Tangier

by William Bayer

  When Aziz came out Hamid started up the car. Aziz slid into the passenger seat, then laid his hand on Hamid's arm. "He wants to see you."

  "Any idea why?"

  Aziz shook his head. "I told him you were busy, but he insisted it would be worth your time."

  Hamid thought a moment, then nodded and turned the ignition off. As he walked into La Colombe he dreaded another scene, another request to see Kalinka. But he was determined, no matter what Zvegintzov said, to remain cool and aloof.

  Peter was waiting for him, both hands face down on the counter. His shirt was wet beneath the arms.

  "You asked to see me?"

  "I have information."

  Hamid nodded.

  "This is valuable information. Possibly worth a great deal."

  "You know I'm not going to pay you, Peter. We needn't go through that charade."

  "I don't want money, Inspector. I simply ask that you recognize the fact that I'm about to give you something you can obtain from no one else."

  "If that's true I'll recognize it."

  Peter looked at him. "I want more than that."

  "Tell me what you want."

  "When I have told you this I want your good regard." Zvegintzov ran his tongue across his upper lip. He turned slightly, until his thick glasses caught the light.

  "I've always had high regard for you, Peter."

  "But you haven't had respect."

  "All right." Hamid was impatient. "What is this about?"

  "Last week Aziz asked if I knew of any Nazis in Tangier. I can tell you now that I do."

  "I'm listening."

  "You're surprised, Hamid. You didn't expect to receive such information today. Admit it. You really do respect me a little now."

  Zvegintzov grinned, displaying a row of stained and crooked teeth. Hamid stared at him, tense, annoyed. "Admit it. At least admit that you're surprised."

  Hamid exhaled. "Yes, Peter, I'm surprised. Does that satisfy you? You've made your point."

  "You really do respect me now?"

  "I respect you more and more as each second passes by."

  "Thank you." His hands, Hamid noticed, were now loosely curled into fists. His face betrayed a child's pleasure—he'd won himself a trivial point. "There is only one case that I know of undiscovered Nazis in Tangier. These people have gone to great lengths to disguise themselves. I believe I'm the only person here who knows who they really are. When I tell you their names you'll kick yourself for not having thought of them. You'll know instantly that I'm right, and you'll gladly acknowledge that I have formidable abilities which you've underrated much too long."

  "In a minute, Peter, I'm going to walk out of here "

  "Yes, yes. You're busy. I know. The Freys. You know their house, of course. Their collections. Their paintings and antiques. You know they raise Alsatian dogs. But did you know too that there are indictments against them in Belgium? That there are people in several countries who would give a great deal to know that they are here?"

  "How do you know this?"

  "I've known for a long time."

  "How?"

  "I've heard certain things. And I've discovered others on my own."

  "You have proof?"

  "I'm not a judge, Hamid."

  "Who are they?"

  "So! You believe me. Good!" He leaned forward, toward Hamid's ear, and spoke rapidly in a hoarse whisper, turning away every so often to clear his throat and cough. "They are notorious. The Beckers. Kurt and Inge Becker. Same first names, you see. During the war they ran a confidence ring, pretended they could help prominent Jews escape. They doublecrossed them, stole everything they had, murdered them after they'd signed over everything and placed themselves in their hands. They amassed a great fortune which they somehow managed to have transferred here. You can read about them in books, I expect, and also in Israeli files. Ha!"

  He pulled Hamid by his sleeve over to the window, then pointed up at a palace that hung precipitously above the ravine. "Now they live quietly in their big house on the Mountain. That place is impenetrable as a fort. Walls, wire fences, dogs, electric gates. The Freys are courteous people, always dignified and correct. They give money to the local charities, and their servants report that they are kind. There is a rumor around that they are under royal protection. There's nothing more that I can tell you, except that everything I've said is true. They're excellent customers, by the way. Tell me what you'll do."

  "You give information to me, Peter. I don't give it to you. But for what you've just told me I certainly hold you in regard."

  He was pleased, walking back to the car. Though he knew he couldn't always trust Zvegintzov, this time intuition told him that he should. He had performed, he thought, a marvel of detective work, forming a theory that would explain the presence of an Israeli agent in Tangier, then uncovering information that suggested his theory was correct.

  But later, that afternoon, he thought about Zvegintzov and the curious price he'd extracted for the Beckers' names. Why does Peter want my respect? What possible good could it do him now?

  He was disturbed the next morning by something he saw on his way to work—a girl, no older than twelve, swinging a cat by its tail against a telephone pole on Rue de Belgique. He stopped his car, called out. The girl glared at him, heaved the cat away, and ran off down the street. The cat was dead. Hamid wrapped the carcass in a newspaper and deposited it in the trash.

  Arriving at his office, he felt depressed. A great number of new cases had accumulated during the night. Aziz had arranged the dossiers in order of importance on his desk. Hamid looked at them, groaned, then set to work. By eleven he was finished, and exhausted from the task.

  "About Lake," he said to Aziz. "Any idea why he's hanging around La Colombe?"

  "We don't have anything on that, Hamid, except that he and Zvegintzov are friends. Lake's had him to the Consulate several times. The Russian takes part in the conversation, sometimes drinks too much and runs off about his clients. Lake's chauffeur says the Consul drives over there nearly every day, and that Zvegintzov gives Lake cigars."

  Someone blew a whistle outside. Hamid walked to the window. Two cops were tussling with a boy in front of the building. A small crowd had gathered. A man in a bloodstained butcher's apron was waving his fist. A police jeep was parked by the curb.

  "I've never known Peter to give anything away."

  Aziz bent forward. "What do you think, Hamid?"

  "Nothing. I don't think anything. I wish I were home in bed."

  At noon he picked up his brother, then drove out to a fish restaurant on the Atlantic beach. They ordered seafood tapas, dishes of tiny eels and clams and squids, which they ate with bits of Arab bread.

  "I'm worried about Kalinka."

  He spoke rapidly, after a silence. Farid looked up and wiped his mouth.

  "She's very strange lately. She's stopped smoking—Achar convinced her, but in a way that's made things worse. Now she draws and broods. I come home and find her sitting by the window. When I ask her what she's done, she looks at me and I feel her eyes drilling to my heart. I ask about the pictures. She shows them to me—strange, shadowy scenes. I ask her what they mean. She blinks at me and smiles."

  "Well, Hamid, you have to take her to a doctor."

  "She's been to Achar. Radcliffe too. They tell me she's just a little nervous, and I shouldn't allow myself to become upset."

  "Maybe a psychiatrist—"

  "In Tangier? Our so-called psychiatrists are madhouse attendants. Anyway, how can I send her to one of them? I'm an inspector of police. Soon everyone will be saying she's sick in her head. People will use that against me. I don't care, but those pitying looks, those suggestions that I throw her out. Ah!"

  He swirled his fork among the eels. Farid pushed back his chair. His face was like Hamid's, but less Berber, prettier. "She's always been strange, Hamid."

  "I know. At first I thought it didn't matter. She was what she was, I loved her, and that was eno
ugh. But now I feel I must understand her. She suffers. Perhaps she longs for something. Some loss. Torment. I don't know."

  Then, sensitive to the fact that he was making his brother uneasy, Hamid switched the subject. "Have you ever sold anything to the Freys?"

  Farid shook his head. "They don't collect Moroccan things. They like signed French furniture. Impressionists. Roman coins."

  "You've seen all that?"

  "One time. With Wax. He was after them for a while. When he smells money on people he warms up to them, and he smelled it on the Freys. He's drawn to rich people. When he finds them the first thing he does is think up a swindle. There was a jade scepter they had, and he wanted it. He had in mind a trade, a pair of short obelisks which he claimed were ancient pieces from Luxor, though I happen to know he had them made by the man who makes gravestones on Avenue Hassan II. Anyway, we went up to the Freys'. This was during the time that Patrick was teaching me interior decoration and good taste."

  Hamid laughed, though his memory of that time was sad. He'd felt such shame for his brother then, the "bought boy" of Patrick Wax.

  "He taught me a lot, you know. Took me to Europe. Showed me the museums. Enough so I could tell that the things up at the Freys' were good. They have an excellent Renoir and some wonderful bibelots."

  "Did you like the Freys?"

  "Are they involved in something, Hamid?"

  "Perhaps. I can't tell you more than that."

  "Well, all I can say is that they were pleasant enough, though not especially refined. There they were, living amidst all that splendor, but there was something ordinary, peasant-like about them too."

  "Did Wax get his scepter?"

  "No. They were shrewd. They saw through him. They sensed he was a charlatan. But they didn't let on. They just smiled and shook their heads."

  As they drove back to the city, Hamid marveled at how much his brother had been changed by the three or four years he'd spent with Patrick Wax. He'd been taken into palaces and chateaux, taught about precious materials—marble, silver, bronze. Now he had his own shop, where he sold rugs and Berber jewelry. He designed candelabra, based vaguely on Moroccan models, which he sold to European decorators at many times their worth.

  "It's funny, isn't it?" he said as they were passing through Place de France. "I became a policeman, and you became an antiquaire. Can you remember, fifteen years ago, the two of us kicking around a soccer ball in the dust?"

  He stopped to let Farid off at his store. Farid opened the car door, hesitated, then shut it again.

  "About Kalinka, Hamid—"

  "Yes."

  "I can talk to her if you like."

  "Well—"

  "We've always gotten on. Perhaps she needs a confidant. I'd be happy to talk with her if you agree."

  "Thank you, Farid, but I don't know—"

  "Well, anyway let me know if I can help."

  He was grateful to Farid for that, but thinking about it through the afternoon, he decided he must continue to try with her himself. But differently than before, along another line.

  That evening he waited until they were finished eating dinner and were reclining on banquettes with their cups of tea. Kalinka always prepared Oriental tea, rather than the sweet mint kind that usually followed a Moroccan meal. He'd become used to it, now preferred it, and liked the little wicker basket she'd made, based on a Vietnamese idea, molded inside with silk-covered stuffing so that the pot fit snugly and the tea stayed warm for hours.

  "I saw Peter yesterday," he said.

  "Oh—" She didn't seem surprised.

  "An interesting meeting, Kalinka. He told me a secret about Tangier."

  She smiled. "Secrets. Secrets. He has so many secrets. Poor Peter, so many secrets in his head."

  "He doesn't follow you anymore, I hope."

  "I'm sorry I told you that."

  "You had to tell me."

  "No, Hamid. You become too angry. Peter's harmless. He follows me, but it isn't what you think."

  "What is it then? Tell me. Explain it to me. Please."

  A silence. She put down her cup, then placed her hands together on her lap. "We were never married. I told you that. He brought me up. He took care of me. He brought me here to live."

  "Yes, you've told me, but you've never told me why. Why did he introduce you as his wife? Why did he pretend?"

  "He thought—I don't know. He did it—that's all. When I came here from Poland he just did it. He said something then, but I don't remember. So many years ago. Something—he said that it would be easier that way. I would have more protection. He wanted to protect me. It was so difficult for him to bring me here."

  "So people thought—"

  "Yes. That was it. He wanted them to think I was his wife. There was his name on my passport. Kalinka Zvegintzov. He arranged that. It was difficult to do. The same name—he showed me that. Put the two passports together, showed me the name was the same. 'We're married now, Kalinka,' he said. I remember now. He laughed. 'That's our secret, Kalinka. That's how we'll protect ourselves.' "

  "And you accepted that?"

  "Oh, yes. It didn't make any difference. I was only a girl then. When we were alone together he treated me the same. Don't think anything bad, Hamid. Nothing happened in all those years. We slept together in the back room of the shop, in our separate beds on opposite sides of the room. He only touched me as a father would. Kissed me as if I were his child. But he liked the secret. He would become very gay whenever he mentioned it. 'They think you're my wife,' he'd say, laughing, nodding his head. 'Such fools. It's good to have secrets from people, Kalinka. A man should always have secrets. It's a fine feeling when people are fooled.'"

  It was so strange. Hamid felt no anger anymore, but lost, lost in a mysterious plot. He'd seen her passport, had examined it many times. It documented a marriage which she claimed did not exist. But why? Why these secrets? What had Peter's motives been?

  "Is Peter your father?" he asked, immediately regretting the question, for it had been direct questions such as this which had always made her turn away.

  "No," she said. "But he was my father's friend. He took care of mother and me. He loved my mother—I'm sure of that—though they were comrades, nothing more."

  "And your real father—do you remember him?"

  "I never saw him."

  "But Peter told you?"

  "Yes."

  It occurred to him then that since Peter was so fond of secrets, he might have lied to Kalinka about her father too. "On your passport it says 'Father's name: unknown.' "

  "That's not true," she said. "I know my father's name."

  "What is it, Kalinka? Why haven't you told me this before?"

  "His name was Stephen Zhukovsky. I didn't tell you because I forgot."

  "But how could you forget a thing like that?"

  "I never knew this man. He died soon after I was born."

  "But Peter knew him?"

  "Knew him very well. He and Peter were best friends in Hanoi. Peter told me that, and how my father died."

  "Tell me."

  "It was terrible," she said. Tears formed in her eyes. "In jail. In Hanoi jail. He was tortured by the Japanese. They tortured him—to death."

  "Peter told you that?"

  "He was there. He told me he was there. Nearby. In a cell nearby. And he heard my father's screams. They tortured him too, he told me, but not so much. My father was a great hero, he told me. And my mother—she was a great heroine too."

  She was crying now and trying to smile through her tears. Hamid moved close to her, held her, kissed her, stroked her hair. In the six months he had lived with her she had never told him so much. He knew that now that she'd begun to talk he must press her to tell him more.

  "Your mother—tell me about her."

  She thought a moment, then she smiled. "Like Achar," she said. "Mama was like Achar."

  "But that's ridiculous—"

  "No, Hamid. Of course, she didn't look like Achar." S
he laughed. "Achar is big and hairy. No—mama didn't have a mustache. But she was like him another way. She worried about people, cared for people and the way they hurt. She hated injustice and worked to set things right."

  "So you know Achar is interested in that?"

  "Oh, yes. I can see it in his face. That's the thing I remember best about mama—her eyes, her concern. She would have loved Achar."

  What a curious thing to say, he thought, and he was surprised that she understood Achar so well. It was uncanny the way she grasped the essence of people. She understood them by intuition. His own mind did not work that way. "Tell me more about her, what sort of things she did."

  "She was a spy. She and Peter—together they spied upon the French."

  "You're not serious."

  "Of course I am."

  "But how did you know?"

  "They talked about it all the time. You see, Peter had a shop in Hanoi, a shop just like La Colombe. And it was filled with French people, officers and their wives. He sold them things, found them servants, stood in line for them with their letters at the Poste. They talked among themselves, and he asked them questions about their lives. Then he would tell mama—they would discuss these people for hours. They would put together what they knew and overheard—things having to do with transfers, movements of troops, boats that might arrive, airplanes, politics. They talked about all that, and then mama would carry the information someplace else. It was dangerous, I know. Peter was always worried when she left. Sometimes she was gone for six or seven days. We were always so happy when she returned."

  "Were they married?"

  "No, but people thought they were. Like Peter and me, you see. He pretended my mother was his wife. People called her 'Madame Zvegintzov.' We lived with him behind the shop. Mama and I slept in one bed and Peter in another. There was a curtain down the center of the room. Peter pulled it closed when it was time to go to sleep."

  She locked her hands together then and threw them, like a lasso, around his neck. Then she lay back upon the banquette, pulled him down upon her, and buried her face against his chest. Later, in bed, they made love in that special way of hers, that strange Asian way which gave him such delight—lying nearly still, barely touching, changing their rhythm again and again, extending their pleasure to the limits of their ability to prolong it, then joining in a climax that left their bodies shuddering from head to toe.