have told him. I took the snaps, which turned out to be studies of rock, sky and snow, taken fro
m pinnacles. I like pictures of people, myself, but I could see that these were of a nice colour, and sometimes consisted of very long views, which meant he must have climbed quite high to take them. I said, ‘Very nice.’

  The man Rolly took them from me gently and then waited while the orange lady looked through the next lot. When he got them he muttered, ‘Tizrag. The Tizi n’Ouadi.’ He broke off and said, ‘You did the east face of Anrehemer in March?’

  ‘Do you know it?’ said Mr. Morgan. ‘It was a bit tricky. Nice descent.’

  ‘No. I don’t know it,’ said our rescuer. ‘But I know someone who did it once in late winter. He said he’d only done three things worse in those conditions.’

  ‘Do I know him?’ said Mr. Morgan.

  It was the woman Rita who said, ‘No.’ She said it shortly, as when she had said it depended how English we were. The man Rolly glanced at her, as if in warning. Then they laid down the pictures, and got Mo Morgan to talk, without excluding me. After that they answered questions about the film, an epic which had run through three different directors, and about which the man Rolly was sardonic and the cooking lady full of definite views. They appeared to get on well together, although she told him off a few times and we all helped with the washing-up at the end. For an accountant, I thought he was very patient.

  Just before we took our leave, our host asked Mr. Morgan’s permission to tip the photos all out on the table and look at them again. With the woman, he pored over them. They had already asked all about his lenses and stops. The cooking woman said, ‘If you want to try your hand at cinefilm, give Rolly a call. He could put you in touch with a studio. Or you should publish.’ She put them back in the bag. ‘Waste of time to put those in a drawer.’

  Mr. Morgan said, ‘I know, but I’ve got other interests. If I get the sack, I’ll come back and ask you. It was a great lunch. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll see you around,’ said the accountant. He saw us to the door, yelling back to the woman to stay until he returned. She retorted, and he turned to us, grinning. ‘Let her out once alone, and she’d never find her way back until Christmas. But she’s a bloody good cook. So. You’ll get to the square by going through there, and you’ll find plenty of taxis. If you want to call in again, here’s my card, with this address added over it. I hope you track down your friend?’

  ‘What?’ said Mr. Morgan. He was looking at the card.

  ‘The one whose address you had lost. I hope you find him in. Or her. Or whatever. Nice to meet you,’ said Rolly, and shut the door.

  We stood being pushed about in the souk, and Mo Morgan didn’t move. I said, ‘What’s wrong?’

  He didn’t say anything. He just held out the card. On one side, written in pencil, was the address of the house we’d just left. Printed on the other side was a London address under Rolly’s full name: Roland G. Reed, BA, MA, LB, Financial Director. And below that was the name of his employer, which was the MCG Company, plc. Or otherwise, the firm we had come to take over.

  I didn’t speak. Morgan said, ‘We’ve been bloody hijacked.’

  Roland Reed, Financial Director. He’d washed up the dishes. I said, ‘He can’t be. He’s helping someone work on a film.’

  ‘A hobby, no doubt,’ said Mo Morgan. ‘The same line I was shooting, come to think of it. I take good pictures, but I have bigger concerns than all that crap, buster.’ His eyes, for the first time since I’d known him, were unfriendly.

  I said, ‘He didn’t know who we were.’

  ‘The hell he didn’t,’ said Sir Robert’s Executive Director. ‘That’s the man Sir Robert had the first meeting with, the one that failed. That’s the man he’s come to Morocco to meet. He picked us up deliberately.’

  I said, ‘How could he know who we were?’

  ‘How? Johnson and Sullivan,’ Mr. Morgan said. ‘They sent the woman and fooled us into following her. They knew MCG hung out in the Place.’

  I thought he was wrong. The café had been dark. I was sure neither Johnson nor Sullivan had seen us. And why should Johnson or Sullivan interfere with the affairs of Kingsley Conglomerates? Out of mischief?

  I said, ‘But if Roland Reed knew who we were, why give us his card?’

  Mr. Morgan’s eyes, nearly black, were looking into space. Then he shrugged. ‘One upmanship? We’ll meet him – when is it? – at this afternoon’s so-called tea party. He knew we’d know soon enough who he was. Maybe he wants us to worry about Johnson and Sullivan. Or it has to be Sullivan. You said Sullivan had his eyes on MCG. He could cause trouble.’

  I looked at him. When he’d wired my mother’s house, I’d thought he wasn’t Director material. I said, ‘There isn’t much time.’

  ‘No,’ he said. He stirred. ‘You’re right. Let’s get to the square. You go back and see your mother’s safely home from the café. I’d better get to Sir Robert.’

  I said, ‘What will you tell him?’

  And Mo Morgan said, ‘What we’ve just said. We don’t know any more than that meantime. But I think you need to watch out. Something’s happening, and it could be a bastard.’ He pulled out a notebook and scribbled in it. He had big-jointed iron-hard fingers. He said, ‘That’s where I’m staying. Don’t pass it on, there’s an angel; I don’t want Sir Robert on top of me. It’s a small hotel that caters for climbers. I have friends there if you run into trouble. All right, Wendy?’

  ‘All right,’ I said. I was relieved. I felt satisfied. He was really Upper Management all the time.

  There is no more expensive hotel in Morocco than the Hotel Mamounia, Marrakesh, where, under guise of a four o’clock tea party, the Chairman of Kingsley Conglomerates, his self-invited Electronics Director and I were to meet and persuade another company towards a friendly takeover.

  Churchill stayed in the Mamounia, which adheres to the walls of the old city of Marrakesh. It is built like a large Moorish palace, full of fountains and tiles, carved stucco work and terrazzi and flowers. There are seventeen acres of tropical gardens, fifteen suites and nearly two hundred bedrooms.

  I was glad I had left my mother behind at the Hotel Golden Sahara with my Arab phrasebook and Ellwood Pymm, whose party had just returned from a successful visit to the hotel with the Canadian rye, thus avoiding a handball final, an art exhibition, and a reception held for the competitors in the Grand Rally of the Voitures de Collection, 1900–1940, among whom were Colonel Sebastian Sullivan and his co-driver Gerry.

  The present whereabouts of Johnson Johnson was not mentioned, but at the rate the Anniversary of the Enthronement of the Monarch was generating activities, I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear of him anywhere, except that I trusted it wouldn’t be at the Hotel Mamounia at 4 p.m. that afternoon.

  Because of Ellwood Pymm, I’d been able to tell my mother nothing except that I’d had a nice time in the Romantic Old City. It was Ellwood Pymm who said, ‘With a boyfriend! Did I hear all about that! Was I jealous? How come you make a boyfriend so quickly?’

  It sounded innocent enough, but he was a journalist, and he had friends in Wall Street, I remembered. I said, ‘I met someone I once knew in London. Where are you going tomorrow?’

  Ellwood Pymm fished out his programme. ‘There’s a choice. Swimming. Polo. The Africa Cup. Lecture on the Pathology of the Knee. Le Gala International de Boxe. The Africa Cup.’

  I said, ‘I saw it on TV.’

  ‘Try and miss it,’ said Ellwood Pymm. ‘Half their trainers come from English football clubs. The stands are full of coaches talking African dialects full of Liverpool swear words. Jimmy Auld’s daughter is here.’

  My mother said, ‘We know that. There was that photograph in your paper this morning, Wendy. Mrs. Daniel Oppenheim and her husband.’

  I said, ‘Mrs. Daniel Oppenheim is the daughter of a football coach?’

  ‘It happens,’ said Ellwood Pymm. ‘I must say the news nose became twitchy when I saw the Oppenheims had also flocked to Morocco. But there you are. The God Football. No
thing sinister.’

  I said nothing. I hoped my ignorance would count as a plus. I hoped my face wasn’t showing my feelings. For Mr. Daniel Oppenheim, finance consultant, had dined with Sir Robert – and Johnson – the night before the explosion. And I knew, and perhaps Ellwood Pymm also did, that Daniel Oppenheim, before he set up for himself, had headed the prestigious firm of corporate finance experts who advised the Board of Kingsley Conglomerates.

  I put my briefcase into a shopping bag, and walked into the marble halls of the Mamounia. I wandered up steps and through arches and past a long, mirrored pool and into a Moorish kiosk surrounded by shops with six-foot malachite vases in the window. I trod on carpets, and past deep-cushioned chairs round a fireplace. A boy in a red tarbush and a white high-collared tunic came past ringing a bell and waving a board about as if it were a painting. I thought it was time to go up. I asked for Sir Robert’s suite, and Lady Kingsley came down to meet me.

  Sir Robert is a big man, and she was a big woman to match. Like all his wives, she was an excellent hostess with lots of money, lots of energy and several strong alternative interests, including the opposite sex. All of this was not much of a secret, but neither of them ever suffered from nasty gossip because they were popular, and even their philandering seemed somehow healthy. Also, Charity was a very good horsewoman, who worked her own stables, bred hounds and won competitions in which she quite often risked her neck. She had her own circle of friends, and kept a good business table for her husband. Now she said, ‘My dear Wendy: how delightful to see you! How is your mother? Come upstairs and tell me all about it. How good of you to leave her for a little!’

  She led me to the lift, attracting quite a lot of attention in a tailored safari suit and a lot of pearls and gold chains. She never wore make-up, and her hair was greying and her face like fine leather, but her features were marvellous. She had never called me Wendy before, but of course it was all for the cause. The suite, when we came to it was full of silk rugs and marble, and had a balcony that looked over the pool. The pool had a stand of palm trees in the middle. Sir Robert rose and said, ‘Wendy! How kind of you to come!’