A Dead Man in Tangier

by Michael Pearce

  Chapter Three

  The city, when they got there, was oddly still. The streets were empty. The peanut sellers, sticky-sweet sellers and dirty postcard sellers with whom they had previously been crowded had all vanished. The beggars, who had been at least as numerous, had retired into the shade. The shops were not exactly closed – their fronts remained open to the world – but no one was in them. It was, he suddenly realized, the hour of siesta.

  Renaud shook hands and departed and Seymour, with nothing to do until five o’clock, when he was seeing Macfarlane, went back to his hotel.

  That, too, was deserted. He had half hoped to see the receptionist again and was slightly disappointed when he didn’t. She was still probably doubling up as a journalist at the Tent.

  The coolness of the hotel, though, was welcome after the heat outside and he climbed up the marble stairs to his room and lay on the bed. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep – he never could during the day – but he felt a need to sort out the jumble of impressions which had crowded in on him in the short forty-eight hours that he had been in Tangier: the variety of peoples – Arab, Berber, French, Jewish, Negroes (from the Sudan? or West Africa?); the exotic, besieging smells of spices and sand and fresh leather and sandalwood – even the bales of cloth in the tailor’s shop had smelt differently from the way they would have done in England; the different perfumes of the women, light, intoxicating in the case of the Frenchwomen, heavy, sensuous in the case of the Moroccans; the bright colours of the long gowns, pink and salmon and hectic green and blue, alongside the blackness of the veiled women, the sounds, the braying of donkeys, the thin wailing of flutes, the distant beating of drums, the babble and chatter of the streets.

  Above all, the words. Seymour had an unusually acute ear for language and now he was quite dazed. All morning he had been speaking French. That was all right, he spoke it well; but the suddenness and totality of his immersion in it was rather disorienting.

  And then the odd mixture of French and Arabic! The shopkeepers, the people you heard talking as they passed you in the streets – they all spoke French. Even Mustapha and Idris habitually spoke French. But the poorer people, the workmen, the men sweeping up the donkey dung, spoke Arabic. Seymour spoke some Arabic, he had picked it up in Istanbul, but that was a different Arabic from this. Yet he felt its undertone beneath the French, continuously there in the background.

  The words continued to dance in his mind now, both Arabic and French, all jumbled together, as he lay there on his bed, watching the ripples of sunlight playing on the ceiling, reflected somehow from the bay, the words, but also the things, all mixed up: the French soldiers wearing Bedouin headdresses, the shopkeepers, with their polite, cultivated French, but sitting on the counters. Everything all jumbled up, all mixed. France and Africa.

  Macfarlane came punctually at five. There were some people he should see ‘in order to clear things’. First, as etiquette demanded, the People of the Parasol.

  ‘You know about the Royal Parasol? No? Well, whenever the Sultan goes out, a slave goes with him holding the Royal Parasol over his head. It is a splendid affair, all blue and green and glittering, like a peacock’s tail. Everything beneath it is, as it were, in the shade conferred by the Sultan. And so a saying has grown up: “Under the Parasol.” What is under the Sultan’s protection. Meaning Morocco. No longer, I’m afraid.'

  They were going, he said, to see the Vizier for the Interior, Suleiman Fazi.

  ‘There are several Viziers: for Foreign Affairs, Trade, War – you remember Sheikh Musa? He was Vizier for War until he resigned in protest over the Sultan’s agreement to the French establishing a Protectorate. The Viziers are like Ministers and they have that standing. Together they form the Mahzen, the Sultan’s Government.'

  Suleiman Fazi offered them mint tea – mint tea, Seymour soon learned, was the staple of Moroccan social life – which was served at a low table in the ante-room to his office. He seemed in no hurry to turn to business and Macfarlane was too experienced in Moroccan ways to attempt to press him. For some time the conversation was confined to inquiries about their respective families.

  ‘And how is Awad?’ asked Macfarlane. ‘He must have finished his law studies now.'

  ‘He has, yes.'

  ‘Satisfactorily, I hope?'

  ‘Oh, yes. No worries on that score. He’s a bright lad.

  ’ ‘And what is he going to do now?'

  ‘That, alas, remains to be seen.'

  ‘Something in the Mahzen?'

  ‘He’s not keen.'

  Macfarlane looked surprised.

  ‘I would have thought, with his advantages –’

  ‘Oh, something could be found. Has, indeed, been offered. But – he is thinking of working elsewhere.'

  ‘Elsewhere?'

  ‘In another country.'

  Suleiman Fazi looked unhappy.

  ‘Morocco, of course, is not as it was,’ he said quietly. ‘The Sultan keeps his Parasol, but nothing under it remains the same.'

  ‘And Awad doesn’t like that? He’s not happy about the Protectorate?'

  ‘He is thinking of leaving.'

  ‘Of leaving Morocco? But where would he go to?'

  ‘Ah,’ said Suleiman Fazi, ‘that is the question.'

  ‘Algeria?'

  ‘French,’ said Suleiman Fazi.

  ‘Tunisia? Libya?'

  ‘French, too.'

  ‘Egypt?'

  ‘English. It is a question,’ said Suleiman Fazi, ‘that he has not yet resolved.'

  ‘It would be a pity if he left,’ said Macfarlane. ‘People like him will be needed here.'

  ‘That is what I tell him. To be like you, he says? There are worse fates, I say. Oh, he says? Tell me them.'

  ‘The young are always restive,’ said Macfarlane.

  ‘There is nothing for him here,’ said Suleiman Fazi. ‘There is nothing for me, either. All the French will let us do,’ he said bitterly, ‘is collect the taxes for them. And you can imagine how popular that makes us! Everything else we have to leave to the French.'

  He looked at Seymour.

  ‘Your concern is with Bossu,’ he said. ‘Our concern is with the hundreds of Bossus that will be coming.'

  ‘He means: under the Protectorate?’ said Seymour.

  ‘Yes. He fears that the French will flood in. As they have done in Algeria.'

  ‘And will they?'

  ‘The army first. First they have to secure the country. Which, of course, they are presently doing. And that is why I am taking you now to see Monsieur Lambert, the Resident-General Designate.'

  ‘Ah!’ said Monsieur Lambert. ‘L’affaire Bossu. And you are Monsieur Seymour. From Scotland Yard. A long way to come, Monsieur Seymour, and I wonder if your visit is strictly necessary.'

  ‘The committee,’ said Macfarlane softly, ‘is an international one, and other powers beside France need to be satisfied.'

  ‘The committee!’ said the Resident-General, brushing it aside.

  ‘Nevertheless, it has to be worked with, Georges,’ said Macfarlane quietly.

  Monsieur Lambert seemed about to say something but then thought better.

  ‘Have the Mahzen been informed?’ he asked.

  ‘I have taken Mr Seymour to see Suleiman Fazi.'

  ‘Good.'

  He turned to Seymour.

  ‘The forms have to be preserved,’ he said. ‘We know they are just forms, that the Sultan and his Mahzen have no longer any real power. Nevertheless, we must keep to the forms. Pretend that he has. In the interests of –’

  He stopped.

  ‘International harmony,’ prompted Macfarlane. ‘The other powers wouldn’t like it if the French just said, “Right, we’re taking over Morocco.” It would look bad. But if they say, “Look, we’re just trying to help Morocco along, protect it from other nasty European powers, so we’re declaring it a French Protectorate,” well, that looks much better. It makes it more legitimate, and the international com
munity likes legitimacy.'

  Monsieur Lambert shrugged.

  ‘Well, I don’t mind keeping up appearances,’ he said, ‘if that’s strictly necessary. It’s as well, though, if Monsieur Seymour understands the difference between appearances and reality. And the reality is that a Frenchman has been killed and I am the one who has to answer for that in Paris.'

  ‘Of course!’ said Macfarlane soothingly. ‘But it is also true that in the present delicate situation Monsieur Bossu was as well a servant of the international community and they too require satisfaction.'

  ‘They’re not going to make trouble, are they, Alan?’ said Monsieur Lambert.

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Macfarlane.

  ‘Bossu has caused enough trouble as it is,’ said Lambert.

  At the end of the corridor, as they came out, Seymour saw a small group of women about to enter the private quarters of the Residency. One of them was a middle-aged woman, the mother, perhaps, of the two younger women who were with her.

  But, hold on! That couldn’t be right, since one of the younger women, he was almost sure, was the receptionist at the hotel.

  They disappeared inside.

  ‘What trouble did Bossu cause?’ asked Seymour, as they walked away.

  ‘Oh, something in the past,’ said Macfarlane.

  ‘He’s meeting all the nobs,’ Seymour heard Idris say to Mustapha. ‘That can’t be good, can it?'

  ‘So where in all this,’ said Seymour, ‘do the police fit in? Do they come under the Mahzen or under the French?'

  ‘Both,’ said Macfarlane. ‘In principle, they report to the Vizier of the Interior. But in practice it’s more complicated. In much of the interior there aren’t any police at all. The only thing keeping order is the French army. In the more settled parts there will be a Pasha or a Caid – a sort of local governor. And in the big cities, Marrakesh, for instance, or Casablanca, there will be both a Pasha and a French commander.'

  ‘I see,’ said Seymour. Doubtfully.

  ‘Remember, though,’ said Macfarlane enthusiastically, ‘that this is a Muslim country and wherever you are, most things will be handled by the local mosque. Disputes about property, say. In fact, most disputes. In so far as there is law in most of the country, it’s Muslim law.'

  ‘Well, I’m not very up in Muslim law –’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. You don’t need to be. The local mosque comes in usually when it’s a question not of law but of arbitration. Settling an argument between two parties. As long as you stay on the right side of them, you’ll be all right.'

  ‘I see,’ said Seymour, even more doubtfully. And then – ‘So where does Renaud fit in?'

  ‘Ah, well, Tangier is a bit different. There are a lot of businesses here which would like more freedom than either the Sultans or the French would like to give them. International businesses, for instance. So part of the Protectorate deal was that Tangier should become an international zone, a sort of free city. There actually is a Chief of Police here. That’s because there are a lot of European businesses and they like things to be done in the European way. Renaud is their man. In more senses than one.’

  Seymour was silent for a moment. Then –

  ‘So who is it exactly that I’m answerable to over investigating Bossu’s death?'

  ‘Me.’ Macfarlane frowned. ‘Although I have to say that part was left rather vague. Just take it, in practice, that you’re answerable to me.'

  ‘Oh, good. Well –’

  ‘As well as to a lot of other people, of course. France, Spain, Italy and Germany will be taking an interest, especially as the committee is their creation and Bossu was, in a sense, their appointee. And, of course, the Mahzen. It would be improper to leave them out. And then the French – Monsieur Lambert should certainly be kept informed. The Muslims I don’t think you need to bother about. You just have to stay on side with them, and that should be easy.'

  ‘Easy? Ye-e-s . . .'

  ‘And the same with the settlers. Mind you, they’re trouble-makers, but if you handle them in the right way . . .

  ‘And the business interests. Large business, that is. They’re very important. They’ve got a voice in Paris. That’s partly what Lambert was talking about . . . Bossu, you know . . . there was a time when he was very close to them. Perhaps he still was . . .

  ‘Any more? No, I don’t think so. I think that’s about it.'

  ‘Well, that seems straightforward,’ said Seymour.

  By now it was about eight o’clock and the city was just waking up. The streets in the main shopping quarter were crowded and the shops full of people. Up here, where Macfarlane had brought him, the shops were mostly European, spacious, well lit and with counters which were not sat upon but where the goods were displayed in the European way. The goods, too, were European: shoes from Spain, perfumerie and lingerie from France, elegant European dresses from Italy. You could well have been on the other side of the Mediterranean in the towns of Italy or Spain or Greece.

  The shoppers, too, seemed European. At least, they were dressed in European styles. Only the occasional dark-veiled, dark-gowned woman lingered along looking in at the windows. The men were bolder, walking along in twos and threes in the middle of the street, their arms around each other in the Arab manner. Many of them, especially the younger ones, had doffed their brightly coloured gowns in favour of shirt and trousers.

  Tangier was evidently changing, and it wasn’t just the political change, the coming of the Protectorate, it was social change: the coming of Western ways of shopping, the abandonment of the intimate cubby holes of people like Ali, the tailor, for the bright, public world of the metropolis.

  He was just saying this to Macfarlane when down the middle of the street came a file of white horses. On either side of them were Arabs in short white gowns revealing brawny knees pressed tight to the sides of the horses. With them, also on a horse, was Millet, the horse doctor. He put his hand up and the cavalcade stopped.

  ‘Hello, Millet,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Taking mounts to the barracks?'

  ‘Just checking them over first,’ said Millet.

  He frowned, and then urged his horse out to one side.

  ‘Will you walk that one for me a bit, Ahmet?’ he called.

  One of the white-gowned figures retrieved a horse from the line, swung down and then for a moment walked it up and down in front of Millet.

  ‘There! See it? I don’t like that for one moment.'

  The Arab nodded.

  ‘I will tell Sheikh Musa,’ he said.

  ‘He won’t like that! Someone must have missed it. Musa’s mounts are usually pretty good,’ he said to Seymour. ‘We don’t usually have any trouble. The old man’s got an eye like a hawk.'

  The Arab said something.

  ‘He says Musa will be angry. The man at the paddock should have spotted this.'

  ‘Will you see to it, Ahmet? And explain to Sheikh Musa? He’ll take your word for it. Ahmet knows nearly as much about horses as Musa does,’ he said to Seymour.

  The Arab obviously understood some French for there was a flash of white teeth as he grinned.

  ‘Musa’s right-hand man. We rely on him, absolutely rely on him, for the pig-sticking. He gets the pigs in position and then, once the chase has started, rides outrider on one side to check things keep all right. See if anyone’s fallen off.'

  ‘Did he see Bossu fall off?'

  ‘He saw he had fallen off and sent someone back for the horse. But that was later. Okay. Ahmet, let’s get moving again!'

  The file of horses continued on their way. No one took any notice of them. Sights like this were evidently not uncommon in the middle of Tangier.

  Macfarlane was taking him to the committee’s offices, which were in one of the big banks. A committee like the Consular Committee would normally have met in the rooms of its Chairman. The British Consulate, however, Macfarlane explained, was too small – its size an accurate reflection of the extent of Britain’s int
erest in Morocco – and so alternative accommodation had had to be found. The French had offered a temptingly palatial suite in the offices of the Resident-General but this was felt, reluctantly, to compromise too obviously the committee’s independence. The Germans, seeking to ingratiate themselves with the Sultan, had proposed somewhere within the Mahzen, but the Sultan did not recognize the committee and refused to have anything to do with it. In the end, the committee had had to settle for some rooms in the offices of one of the big foreign banks, which, so far as sending out signals was concerned, was probably the worst of all possible worlds.

  Macfarlane took him up to the third floor and through a door marked Joint Inter-Consular Committee. Inside were three rooms: a large committee room, an even larger office (Bossu’s) and a rather smaller one which accommodated the committee’s papers and also an elderly man who rose politely from his desk when they entered.

  ‘Hello, Mr Bahnini,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Still here, then?

  ’ ‘I’m just sorting out the papers for the meeting tomorrow. You recall, I hope . . .?'

  ‘Ten o’clock,’ said Macfarlane. ‘I’ll be here. What we would do without Mr Bahnini, I don’t know,’ he said to Seymour. ‘Mr Bahnini, can I introduce Monsieur Seymour? You remember, I said I would be bringing him round. Seymour, this is Mr Bahnini, the mainstay of our committee. Especially now that Bossu has gone. He ran the office for him. Clerk to the clerk, you might say.'

  Mr Bahnini smiled faintly.

  ‘And we all know what that means. The man who does all the work.'

  Mr Bahnini bowed slightly in polite acknowledgement.

  ‘And now, for all intents and purposes, clerk. At least for the time being.'

  ‘Actually, sir, I wished to speak to you about that.'

  ‘Naturally, your extra duties will be remunerated.'

  ‘No, no, sir, it wasn’t that. The fact is, I was hoping to relinquish them.'

  ‘Well, we’re rather hoping that the committee won’t go on for too long –’

  ‘I was hoping to relinquish them immediately, sir.'