Stewart, Angus

by Snow in Harvest

  With that ruthless single-mindedness which, in an artist, may cause him unexpectedly to forswear responsibility towards his immediate milieu, sometimes to the embarrassment and confusion of those most closely associated with him, and instead align all that he is behind what at first may be no more than an intuitive prompting towards an undiscovered commitment, Harold Lom decided suddenly to resign. His current commission with the B.B.C. promised, after all, to be without interest. In the excitement which overcame him now he wondered why he had ever accepted it. Certainly the idea of chucking up the assignment must already have been in his mind when, only that afternoon, he had talked of retirement to a totally strange young man.

  Before sleeping Lom 'phoned Caroline Adam. Saunders, his assistant director, he explained, might want her should the Corporation decide to carry on with the projected film. He was due out with the second unit in about a week's time. In the morning he would tell Sandy Pherson, who was a regular employee, simply to maintain the equipment and await word from London.

  When, in the morning, a chambermaid entered the room to draw back the curtains, it was to see a middle-aged man sleeping deeply with an M3 Leica clutched beside him on the pillows, as it might have been a child with a teddy bear. The Nazarene, she concluded, was taking no chances with having his possessions stolen.

  * * * * *

  Jay Gadston also stood on his balcony that night. It was his habit, when feeling particularly in need of self-indulgence, to see the night in with half a bottle of Moroccan champagne. Made tolerable with sugar and lemon juice, the draught cost something under two and six. The flat was a penthouse on top of the highest building in the modern city. This said little for its amenities and interior appearance. Unoccupied for three years as the landlord had confessed, a heavy, sweet-smelling tapestry of mucor grew on the walls, while chained to the ceiling, an enormous twelve bulb chandelier bore indelible witness to the Spanish passion for such objects.

  Below the flat were four empty storeys, though whether in the process of demolition or repair was not revealed. The ground floor comprised various offices, arid the flat occupied by Selly Wilburs. The sole advantage of the penthouse was its view. It had not once housed Nazis for nothing. Four pairs of glass doors gave on to an angled balcony, which swept a broad arc from north to due south. There was very little in the Strait, Gibraltar, both Tangiers themselves, and even a segment of the hills behind, that Jay could not decipher through field glasses. The building had several disadvantages. The lift carried only one and a half persons at a time, as Chalmers had not neglected to point out Its cable was unduly stretched, so that sometimes it stopped, jammed, several inches beneath the desired floor. On such occasions the electric engine needed some minutes untroubled generating before it could raise sufficient energy to correct the mistake. There was, too, the possibility of the building's simply falling down. These drawbacks, coupled with a chronic lack of money, were what caused Jay to consider it an impermanent resting place. The walls had accordingly remained un-whitewashed, and the giant panes of glass were in imminent danger of being blown out for lack of the retaining putty. This problem had become particularly acute during Ramadan, when the cannon, signifying the end of the day's fast, had been wont to rattle them alarmingly. In the eventuality of its blast actually shattering the lot Jay foresaw certain bankruptcy.

  The inspiration for taking the flat had come from Jay's erstwhile companion Rupert Filsall, who had long since returned home. Shortly after his arrival he had been knocked down by the emergency midnight Butagaz delivery. This consisted of an Arab wearing a crash helmet on a Vespa, to which was attached a rack, holding two cylinders of the gas. The Arab sensed the magnificence of his calling, and rode accordingly. Now as Jay sipped the modified champagne looking out over the darkened city, the telephone, which had been Filsall's contribution to elegant living, began ringing in the sparsely furnished salon. It was Chalmers.

  'I wondered if you'd heard about Frederick Halliday,' he began.

  'No—what about him?'

  'It would seem you've got your wish,' Chalmers said, perhaps a little less easily than usual. 'He's dead. Only he was knifed by some lunatic during a riot tonight in the Grand Socco.'

  'Christ almighty!'

  'Could be that was the reason.'

  'That what was?'

  'Religion. There are still a few fanatics who'll have a go at the Nazarene given a fair chance.'

  'What, here? Fez, maybe. Here? Jay repeated stupidly.

  'No, they're all over.'

  'What happened, D'you know? Was Achmed there?'

  'I don't have any details. Only really that Halliday's definitely dead. And whoever it was who killed him.'

  'How did that happen?'

  Oh he went quite berserk, I think. Ran off through some suqs—the silversmiths'. The police shot him down.'

  'Rough sort of justice,' Jay said slowly.

  Chalmers laughed. 'I rather agree. Only they don't coax people to give themselves up and be reasonable through megaphones here. He was crazy. They probably thought he would take a swipe at someone else.'

  'If they thought at all.'

  There's that! Anyway I thought I'd call and let you know?

  'You've certainly done that,' Jay said. There were questions he wanted to ask; protests he wanted to make. For moment, though, he couldn't order these in his mind.

  'By the way,' Chalmers was saying, 'Sally says to thank you for the information about the stone. She's seeing the man tomorrow.'

  'Stone? . . . Oh yes, of course.'

  'How's the birdbath, by the way? I forgot to ask.'

  'Well . . . progressing, progressing,' Jay mumbled. 'It's a table actually, anyway.'

  'I can't think what she wants it for,' Chalmers said. ‘There aren't any birds except gulls and egrets. Do they need such things? Will any birds use it?'

  'That, not my problem . . . I've an uneasy feeling that this particular contract for Lady Simpson is in the nature of charity employment.'

  Chalmers laughed pleasantly enough. Jay felt mildly humiliated, though the confession had been entirely his own.

  'Look, Brodie,' he asked, 'what's going to happen to Achmed?'

  'I don't know,' Chalmers said. There was a suggestion that it wasn't his business to know.

  'Something's just dawned on me.' Jay was thoughtful. 'When I saw Achmed in the Socco . . . With the bundle, you thought might be laundry. That must have been . . . well, sometime soon after it happened. He was looking rather dazed . . . God! Why in hell didn't I go up to him then? He paused a moment, recovering; then said, 'Do we know whether the adoption was legal, or casual, or simply employment, or what? Is anyone we know likely to know?'

  'Wo! Steady now you sound as if you're contesting his will!'

  'Maybe,' Jay said uneasily.

  'Then the only time I ever saw the boy was at your place, remember?'

  'And you didn't like him much.'

  'Oh, I wouldn't say that at all! He was clearly a mixed-up kid. I didn't see any future in your having him around.'

  'Stupid thing is I never even met Halliday,' Jay said bitterly. It had struck him that his perverse instinct for social isolation couldn't have been shown up to less fortunate advantage than in this business.

  'I knew him,' Chalmers said. 'Used to get books from him now and again. But he wasn't any sort of close friend.'

  'Hell!' Jay said emptily.

  'I shouldn't worry about Achmed,' Chalmers sounded reassuring now. 'He'll know how to take care of himself. Then mektoub is built into these people in a way we simply can't understand. He's probably already accepted Halliday's murder as something that was written and unavoidable. He'll simply be getting on with life. As you surely know the word Islam itself means simply resignation.'

  'Sure,' Jay said. He didn't like to sound unconvinced before Chalmers' attempts to buoy him up, which clearly had some truth to them anyway. 'Well, thank you for telephoning.' 'Not at all. See you soon, I hope.'

  'Yes
, surely.'

  Jay put the receiver down and stood looking at it for a moment or two. Then he took the lift down to the first floor, which was as far as it would ever go on the descent unless summoned from ground level, and walked the rest of the way. He let himself out through the heavy glass and wrought-iron door. It was past midnight and the streets were nearly deserted.

  'Hey, you, British! You like it here?' a voice said immediately behind him.

  Jay checked, spun furiously about, and laid his hand on the shoulder of the approaching Arab. 'Get to hell out! Leave me alone, eh?' His jaw protruded aggressively, and was quivering with the tension of his rage.

  The Arab took a step backward, lifting Jay's wrist and letting it fall from him, as if the incredible had happened. 'Why you touch me?' he said softly. 'Why you push me like that, my fren'?' He was the nastiest type of urban tout; natty, ratlike, entirely professional. He would undoubtedly starve rather than sacrifice a thimbleful of haircream. Now he waited for an answer, with an intuitive evaluation of his advantage.

  Jay realised this, as he also realised his mistake. Normally he would simply have gone on walking as if unaware of the other's existence. Now he recognised in his action an impulsive reckoning with his own guilt, or at least the desire to confront an opposing force. Just one more voice had hailed him in the street, and while disgusted by its intention, he was, made more indignant by the naivety the speaker must attribute to himself, and thence by the picture he must present to the speaker, which perhaps was only the picture of what he really was. Jay took a step towards the man and placed his hand on his shoulder again. 'Ye, he asked. 'What is it you want?'

  'Why you push me?' the Arab repeated, unappeased. 'I speak you. That all I did. So why you push me so . . .' he made a disgusted, shoving gesture in imitation of Jay. 'You. guest my country.'

  Some punch line, Jay thought. Some punch line in hypocrisy! Still looking at the Arab, he let his hand fall away, shaking his head slowly. What he wanted to say was that the guilt and pride that was causing the Arab to defend himself so absurdly now was identical with the guilt and pride that had made Jay swing upon him so angrily in the first place: that really the situation was ludicrous. But more strongly he sensed danger; and a barrier across which he was not prepared to communicate intuition to a stranger in the middle of the night. He didn't fear the tout for what he might do now; but for some threat he might represent in the future. It was easy to feel paranoia in the city. 'I'm sorry,' Jay now said simply, and turned on his way.

  He was unsure of the exact locality of Frederick Halliday's shop, though Achmed had told him the street it was in. Crossing the Boulevard, and descending all the time towards the sea, he eventually found it at the lower, seedier end of the Rue Dante. It stood on a corner; a narrow, unprepossessing front with a single window, above which a sign read simply English Bookshop. A single neon strip burned brightly in the display window. The books seemed all either to be in French or English, and he glanced at them only briefly before ringing the doorbell. No one came, and there seemed to be no life at all in the whole neighbourhood. He rang again, this time hearing the long, muffled peal of the bell inside the shop. The noise must by now have wakened even Achmed. Jay had just given up, and was turning to climb the hill again, when a man appeared from behind the hidden corner of the shop.

  Both of them paused, looking uncertainly at each other for a moment, almost as if they had been rival thieves who had simultaneously selected the same premises to plunder. But the stranger stooped and dropped something into the letter box of the shop. Jay returned slowly towards him. The person more clearly revealed wore a felt hat and a light raincoat. Although youngish, there was greying hair at his temples.

  'It'll never be read,' Jay said. This was the first thing that occurred to him; but he could hardly have continued to peer at the other man much longer.

  The stranger was evidently startled. 'What won't be?'

  'Whatever it is you've put in the letter box. The proprietor's dead.'

  'Dead? Frederick Halliday?' In echoing this the man revealed himself as undoubtedly English.

  'Yes.' Jay explained the circumstances, and how he had learned of them. When he had done so, the other exclaimed: 'Good Lord! I was just dropping off a note for a couple of books I wanted. I sometimes do when I've been working late. Halliday sends them round first thing in the morning—used to, I suppose I should say. What a frightful thing . . . my name's Brown, by the way—Simon Brown.'

  'Jay Gadston,' Jay said. 'As a matter of fact Dan Gurney mentioned you only this afternoon—in connection with the possibility of my finding another flat.'

  'Oh?' Brown had looked at him quickly when he'd spoken Gurney's name. 'I do have a flat to let—two in fact, because I sometimes move out of my own.'

  Jay smiled. 'To Dradheb?'

  'Precisely so.' Brown was returning his smile now. 'I find the odd three-month stretch with little more than a paliasse and a primus can be invigorating—besides increasing income usefully. Then year-round flat-dwelling is over privileged in a sense—too easy . . .' he broke off, puzzled by something in his own thought. 'The second flat is let at the moment, and I'm also rather settled into mine. But I want to go to Biskra in a couple of months:

  'Tunisia?'

  'Yes, I'm doing a huge book on a French writer, and he went there. Why not come round for a drink? The layout of the two is pretty much identical. You could see over mine, and perhaps think about it as a possibility for the later date.'

  Jay said he'd like that very much.

  'Then what about tomorrow?' Brown suggested. 'You seem to be something of a night bird. Shall we make it a nightcap? About eleven?'

  Jay agreed readily enough once more. He wondered on an impulse whether he should confide something of his anxieties about Achmed. Brown must presumably know of him, and for all his curiously greying hair, appeared a man little older than himself. But he decided against doing so. They exchanged addresses, and parted outside the shop.

  When Jay regained his flat he took his unfinished drink out on to the balcony and stood there for a long time looking down over the city. He saw Maria-Angeles, swift moving gathered about by silk, enter the Koutoubia for her night's work, almost two hours after it's opening time, but early for her act He didn't know who she was. He watched the lazy arrival of tourists, and the strange isolation of night movement, which makes the tipping of taximen loud and jovial He watched an unspeakably nervous man outside the nearby hotel; spinning as if shot at the end of each brief beat, and ceaselessly tapping his nails with a furled newspaper. Without curtains, the hotel's neon sign threw an alternating pulse of red and green light on to his bedroom wall throughout the night. Towards one in the morning the deaf mute arrived immediately beneath his balcony. Jay had seen him before and supposed him to be some phantom. Sally Chalmers said he was an albino Moor. His hair was tight as a negro's, only the wrong colour completely. It wasn't the cosmetic white of any bleach, but rather the ashen white of catastrophe. Whatever he was, the young man's function seemed to be to rush at cars slowing for the road junction, and to hold their occupants to ransom with inarticulate shrieks. But even when there were no cars to chase he would cover short distances by breaking into a childlike, galloping run. Tonight he went testing the doors of parked vehicles, and found one unlocked outside Ray's Bar. There must have been an ignition key in it, for a moment later the large new Peugeot moved cautiously forward. Then he backed it with violence, braking in masterly fashion just before it hit the next car in the parked row. Leaping out, the deaf mute skipped for some moments in the empty street. Then he repeated the experiment only this time, reversing in an accelerating curve, he hit a Citroen broadside, He got out curiously just as the lady owner of the Peugeot emerged from Ray's, and just as a policeman unexcitedly summoned sweeping a closing café, came up from the Boulevard. With faintly absurd pantomime motions the deranged man was marched off, across the Boulevard, and into the night office of the police station. The scene had been
played without emotion or surprise on the part of anyone concerned. Probably it had happened a dozen times before.

  Before sleeping Jay broke off half a loaf of bread. He had some Idea of stuffing it with butter, and maybe olives, since there were olives on the shelf. But it was like breaking off the tail of an alligator, and the slurp escarpments of crust cut into his knuckle. After sucking the blood and swearing he didn't feel hungry any longer. He chucked the bread in the bin. Most of his bachelor squalor was confined to the kitchen. If he lifted a cup the saucer came with it. Spoons had a habit of becoming glued together. A couple of weeks before Jay had bought a new-born black goat from a Berber woman, and had named him Raskolnikov. Raskolnikov lived mostly on the balcony, though on wet days he was soused with Eau de Cologne, and given the run of the flat. Here his hoofs beat a restless tattoo on the tiles as he wandered around, looking for grass perhaps in the cracks between the glazed urban stones. Hs diet consisted of vegetable peelings, tinned milk, and an occasional bowl of packet soup. The kitchen bore traces of the disorderly feeding of them both. Jay opened one of the balcony doors just before turning off the light. 'Courage, Raskolnikov!' he called.

  * * * * *

  Manolo was asleep. Impatiently, Simon Brown collected a scatter of his clothes and thrust them in a wardrobe. He lay down on the living room divan and considered the boldly blocked notice pinned to the wall above his feet 'When the bridge flows, and the river stands still, there you have Zen.' It was curious that a definition of Zen had given him his first intuitive apprehension (one must not say experience) of Satori. So the communists had bumped off Frederick Halliday. Just how pointless could they get? The wretched man had been no more than a courier. A sentimentalist duped into collecting and distributing Right propaganda from Casa by his warped imaginings of a monarchy that was both absolute and somehow benign. And valueless to their own organisation. To elaborately stage the murder of such an inoffensive old man was absurd even by the measure of Moroccan minority politics. Why hadn't they saved the act for a big man like Gurney? Despairing, Simon Brown flicked the tape recorder switch to 'receive'. The machine hissed for some minutes while he collected his thoughts to dictate:—