A Dead Man in Tangier

by Michael Pearce

  ‘That would be a shame, Robert. Just when we need continuity.'

  ‘I am sorry, sir.'

  ‘Got something else to go to?'

  ‘Not exactly, sir. I was hoping to return to Casablanca.'

  ‘Couldn’t you delay your return? It will only be for a few months. We’d make it worth your while.'

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.'

  ‘It would make a difference to your pension. You do have a pension, don’t you?'

  ‘A small one. From the Ministry. I worked there before joining Mr Bossu.'

  ‘A small one. There you are! We’d step it up, you know. I’m sure you could do with some more money coming in. How’s that boy of yours? Has he finished yet? Still an expense, I’ll be bound.'

  ‘He has just finished at university, sir.'

  ‘Got anything to go to? No? Well, look here, we might even be able to find something for him. He could assist you in the office. After all, you’re taking on Bossu’s work, so someone will have to take on yours.'

  Mr Bahnini shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think he would be interested, sir.'

  ‘Just while he was looking around?’ said Macfarlane temptingly.

  ‘I’m afraid, sir, that for him it’s a matter of principle.’

  ‘I see. Ah, the young! Not a matter of principle for you, too, I trust?'

  ‘No, sir. I compromised my principles long ago,’ said Mr Bahnini quietly.

  ‘Haven’t we all?’ said Macfarlane, sighing. ‘Well, if you’re really sure about this –’

  ‘I am, sir.'

  ‘In that case, we’ll have to accept it. Give it another day or two to think it over, remembering what I said about the pension. And then if you still want it, I’ll take the necessary action.'

  ‘Thank you, sir.'

  ‘Although how we shall manage without you, I don’t know. You’ve been here right from the start. Bossu brought you with him, didn’t he? We’ve always thought of you as Bossu’s man.'

  ‘That is just the trouble, sir,’ said Mr Bahnini.

  ‘Mind if I have a quick look?’ said Seymour.

  Mr Bahnini showed him into Bossu’s office. It was full of potted palms. They were everywhere. There were two by the window, as if Bossu couldn’t stand the harsh daylight, two either side of his desk, and others scattered around the room. Two were hanging over a long divan, two more stood beside easy chairs, and there was one near a low coffee table.

  Seymour went over to the desk and tried it. The drawers were open but there was little of interest in them. Few papers of any kind. No desk diary, as far as he could see.

  ‘You kept his diary?'

  ‘In so far as one was kept. Mr Bossu didn’t work by journal appointments. He liked to drop in on people, meet them in hotels over a drink. It was very hard to tie him down, sir.'

  Beside the desk was a filing cabinet. Seymour tried it but it was locked.

  ‘I have the key, sir,’ said Mr Bahnini.

  He went out of the office and returned with a small brown envelope.

  ‘The keys were on his person, sir, when he was found. Mr Macfarlane took charge of all his private belongings. The keys were among them. He brought them back and deposited them with me. The envelope has not been opened.'

  When Seymour opened the filing cabinet he found it largely empty. There were just a few scraps of paper, leaves torn from a pad, with some notes scribbled on them. Seymour looked at them and then, for the moment, put them in his pocket.

  Macfarlane had invited him home to dinner. When they got there his wife had just finished putting the children to bed. Macfarlane went up to kiss them goodnight and Mrs Macfarlane collapsed with a drink on the divan. She was a small, bright, birdlike woman, Scottish, like her husband.

  ‘Well, Mr Seymour,’ she said, ‘how do you find us?'

  He took her to be referring to Morocco as a whole.

  ‘A strange mixture,’ he said. ‘Strange, but interesting.

  ’ ‘It is that,’ she said. ‘And sometimes I think it’s getting stranger.'

  ‘As the French move in?'

  ‘As the West moves in. I think I liked it more as it was. Dirty and barbarous. Often cruel. But, somehow, authentic. Itself.'

  ‘You liked it under the Parasol?'

  She laughed.

  ‘Life under the Parasol was not that special,’ she said drily. ‘Especially at court. Diplomats see a lot of courts, and they’re not always the most interesting places to see. When we came out here first the Sultan was very young. Just a child, really. And he made the whole court a nursery, a kind of playroom, as my parents would have called it.

  ‘At one time he developed a craze for bicycle polo. Bicycles were a new thing then. He got the whole court to play, even the Viziers. Even –’ she laughed – ‘some of the Consuls. My husband, for instance. Although he quite liked it. Actually, I would like to have played, myself. We used to play it as children at home. But, of course, as a woman I wouldn’t do it here. The court became very indulgent but not quite that indulgent! This is, after all, a Muslim country.

  ‘And, as in many Eastern countries, the Sultan had absolute power. Even if he was just a child. And because his power was absolute, he thought he could do anything. They all had to obey his will. And if his will was to play bicycle polo all day, well, so be it.

  ‘He had no sense of – well, measure. For example, they were always smashing the bicycles up. Well, that was no problem. He would just order the Vizier to get new ones. And everything was like that. Money was no object. If he suddenly felt he wanted something, he would just get it. Money simply ran through his fingers. He thought it would never run out. But, of course, it did. And that enabled the French to come in. It’s always like that. It was just the same in Egypt under the old Khedive when we were there.'

  ‘He’s still like that, is he?'

  ‘Less so now. The French have hemmed him in. Controlled his expenditure. And, besides, he’s grown up a bit. But it’s too late. He’s lost all his support. His capriciousness has turned everybody against him. Even his own half-brother.’

  She sighed.

  ‘So you see,’ she said, ‘it wasn’t always that good under the Parasol. I liked it as it was but maybe it had to change. And you could have worse people coming in than the French. I sometimes think that the French and the Moroccans have a lot in common. Their cultures are more traditional than ours, more formal, more polite, naturally courteous. When you go to a French household the children come round before going to bed to shake hands. In a Moroccan family it’s rather like that, too. Whereas with my savages . . .!' Macfarlane came downstairs and they went out into a little courtyard to dine. The house was an old Arab one, with a courtyard almost inside the house and boxed wooden windows looking down on it from above. A fountain played into a small pond and around the walls were cypresses and jasmine. As it grew darker the smell of the jasmine was joined by the scents of other flowers which opened only at night.

  The meal was Arab, too, with hot, peppery soup and then various kinds of meats, served with rice and burning hot peppers. Afterwards, there was melon and iced orgeat, made of crushed almonds, milk and sugar.

  Seymour was a little surprised. In his office Macfarlane had seemed so British. At home he seemed much more responsive to things Moroccan. Perhaps that was the effect of his job. More likely, thought Seymour, it was the effect of his wife.

  She asked him if the hotel was comfortable.

  ‘Very,’ he said. ‘And the people are most helpful.’ He mentioned the receptionist.

  ‘Chantale,’ said Mrs Macfarlane, with a smile.

  ‘She seems very versatile.'

  ‘Aye, she is that,’ said Macfarlane.

  ‘She has to be,’ said Mrs Macfarlane. ‘She and her mother run that hotel between them and there can’t be a lot of money to spare.'

  ‘She’s a good lassie,’ Macfarlane conceded.

  ‘A journalist, too, you said,’ said Seymour.

&nb
sp; ‘She would like to be. But it’s not easy if you’re a woman and in an Arab country.'

  ‘She writes mostly for the French newspapers,’ said Mrs Macfarlane.

  ‘It’s still not easy.'

  ‘She seems to have good French contacts,’ said Seymour. ‘I saw her with the pig-sticking crowd and then again, I think, at the Resident-General’s.'

  ‘She would have been going to see Cecile,’ said Mrs Macfarlane.

  ‘Cecile?'

  ‘The Lamberts’ daughter. They were at school together.'

  ‘Not altogether happily in Chantale’s case,’ said Macfarlane.

  ‘She rebelled against it. It was a convent school and too strict for her. So soon after her father’s death. But what could they do? There aren’t many schools here and they wanted it to be a French one. The Lamberts were very good to her. They treated her like another daughter. She’s always been very close to them.'

  ‘She wanted to be independent, though.'

  Mrs Macfarlane laughed.

  ‘She would, wouldn’t she? But it’s a good thing they got that hotel. It gives them a base of their own, and you need that if you’re a woman in Morocco.'

  ‘Aye, but will it do for her in the long run?'

  ‘Why shouldn’t it?'

  ‘You always feel that she’s champing at the bit.'

  ‘Isn’t that inevitable?'

  ‘She ought to go to France,’ said Macfarlane.

  ‘But would that work out any better? It would be the same thing only the other way round.'

  ‘Sorry?’ said Seymour.

  ‘Perhaps you’ve not understood,’ said Mrs Macfarlane. ‘Chantale is half Moroccan.'

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, it seemed that all Tangier was on the road: except that when they got to the Tent it seemed as if all Tangier had already got there. The space around the marquee was packed with people, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them, many of them dressed in robes of pink and blue, saffron and mauve. The Tent, too, was already full of people. A long bar ran down one side of it and there was a crush of people six feet deep pressed against it. Away from the bar it was almost as crowded.

  Macfarlane took one look and said: ‘We’d better go straight to the enclosure.'

  Behind the Tent was a roped-off enclosure full of horses and men, the men in brightly coloured shirts and riding breeches, and holding lances, the horses nervous and frisky. Apart from the lances it reminded Seymour of . . . What was it? A circus? That County Show again? He’d got it! He knew what it was. As part of the show there had been a gymkhana. That was it: it reminded him of a gymkhana.

  What followed, though, was not at all like a gymkhana.

  A bugle sounded and anyone in the enclosure who was not already on a horse began to mount. There were about a hundred riders and now they were all holding lances, their points held vertical, as in a Renaissance painting.

  A rope was removed and the horses began to move round the side of the marquee and out towards the desert and scrub.

  The crowd surged with them, small boys running excitedly ahead and frequently in front of the horses. The horses took no notice. They formed into a long line and began to trot.

  The crowd, too, began to trot, and Seymour, willy-nilly, with them. People pressed in upon him on all sides. He very soon lost sight of Macfarlane. He found himself being carried along and began to feel anxious. Crowd control? Where was it? They were all running. If one person went down it would be a disaster.

  Horses and people were making for a point in the distance where a man holding a flag stood on a large box.

  Seymour fought to remain upright.

  Suddenly he felt his arms grasped. Mustapha was on one side, Idris on the other. For the first time he was glad of their support.

  The crowd had quietened down. Everyone, like him, was concentrating on running. It was like being in a marathon.

  The horses quickened their pace and drew ahead of the runners. The small boys scattered. The man on the box raised his flag. Just as the line of riders was about to reach it, he dropped it.

  The horses shot away and the crowd surged after them. Away in the distance Seymour could see shapes moving in the scrub. Around them were men in white robes on horses, Musa’s men. The pigs began to run.

  Everyone was shouting excitedly. The horses were away out in front and the crowd beginning to stretch out behind them. Some of the fleetest runners were well ahead. Presumably the less fleet were already well behind. Seymour was in the middle, stumbling along, half-supported, half-carried by Idris and Mustapha.

  ‘Come on, come on!’ they shouted.

  A few of the pigs ran off to one side and one or two of the riders went after them. Seymour tried to pull across.

  ‘What are you doing? This way!'

  ‘No, I want to –’

  ‘This way, Monsieur! On ahead! Look!'

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want to –’

  ‘Come on, Monsieur! What are you doing?’

  ‘This way! Straight ahead! Look, you can see –’

  ‘Yes, but I want to go that way!'

  ‘Monsieur, can’t you see?’

  ‘Come on, come on!'

  The line of horsemen, too, had broken up. Some were already far in the distance. Behind them, riding in a group, were some men he recognized. The soldiers! In their headdresses! They were riding in a compact, disciplined way, their lances all at the same angle.

  ‘This way! Monsieur, Monsieur –’

  ‘No, I want to go –’

  ‘But, Monsieur!'

  ‘There they are! That way! See?'

  ‘No, no, it’s the others I want to go after.'

  He managed to pull out of the flow and over to one side.

  ‘What are you doing?’ cried Mustapha, almost stamping in vexation.

  ‘Some pigs ran off this way. And a few of the riders went after them.'

  ‘Yes, I know. But –’

  ‘Just as Bossu did.'

  ‘Bossu?'

  Mustapha stopped.

  ‘You know, Monsieur,’ he said, ‘you disappoint me.'

  Ahead of him in the scrub he could see a group of horsemen. They had come to a stop and were arranged in a small circle.

  He walked through the bushes towards them. He could see them clearly. On their horses they stood out above the scrub. They were all looking down and the points of their lances were down.

  ‘Its too late, Monsieur, you’ve got here too late,’ said Idris. ‘You’ve missed it.’

  Seymour ignored him.

  ‘We should have stayed with the others. It’s true we’d have missed it with them, too, you always do when you’re on foot. But there would have been more of them, you’d have seen more –’

  ‘He’s thinking about Bossu,’ said Mustapha.

  ‘Why didn’t we stay with the others?’ grumbled Idris. ‘You’ve missed all the fun.’ He stopped. ‘Bossu?'

  ‘The Frenchman,’ said Mustapha.

  ‘Well, that’s not very exciting, is it? We should have stayed with –’

  There was a sudden crashing in the bushes and the next moment a pig darted out.

  ‘Jesus!'

  It rushed towards them.

  Several things happened at once. There was the sound of a shot and the squeal of a pig and Seymour was sent sprawling.

  When he looked up there were men coming towards him with lances at the ready. They reined in.

  ‘What are you doing? You’ve shot our pig!'

  ‘Too bloody true I’ve shot your pig!’ said Mustapha.

  ‘Fool!'

  ‘Idiot!'

  ‘What are you doing here? And what are you doing here?’ asked someone, catching sight of Seymour. ‘Don’t you know –?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Seymour. ‘The pig ran out upon us.'

  ‘You oughtn’t to be here. This is –’

  ‘I know, I know.'

  ‘Yes, but he shot it! He shouldn’t have done that!'

&n
bsp; ‘It was coming for us. He had to act quickly.'

  ‘Yes, but you don’t shoot pigs!'

  ‘What do you expect me to do?’ asked Mustapha. ‘Strangle it?'

  ‘What are you doing here, anyway? You shouldn’t be here. You’re just a –’

  ‘I can see one!’ shouted one of the horsemen excitedly. ‘Over there!'

  ‘Where? Where?'

  ‘This way, this way –’

  They rode off.

  ‘Exciting enough for you now?’ asked Seymour.

  They left the shot pig lying and walked over to where the men had made their kill. The stuck pig was lying on its side in a little clearing. It had been killed by a single thrust and a trickle of blood ran down into the sand from between its shoulders. Already the flies were gathering.

  Seymour walked round it, trying to take in as much as he could. Later, a particular detail might become relevant. At the moment he could only stare.

  Mustapha and Idris sat in the shade of a bush, bored.

  ‘Seen what you want, Monsieur?’ hinted Idris, after a while.

  The truth was, there wasn’t much to see. A dead pig looked, well, like a dead pig.

  Men were coming through the bushes on foot. They were Musa’s men and their job was to collect the pigs after they had been stuck. They had brought poles with them which they thrust between the pigs’ trotters after they had tied them together. They did this to both pigs, the shot one as well as the stabbed one. Then they hoisted the poles on to their shoulders and with the pigs slung beneath set off back to the Tent.

  Quite a crowd had gathered round, Seymour suddenly realized, to watch. They were mostly the ones unable to keep up with the hunt: the old, the fat, the halt and the lame.

  A thought struck him. They would have been old and fat and lame on the previous occasion, too.

  He began to move among them.

  ‘Were you here when the Frenchman . . .? Did you see . . .?'

  They looked at him blankly.

  He had tried them in French. Up to now he had found that everyone in Morocco spoke French. Now, of course, it appeared that no one did.

  He tried them in his less strong Arabic.

  ‘Pig-stuck?’ said a man helpfully, but then lapsed into silence.

  ‘Here?'

  There was no response. He couldn’t believe that no one, absolutely no one, seemed to understand him. What he needed was an interpreter, or at least someone who could put the questions for him. Surely, among all these people, there was someone who . . .