Kalinka, Hamid thought, must have been extremely troubled to have submitted to such a situation for so long. But she was indifferent, as she still was to so many things, and if it had pleased Peter to introduce her as his wife, then she'd played out that role without complaint. Peter had fed her, protected her, made her the focus of his life. And all that time they'd slept in separate beds in the back room of his shop.
"I admire you, Peter," he said. "That was brilliant the way you calculated things. Not calling the French; seeing through the Russian trap. Yes, I admire you for that."
Peter beamed.
"You know," Hamid said, "I've known you for many years, but I've never been in your back room."
Peter laughed. "Nothing there," he said. "No secrets, Hamid. Just my papers and accounts. But come in, if you like."
They stood-up, and Hamid followed Peter to the door. It was a shabby room, and Peter looked shabby standing in the middle of it, talking, gesturing, scratching at his head.
"Here's the curtain, pulled back now, but in the old days we used it to separate the room at night. This was her bed, bigger than mine, you see—Marguerite and Kalinka shared a big bed like that. I've set things up pretty much the same in here. Their bed was always on the right, and mine was near the window, just as now—"
He mumbled on, lost in his memories, while Hamid stared at him and gaped. Suddenly he understood: it was nostalgia for the life Peter had led with Marguerite that had caused him to force Kalinka to take her mother's place. So pitiful, this fantasy, and so cruel the way he'd made her play it out. Just the thought of Kalinka sleeping here and wandering around Tangier so many years playing his preposterous game—Hamid shook his head in grief. The hashish probably saved her, he thought. Only in its fog could she escape Peter's twisted, terrifying love.
"Oh, I know you love her, Hamid. You're strong, you treat her well. But still I need her too, if only to talk with her in the old language we used to use. All this time, you see, I've been afraid you'd find out I was a spy. Then you'd throw me out, and I wouldn't see her anymore."
A spy—he was afraid I'd find out that! It was so pathetic, his fear, all his illusions about himself. He'd been nothing, an inaccurate spotter of ships, a clerk, and once a messenger to Algiers.
"Don't worry, Peter. Nothing will happen to you now. And of course you may speak with Kalinka sometimes. I won't feel compromised."
Peter beamed again.
"One more question, though, before I leave. I know the Japanese killed Kalinka's father. I've wondered why they didn't kill you too."
"Ah—well, you see, Hamid, Stephen was a real Communist. He held his tongue. But I—I talked a lot."
As Peter hung his head then, out of shame, Hamid felt all his anger melt away. He knew now for sure that Peter was harmless, a broken man, a burned-out case.
They shook hands, and then Hamid left, pausing a moment outside the shop. He thought of Peter inside, so deluded, so obsequious, somehow managing to function in Tangier. He's found his niche, he thought, and he'll survive, so long as Kalinka remains nearby. He'll operate this shop, this little museum, listen to gossip, perhaps steam open a letter or two a week, endure insults from his customers, flick his feather duster to hide his scars, and go to bed each night haunted by memories and ghosts.
Thinking about that, driving through Dradeb, through the wedding throngs which jammed the narrow street, Hamid felt a wave of sympathy break from the reservoir he'd thought was dry. It washed over Peter, so battered, so wounded, by the forces that had shaped his life.
At last, he thought, I understand.
He wept then in his car, driving through the slum, wept with pity for Peter Zvegintzov, the fussy little shopkeeper, and for Kalinka wandering the city trying to escape her nightmare in hashish and dreams. He wept too for the pain of Stephen Zhukovsky, screaming in a Hanoi jail, and for Marguerite Pham Thi Nha, loading artillery at Dien Bien Phu, smiling beneath the brim of her conical straw hat.
Emerging from Dradeb, honking his way through the last of the revelers that summer night, he still had tears in his eyes. He was in a rush to get home, hold Kalinka, ask her to marry him. He wanted to shield her from the savage storms of life.
III
RAMADAN. It settled upon our town with the August haze and a dry, hot Saharan wind. At dawn a cannon roared out from the port to tell the faithful to begin the daily fast. At dusk it roared again, arousing a clamor from all the mosques. Then the spicy smell of harira soup perfumed the air, and we were bewitched by the sounds of Arab flutes.
But then, as the fast progressed, anger engulfed Tangier: dogs became vicious, babies shrieked, quarrels broke out in all the quarters—the wells were running dry.
The holy month divided Tangier into two cities: a city of foreigners exalting in our season, and an Arab city of brooding multitudes who regarded us with an unflinching gaze. Their Tangier became the backdrop before which we pranced and played, living sweetly in the interstices of their rage...
A Visit to the Mountain
Early one broiling August afternoon Laurence Luscombe left Dradeb. The sun nearly blinded him as he stepped outside his house, then paused by the overflowing septic that oozed beside his door. All the houses on his alley fed into it, and the stench was terrible, human wastes marinating in the heat. The fumes, strong as sulfur, burned his nostrils. He staggered for a moment and held his breath.
It was all so foul, a reminder of his decline, but on twelve hundred pounds a year there was nowhere else for him to live. As it was, he hardly got by in Tangier, eating fruit and small quantities of the cheapest fish, walking everywhere, no matter how fierce the heat, even depriving himself of coffee and beer. He'd kept his pride, he thought; so far no one had tried to steal that. He still showered fastidiously at Derik Law's, though it was an agony to walk there every day.
And yet—he was shabby. He knew it, could feel very clearly that he was. Sometimes, when he approached people, they smiled and turned away. When he spoke to them about his troubles they winced and hurried off. Why? What was it about him that inspired such distaste? Perhaps, he thought, he smelled of failure, or showed too clearly the ravages of age.
He was pale and gaunt, with brown spots on his face. His hair was nothing but a few dry white wisps, and his clothes, unironed, hung loose upon his frame. A memento mori—perhaps that was now his role, staggering about, stalking Tangier, reminding people of death.
He set off down the main street of Dradeb, empty except for some ragged children playing cheerlessly in the dust. Men and women were sleeping through the midday heat, weakened by thirst and hunger—their abominable, pointless fast. Luscombe hated Ramadan, had hated it since he'd come to Tangier. Mail was misdelivered. The Arabs were all on edge. At dusk the city abounded in accidents caused by distracted drivers hurrying home for soup.
He crossed the Jew's River, paused on the narrow bridge, then looked up at the Mountain, so high, so far away, so steep. Today he would climb it, despite the raging sun. He spent a few moments working up his will, then set off on the trek.
"It's a conspiracy—don't you see? Everyone says it is now."
Luscombe looked straight at Peter Barclay, beside Camilla Weltonwhist on the couch. His iron-gray hair caught the sun, his cane lay across his lap. Her diamond collar gleamed against her throat. Her torso looked like a vase.
Clearly they were irritated with him, but still they were trying to be polite. He'd done the unpardonable, intruded unannounced. He'd interrupted their backgammon game. He should have phoned them first.
"But I don't understand," said Camilla, blinking at him confused. "Why did they pick that particular date? I must say, it's quite inconvenient. Why do you suppose they didn't think about that?"
"But they did think about it," Luscombe said. Barclay, he noticed, was fidgeting with the dice. "That's what I've been trying to say to you. They intended that it be inconvenient. That's the conspiracy, you see."
"Oh." She settled back, still not graspin
g his point. His situation, he felt, wasn't all that complicated, but she didn't seem to want to understand.
"Now let me get this straight, Larry." Barclay leaned forward, displaying his shiny teeth. "You say your actors have petitioned for a meeting with the intention of taking over the club, and that according to the bylaws of the Tangier Players you must meet with them at the time they've set."
"That's it. Exactly. Now you see why—"
"Damn peculiar bylaws, if you ask me."
"Peculiar indeed." Camilla nodded her head.
They both looked at him sharply, as if he were responsible for his predicament and had no business complaining about it to them. Barclay smiled, but Camilla glared. He'd seen her glare like that at the market, shopping for luncheon parties, ordering lamb chops by the dozen, hiring boys to carry her groceries to her Rolls.
"I only intended that the club be democratic. I wrote the bylaws to insure majority rule. That was years ago. I never imagined they'd be used against me. It never entered my head."
"Should have, Larry. You should have thought of it." Barclay edged forward, determined to win the point. "I must say, it's rather shrewd of Kelly." He grinned. "I hadn't realized he was so crafty. Must give him credit for that."
The two of them, Barclay and Weltonwhist, nodded vigorously and exchanged a knowing glance. They seemed more impressed with Kelly's craftiness than with his own quite desperate plight.
"Oh, yes, he's shrewd," Luscombe said. "Kelly's crafty like a fox. But he mustn't be allowed to get away with it. That's what I've come to say. We must all fight him together. Teach him a lesson. Collapse the conspiracy right on his head."
A silence. Camilla looked over at Barclay, who was staring off into space. Evidently he was weighing the consequences, considering what the two of them should do.
This time I need you, Luscombe thought. This time you mustn't let me down. He'd climbed the Mountain expressly to win over Barclay's support. With Barclay the Mountain would rally to his side; without him he'd surely lose TP.
"You see," he said, quite frantic, hoping to arouse their sense of fair play, "everyone in town's known about these parties for weeks, so Kelly asked for a meeting on just the particular night when he was certain you patrons wouldn't come. He's counting on your frivolousness. That's the core of his plan. Without you he'll have the votes to take over the club. He'll get the treasury—that's two hundred pounds! The lights. The flats. Even the contract with the Spanish Polytechnical school."
He stopped, astonished by his tone, so desperate now, so excited, much too loud and excited for Mrs. Weltonwhist's salon. "Might I have a glass of water?" he asked, realizing he'd been sitting in her house for hours without her offering him anything to drink.
"Oh, yes, of course." She squinted at him, annoyed.
"Well, Camilla dear," Barclay said, turning to her with a savage little smile. "I'm afraid there isn't anything we can do for Larry here. Really, it's an awful shame."
"But surely, Peter, we might manage—"
"No, darling. No possible way." He turned to Luscombe. “We're both invited to Henderson Perry's that night, and we must be there promptly at eight. That's the protocol. Ordinarily it wouldn't matter, but Henderson's invite a batch of Moroccan royals, so of course, you see, we can't be late."
"That's all right, Peter. The TP meeting's set for seven. All you have to do is turn up and vote, then go on to Perry's with time to spare."
He was relieved then, even amused; Kelly was clever, but he'd miscalculated about the time. He was just beginning to relax, certain now that things were going to work out, when Barclay frowned and shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Larry, but it's not so simple. These club meetings have a way of running on. Both of us need time to rest and dress, and Camilla's promised to do Henderson's bouquets."
"But you at least—"
"No. Sorry, Larry. It's not convenient. I'm just not going to have the time."
"But please, you must—"
"It's not that we don't want to come, you see, but we're previously committed and now it's too late for us to wriggle free."
"One can't be rude, you know," Camilla said. "I know this is important to you, but surely you're not asking that."
Luscombe slumped back, stunned by their refusal. They'd kicked the breath right out of him. Now he felt too weary to complain. "Convenient," "rude"—those were the things that were important to them. Everything had to be arranged for their convenience. They needed a guarantee they'd be amused. He looked at them sitting there, pitying him with smiles. What did they care, after all, that the actors had turned against him? What did it matter to them that Kelly would turn TP to trash? They didn't care—not the slightest bit. He realized how stupid he'd been to think they ever would.
"There are other voting patrons," Camilla said. "Surely you haven't been depending on us." It was more of a reproach than a helpful suggestion. He'd shown poor form, in her eyes, by placing the onus on them.
"I've tried Vanessa Bolton," he said, "but she's going to Perry's too. The Codds are invited to Countess de Lauzon's, and on to the Manchesters' as well."
"Ugh!" said Barclay, curling his lip. "The Manchesters—they're having some kind of leftover thing. But there it is, you see—Françoise is having a party too."
"What about Percy Bainbridge?" Camilla asked. "He's a patron. At least I think he is."
"I've been to see him, but he won't make a commitment. He's been waiting for you to take the lead."
"Waiting to be invited to Henderson's, you mean." Barclay laughed. "Poor Percy—he'll wait forever for that."
Camilla snickered, and then the two of them exchanged another glance. They were fascinated by gossip, who was invited, who was not.
"Oh, dear me," she said. "Isn't there anybody else?"
"There're the Whittles, but I haven't approached them yet."
"Don't!" commanded Barclay. "That wouldn't do at all. You must be sensitive, Larry. You must think before you impose. Everyone wants to help, of course, but if you're pushy, well, then—" He shrugged.
So that was it: he'd been too pushy, and he'd imposed on them much too long. He stood up abruptly. They'd given the signal. Now it was time for him to go.
"There's the Vicar, isn't there?"
"Yes, Camilla! And he just might be willing to come." Barclay looked up, clicked his teeth. "Tell you what—I'll have a word with him. Vicar always takes my advice."
"There," said Camilla with a sigh. "There—you'll have Vicar Wick. You can't say we didn't help you, Larry. I knew Peter would come up with something in the end."
It was hopeless. They didn't understand. Or perhaps they understood too well. Even if the Vicar came he'd have only three votes. They were both gazing at him now, impatient that he leave.
Suddenly he felt unsteady, afraid he was going to faint. Perhaps he'd stood up too quickly. Camilla took hold of his arm.
"Now, now, Larry," she said, guiding him across the room.
"Sorry, Larry," said Barclay, not bothering to rise. "Courage, old boy. Good luck!"
Camilla led him to the door, then most smoothly showed him out. "When the summer's over and things have quieted down," she said, "you must be sure and come around again. Some afternoon, perhaps, when everything's less frantic. We'll sit out in the garden and take some tea."
There was a moment of confusion. He was still clutching her glass. He thrust it into her hand, saw a weak, distant smile, then a nod of dismissal as she shut the door.
He stood alone outside, dazed by the whole exchange. She hadn't even invited him for lunch; all he rated was a cup of tea. It didn't matter really—at this point nothing did. The petty slights, the little glances and winks—what difference now if he was going to lose the club? He'd climbed the Mountain on the strength of a futile hope, and now everything was finished, all was lost. The Tangier Players, his creation, had slipped from his infirm grasp, on account, it seemed, of Peter Barclay's whim and a commitment by Mrs. Weltonwhist to prepa
re Henderson Perry's bouquets.
He walked away quivering, shoulders hunched, eyes smarting from the harshness of the light. He stopped every so often to wipe his brow, pant and gasp for breath. They'd resumed their backgammon game by now, or perhaps they were still dissecting him. He'd known such people all his life, knew the way they rolled their eyes, the tone they used to express disdain.
He walked as rapidly as he could in no particular direction, anxious to get as far as possible from the house. Time passed. He wandered aimlessly farther up the Mountain, past villas, then into meadows, up always toward the Mountain's crest. He followed narrow, rocky paths, passed ancient wells and children tending goats. There was an old mosque up there, a quiet place he'd stumbled upon years before. He climbed higher, searching, but couldn't find it. He lost track of where he was.
After a while he stopped, exhausted, feeling pain in all his joints. There was a band of burning across his chest. The walk had worn him out. He looked around, spied an outcropping of rock, went to it, sat down to rest. Life was so unfair. For ten years he'd struggled. And then—one humiliation after another had piled on since May, until now, in August, his world had turned to ash.
He gazed down upon Tangier. The city glowed miles below. It baked away beneath the brutal sun, a secret city, closed upon itself. How lonely it looks, he thought, that decaying town of ancient streets. For a decade his life there had been sweet. Now everything was over, and the city was growing mean.
Yes, it was more than TP that was over for him now. It was Tangier that was finished too. A way of life. A sweet embrace. That season had come now to its end. The Moroccans had turned against the Europeans. They didn't want to live with foreigners anymore. The era of the Mountain would soon be over, and those who'd just scorned him would soon be scorned themselves.
His eyes glazed as he began to think about himself, look back upon his life, take the measure of his worth. He'd spent years, he realized, in cheap theatrical hotels, hovels not much better than his shanty in Dradeb. He'd spent a lifetime trying to preserve his dignity in the face of all the humiliations an actor must endure. What had it meant—his life upon the stage? Not much, he thought—barely anything at all. He'd played uncles and butlers and inspectors from Scotland Yard, small, neat, lonely little men with a moment or two of grandeur, a line or two of wit. Theater, he'd told himself, was nothing if it was not an art, but he'd always known this wasn't so, that it was a shabby life, a glittering sham.
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