It was then, the following morning, sitting in his car in front of the carpentry shop, that he began to notice certain strange goings-on at the entrance of the Hotel Americain. This dingy pension a few doors down the street specialized in impecunious tourists who could not afford a room on Avenue d'Espagne. What struck Hamid, and suddenly caught his interest, was a group of European males huddling in the doorway with Moroccan boys.
No question of what was happening—the men were slipping money to the boys, who then ran off gaily toward the beach. Payoffs, no doubt, for business transacted in the night. Hamid watched, incredulous, then drove down to the Grand Socco, where he parked in an area reserved for the police. He strode into the medina, into the lobby of the Oriental Hotel, and mounted the steps to Robin's room.
He flung open the door. "Get up!" he yelled, yanking off Robin's sheets. "On your feet, you bastard! Put on your clothes!"
He paused then. He was too angry. He needed time to regain control. "I'll wait for you in the Centrale," he said. "Get your ass down there! You've got things to explain."
A few minutes later Robin appeared in the Socco Chico, picking at the corners of his eyes. "Christ, Hamid—what have I done?"
"You've betrayed me. Sit down and talk."
Robin squinted, shook his head.
"Don't play dumb," said Hamid. "I'm in a lousy mood."
"I see that. What's wrong?"
"The Hotel Americain—that's what's wrong. You're supposed to keep me informed about places like that."
"I didn't know, I swear." He spoke too quickly. Hamid could always tell when Robin lied.
"Don't pretend," he said. "You know the place is swimming in queers."
"OK, Hamid. Stop shouting, please. You shut down one and another opens up."
"I'm talking about our arrangement, Robin. Your job is to fill me about these places. Mine is to keep them from getting out of hand."
"Oh, come on. Is that the real nature of our relationship? Wait! Don't answer!" Robin shook his head. "Look," he said, "people come to Tangier in the summer, they come down here to get laid. They want boys, boys who offer themselves, you understand—because they surely aren't seduced. All right, they need a place to find them. If you close the Americain, it'll just be someplace else."
"You still don't understand."
"What?"
"That I've been relying on you, and you've been holding back."
"Oh, for Christ's sake, Hamid. An informer has to save things up, keep the policeman's interest. It's in the nature of my work as your devoted snitch that I feed you information in little bits. That way you like me better, and I get to see you every week. Honestly, Hamid—I was going to deliver on this. Maybe even today."
"You make me sick."
"You're not angry anymore?"
"Thank Allah, you bastard. Now start talking. I want it all."
"Here? In public? Just being seen with you is bad enough."
"Embarrassed? Good. I don't care—it serves you right."
Robin ordered coffee and then began to talk, rubbing every so often at his crusted eyes and unshaven cheeks. "Gottshalk owns the place. Not the building—les fonds de commerce. You know him—he wears dark specs and a ratty djellaba like a cape. He's an American, been here for years. He's got an 'arrangement' with the American Consulate. I thought you knew about that."
"I try not to remember the details about every seedy foreigner in town. What 'arrangement'? Damn it, Robin, don't spin out a tale."
"Well, Gottshalk's got this deal with the Consulate that when they have an American who's lost his passport or who's out of money and waiting for funds, they stash him temporarily in his hotel. Gottshalk lodges him, feeds him on credit, and doesn't bother to register him with the police. He gets reimbursed, of course, and a service fee besides. For this the Americans think he's great. He's very close over there to Lake and Knowles, which gives him status, because otherwise he's just a bum. Anyway, he's had hot and cold running boys for a while—"
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"Years?"
"A season or two. It's known now in London and Amsterdam. When the queens come down here they know where they can go."
"Disgusting! What's he like?"
"A bastard. Hard as nails. Charges too much and rakes it in from the boys. If they don't kick back seventy-five percent he's got a couple of goons who mess them up. But he guarantees them a place to sleep, and for a lot of boys that's good enough. It would be a pity if you closed him down, Hamid. Put a lot of kids out of work."
"Do you really care?"
"Well, I'm human."
"Yes, Robin, I suppose you are." Hamid pushed back his chair. "Not a word of this," he said. "I'm going to move on Gottshalk. I'll know who to blame if he's been warned."
As he walked back to his car, he allowed his anger to seep away. Robin's just an informer, he thought. How much can I expect? But he knew perfectly well that Robin was more than that—that over the years he'd become a friend.
He found Aziz waiting in his office, a glass of tea in hand. Hamid looked over the reports that had piled up through the night, then announced that they were going to raid the Hotel Americain. Aziz was delighted, and seeing his pleasure Hamid explained what he had in mind. They'd mount the kind of operation he'd seen in European films—flawless, cool, sleek.
"Midnight," he said, "we'll move in. Empty the place, every room, every closet, every bed. Anyone who isn't registered we'll bring here and interrogate. Photograph them, fingerprint them, warn them, and let them go. Same with the Moroccan boys—no point in holding them. What I want is a case against Gottshalk, enough to kick him out. After we close down his bordello we'll start a cleanup along the beach."
"Magnificent, Hamid. But why have we waited so long?"
"I don't know. Lethargy, I suppose. Now it pains me the way Tangier's turning into a dump. Every June the beach becomes a meat rack. We must change it back into a place to take a swim."
He spent the morning with the state prosecutor discussing pending cases, plowing through dossiers. When, finally, he returned to his office, he found a message from Farid.
The bazaar was closed when he arrived, so he parked and walked up the Boulevard looking for his brother in each of the cafés. He found him at Claridge reading a newspaper, eating lunch.
"Ah, here you are." He slid into a chair.
"I knew you'd find me, Hamid. How are you today?"
"Terrible. I've got too many cases. It's summer, and the town's gone mad."
He ordered swordfish. After the waiter left Farid put his newspaper down.
"I found the book you wanted."
"Good. Thanks."
"At the French library. They have a shelf on Indochina there. This one, about colonial Hanoi, was covered by half an inch of dust."
"Did you look at it?"
"Yes. After I cleaned it up. It's interesting, Hamid. I was quite surprised. Hanoi was something like Tangier."
"That is interesting. Tell me more."
"Well, it was an odd sort of place, like a provincial French town, but cosmopolitan too. Lots of nationalities like here—Indians, Chinese, Russians, French. And of course the natives, our equivalents—the Vietnamese, the Tonkinois."
Hamid smiled.
"A foreign quarter. Big villas. French doctors, lawyers, churches, lycées. Even a tennis club in the middle of town, and then antique shops like mine, and little shops selling native wares. Buddhist temples too—the equivalent of our mosques, at least as far as the French could see. It's very interesting. I left it at the shop. I'll give it to you after lunch." He paused. "Tell me, Hamid, why are you interested in such a book?"
"Kalinka, of course."
"I guessed that."
"I want to know everything about her. And about all the places that she's lived."
"She's telling you things now?"
Hamid nodded. "Last night, however, we hit a snag. She went to see the Russian. He told her not to tell
me any more. He's afraid I'm after him, building up a case to kick him out. She knows that isn't true, but now she's hesitant to go on."
"Why's he afraid?"
"That's what I want to know. It's very curious, Farid—it seems our little Peter was once something of a spy."
His swordfish came and as he ate it he began to describe to Farid the Russian community of Hanoi. And then the childhood of Peter Zvegintzov, the only son of a middle-class Russian couple, brought up in a little room behind their shop.
"There were all these children of different nationalities," he said, "so Peter learned lots of languages early on. There was also another Russian boy approximately the same age named Stephen Zhukovsky. He and Peter became best friends.
"As I reconstruct things, they grew up together in the 1920s and 1930s just about the time the first Communists began to surface in Hanoi. There were Russians, Soviet agents, sent down to set up networks in Indochina. Possibly it was one of these who recruited Peter and Stephen at the Hanoi lycée. Anyway, Kalinka says Peter always was a Communist, not, probably, out of deep conviction but to be different, to stand out. It's easy to imagine him thinking of his recruitment as a game. Secret meetings, a cell, fun with his best friend. But then, in 1940, with the fall of France, the Indochinese administration sided with Vichy, and the Japanese arrived.
"The Vietnamese Communists, directed from China by Ho Chi Minh, decided to side with the Allies. Peter and Stephen received their orders—to link up with the Viet Minh. Now here the politics become a little murky, but I don't think it's important to follow all the twists and turns. Just think of Peter, eighteen then, already stout, wearing spectacles, full of energy, eager, and alive, embarking with his friend Stephen Zhukovsky upon a dangerous double life.
"They were drafted, both of them, into the Vichy army, where they snooped around, collected information, then passed it along to the Viet Minh. It was dangerous work, of course, but to them still something of a game. It was a while before they realized how serious it was."
Hamid finished eating, paid his and Farid's bills. Then they walked out onto the Boulevard to Farid's shop to retrieve the book. After that they turned down Rue Marco Polo, crossed the tracks that ran parallel to Avenue d'Espagne, and walked onto the beach. Hamid talked the whole way, stopping every so often to make a point. Farid listened, fascinated, head bowed, eyes always on the sand.
"Here," said Hamid, "a Vietnamese lady enters the scene, a great beauty, the contact agent for Peter and Stephen's cell. They both fall in love with her—madly in love. She is so attractive, even a seductress, and like Kalinka, I imagine, mysterious and subtle, the sort of woman who can break your heart. Her name was Pham Thi Nha, but the boys both called her Marguerite. Both of them courted her. They could speak to each other of nothing else. They were best friends and rivals too. A friendly triangle was formed.
"Stephen Zhukovsky was the one, finally, chosen to be her lover. Peter, accepting her decision, gracefully stepped aside. Meanwhile the spying went on. The boys collected intelligence, carried messages, even helped divert a shipment of Japanese arms to guerrillas waiting in the swamps. Lots of adventures, a few close calls, bonds of fraternity between them, and all that. Peter even got hold of a photo of De Gaulle and put it with the one of Stalin he kept hidden in his boot. He still has it, Kalinka says—somewhere among his papers in the back room of La Colombe. Anyway, in 1943 Marguerite and Stephen Zhukovsky had a child. They named her Pham Thi Phoung. Peter, her godfather, suggested 'Kalinka' as her European name."
Hamid stopped. Farid glanced up.
"Go on," he said. "Go on. Go on!"
"Well, here I must rely upon research—Kalinka has no sense of politics, of course. Toward the end of the war Indochina went into turmoil. It had been run by the Vichy French, but in March of 1945 the Japanese turned suddenly against them. Perhaps because they knew they were going to lose the war, maybe because they hated people who were white—whatever the reason, they disbanded the Vichy army, and then their police started making mass arrests. It was terrible. Every Frenchman in the Langson garrison was beheaded with a ritual sword. Some of the French units made a dash for the Chinese frontier, hoping to find sanctuary with Chiang Kai-shek. Stephen and Peter managed to escape, leaving Marguerite and the baby behind. They hid out in the jungle for a while, then tried to come back. They were caught on the outskirts of Hanoi, arrested by the Japanese.
"They were tortured, both of them, hideously tortured in the summer of 1945. Peter was wounded in such a way that he would be impotent the remainder of his life. Stephen Zhukovsky was not so fortunate. He was tortured to death.
"On August 6 the Americans bombed Hiroshima. On August 16 the Japanese released all their prisoners in the colony. On August 17 Peter Zvegintzov, twenty-three years old, ruined in his manhood, wandered the rain-swept streets of Hanoi. His parents had been killed. Their shop was boarded up. Marguerite and the child had disappeared. Stephen Zhukovsky was dead. Dazed and afraid, he watched mobs of exultant Vietnamese rally before the Municipal Theater. From a staff on its main balcony the Communist party flag was finally raised.
"That's all I have so far, but you see the sort of background that's involved. It'll all come out, little by little. She'll tell it to me if Peter hasn't persuaded her to stop. He's hiding something, you see—perhaps something Kalinka doesn't know herself."
"But what, Hamid?"
He shrugged. "There've always been rumors about Peter, that he was a Communist, even some sort of Soviet spy. I heard them years ago but never found anything to back them up. But now I wonder. How did he end up here? When you mentioned that Hanoi was something like Tangier—well, I got an interesting idea."
They walked together in silence for a time, among people lying in bathing garments in the sun, children running this way and that, Europeans lounging on the terraces of the bathing clubs. They passed the Shepherd's Pie, the Packwoods' little restaurant. Hamid saw Joe Kelly sitting shirtless there, drinking, surrounded by a coterie.
"Hello, Farid!"
It was the hustler Pumpkin Pie in a tight bikini bathing suit, strutting on the sand. Hamid noticed he gave a certain sort of smile as he walked by, and that Farid responded with a signal of his own.
"You know that trash?"
Farid nodded uncomfortably, and Hamid immediately regretted what he'd said. They always avoided the subject of homosexuality, though Farid knew it was part of Hamid's job to rid the city of its reputation as a gay resort.
"Well, I must get back, Hamid. Time now to reopen my store."
They embraced, then Farid walked away. Hamid watched until he'd crossed the tracks.
He enjoyed the minutes just before midnight, sitting in his car up the street from Gottshalk's hotel. There was something almost sensuous about the wait—the prospect of action, the tension building up.
Then it all happened, precisely as he'd planned: a hushed, whirring siren; police whistles strangely soft; commands in Arabic; muffled screams; the thud of shoulders against wooden doors with feeble locks.
His men, moving with sleek precision, gracefully sprung his trap. Everyone in the hotel was caught by surprise. Soon the lobby was filled with frightened guests. Some of the Moroccan boys tried to escape across the roof, but Hamid had people posted there who snatched them as they fled. Others, wriggling under beds, were pulled out squirming by their heels. Men who were arrested nude or who'd left their passports in their rooms were politely escorted back upstairs. Aziz paired off those he'd found together, then, calling off their names, tried to match them to the registration list.
Hamid wandered about the lobby, pleased by the size of his catch and the cool, understated way the raid had been carried out. The night clerk was shaking, and Gottshalk, in his tattered djellaba, stood helpless, wrists cuffed behind his back. Hamid circled him in wonder. This disgusting man worked with the Americans; he was received by Lake and Knowles.
When Aziz had everybody sorted out, he motioned Hamid aside.
; "About a dozen," he said, "caught with underage boys. And one Dutchman in bed with a girl who doesn't appear to be his wife."
Aziz blew a whistle then, and when the lobby became silent Hamid stood up on a chair. He looked around at the faces staring up at him. I know these men, he thought, have seen them every summer of my life. Rigid stances, sharp eyes, a certain anguished preying look, pursed lips, beckoning smiles—suddenly he thought of Farid. They were frightened, he could see, and flawed. For a moment he was touched. He certainly didn't hate them, but he disliked the corruption of their lust.
"Good evening," he said in French. "My name is Ouazzani. I'm chief inspector of the foreign section of the Tangier police. There have been grave violations of registration laws in this hotel, and violations of our vice laws too. Those of you who are improperly registered, or who were discovered in bed with underage Moroccan youths, will be taken now to headquarters in our bus. There you'll be interrogated, and your consular representatives will be called if you wish. The rest of you may return to your rooms. We apologize for disturbing you and wish you a pleasant sleep. We ask, however, that you leave in the morning and seek other accommodations in town. The manager of this hotel is under arrest. Tomorrow, at noon, this building will be closed."
He repeated his announcement in English, then stepped down from the chair. Aziz released the guests entitled to return to sleep, and led the rest outside.
Hamid followed them to the Sûreté, watched them herded into a communal cell. A team of interrogators began work. Fingerprints were taken and everyone was photographed. It was a madhouse, the Moroccan prisoners gaping at the newcomers, the boys getting a stern lecture from Aziz.
Hamid stopped at the police canteen, drank a cup of coffee, telephoned Kalinka, told her he'd soon be home. Back upstairs, from the corridor outside his office, he looked in at Gottshalk manacled to a chair.
"Mr. Gottshalk," he said, briskly walking in, "with you I have an airtight case. There're six or seven boys downstairs swearing out depositions right now. They say you corrupted their morals, turned them into prostitutes, and forced them to perform unnatural acts for money paid to you by foreign guests." He paced around Gottshalk, speaking calmly, pausing now and then to emphasize a word. "No question what's going to happen—you'll do ten years at least. What shall we do for you? Call a lawyer? Get hold of Vice-Consul Knowles? Get you pen and paper so you can write out your confession? Find you a knife so you can slit your throat?"
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