Tangier

by William Bayer

  "Know what Aunt Jemima said to Uncle Ben?"

  The question was directed at Madame Fufu, who didn't understand it and shook her head.

  "'You're a credit to your rice,' " said Kelly. "Ha! Ha! Ha!" He yowled, pounding at the sides of his chair, nearly unloosing the antler arms.

  Robin winced. It was such an awful joke. Madame Fufu didn't get it and shook her head.

  "That's a Yank joke," said Jessamyn Drear as Madame Fufu excused herself and wandered off.

  "Better be careful," whispered Jessica to Kelly. "We might need her husband for Emperor Jones in the fall."

  "Oh, fuck that burr head," Kelly said, "and fuck O'Neill too." He took a long sip from his drink. Robin sat beside him in Madame Fufu's place.

  "So, Joe, I hear Luscombe won the game."

  "Yeah," said Kelly, "him and that lousy Derik Law. I had a great plan going till those two screwed it up."

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know. He gave some sugary speech and turned the thing around. But I'll fix that little proud nose, wait and see. Makes me sick with all his crap about 'The Theater' and his phony arty airs. I know his type, knew 'em in New York. British character actors, phonies all of 'em, holed up in the Great Northern spewing out their Shakespeare by the hour. Want a quote? Something you can print? Just say Tangier's not big enough for the two of us, and that I'll get that old hack yet."

  "Now calm yourself, Joe," said Jessamyn while Robin wrote Kelly's statement down. "You're managing director—that's the real power. Larry's just a straw man now."

  Robin listened a while, then withdrew, remembering a line of Friedrich Nietzsche that Martin Townes liked to quote. How did it go? He stopped in a doorway, trying to recall the words: "It's a relatively simple matter for a weathered charlatan like myself to keep up interest in so small a carnival as this."

  He gazed around. Hervé and Pie were still together, still sharing a pipe. Well, he thought, at least I've done one good deed. Then he noticed Jean Tassigny, sitting by himself. He walked over to him, sat down, and listened to his tale of woe.

  "I'm leaving tomorrow," Jean said after telling Robin about the telescope. "There's a ferry for Algeciras in the morning. I'll catch the train for Paris there."

  "Don't be ridiculous. Why the hell are you so upset? She was cheating on Joop. How can you be surprised she's cheating on you?"

  "Oh, God! That's why I have to leave. A perfectly intelligent person like yourself saying a thing like that—that's the whole damn trouble with Tangier!"

  "Oh, come, Jean," said Robin, feeling a sudden need to defend the town. "You're not going to give me that old in-Tangier-they-know-everything-about-sex-and-nothing-about-love routine. You're too sophisticated to spout that crap, the swan song of every poor beggar who ever left this city hurt. Really, I'm surprised. You take things much too seriously. Your situation is so classic, you ought to be able to see the humor in it instead of feeling sorry for yourself. The handsome boy, lover to the older woman, married in turn to the ugly wealthy man. You mistook her lust for affection, Jean, and your own misguided passion for love. You participated in something that held a certain drama, considering the fact that the three of you were living in the same house, and now that it's over you want to flee the scene, if only to further dramatize your hurt. Stop it, Jean, and don't stare at me with those bedeviled eyes, as if to show me how Tangier has corrupted your otherwise pure and unblemished soul. You've traveled a mere inch down the highway of sin. What you need is a new lover. May I be so bold as to suggest—a boy?"

  Jean looked up at him with astonishment, then began to laugh. "Really, Robin, you're very funny."

  "And you're very handsome—no offense."

  They shook hands and Robin wandered off, fairly certain that Jean Tassigny was not going to leave Tangier.

  He headed toward the terrace, where Jimmy Sohario had installed a Moroccan band. Passing through the doors, he came upon an amazing sight. It was Foster Knowles dancing crazily while everyone else stood back and watched. The Moroccans were drumming away, clearly entranced with this American who shot out his feet, one after the other, and whipped around his right arm like a cowboy making ready to lasso a calf. "Whoopee," he yelled, "whoopee," as if celebrating the end of a drive down the Chisholm Trail.

  Robin had never before seen Knowles behave like that. The Vice-Consul had always seemed to him a terrible stuffed shirt. His wife, Jackie, was standing facing him on the fringes of the crowd, bent over slightly, clapping in tune to the drums, letting out with little squeals from time to time. "Yippee!" and "O-yippee-hi-ho!"

  Robin, fascinated, wondered what had brought this behavior on. When Foster grabbed Old Musica Codd out of the crowd and whirled her into a jig, he moved over to Jackie and shouted in her ear.

  "Is he stoned?"

  "Oh, Mr. Scott," she said, batting her sky-blue eyes. "I'd have thought you'd have heard our news by now, you being a gossip columnist and all."

  "What news? Don't hold out on me, Jackie. I've always been sweet to you in my column."

  "No, you haven't," she said smartly, showing him a petulant smile. "You could have got me into a lot of trouble if Foster wasn't so—"

  "Dense?"

  "Oh, you are nasty, Mr. Robin Gossip Scott."

  "Yes, I am," he said. "Now tell me what's going on."

  "Well, my 'dense' husband, as you call him, has just been named Acting Consul General of the United States. That makes me equal to Mrs. Whittle, so you can start by showing me some respect."

  "Acting Consul? What happened to Lake?"

  "Oh—Dan. Well, I think he's on his way out of the country, to Frankfurt or someplace, some hospital, I guess. Poor Dan. Anyway, it's really exciting for us. Happened just a couple hours ago. We were down at the Manchesters' when suddenly the Ambassador's limousine pulled up. He took us up to this fantastic house where we met Mr. Perry and the Crown Prince!"

  "But why? What happened?"

  "Gee, I don't know exactly. Seems Dan resigned over some fracas or other, so the Ambassador's put Foster in charge. We're really excited. They're going to change all the locks on the Consulate doors, and as soon as the Lakes' stuff is moved out we get to live in the residence too."

  Their conversation was broken off then by a mob of people who'd heard the news and had come around to congratulate the Knowles' on their precipitous rise to power. Rick and Anne Calloway, from Voice of America, were dutifully kissing ass, and Peter Barclay was already busy organizing a congratulatory lunch. So incredible, thought Robin, these rapid changes due to fate. The last time he'd seen the Knowles', Jackie was Dan Lake's mistress. Now her husband had Lake's job, and she couldn't wait to take possession of his house.

  He spent the next hour shuttling back and forth between the rooms, watching the party turn rowdy. He saw Hervé sneak off with Pumpkin Pie and congratulated himself again for that. He had a little conversation with Kranker, then watched Fufu try to put the make on Florence Beaumont and Baldeschi work on the hopelessly cool Tessa Hawkins. Heidi Steigmüller was still wearing her De Gaulle mask. It was amusing to watch her talking to General Bresson, no doubt about military "maneuvers and affairs." Percy Bainbridge in his Mary Poppins costume was chatting away with Jack Whyte. Perhaps, Robin speculated, he was retaining Jack to build a prototype of his "three-cornered kiss."

  Between the elevation of the Knowles' and the collapse of the Kelly coup, Robin felt he had enough material for a column. What he needed now were some details about the Perry party, things he could use to put it down. He was in the process of extracting information from Vanessa Bolton, who was happily telling him all about the little boats in Perry's tub, when Kranker rushed over out of breath and grasped Robin by the arm.

  "Come quick," he said. "It's finally happening. Wax and Barclay are having it out."

  Robin grabbed hold of Vanessa, dragged her with him as he followed Kranker to another room. When they arrived they found a quiet little crowd in a circle around Barclay and Wax, who were sta
nding apart facing each other like gunslingers in a Western town.

  Wax was still in his costume, holding his "beanstalk" like a staff. Barclay, legs apart, arms folded confidently across his chest, wore a somewhat frayed and dated smoking jacket and clutched a silver-headed cane.

  "What's going on?" someone whispered.

  "Shush," said Robin, craning forward so as not to miss a precious word.

  "Just the sort of comment we'd expect," he heard Barclay say, "from the son of a chimney sweep."

  "Ha!" said Wax. "Everyone in Tangier knows about you, how you tried to force Camilla Weltonwhist to buy that worthless property below your house so you could plant trees on it and pretty up your view."

  "That's a damn lie," said Barclay, beginning, Robin thought, to look unnerved. "But then we all know your history, that you're nothing but a liar and a thief."

  "You're right. I've never pretended to be anything else. The trouble with you, Mother Barclay, is that you don't know what you are. But I do. I see right through you. For all your fancy lineage you're just like an Arab boy who spreads his ass for half a crown."

  It was a terrible insult, terribly unfair, Robin thought, and Barclay didn't take it well. Ho grew red in the face, and the veins in his forehead began to throb. Suddenly he pursed his lips and let fly with a glob of spit. It landed on the carpet, a little short of Wax.

  "Oh, you are angry, dear," said Wax, regarding Barclay with utter scorn. He raised his "beanstalk" and started toward him, would have bashed him on the head with it, Robin thought, if Barclay hadn't managed to deflect it with his cane.

  Immediately their friends dragged them apart, and into separate rooms. There were huddles then, cliques and factions formed, while the whole party turned into a debate about which one had bested the other and what had started the argument off. Robin, uninterested in either of these things, was busy writing their dialogue down. He'd have to ask his editor for double his usual amount of space. He had enough now for a delicious column.

  Hamid was relieved. He'd done his duty well, protected the princes and princesses who were finally all safely bedded down. He was relaxing with his men in the kitchen of "Castlemaine," dining on leftover food which Henderson Perry had graciously offered, when Aziz Jaouhari suddenly burst in.

  "Something terrible, Hamid," he said. "There's been a murder at Villa Chapultepec."

  Hamid jumped up from the table, and together they ran out to his jeep. As they drove down the Mountain toward the Beaumonts' house, he shot questions at Aziz.

  "The victim?"

  "All I have is that it's a European. The body's been disfigured. Supposedly it's a mess."

  "Who reported it?"

  "The resident caretaker down there. He heard some noises, then saw someone running across the grounds. He couldn't make out who it was, but decided to check the villa. He found the body in the salon."

  "How could this happen, Aziz? We've had patrols on the Mountain all night."

  Aziz shrugged. "There're no lights on the road. If someone knows the estates up here, he can cross the walls at will."

  When they arrived at Chapultepec a truckload of police were already there. Hamid nodded to the cringing caretaker and walked straight through the house. It was a gruesome sight he found, the walls of the salon covered with blood, the nude body of a young European male lying on the marble floor. He'd been castrated, his stomach, chest, and face punctured numerous times. There was a trail of bloody footprints leading out through the glass French doors.

  Aziz raised his hand to cover his mouth. "Do you know who he is, Hamid?"

  The Last Column

  "Really, you look terrible," said Hamid. "Worse than I've ever seen you."

  It was eleven o'clock in the morning, two days after the murder of Hervé Beaumont. They were sitting in Haifa Café , Robin with his back to the Straits of Gibraltar, Hamid facing the coast of Spain, cut off from sight by haze. A pregnant cat under the little iron table licked softly at Hamid's moccasins. Ramadan was due to end in one more day; then the new moon would come, and the feast of Aid es Seghir.

  "Actually," said Hamid, still appalled by Robin's bloodshot eyes and the drained pallor of his face, "he was passive when we caught him. He made no attempt to struggle, and within five minutes he confessed. He took us to the place where he'd hidden the knife, under a rock in a cliff on the way to Cap Spartel. He was going to hide out in the mountains and then try to slip over the frontier. Inigo came around last night and asked to visit him in his cell. I refused, with mixed feelings I admit. There's something likable about the boy, though of course he's dangerous and mad."

  Robin nodded. "I knew he was both those things. Inigo called him 'schizophrenic.' Last year he nearly cut off my balls. "

  "You're still blaming yourself—"

  "Of course, Hamid. I introduced them, encouraged Hervé . Told him it would be good for him, would clear up his confusion and straighten out his head."

  "Well, Robin, you couldn't have known—"

  "I did know. If I'd thought about it, just taken a minute and thought, I might have predicted the whole thing. I certainly knew that Hervé was in trouble, and that Pumpkin Pie was violent. I'm responsible, Hamid. I feel that I am. I knew what I was doing. Subconsciously I knew."

  Robin thrust his head down on the table and began silently to sob. His body quivered and made the table shake. Hamid watched for a moment, then reached out and placed his hand on Robin's hair.

  "Really, Robin, there's no point in assigning blame. I had this boy in my office on a vice charge last month. I could have locked him up. But I didn't. I was tired and let him go. Does that make me an accomplice? I really don't think it does."

  Hamid wanted very much to comfort Robin, relieve his terrible distress. He didn't think he was responsible for the Beaumont murder—he put the blame on something else.

  "It's not you, Robin," he said. "You're judging yourself too harshly now. This comes from something a lot deeper than your little immoralities, something sick, even evil, that exists in the expatriate milieu. People using people. Europeans and Moroccans competing for advantage. That sort of thing breeds rage, and when unstable personalities are involved we get violence just like this."

  Robin calmed down after a while, stopped his weeping and raised his head. "I hate myself, Hamid. I detest what I've become. Ridiculous hustler. Phony poet. Trashy gossip. Despicable queer. The only thing I don't regret is that I've been your snitch all these years."

  "Yes, that's something to be proud of—"

  "I've been helpful to you, haven't I, Hamid? Devoted? I even helped you crack this case. I fingered Pie the moment that I heard."

  "Oh, yes, you've been helpful from time to time. Certainly you're my favorite informer, though perhaps not the most reliable one I've ever had."

  "Have you felt grateful toward me at times? Happy you let me stay?"

  Hamid laughed. "I'm not sure grateful is the word. But yes—I'm happy I didn't throw you out years ago when I had the chance."

  "Good. I'm glad." Robin looked into his eyes. "Will you do me a favor, Hamid? Something for old time's sake?"

  "That depends. Tell me what you want."

  "I want you to expel me from Tangier."

  Hamid smiled. "Don't be ridiculous. You're not a prisoner here. If you really want to go, all you have to do is leave."

  "That's the problem, damn it, Hamid. It's not so easy just 'to go.' "

  "I don't see any difficulty about it. In fact, I think it's a fine idea."

  "You don't understand. I've tried. For years I've tried. I've wanted to go for a long time. But I can't. My life here is too easy and set. If I go somewhere else I'm sure to have difficulties. The only way I'm ever going to leave is if you kick my ass."

  Robin fixed Hamid with his most sincere and anguished gaze. Hamid searched his eyes for irony, and finding none looked closely at him and raised his brows.

  "Let's be serious, Robin. I understand you, but you're not saying what you mean.
You're perfectly capable of leaving Tangier on your own. What you want from me is something else. Not an order of expulsion. You want punishment. You want me to expel you as a punishment, to help relieve a little of your guilt."

  "That's it, of course." Robin smiled. "You're so sensitive, Hamid, such a remarkable cop. I'm your Raskolnikov, and you're my Inspector Porfiry. You've read Dostoyevsky, of course."

  Hamid shook his head. "I can't even get through our local authors. My reading is confined to dossiers."

  "This one's worth the trouble. Crime and Punishment. It deals with subjects you know so well."

  "Thank you. I'll try to find a copy. But getting back to your departure, where do you think you'd like to go?"

  "Canada. Montreal. I have some friends there. I could probably find a job."

  "Any family?"

  Robin laughed. "They all disowned me years ago."

  "What sort of job then?"

  "Oh—journalism. I'd be a good police reporter, don't you think?"

  "If you worked at it—maybe. Have you money for the trip?"

  "Not now. No. But it wouldn't cost too much. I could catch a freighter out of Lisbon or Algeciras. One-way passage. I could raise it, I suppose."

  "You're serious, aren't you?"

  "Yes, I am. I don't know whether it's too late for me, but at least I'd like to try to start again."

  "Then do it, Robin."

  "Expel me and I will."

  Hamid was disgusted. "So, we're back to that—the old Tangier tricks. You'll never have another sort of life, Robin, if you don't start right now and change."

  "What?"

  "Listen to me! Stop these stupid charades, these little Tangier deals you've been making all these years. 'I'll do this for you, Hamid, if you do this for me.' 'Let me stay and I'll be your snitch.' 'I'll save myself and leave, but you have to expel me first.' Such nonsense! Why don't you just do the thing straight out? I'll help you. I'll drive you to the frontier at Ceuta. I'll even lend you the money for your passage to Montreal. Tell me when and I'll escort you where you like. But I won't issue an order of expulsion or deal with you as a police inspector. Only as Hamid, your friend. How about trying that?"