A Dead Man in Tangier

by Michael Pearce

  ‘Yes, well, you go ahead and line up a truck. And then we can get started.'

  A pause. Then – ‘Mustapha?'

  ‘Yes?'

  ‘What are we going to put in it? On the down run, I mean?'

  ‘Guns?'

  ‘If it’s going to be guns, we’ll have to set that up.'

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Mustapha decisively.

  ‘And ammunition,’ said Idris.

  ‘Of course.'

  Another silence. Then – ‘Mustapha?'

  ‘Yes, Idris?'

  ‘We’ll need to take someone with us. We’ll need a mechanic. Those pissing roads tear a truck apart.'

  ‘Well, they do, Idris, if it’s a truck like the last one you got.'

  ‘You can’t get better ones!’ protested Idris. ‘Not for our sort of money.'

  ‘Of course you can!'

  ‘No, you can’t. You haven’t been able to for some time now. First, because there are a lot of people running arms down now and they’ve got more money than we have. That Frenchman, for instance. The one our friend is interested in. Money no object! And then, besides, mechanics are not too keen these days. Not since that truck was blown up.'

  ‘That was years ago!'

  ‘I know. But it’s the sort of thing people remember. Especially if they’re a mechanic. Like the one who was killed.'

  ‘Pay them more.'

  ‘It’s easy to say that, Mustapha, but if we’re paying more for the truck as well . . .'

  Another silence.

  ‘Idris?'

  ‘Yes, Mustapha?'

  ‘The truck that was blown up: that was a very long time ago.'

  ‘It was, Mustapha. But people remember it. Especially in times like the present.'

  ‘I remember it,’ said Mustapha, after a moment.

  ‘And so do I,’ said Idris. ‘Bloody terrifying, wasn’t it? We weren’t that far behind. In fact, I thought for a moment that it was we that were goners, not him.'

  ‘They must have put something in the road,’ said Mustapha. ‘Covered it over with sand.'

  ‘I saw the bastards,’ said Idris. ‘They were lying down beside the road. That doesn’t look right, I thought. They’re up to something. Only I reckon the bloke in front didn’t see it in time. Whoosh, it went!'

  ‘I jumped on the brakes,’ said Mustapha, ‘and turned the truck. “Let’s get to hell out of here,” I said.'

  ‘We don’t want anything like that happening this time,’ said Idris.

  ‘We certainly don’t!’ said Mustapha fervently.

  When Seymour came down to go out for a meal Chantale was working at her desk. He lingered, half hoping he might persuade her to come out with him.

  ‘Can’t!’ she said. ‘I’ve got to finish this.'

  ‘More gossip?'

  ‘It’s something I’ve got to get to the printer’s tonight.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Seymour, disappointed.

  ‘It’s for the boys.'

  ‘The boys?'

  ‘Sadiq and his friends. I promised Awad. It’s a stunt they’re up to and they want some publicity for it. I’m going to try the main newspapers but if they don’t want it, I’ll put it in New Dawn.

  ’

  ‘You write for New Dawn?

  ’

  ‘I write for anybody who’ll print me.'

  ‘Even if they can’t pay you?'

  ‘I have a soft spot for New Dawn. Their heart is in the right place. Even if their head isn’t. There are not many papers these days who stand up for Morocco. Old Morocco, I mean, not French Morocco. New Dawn is one of the few.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ said Seymour. He hesitated. ‘I would have thought New Dawn wasn’t quite your line.’

  ‘Why would you have thought that?'

  ‘Difficult for you, I know. But I would have thought that perhaps your sympathies were with the French.'

  Chantale pushed her writing away.

  ‘I’m torn,’ she said. ‘On this as on everything. Half of me says Morocco is a backward place and the French will improve it. Particularly for women. The other half shrieks and says, “Don’t do this to us!”’

  ‘I can understand that.'

  She toyed with her pencil.

  ‘I gather you’ve met Benchennouf?'

  ‘Yes. Sadiq took me to see him.'

  ‘And what did you think of him?'

  ‘Well . . .'

  Chantale laughed.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well!'

  ‘I was really interested in what he might have to tell me about Casablanca. At the time of the trouble. And about the part that Bossu played.'

  ‘And what did he tell you?’ Chantale asked.

  ‘It was mostly about the part that New Dawn played.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Chantale. ‘It would be.'

  ‘Apparently New Dawn had got details of some contracts. Benchennouf said that it really enabled him to take the lid off.’

  She seemed amused.

  ‘If it did,’ she said wryly, ‘they very soon put it on again!'

  ‘Yes. He said that New Dawn was suppressed and that he had to get out of Casablanca in a hurry. And so he was never quite able to make use of the information. That is, until recently.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chantale. ‘That’s right.'

  ‘But that when Bossu was appointed clerk to Mac-farlane’s committee he suddenly saw how he could make use of it.'

  ‘“He” suddenly saw?’ said Chantale. ‘He wouldn’t have seen it in a million years! I suggested it.'

  ‘You suggested it?’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Chantale, ‘I should tell you something. It is about my family; and in particular about my father. You may have heard something of this, but I want to tell you myself.

  ‘My father was a soldier. He came from one of those military families in which for many generations the men have been soldiers. So it was natural for him to become one too. He went to military college, the best, and did very well. He won all sorts of honours and was chosen as the best cadet of his year. All sorts of things were predicted for him.

  ‘When he graduated he was posted to Algeria, which he liked. It was where the action was and where there were chances to excel. Shortly after he arrived in Algeria he met my mother. They fell in love. Whatever my father did, he did passionately. And so he fell passionately in love. But there was, of course, a complication. My mother wasn’t French. She was Moroccan. Not Algerian, you understand? She just happened to be visiting. She had relations in Algiers. There were three sisters and they were all beautiful and so there were always officers visiting the house. It wasn’t common, but the family was well to do and European in its ways. And one day my mother met my father.

  ‘I told you that my father was passionate. He wanted to marry her. My mother’s relations were aghast, and so was his family back in France. It wasn’t done, you understand? They wanted her to marry a decent young Muslim, Moroccan, preferably, but Algerian would do. But my father persuaded them. Or perhaps he didn’t persuade them, perhaps he just went ahead and did it. He was like that. It was the way he was.

  ‘Of course, his family back in France did not like it and I think there was a rupture. He never spoke of his family afterwards.

  ‘And the army didn’t like it, either. They posted him all over the place, to the wildest parts, where there was always fighting. But it did give him the chance to excel. He was promoted and promoted. But all the time there was my mother. And then me. You have heard about all this, perhaps? People talk, I know.'

  ‘I have heard something, yes,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I have grown used to it. But let me move on to Casablanca. And to Bossu. There came a time when French troops were sent to Morocco, and my father went with them. He was pleased because he thought he would be able to spend more time with my mother. And he hardly knew me.

  ‘One day he was sent to Casablanca. There had been trouble there. You pr
obably know about this. They were developing the sea front and for the new buildings they required stone. There was a suitable quarry not far away and some businessmen built a railway line from it to where the building was going on. Unfortunately, they ran it through a Muslim cemetery. It didn’t matter to them, I suppose they thought they could buy their way out of it. But the Muslims erupted. They attacked the men working on the railway line and killed some of them.

  ‘The authorities sent in troops to put down what they saw as a riot. Some of the Muslims were killed and that, of course, led to more riots. The disorder spread, and more troops were sent in. Among them was my father.

  ‘The soldiers suppressed the rioting. Very bloodily. And one day my father objected. He said he was a soldier and that his job was to fight soldiers and not massacre civilians. Quite a lot of the soldiers felt as he did and there was, for a time, for a day or two, a pause.

  ‘But then the city authorities and the businessmen complained. They asked what was the army doing? And, of course, they had influence back in Tangier, and back in France, too, so the fighting resumed.

  ‘But my father refused. He said that the orders were wrong and that he would not obey them. The Casablanca authorities wanted him tried for mutiny. But the army knew it couldn’t do that because so many of the officers agreed with him. And even if they didn’t agree, they respected him. He was a very good soldier and popular throughout the army.

  ‘In the end he was persuaded that the honourable thing to do was to resign his commission. He left the army and tried to make a life as a civilian. That wasn’t easy. He tried being a farmer but that didn’t work out. Nothing seemed to work out. And it was only slowly that we understood why.

  ‘The settlers hadn’t forgotten what he had done and were hostile. But it went further than that. There seemed to be some sort of campaign against him. Wherever he went, whatever he tried, things went wrong. And gradually we realized that this wasn’t an accident. Somebody was organizing it.

  ‘As first we couldn’t believe it. But then one day someone told us.

  ‘The person who was organizing it was Bossu. Again we couldn’t believe it. My father had come up against him in Casablanca and, yes, he had sensed his hostility. But he couldn’t believe that he would carry it so far. Carry it on after he had left Casablanca and so long after he had left Casablanca. But so it appeared to be.

  ‘And it went on. It began to colour everything we did. We realized that they wanted us out – out of Morocco altogether. But my mother was Moroccan! And my father was not the man to give in. He said that he had made up his mind to make a life here and make a life he would.

  ‘Well, in the end he was killed in a road accident. That was terrible. I was very young at the time and I thought the world had fallen apart. It was very hard for us, for my mother, perhaps, especially. We had to make our way alone. But we thought that at least the relentless persecution would stop.

  ‘But it didn’t. It seemed to pursue us, whatever we did. We tried various things and again they did not work out. And, again, people told us it was not by accident.

  ‘So we decided to move back to here, where we were known, and where perhaps people would protect us. Friends helped us buy the hotel. And then, the first day, the hotel was broken up! It may have been chance but, with our experience, we thought it unlikely. Friends told us that it was Bossu.

  ‘Well, then it stopped, and we thought that perhaps he had finally decided to make an end of it. But I did not forget it. And when he was appointed Secretary to the committee, I thought the chance had come to get my own back. I put into Benchennouf’s head the idea that now was the time to stir old memories, to remind people about Casablanca and what Bossu had done there. I even wrote some of the articles. And if it worked, if it did stir old feelings, and if, because of that, someone killed Bossu, then I am glad.'

  When Seymour left the hotel to go out to dinner, usually either Mustapha or Idris was waiting there to accompany him. This time they both were, and with them were two other men who had plainly just arrived.

  ‘Mustapha,’ one of them said, ‘I don’t know why I come to you.'

  Mustapha looked surprised.

  ‘Hello, Fazal,’ said Idris.

  And now Seymour remembered the man. It was the elusive carter. The man with the shifting apartment and the shifting wife, whom Idris had so industriously finally tracked down to the stables.

  ‘Hello, Fazal,’ said Seymour.

  The man gave a slight bow of acknowledgement and then looked him straight in the face.

  ‘It is chiefly for you, Monsieur, that I have come. For I think you are an honest man. Unlike these two.'

  ‘Here, watch it –’ began Mustapha and Idris together.

  ‘Why you should be so interested in the death of the fat Frenchman I do not know. It is said that you are a policeman. But in my experience policemen do not usually concern themselves greatly with such matters. At least in Morocco. Perhaps it is because you do not come from Tangier and do not know the way things are done.

  ‘And how you should have met up with Mustapha and Idris I do not know, either. It seems unexpected to me. It is said they are your bodyguard, and certainly you need one if you go on like this. But to choose Mustapha and Idris! Monsieur, let me counsel you. You could do better.'

  ‘Fazal, are you trying to make trouble?'

  ‘I am not afraid of your knife, Mustapha. At least, not when there are witnesses about. It is just that I am puzzled. Takings, I can see, must have dropped off, but –’

  ‘This, Fazal, is a question of honour!'

  ‘Oh, I see –’

  ‘No, you don’t, Fazal. It is not a matter of money. Our friend stood up for me when Ali Khadr came. Should I not stand for him?'

  ‘Unquestionably you should. But –’

  ‘I am hurt, Fazal, that you should question me on a point of honour.'

  ‘Fazal –’ began Fazal’s companion nervously.

  ‘And offended.'

  ‘Fazal –’

  ‘Oh, I am not questioning,’ said Fazal hastily. ‘Not on a point of honour. Not in any way. I am just surprised, that’s all.'

  ‘Well, just contain your surprise,’ said Idris.

  ‘Who is this bloke, anyway?’ demanded Mustapha, looking at Fazal’s companion.

  ‘He is my friend. Fuad, his name is. And I bring him to the Monsieur because I said I would. I, too, Mustapha, have a sense of honour!'

  ‘Ah!’ said Seymour. ‘This is the friend who was with you on the day of the pig-sticking. The day the Frenchman was killed?'

  ‘That is so, yes, Monsieur. I said that perhaps there were things that his eye had seen and that mine had missed.’

  ‘That is always possible. Thank you, Fazal, for bringing me your friend. And thank you, Fuad, for agreeing to come.'

  ‘I wouldn’t have come,’ said Fuad, ‘had Fazal not pressed me.'

  ‘I am glad that he did. And was it so? Did your eye see something that his had missed?'

  The first part of the story was familiar ground but Seymour took him through it.

  ‘And are you sure, Fuad,’ he said at the end of Fuad’s recital, ‘that there were two horses?'

  ‘Positive, Monsieur. One ran off ahead of us. And that, I think, must have been the Frenchman’s horse, for it was riderless.'

  ‘And the other?'

  ‘Rode the other way, back the way we had come.'

  ‘To rejoin the hunt?'

  ‘I think so, Monsieur. For the rider was holding a lance.

  But, Effendi . . .'

  ‘Yes?'

  ‘Afterwards, I was puzzled. For I had taken the man for one of Musa’s men. But how could that be, if he was carrying a lance?'

  ‘Why did you take him for one of Musa’s men?'

  ‘I did not see him clearly, Effendi. I lost him almost at once in the scrub. But he stopped for a moment to disentangle his headdress from the thorn, so I thought –’

  ‘Monsieur Ricard –�
�

  Monsieur Ricard surveyed him with a baleful but, possibly surprisingly for that hour in the morning, recognizing eye.

  ‘The Englishman!'

  ‘Just so. And, like you, I suspect, getting ready for the pig-sticking tomorrow.'

  ‘I don’t need to get ready,’ growled Monsieur Ricard. ‘I am always ready.'

  ‘A little practice, perhaps?'

  ‘Practice! I don’t need practice. When you’ve been pig-sticking as long as I have . . . No, all I shall do today is see that the horse is all right. In so far as it will ever be all right! I need a new one.'

  ‘I think you mentioned that.'

  ‘One which will keep up. This one is too old. “Like you, Father,” my daughter says. The idiot! What does she know about it?'

  ‘You are as old as you feel, Monsieur, and you, obviously, feel in the best of health.'

  ‘I do. And I don’t need that idiot, Millet, telling me otherwise.'

  ‘You are looking forward to the event tomorrow?'

  ‘Certainly.'

  ‘I wish you well, Monsieur Ricard. It was a great pleasure to visit you the other day and benefit from your knowledge. Not just of pig-sticking but also of Tangier.’

  ‘I should know it. I’ve been here a long time.'

  ‘Then you, perhaps, are the very person who can help me over something that’s been puzzling me. When you spoke so interestingly about the young Bossu and what lay behind his marriage to the charming Juliette, you said that the marriage had nearly not come about because of one of Bossu’s previous affairs. A most unsuitable affair, you said. Certainly, from what you told me, her family appeared to view it so.'

  ‘He wanted to marry her. That was the unsuitable bit. As an affair, there was nothing wrong with it. Lots of young men have affairs with Moroccans. But when you start talking about marriage –’

  ‘She was a Moroccan?'

  ‘Very much so. And the family couldn’t have that. It was one of the older settler families. French through and through. It would have been a blot. Even though it was in the past. People would always have been saying that Juliette was second choice after a Moroccan! Well!'