"Now, Robin," he said, "we've had our differences. But I like you, so I must give you some good advice. Stay clear of Patrick Wax. He's a nasty piece of work."
"I think he's quite amusing, Peter—"
"Awful person. Phony. A thief. Everything out of his mouth is a lie. That absurd story about Bosie Douglas—and how he loves to say 'Lord Alfred Douglas'! I happen to know Bosie wasn't anywhere near Florence in thirty-eight. He was in London, sick with pneumonia. We were cousins, you see."
"Yes, yes, but what difference does it make? Everyone lies in Tangier."
"There are degrees, Robin. Degrees. People like Wax go in for homosexuality because of the social mobility involved. Wax would be a chimney sweep like his father if he hadn't gotten smart and become a pouf."
"What are you saying? That he's not a pouf? That it's nothing but an act?"
"You said it—not me. But it's true. He's false, from A to Zed. He became gay just to get in with his betters, and because it allowed him to enter circles where it was easier to steal. Beware of him, Robin. He really shouldn't have been here. This was to be a chickenhawk and bumboy party. He didn't belong!"
He left then, abruptly, and Robin looked after him amazed: Barclay condemning Patrick Wax for pretending to be a homosexual because he couldn't condemn him for pretending to be a lord. Wax made no bones about his background. He loved to tell people he was a chimney sweep's son and played the role of imposter to the hilt. Now Barclay accused him of being a heterosexual in disguise. It was the most absurd thing Robin had ever heard.
Bainbridge and the poodle clipper were the last to go, and Robin was not displeased. Percy said he was working on a new invention, something extraordinary, a "three-cornered kiss."
"It will revolutionize group sex, bring coherence to carnality," he said in his Australian whine. "It's not an invention so much as a technique. I won't be able to patent it, but I do hope people give me credit. I want them always to refer to it as 'the Bainbridge kiss.' "
When they were gone Robin put on his shirt, then lay out in the dying sun. Hervé was down by the sea washing the glasses and plates. Robin watched him, a silhouette against the Atlantic. The sea was smooth, a great expanse broken only by an oil tanker moving slowly out of the distance toward the Straits.
"Shall we take down the tent and drive back?" Hervé asked. He'd packed the skewers and glasses in a basket.
"I don't know," said Robin. "Why don't we sleep out here tonight?"
Hervé agreed, and so the two of them sat together on the sand waiting hours for the sun to set. Robin had taken in too much of it. He felt a fever rising to his forehead as if all the heat he'd absorbed in the afternoon was breaking out now in the cool of the dusk.
Later, feeling better, lying before the tent with Hervé Beaumont by his side, Robin remembered that this was the night of the summer solstice, the shortest night of the longest day of the year. In three months the autumnal equinox would come, then the winter solstice and circles more of changing seasons after that. As he pondered these cosmic matters, the antics of the afternoon began to take on a new perspective in his thoughts.
He felt let down by his picnic, bitter and angry too. He didn't know why, since everyone had been nasty as he'd hoped, and he'd heard some good stories, even picked up some tidbits for his column. Perhaps it was the predictability of the nastiness that bothered him, the way they'd all tattled on one another, the foul perfume of their gossip and lies. It seemed more pathetic than amusing that Vincent Doyle lugged around his silverware. There was pathos in Barclay trying to make an Eton boy out of Mustapha, and in Inigo, a great artist, suffering over Pumpkin Pie. Bainbridge and his absurd inventions. Lundgren, the incompetent dentist. Kranker, so filled with bitterness and spite. He even felt sorry for Wax and his pretensions, his "Florence of Arabia" act. They all seemed so absurd, cruel, self-deceiving fools mingling on the sand, specks on a speck in an indifferent universe, so flawed, so powerless in the face of the burning sun.
Should he leave Tangier? Would things be better for him somewhere else? He doubted it, and at the thought felt disgusted by his life. How pathetic he was, keeping so tight a grasp upon his column, like a clerk in a post office holding on to a tiny power.
Then he thought, how strange to lie here and feel metaphysical distress. He'd organized the picnic, orchestrated it for his amusement. It was just something he'd done to pass an empty afternoon.
But this day was the solstice, a mark on the calendar of life. How many more seasons, he wondered, how many more are there left for me to kill?
The Foster Knowles’ Entertain
Much later, when Lake looked back, he wondered if that wasn't the night when everything started to go wrong.
It began, innocently, with a dinner invitation from the Foster Knowles‘. Lake was not particularly keen about the Knowles‘—their sophomoric expressions and youth-culture mannerisms disgusted him no end. And the fact that other people in Tangier seemed to like them only added to his despair. They'd made friends on account of their jogging group and now were on the make, penetrating the society of the Mountain, even rating a tryout at Barclay's house for lunch.
Lake couldn't understand it. They were a pair of straw-haired bumpkins as far as he could see. Jackie Knowles and her gymnastics classes, Foster and his antipathy for meat—perhaps, he thought, it was their wholesomeness that was so attractive in this town where everyone else was either mad or queer. He didn't know, but it annoyed him all the same. The Knowles' were more popular than Janet and himself, though he was Consul General and Tangier was Foster's premier post.
Lake and his wife pulled up to the Knowles' building just as Willard and Katie Manchester were locking up their car. They all embraced on the street, then walked inside. There wasn't room in the elevator for the four of them, so Lake volunteered to take the stairs. By the third landing he was sorry—the Knowles' lived on the sixth floor. He was breathing hard and growing furious at his exhaustion when he heard Jackie greet the others at the apartment door.
"Hi!" she said. "Where's the Consul?" Her shrill voice ricocheted to him on the stairs.
"He's climbing slowly," Janet said. "Dan's not much of an athlete, you know."
"Well, good for him anyway. I think exercise is great!"
Lake swore as he assaulted the final flight. The evening, he knew, was going to be bad.
Foster greeted him. "Hey, Dan!"
Lake didn't know what all the fuss was about, since they'd been working together the entire day.
"Helluva a climb, right? Better have a drink." Jackie glided up and bussed his cheek. Foster handed him a scotch.
Fufu, the UN delegate from Uganda, was on the couch beside his wife. Lake always felt awkward around this man, since he didn't seem to have a first name. When one met him one called him "Mr. Fufu," and then just plain "Fufu" when acquaintanceship became close. He had tribal marks, diagonal slashes cut into his cheeks, and was fond of giving lectures on the destiny of Africa, lectures which he'd enunciate with increasing volume as one tried to wriggle away. Lake shook hands and sat beside Mrs. Fufu, who reminded him of a picture on a package of pancake mix. Big, huge-breasted, full-cheeked, she sat next to her husband like a squaw.
Lake gulped half his drink, then listened to Katie Manchester holding forth across the room.
"Yes, dears, it's true. We're really going to leave. End of summer probably. Willard was just over in Fort Lauderdale talking to the condominium people. He made the down-payment and interviewed a maid. Course it's more expensive than Tangier, but we like the amenities. Pool. Shuffleboard. Golf. If it were up to me we'd live in Wisconsin, but Willard's pension's better suited for southern climes."
Christ, what shit!
Originally Lake had liked the Manchesters, but now he found them stultifying, garrulous fools. In the mornings, when he watched them through his binoculars, he was chilled by a vision of himself, retired, with Janet, killing time in some second-rate resort. Would he prattle on like Willard ab
out the deal he was getting on his Buick? Would Janet send out Christmas cards like Katie—four-page newsletters full of emptiness and transparent cheer? There had to be more to look forward to than a condominium in Fort Lauderdale. Lake felt desperate around the Manchesters, for they reminded him of failure; but there sat the Knowles‘, regarding them as role models, listening attentively to every word they said.
He was just finishing up his second drink when the Ashton Codds came in. They seemed to waltz across the room with a stylish antique gait, Ashton in dinner jacket with Legion of Honor rosette in his lapel, Musica in an expensive caftan, the two of them absurdly overdressed. They were outfitted for a party on the Mountain, not for a dinner with a junior diplomat in town. But the anomaly did not seem to bother anyone else; the Codds made their entrance, then lavishly embraced the Knowles‘.
At their arrival the conversation turned to "Tangier," the sort of gibberish that had been maddening Lake for months. Prices at the market, crisis in the theater club, scandal at the British church. All he wanted was to lie back and drink himself to sleep, but the talk buzzed around him like tormenting mosquitoes in the night.
"Poor old Luscombe," Musica was saying. "They've broken his spirit, you know. Ran into him on the Boulevard the other day. He was talking to himself, twitching as he walked."
Ashton Codd was entertaining Jackie Knowles, his wrinkles dancing as he chattered away. "The Moroccans are so damn stupid, my dear. I don't know why we writers choose to live in such a place. They're afraid of books here. Can you imagine? I heard a good one the other day. Seems they seized a chess book at the customs. It was the title that got them: New Ways to Attack the King!"
"Ha! Ha!" It was Fufu, doubled over with mirth. In his country they shot people for criticizing the regime, but Lake restrained himself from mentioning that. Across the room he heard Musica Codd say that Vicar Wick was losing his grip. Termites were at work on the beams of St. Thomas, and considering all its other troubles, she was wondering whether the British community could survive.
"A table! Diner est servi!" Jackie called to them in unaccented foreign-service French.
Lake finished off his third drink, then stood up too fast. He felt dazed, reeled, wondered if he'd make it through dessert. There was an awkward moment after they sat down when Jackie reminded her guests that she and Foster didn't eat meat. They were regenerate health nuts and had moral reservations as well, but she said she thought the deprivation might do the rest of them some good.
Actually, Lake thought, the food wasn't bad—crisp vegetables, a mushroom salad, a Moroccan stew of greens. But the whole business annoyed him, and he suffered through the meal, listening to Jackie chatter on about exercise and diets while she filled and refilled his wine glass half a dozen times. The Knowles‘, he decided, were impossible, patronizing and sanctimonious, but looking around he could see that the others liked them very much.
Right after dinner he shot back a double cognac, and this time the drink hit him hard. It had been a while since he'd tied one on, but if ever he had an excuse for serious drinking, this, he felt, was the night. The conversation drifted around him, and he began to chuckle to himself. He got the idea into his head that Fufu was a baboon and felt an urge to stand up, strip a banana, and jam it into the Ugandan's mouth. Mrs. Fufu looked like she needed a good fucking, but he wondered if he'd have the will to take her on. "Moo moo," she would moan, just like the cow that she was. When she and Fufu were in bed together she'd cry out, "Foo foo moo moo."
He looked around for Janet, saw her with the Codds. The flabby flesh of those old curmudgeons bounced about their brittle facial bones. The noise level rose and Lake felt flushed. He might have passed out a while, for the next thing he knew everyone was quiet, listening to Foster address them as a group.
He had a new recording of the Bach B-minor Mass, he said, which he wanted to play for them without waking the building up. Suddenly an apparatus was set upon the coffee table, and the floor was running with wires. Knowles brought out a tangle of headsets he'd snitched from various airlines. Jackie distributed them off a tray.
She handed one to Lake. He handed it back.
"I pass," he said. "No thanks."
"Oh, please, Mr. Lake. It's really good."
He gestured thumbs-down, mumbled an excuse, and headed out to find the john. Once inside he tried to refocus. He was drunk—no question about it. He hiccupped, splashed cold water on his face. On a whim he opened the medicine cabinet and was flabbergasted by what he saw. The Knowles' had two of everything: matching "his" and "hers" deodorants; men's electric razor for the beard and women's for the legs; matching toothbrushes, one pink, the other blue; a big toenail clipper and a little one for fingernails; anal and oral thermometers; an unopened sixpack of condoms; and a powdered pessary in a plastic case.
Jesus—they don't take any chances. He shut the cabinet door.
On his way back to the living room he stopped at the hall closet, paused, scratched his head, and opened it up. The closet had a peculiar smell—a mixture of deodorant and a girls' gym. Immediately he understood. The Knowles' sweat-suits were hanging on opposing hooks. He peeked behind one of them, saw Foster's jockstrap hanging limp. He poked at it with his finger. Ugh! He was curious to see what size it was, but couldn't bear to touch it again. Then, on a hunch, he looked under the other suit. There was only a bikini bottom there. He studied it a while, felt a strange desire to sniff it, and felt an erection sprouting up.
What's wrong with me tonight?
He was about to slam the closet door when he heard a sound behind. He jumped and turned. It was Jackie, staring at him through big blue eyes.
"Looking for something?"
Even as he grabbed her, moved in for the kiss, he knew he was behaving like an ass. They clinched; he felt her strong gymnast's hands grab his shoulders tight, and then a sharp pain as she pushed him back.
"Mr. Lake!"
"Sorry," he muttered. "I was looking for the john."
"Oh," she said. "I see. Oh, dear. It's over there."
She took his hand and led him back to the lavatory. He had a glimpse of her grinning as he shut the door. He bolted it, sat down on the toilet. He felt dizzy.
I've just kissed Jackie Knowles!
For a moment he couldn't believe he'd done it, and began to fantasize his disgrace. Foster would go to Rabat and complain to the Ambassador. There'd be an inquiry, Janet would hear of it, and, confronted, he'd sob and confess. She'd leave him, take away the boys. He'd lose his job, his pension, his privileges at the PX. There was only one way, he knew, to save the situation. He'd have to go back into the living room, go straight to Jackie, and apologize.
He stumbled in expecting to find the others staring at him with hate. But no one paid the slightest attention. All except Jackie were encased in earphones. Foster and Katie Manchester were conducting with their hands, but curiously, he noted, to a different beat.
This is a madhouse!
He sat beside Jackie on the couch. She looked at him, giggled, placed her headset on his lap.
"I owe you an apology," he whispered. "I guess I drank too much."
"It's OK, Mr. Lake. I thought you were kind of cute."
"Shhh," he begged her, but she giggled again.
"Don't worry. We can talk. None of them can hear us. They're into Bach."
"You're not angry—"
"Oh, no." She smiled. "I like impulsive men."
"Jackie—"
"Look at him." She gestured toward Foster, now conducting along with Ashton Codd. "Oooo, what a jerk. In bed he's a stick. I wish he knew how to kiss."
"I thought you two were so—"
She slid her hand along his thigh. "I often ask myself why I ever married Foster. We both like sports. We were both on the track team at college. Tell me, Mr. Lake—do you really think that's enough?"
He looked at her, saw a sulky discontent. "I suppose not," he mumbled, edging away.
Suddenly she pushed her mouth agains
t his ear. "After you and Janet leave, drop her at the Consulate and double back. Park at the traffic circle at the end of the street. After everyone's gone I'll tell Foster I'm going out for a jog. Then I'll meet you, and we'll talk."
Even as he nodded he knew he was making a mistake. But something about her, something aroused and voracious, had suddenly jerked his lust. She wiggled her nose and patted his knee. He stood up, went around to Janet, and motioned that it was time to go.
Janet ripped off her earphones. "I thought you'd never ask."
"Sorry to break things up, Foster. But we've got to be getting back."
The others rapidly stripped off their headsets, grateful for the chance to get away.
"But—but it's not over yet." Foster pointed at the turntable. Now they were all on their feet.
"Good-by."
"Good night."
"Thanks."
"But there's more—the whole second side."
They were all tearing toward the door.
Driving back to the Consulate, Lake banged his fist against the wheel. "What an evening! Glad to be out of there." He glanced at Janet. "Have you ever felt so trapped?"
"Gosh, you're critical, Dan. I thought you liked Willard and Katie at least."
"Not anymore I don't. I'm sick of them. All that crap about Fort Lauderdale—you'd think it's Eden over there."
Janet sighed. "Sometimes I just don't understand you, Dan."
Well, that was something—he didn't understand himself.
He dropped her at the residence gate, told her not to wait up. He was going to his office to plow through a stack of paperwork. She left him without looking back.
He pulled around to the side of the building, waited until their bedroom light went on. Then he drove slowly through town to kill some time before his rendezvous with Jackie Knowles. It was only a little after eleven, but the Boulevard was empty, just a few straggling tourists in the cafés. He knew the action at this hour was down in the medina, but he felt depressed by the emptiness, the flashing neon, the Arabic banners he couldn't read. One of their damn holidays again, he thought. There was always something going on—King's birthday, anniversary of his coronation, Arab Unity Week. He turned left and drove along the beach, listening for the faint music of bellydancer bands playing in the nightclubs of the big hotels.
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