Tangier

by William Bayer

  The session with the Americans was quick. The prisoner was brought up, sat numb in his chair while Aziz read aloud from his dossier. When that was finished Hamid asked him if he agreed with the reported facts. The American shook his head and stared down at the floor.

  "Listen here," Hamid said, "you'd do much better to confess. It's your word against a man of the police. Tell us who sold you the hash, sign a confession, and maybe the judge will go easy on you. But make us prove our case and the sentence will certainly be harsh." When he saw that this had no effect, he signaled Aziz to take him back to his cell. "Think about it," he shouted when the American was passing through the door.

  He looked at Knowles, who seemed anxious and stiff. Hamid didn't particularly like him, though he wasn't certain exactly why. Sometimes in the mornings, driving to work, he saw the Vice-Consul and his wife jogging parallel to Vasco de Gama, appearing and disappearing among the trees and mists. He passed over the prisoner's passport, watched while Knowles copied the number down.

  "Well, Mr. Knowles, what do you think?"

  "You're asking me?"

  "Why not?"

  Knowles squinted, then shook his head. "A hippie. I think he's a hippie." He ran his fingers through his hair.

  "But he denies everything—now why does he do that?"

  "I don't know why you ask me, Inspector. I know nothing about the case."

  "You know as much as I do. You're his fellow countryman. I was hoping you'd help me understand the processes of his mind."

  Knowles shrugged. Hamid studied him for a moment, then decided to make a leap. "I have the feeling," he said, "that you don't much like this work."

  "The work's all right. It's just, well—"

  "Aren't you happy in our little town?"

  "Yeah. Of course. Tangier's great."

  "What is it then? Every time I see you you look disturbed. I know it's not pleasant to come into a police station, but I wonder if there's something more than that."

  "I guess I'm a little nervous—"

  "You know I've been observing you, Mr. Knowles."

  "You have?"

  "Oh, yes. Not you especially. But I watch everything, and I've seen you too."

  Knowles turned away.

  "A week ago, for instance, there were several occasions when you particularly caught my eye. You were sitting in your car outside Peter Zvegintzov's shop. Nothing wrong with that, of course. No crime. But I began to wonder. You seemed to be waiting for someone, though your wife wasn't in sight. Being a curious sort of fellow, I began to ask myself: Now why, why would a young man from the American Consulate be watching outside this particular store? And I never did figure it out."

  Hamid fastened his eyes on Knowles, until the American finally looked back. He'd become extremely nervous—so much so that Hamid decided to change the subject.

  "None of my business," he said. "You're your own man here. But forgive me if I give you some advice. Try to be helpful to the prisoners if you can. I know you're only required to give them a list of lawyers and a little counseling on our local laws, but your predecessor did a lot more. He was friendly to them, even used his own money to buy them soap and cigarettes. It's not very pleasant, you know, downstairs."

  "I know." Knowles nodded his head. "But I don't want to get involved. Better to keep everything official—that's what our handbook says."

  "Well, perhaps you're right. Still I admired the last vice-consul very much. He may not have liked the people he had to see, but he understood their pain."

  When Knowles was gone Hamid waited a moment, then went to the window to watch him enter his car. It was driven by a Moroccan chauffeur who for years had been one of his informants-without-pay.

  He returned to his desk, lit another cigarette, and tried to clear his mind. Then he heard noises coming from the street and moved back to the window again. A middle-aged lady, a Riffian in a red-and-white-striped skirt, was struggling with two policemen and screaming for her son. A small crowd had gathered to watch the scene, and Hamid saw other inspectors watching from their windows too.

  Why do we watch? he wondered. Why are we all voyeurs? When he returned to his desk Aziz was waiting by the door.

  "The Vicar's cooling his heels. You ready for him now?"

  Hamid nodded, then began a shopping list in Arabic which he continued after the Vicar was shown in. When he was finished he turned the paper over and looked up at the Englishman with a smile. "Well, Vicar Wick," he said. "This is the first time you've been here, I think."

  "Yes, Inspector Ouazzani. And I confess I'm not happy about it at all. A most unpleasant matter has forced me to come. As I explained to your assistant, I had to see you and no one else."

  Hamid folded his hands and placed them on the desk. "Very well. You're here. Please tell us what we can do."

  Vicar Wick, a short, stout, nervous man whose hair was slicked back with some sort of oil or cream, turned to look at Aziz. "It's most confidential, Inspector. I prefer to speak to you alone."

  "Mr. Jaouhari is my homme de confiance. I promise you he's totally discreet."

  "Still I'd prefer—"

  Hamid shook his head. "Many people come into this room and say the most amazing things. It's necessary for me to always have a witness. Then if there's a misunderstanding later on—but I'm sure you understand."

  "Hmmp! I see! Yes, yes." He turned back to Hamid. "Oh, very well." He was fidgeting. "This is a most delicate matter. Most delicate, indeed."

  Hamid was becoming impatient. "Yes, Vicar, now please tell us what it is. We have lots of work this morning. A number of your fellow countrymen have been arrested with Moroccan boys."

  The Vicar's eyes began to flutter. Hamid studied him. The man chewed his fingernails. Another high-strung Englishman, he thought.

  "You've heard of Mr. Peter Barclay, I presume?"

  "I know him, of course."

  "Good. Then you know the kind of man he is. And his importance to us British here. I needn't tell you that Mr. Barclay is from one of the greatest families in the British Isles—that his cousin is a duke and that he is related to Her Majesty in six different ways. He is, in short, a most distinguished person, and we count ourselves fortunate that he is a member of our little church."

  "Yes, Vicar, we know all of that. Now please get to the point."

  "I'm getting to it, Inspector, if you'll just let me tell this my own way. At our Sunday worship service there comes a time when we collect money from our parishioners. For the maintenance of St. Thomas, of course. Mr. Barclay, as one of our members, always takes charge of the plate. After the service he counts the money and enters the amount in our books."

  Hamid nodded. Aziz, whom the Vicar couldn't see, looked at Hamid and rolled his eyes.

  "Yesterday, Inspector, we had our service, and as usual there were a number of envelopes on the plate. I should explain that we provide them for people who wish to remain discreet. Discretion, you see, is most necessary, since the plate is passed hand to hand."

  "Yes, I see that. Yes."

  "Well, yesterday after the service Mr. Barclay began his usual accounting, and among the envelopes he found this."

  The Vicar reached into his breast pocket and extracted a piece of paper wrapped in the cellophane from a package of cigarettes. "I took the precaution of putting it in plastic. Mr. Barclay and I both touched it, of course, but the culprit's fingerprints may be on it as well."

  Hamid looked down at the item on his desk. "What is it?" he asked.

  "It's a note, Inspector. A note. Without doubt the most malicious note that I have ever read. A note the likes of which has never before been handed to anyone in our church. A note which says things I cannot bring myself to repeat."

  Hamid raised his eyebrows. "What does it say?"

  "Please, sir, read it. Read it for yourself. In the strictest confidence, of course."

  The Vicar glanced at Aziz, who was wincing with disappointment, while Hamid spread the paper out. The note was wri
tten in a violent shade of red ink; the handwriting was even, full of carefully modeled loops.

  YOU DEFILE THIS HOUSE OF THE LORD, PETER BARCLAY. A GOOD THRASHING IS WHAT YOU NEED. YOU'RE A PEDERAST, A TWO-FACED HYPOCRITE, BUT OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST CANNOT BE DECEIVED. LEAVE TANGIER, YOU SWINE, OR BE STRICKEN DOWN. THE LORD'S HOUSE WILL BE CLEANSED.

  Hamid read through it quickly, then read it a second time with care. He wanted to be certain he understood all the nuances of the text. "It seems quite straightforward," he said finally, looking back at Wick. "Tell us what happened next."

  "Nothing happened. This excrescence was simply read. The evidence before you speaks quite plainly for itself."

  "Hmmm. Well, I'm afraid something is escaping me if this, in fact, is all."

  "All! But don't you see? The most distinguished Englishman in Tangier, a man who but for the grace of God might have been a duke, is insulted in the British church by an anonymous note full of calumnies and threats."

  "Yes, I see all that. What does Mr. Barclay have to say?"

  "The poor man's been quite brave about it. He pretends to laugh it off, though of course he's deeply hurt. You see the gravity, Inspector? We simply must find out who wrote this and expel him before others are similarly attacked." He lowered his voice to a shaking whisper. "Oh, how I would love to know who among us has done this thing. With such a maniac in our midst we may all be driven from our church."

  Hamid sat back. "All this is very interesting, Vicar, and I certainly understand your concern. But there's nothing we can do for you here. This isn't a matter for the police."

  The Vicar sat up straight, angry and amazed. "Not a matter for the police! What else are the police for, may I ask, if not to solve cases such as this?"

  "There's been no crime, Vicar. At least not under Moroccan law. No criminal act has been committed, so we're powerless to intervene."

  Wick grasped the note, smudging any fingerprints that might have been left. "But the threats!" he said, shaking the paper in Hamid's face. "The threats! 'Stricken down!' 'A good thrashing!' These are violent threats."

  "I myself see no threats. Only imputations, and entreaties to God."

  "It's blasphemy!"

  "Perhaps. I happen to be a Moslem and therefore not all that well acquainted with your faith. But the laws of my country are clearly spelled out. They say nothing about blasphemy in a foreign church."

  "So that's it! The law doesn't apply to us."

  "That's not true, but you may think what you like. I'm simply telling you I cannot help. You British must settle this among yourselves."

  A long pause then, as the Vicar realized that Hamid could not be swayed. "I see," he said finally, standing up. "I see very well that I shall find no justice here. Good day, sir. I thank you for your time. And may I say that I think things have come to a sorry pass when the police refuse to deal with a foreigner's complaint."

  He stalked out then, and when he was far down the hall Hamid and Aziz began to laugh.

  "Another example of the Nasranis' madness, Aziz. Note it well!"

  "I have, Hamid. I have. But please—what is a British duke?"

  "A grand signor. A great lord. But the point is that Mr. Barclay is not a duke, though he would have everyone in Tangier think that he is. And what the note says is absolutely true--he does make love to boys. But enough of this nonsense. There's still work to do. Take care of the ballet dancers—call them up here, interrogate them, and make many thinly veiled threats. I'm going out for a while. I'll see you after lunch."

  Hamid began to drive about the town aimlessly, in an attempt to clear his head. He passed the Emsalah Tennis Club, saw Omar Salah's car parked in the drive. He was tempted to go in then and play Omar a hard, fast set. But he knew he would feel guilty if he played during working hours, and, too, he knew what people would say. "Ah, Hamid Ouazzani is now an inspector of police and has become unbearably corrupt. He plays tennis in the daytime while the criminals roam Tangier. He has forgotten his humble origins, is now as rich and arrogant as Salah, whom he imitates."

  He laughed at the thought, and at all his missed opportunities to become rich—all the bribes offered him, and sternly refused.

  He turned down the road to Dradeb, then drove slowly so that he could look carefully at everything and see if there was something new. He often tested himself this way, believing that if he stared long and hard enough at familiar sights he might begin to understand them in a different way. He passed only one foreigner on the road, Laurence Luscombe, walking with an empty market basket from his home at the far end of the slum. Luscombe's face looked haggard, and there were pink blotches on his cheeks. His white hair was blowing in the breeze—gentle, thanks to Allah: the harsh winds of May had subsided for a time.

  Hamid passed Dr. Radcliffe's car, parked as usual before the house of Deborah Gates. There was no trace of foreigners as he entered the heart of the slum. The shabby buildings, no more than a single brick thick, looked as though they might fall upon the street. Children in ragged clothing ran back and forth, and he thought of his friend Mohammed Achar busy in his clinic, struggling to keep up with the endless flow of the diseased. Often, now, when he drove through here he recalled his childhood and his struggle to get out, the old cherif who'd taken an interest in him, the year he'd spent preparing for the police exam. It had been difficult. He'd passed, and now he was free. Yet he knew that a part of him would always feel at home in this slum. At La Colombe he slowed down, startled by the appearance of a black official car bearing the flag of the United States. It was the limousine of the American Consul General, Daniel Lake. Now he too was frequenting the shop. Hamid tried to look inside but the sun was in his eyes. He glanced at his watch, discovered it was nearly eleven, time for his weekly meeting with his favorite informer, Robin Scott. He turned his car and drove through Dradeb again, then up a narrow, winding road that took him by the Italian cathedral and onto the Marshan.

  He saw one foreigner walking there, by the wall beside the municipal soccer field. It was the writer Darryl Kranker coming from the love nests near the Phoenician tombs. He was followed by three small boys who imitated his gait and made obscene gestures behind his back. Kranker was unshaven and in disarray. Another pederast, Hamid thought, another one who likes small boys.

  He paused for a moment, watched as the boys passed his car. Kranker paid no attention to them, though they called to him in Arabic and wiggled their behinds. It was pathetic that so many people—painters, writers, British aristocrats—had found their way to Tangier in order to satisfy perverse needs. Hamid disliked nearly all of them, not for their sexual tastes, but for the way these tastes corrupted them and in turn corrupted the town. People had begun to say that it was the Europeans who had brought homosexuality to Tangier. Hamid knew this wasn't true—its existence had attracted the Europeans. Still their exploitation of the Arab vice offended him when it was coarsely and publicly displayed.

  He'd had his own experiences with loving men when he was fourteen years old. He and his friends used to go fishing along the beach below the villas on the Mountain Road. Then they'd go into the bushes and play with each other for release. In those days all girls were kept at home, and women never walked the streets unveiled. There was no shame connected with having sex with one's friends—one grew out of it in time. But as he grew up he began to see it in a different way. It was something that made the Europeans leer as they tried to lure boys into their cars. He'd told his brother, Farid, who was beautiful and four years younger than himself, that if he had sex with a foreigner he would beat him up. Farid had done it anyway, and Hamid had forgotten the threat. Farid's affair had been with a notable, no less a personage than Patrick Wax. Out of that relationship, which had lasted three years, he'd earned enough to open up his shop. That was the way it was in Tangier, a good means for a handsome boy to advance. Perhaps Farid had been fortunate. He'd traveled to Europe, owned fine clothes, met princesses, been a guest aboard a yacht. A luxurious if degrading life f
or a time, but at least now he had his shop to show for all his pains. Would Pumpkin Pie be as lucky, or would he end up without a cent? Hamid could imagine him ten years older driving a taxi in Tangier.

  He drove to Rue Haffa, parked his car, then walked down the narrow street. He loved the Haffa Café —the best of the traditional ones in Tangier. The mint tea there was flavored with orange blossoms in the spring, and with shiba all year around. Hamid liked to come here by himself at odd times, particularly in the autumn, when the hawks hung above the Straits and the air was so clear he felt he could touch Spain if he reached out. And, too, here he had his regular Monday meeting with Robin Scott, between eleven and noon, when no one else was around.

  As he entered the café , mewing kittens ran between his legs. He found Robin in the garden in the back, seated at a small iron table scribbling in his notebook and sipping from a glass. He liked Robin. There was something endearing about his full, round face, dominated by the huge mop of heavily curled reddish hair. He sprang up when Hamid came into sight, making an elaborate flourish with his arm.

  Robin looked healthy, and for the hundredth time Hamid wondered how he managed to survive. His needs were simple—he had a room in a fleabag medina hotel—but still Tangier was becoming expensive, and Robin's fortunes did not increase. The poems he wrote were infrequently published in obscure Canadian magazines, and he received only a stipend for his weekly column in the Dépêche de Tanger.

  It was a gossip column, written in English and devoured by the Mountain crowd. They admired him for his well-aimed barbs but deplored him behind his back. He was too witty for them, dressed in shabby clothes, and was dangerous on account of his outspokenness and his unpredictable beaux gestes. Françoise de Lauzon had once told him that she didn't like his beard. He'd shaved it off the following day, then sent her the bristling hairs by express.

  "Ah, Hamid, have you heard about the blowup at the English church?" Robin liked to begin their talks with bits of shocking news.