Tangier

by William Bayer

  In the front hall they were searched by royal bodyguards, patted lightly through their clothes. Jean thought this frisking was performed with skill, but General Bresson was indignant all the same. "I don't know why they're afraid of us," he muttered. "We don't want to kill them. We're not Moroccan, after all."

  They were escorted into a huge reception room where scores of people milled about. Jean recognized the American Ambassador right away; the man had once run for vice-president of the United States.

  The Hawkins' were there—the last time Jean had seen them they'd been posing nude for the erotic double portrait by Inigo. Pierre St. Carlton, in a gray velvet suit, chatted with Vanessa Bolton against a wall. Jean was introduced to a number of Brazilians, a grandee of Spain, some confident businessmen from Iran. There was a famous Greek actress who wore fabulous jewels, and an Italian leading man invited up from Marrakech, where an historical film was being shot. Omar Salah came up to them, kissed Claude's hand. Then he put his arm across the shoulders of Monsieur de Hoag and guided him away.

  They were waiting, Jean understood, for members of the Moroccan royal family, off somewhere with Henderson Perry in another part of the house. Jean brushed close to Claude, tried clandestinely to take her hand. She showed her annoyance by turning away: she was like that sometimes, ready one minute to risk exposure, furious the next because he'd dared to look at her and smile. He shrugged and started toward the Hawkins', passing near Peter Barclay and Camilla Weltonwhist on his way.

  "The trouble with Henderson," he overheard Barclay explain, "is that he has no taste at all. Look at these third-rate paintings. He lives like a very rich dentist, don't you think?"

  Jean nodded to himself. The interior of "Castlemaine" was disappointing, especially after the fabulous entrance through the grounds. The walls were covered with dark pictures in heavy frames. There were a few Moroccan antiques, candelabra from Farid Quazzani's shop, but most of the furniture was contemporary and expensive, the sort one might find in the waiting room of a society physician on Boulevard Malesherbes.

  Jean tried to talk to the Hawkins', who were uncommunicative and wrapped up in themselves. When he looked back at Claude, he saw her speaking with Salah. The chief of customs was making forceful gestures with his hands. Claude, he was happy to see, was staring back at him unimpressed.

  Vanessa Bolton caught his eye, motioned him to her side. "We must stick together," she said, kissing both his cheeks. "We're the only young people except the Hawkins', who of course are stoned."

  She brought him into her conversation with St. Carlton. The couturier was holding forth on the phenomenon of American millionaires. "Perry's from Texas," he said, "the only place in the world besides Tangier where people still think titles count. The man's phenomenal. Absolutely ruthless and filthy rich. You've seen the yacht, of course."

  "Speaking of toys," said Vanessa.

  "Yes, my dear." St. Carlton raised his eyebrows. "All the talk is true. Perry adores them. There's a room here someplace filled with electric trains. And perpetual motion machines—my God! There're all sorts of them around the halls."

  "We must look around later, Jean," Vanessa said. "There're such lovely gadgets—"

  "Yes," said St. Carlton. "And then there's his cryonics stuff."

  "Cryonics?"

  "Oh, yes, my dears. He's got equipment that accompanies him everywhere—cylinders of liquid oxygen, a preservation box. If he contracts cancer or falls ill of an incurable disease, his people have been instructed to freeze him in a flash. The idea, you see, is that eventually medical science will find a cure. Then he can be defrosted and treated, even a hundred years from now. Mad? Maybe. The poor man wants to live forever. But who doesn't? Just tell me that."

  St. Carlton paused, gazed across the room. "Look at that viper," he said, pointing toward Barclay. Then suddenly he brought his hand up to his mouth. "Oh, dear—here they come, I think. We must all remember to curtsy and bow. I always get goose pimples around royalty. Then, damn it, I forget—"

  Henderson Perry, a neat little man, led the six Moroccan royals into the room. There was something impersonal about his style, more of the tycoon giving foreign dignitaries a tour of a factory than of a man hosting a party in his house.

  There was a hush as they appeared. All the guests fell back. Perry led the royals to the center of the room, then introduced them one by one.

  There were three princesses, sisters of the King; two princes, brothers; and the adolescent Prince Heritier, which explained the elaborate security around the house. Jean found them a curiously unimpressive group, rather short, darker than most Moroccans he knew, slightly awkward, he thought, with quite ordinary Moroccan features, the sort he'd expect to see in the Socco on a market day.

  He watched as they moved about, greeting Perry's dazzled guests. When they reached the de Hoags he was moved by the sight of Claude bowing with elegance, never lowering her turquoise eyes.

  Now that's a real princess, he thought, suffused suddenly by waves of love. He wanted to go to her, take her hand, lead her away from this stuffy party out to Cap Spartel, where they could lie together on the sand and make love to the rhythm of the surf.

  At dinner Perry, Barclay, the royals, the movie stars, and the Ambassador were seated at a big table on the terrace protected from the wind by a screen of glass. Jean sat with Vanessa Bolton, Pierre St. Carlton, and one of the Iranian wives. St. Carlton did most of the talking, gossiping away and complaining of the "sparseness" of Camilla Weltonwhist's bouquets.

  Jean barely touched his food. He was too preoccupied with Claude. She was sitting with Salah, Lady Pitt, and Skiddy de Bayonne. He stole furtive glances at her all through dinner, but she never once returned his gaze.

  After the meal the guests were led away for coffee to a huge room where musicians beat on drums. Soon belly-dancers appeared and began to roll their stomachs. There was nothing erotic about them, Jean thought, and he slid, after a while, into a state of soft malaise. He'd drunk too much champagne and now dreamed of Claude, all the things they'd done, the wonder of her eyes, the mystery of her smile.

  He was in the midst of this when Vanessa Bolton grabbed his hand. "Now's our chance," she whispered. "Perry's about to take the royals on a tour."

  Jean nodded, stood up. Together they edged their way outside. Perry was already in the hall explaining the principles of perpetual motion. Jean, glancing back just as they were leaving, saw Monsieur de Hoag, but not a trace of Claude.

  The tour was delightful. Perry liked showing off, and the Moroccans, all connoisseurs of Western gadgetry, were most responsive to the charms of his machines. They looked in at his kitchen and his communications center in the tower, full of transmitters and a telex by which he kept track of his business interests around the world.

  Perry guided them into his room of electric trains, then sat down at a console and started them by remote control. Soon the Crown Prince was busy lowering barriers, flashing signals, while Perry explained that the network was "fail safe"— if a collision were imminent, the power automatically cut off.

  A good thing, Jean thought, since the Prince seemed reckless. He pitied Morocco when this young man became the King.

  The tour continued. They mounted stairs, wound through corridors, looked out at different views. When they came at last to Perry's personal suite, Vanessa excused herself, but a few minutes later she sneaked up behind Jean and whispered in his ear. "Pretend you have to pee," she said. "Then use the bathroom on the right."

  Jean, obedient, did as he was told, and for his trouble was vastly entertained. There was a sunken tub in the middle of the bathroom floor with little piers built along its sides, and a great fleet of miniature boats floating there, neatly tied. There were tiny warships, toy yachts, meticulous reproductions of famous craft—a whole flotilla, perfect in every detail, all with wind-up motors to make them sail.

  He laughed then, finally touched by Henderson Perry, his magic world, his secret vice. This legendary tyc
oon, reputed to be so ruthless, liked to play in his tub with tiny boats, like any toy-struck American boy.

  When he left he found the others by a window. Perry was demonstrating a telescope. It was an infrared model, based on devices developed during the Vietnam war. One could see people in the dark with it, Perry explained: the human body gave off waves of heat.

  Perry offered the scope to the Crown Prince, who stepped up to it and scanned the grounds. Jean and the others were standing behind him waiting their turns to look, when suddenly the Prince let out with a giggle and pulled at the gown of his youngest aunt.

  She took hold of the instrument, gazed through it, then she too began to laugh. Soon all the royals were pushing and shoving. There was much chattering in Arabic and wild gesturing with hands.

  Henderson Perry, a little confused, watched them with a smile. "I don't know what they see out there that's so damn funny," he said. "Whatever it is, it must be pretty good."

  After a while, when the royals had tired of their game, Jean, who was nearest, stepped up to the telescope to look through it for himself. Being careful not to move the instrument, he brought his eye down slowly to the lens. He was bewildered at first—the infrared effect made things look strange. But a moment later he felt a rush of pain. It was Claude, he was sure, not inches from his eye, somewhere out there in the gardens of "Castlemaine," naked, he could see, and with a man. Jean stared, felt sick, then turned away. She was making love with the customs' chief, Omar Salah.

  Lake knew he'd had it. Everything had backfired. He felt crazy, about to run amuck.

  He was driving down the Mountain at a furious speed, like a kamikaze pilot daring death. His tires squealed as he took the curves. The American flag on his fender snapped crazily in the wind. His lights caught someone standing in the road, a policeman maybe—he wasn't sure. He stabbed about with his toe, searching for the high-beam switch. By mistake he activated the windshield wipers. He nearly hit the cop, swerved away just in time.

  Better slow down, he thought, trying to turn the wipers off. At the bottom of the hill, just before the Jew's River bridge, he brought the car to a screeching halt, then lay his head against the wheel.

  That noise!

  The awful sound stopped as he jolted back. He'd been pressing his forehead against the horn.

  If I just don't lose my head, then maybe things will be all right. But he knew they wouldn't, that there wasn't any way he could obliterate the past, not just the last fifteen minutes, but the whole time he'd been in Tangier, his whole damn sorrowful life. He leaned forward, peered out at the street. No one there; Dradeb was quiet. He turned, fastening his eyes on La Colombe.

  That bastard! That stinking Russian bastard! That goddamn son of a bitch!

  Feeling himself beginning to go mad again, he fought to regain control. He had to keep cool, not allow himself to crack. He had to figure out what to do.

  Z had been blunt when he'd made his proposition a quarter of an hour before, out on the terrace at the Manchesters, with thirty people milling around, and that asshole Willard standing there, snapping pictures for his memory book.

  Proposition! Ha! Blackmail was a better word. Zvegintzov said that if he heard another word about defection he'd tell the American Embassy about everything Lake had done. "Everything"—that was the word he'd used, drawing out the syllables in his obnoxious Slavic whine.

  "Such as what?" Lake had asked, feeling an awful burning in his chest.

  "Such as how you broke security," Z'd replied. "Such as how you invited me into the communications room at the Consulate, then offered to defect to me with an American code machine in hand."

  "Don't be stupid, Peter. No one's going to believe that."

  "They will," he said, "when they see my evidence, the photographs I took inside the vault."

  Photographs! What photographs? His palms were sweating then. Zvegintzov pulled the little Minox out of his pocket, waved it around, nearly stuck it in his nose.

  Christ! It could be true. Z could have done it without his noticing anything, without his even hearing the shutter click. He'd been so wrapped up in himself then, so flushed with feelings of power and success. Now the bastard was threatening him. Blackmail—it was nothing less.

  "What do you want from me, Peter?" he'd asked. "How much money do you want?"

  "I don't want money," Peter replied, "I just want you to leave me alone. Stop harassing me, Lake, and tell your people to lay off too. Or I'll give my pictures to the Russians and ruin your career."

  That was it, the blow that had done him in. He went blind with fury, could have strangled the bastard then and there. But he hadn't—had been too scared. Instead he'd run out of the house, knocking a fondue pot out of Katie's arms. He'd heard it crash to smithereens just as he'd slammed the door, heard someone calling after him ("Dan, Dan"—it sounded like Jackie) as he'd started the car and begun the wild drive down toward Tangier.

  Well, now he'd had it. He'd done so many stupid things, playing the spy, underrating Zvegintzov, vastly overrating himself, compromising his country besides. Impossible to let Z hold those photographs over his head, which left him, he realized, with little choice. The Ambassador was in town.

  Lake knew what he had to do. He'd have to drive up to Henderson Perry's, call the Ambassador out, confess everything, and resign, right there, tonight.

  A little after midnight Robin was driving up the Mountain in Hervé Beaumont's car when he noticed a light in the glass studio on the top of Martin Townes' house.

  "Slow a little, Hervé ," he said, squinting at the tower and smiling to himself. Everyone else in Tangier was at a party, he and Hervé were on their way to Jimmy Sohario's, but there sat Townes, scribbling away, working into the night.

  He was glad when they finally reached "Excalibur," such a change from the atmosphere at Françoise de Lauzon's. Jimmy, a diminutive and affable Indonesian, was always an excellent host. His food was the best on the Mountain, and his villa one of the most fabulous in Tangier. Robin thought of its interior as a bestiary since so many parts of animals were displayed. The chairs were made of entwined antlers, the wastebaskets were hollowed-out elephants' feet, the floors were covered with zebra skin rugs, and the walls were adorned with polished giant tortoise shells.

  It was only half past twelve, but already the house was jammed. Everyone in Tangier was there, it seemed, except the hosts of the four earlier parties, brooding alone in their homes now that their guests had fled to better things.

  Robin was struck by how easy it was to recognize where everyone had been—they were all distinguishable by their modes of dress: formal evening attire on those who'd been at "Castlemaine," absurd costumes on Françoise's bunch, business suits on the Manchesters' friends, garish resort clothing on the scummy TP crowd.

  He plunged in, anxious to accomplish a self-appointed task, to fix up Hervé Beaumont with the hustler Pumpkin Pie. He finally found the "tart of gourds" brooding in a window seat, bare arms poking through the sleeves of his tank top, muscles gleaming in the night.

  "Hi, Pie," he said, sitting beside him. "What's the matter? You're looking sad."

  "That bitch Françoise," Pie replied. "She didn't invite me to her thing."

  Robin saw the boy was hurt and felt sympathy, since he understood the cause. Pie had been the Countess's gardener, and her lover after that. She was the person who'd introduced him to society and had given him his extraordinary name.

  "It's that fuckin' Inigo. Everyone's against me now."

  "Not so," said Robin, patting him on the arm. "Inigo was in love with you, so he can't bear to see you anymore. Françoise is his friend, and doesn't like to see him sad. She didn't invite you tonight, despite the fact that she adores you, so Inigo could have a little fun."

  "Hey, man—you really think so? Well, Okay. Everything's cool now."

  Robin was pleased to have so easily cheered him up. Also he was amazed by Pie's mastery of jive talk. Moroccan boys were like that, he knew, instant mim
ics of Europeans, but what astounded Robin was how quickly Pie had abandoned the refined Latin American mannerisms he'd acquired from Inigo. It was as if that relationship had never existed. How little we really leave these boys, he thought.

  "Remember my picnic, Pie?"

  "Yeah, man. That was a bitch."

  "There was a French boy with me. Hervé Beaumont."

  "Yeah. Lives on the Mountain. I know the cat you mean."

  "Well, he's with me tonight, Pie, and very interested in meeting you. I think you'd like him. He's quite rich, by the way."

  Pie, who'd been staring out at the room, on the lookout for some queen he could hustle for the night, suddenly turned his attention back to Robin, who congratulated himself for knowing the secret word that opened all Moroccan hearts.

  "Rich, huh?"

  Robin nodded.

  "Sounds nice, man."

  "I'll bring him over."

  "He's not cherry, is he?"

  "No, but he doesn't know the Moroccan scene. We know how special that is. Yes, we do—don't we, Pie?"

  "Yeah." Pie grinned, held his palm out straight, and made little cutting motions at it with the edge of his other hand. It was the first reference he'd ever made to the time he'd held a knife against Robin's balls. Robin raised both his hands in mock submission, backed off a little, smiled, then both of them began to nod their heads. They were acknowledging, Robin supposed, the curious relationship that they had.

  How marvelous, he thought, as he hunted Hervé down, how marvelous these transactions of the flesh.

  After he made the introductions, watched Pie and Hervé share a pipe of hash, he wandered off to explore the party, search out material for his column. People had become wary of him ever since Townes had convinced him to write with a harder edge, but his stock had risen after a biting column on Vicar Wick, and now his sources were speaking to him again.

  He circulated for a while, picking up tidbits—nothing of substance, however, nothing to rival the scandal at the church. The big story was the TP party, and Laurence Luscombe's unexpected finesse. Robin finally found Joe Kelly, drinking heavily, holding forth to Madame Fufu and the Drears.