With a hand on her elbow he guided her into the busy, bustling atmosphere of the market place, where they browsed among Safi pottery, basket work, handwoven lengths of cloth and all kinds of Eastern bric-a-brac. But it was the flower section in the open air bazaar which attracted Vivienne. She liked to watch the colourful Riff women in their red and white striped skirts and enormous straw hats decorated with pompoms, arranging the great load of blooms they had brought down from the mountains. Under the trees they sat surrounded by roses, gladioli, ixias and a host of other varieties, making a galaxy of colour. The most popular of all was the exquisite blue flower of which there were many in the garden of Koudia, the famous Moroccan iris.
Trent accompanied her with an air of lazy tolerance, and she almost forgot the rift that lay between them as he made dry comments on the alarming profusion of Oriental junk on the stalls, and handled with her weird skins, stringed instruments and old brass-studded leather caskets. By the time they had got down to the foot of the socco where more Moorish wares were on sale in the booths lining the street Vivienne felt laughter bubbling in her throat and a curious feeling of release from all the inhibitions that dogged her.
It was perhaps a dangerous mood in which to stop, as she did at a spot festooned with a grotesque assortment of dead birds, animal skins, dried snakes and lizards. ‘It’s a medicine shop!’ she exclaimed laughing-eyed, and pushed the strands of hair back from her face with an unconscious gesture. ‘It’s incredible to think that they still believe in these kind of cures in this day and age.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ Trent nodded with a grin. ‘Out here magic possets and mysterious powders still hold great sway with the population.’
While they were talking the owner of the shop thrust his bearded head out of the doorway. ‘You’ would like a .potion?’ he asked in passable English.
‘Not right now,’ Trent gleamed. ‘We were just wondering about the use of these things.’
The owner, who introduced himself as the great doctor Moulay Ahmed, eyed them with a polite and sympathetic beam as he spoke. ‘I am sure you will need something. But first if you wish I will explain a little of my business. This dried eagle has a very important use. If someone puts a love potion in your tea a little of the dried flesh, powdered and drunk in water, will break the spell. These fox bones are for a love potion. Ground and blended with this powdered lizard skin, they are irresistible, also very cheap. Now if another man is courting your sweetheart and you wish …’
Vivienne, listening with a smile, felt that the ground had suddenly disappeared from under her feet. But Trent was interjecting easily, ‘Just a minute. Don’t you have anything else to cure but lovesickness around here?’
Ahmed smiled with leering innocence. ‘But of course,’ he said. ‘When a man comes to my shop with a woman, naturally I draw conclusions. Now on that hook there is a bit of desert wolfskin. If you have an infection just drop the skin in the fire and hold the infected part in the smoke. And this snakeskin—it is a genuine Taroudannt cobra, no less—you can rent by the day. Wrap it around your brow if you have a headache. For a sore throat, wear it like a scarf. It is very powerful.’
‘I bet,’ Trent murmured humorously, and dropping an arm negligently around Vivienne’s shoulders he eased himself away. ‘Well, thanks for the run-down, Ahmed. Now we must be cutting along.’
‘Wait a minute!’ As they were passing the baskets of dried lizards Ahmed called out, ‘How many children have you?’
While Vivienne wished now that the ground would indeed open and swallow her up Trent replied lazily that they didn’t have any.
‘Aha!’ Ahmed exclaimed. ‘Then you need me. Now this dried leopard …’
‘Let’s get out of here!’ They were well away from the booth-lined street before Trent’s throaty laughter subsided. Vivienne felt a little breathless. She was glad that they turned into the shady calm of the Mendoubia Gardens, where only the centuries-old trees were witness to her slightly pink cheeks.
They lunched at the Thousand and One, where the atmosphere was truly reminiscent of the Arabian Nights. Though none of it was new to Vivienne she was aware more than she had ever been of the magic of their surroundings, in Trent’s company; aware of the Moorish dishes prepared by a Moorish cook, of the orchestra playing Moorish music and the dancing of the boys which carried one back to the dawn of civilisation. The Menebhi Palace was close by and their table had a view of the sea. There was a piquancy about everything which could have been simply the brilliant sunshine and azure blue sky.
They left to join the passing parade in the alleys. When they got back to the spot where they had been dropped off earlier that morning Vivienne was pleasantly surprised to see the wine-coloured sports car waiting by the curb. She said laughingly, for it was that kind of day, ‘So we’re not to have a chauffeur for our afternoon drive?’
‘Sure we have a chauffeur—me,’ Trent joked idly, putting her into the passenger seat. He came round to slide in beside her and added casually, with a grin, ‘Abdul’s okay for browsing around town, but out on the highway he’ll handle the car like a string of camels and we could end up riding into the sunset in the Goulimine desert.’ He was still joking, of course. Vivienne had a feeling that Abdul, though absent, was completely reliable.
The car ate up the kilometres out of the city. The breeze wafting over the windscreen was perfumed by oleander blossoms growing in bright pink clumps on the banks of the streams by the roadside.
Vivienne was in the mood for chat, but it was awkward with Trent.
They had no common ground on which to base a conversation. Over lunch they had centred their talk on the food, the music and the view.
Now because she could think of nothing else to say she asked lightly, ‘Is Abdul married?’
‘I believe he’s got one or two wives tucked away somewhere in the south at Zagora,’ Trent replied. He turned the wheel round a bend and shot her a laconic look. ‘But don’t run away with the idea that he’s lonely in Tangier. Like Haroun, he’s got his special lady friends in the medina.’
Vivienne eyed his half-smile and twinkled accusingly, ‘You talk as if you condone that kind of thing. Wouldn’t it be better if you had his wives brought to Koudia, then he could live in an aura of respectability?’
Trent laughed, showing strong white teeth. ‘I doubt if we’d get that. It would be a battle between the house and the Medina with the women oh both sides concocting their powerful chu-bas. You can take it from me they’d have far more potency than anything Moulay Ahmed showed us today. Poor Abdul wouldn’t stand a chance.’
‘It would serve him right if he were laid low with a posset,’ Vivienne said with stern ‘satisfaction. ‘It would teach him to take his marriages seriously.’ She cast a sideways glance at Trent’s bland exterior and smiled hypocritically, ‘I somehow get the feeling you don’t agree.’, He shrugged, his blue gleam aimed at the road. ‘Man is polygamous by nature. The East recognises that. We in the West try to make out it’s primitive, but there’s an awful lot of envy goes on.’
‘Among the men, naturally,’ Vivienne purred. Somehow the subject and Trent’s attitude nettled her. She changed it, stifling a slightly morose feeling, by remarking, ‘Zagora is a long way from here, almost on the southern borders of Morocco.’
Trent nodded. ‘That’s where Abdul and I first met up. He was employed then by a mate of mine, a veteran of the French camel patrol. Then Pierre went back to France, so Abdul came to work for me.’
‘The French camel patrol?’ Vivienne looked at Trent, intrigued. ‘You mean wandering among the nomadic tribes and camping in those red mud forts set in the middle of the desert like something straight out of Beau Geste?’ At his nod she pushed a strand of hair from her face and enquired, ‘What were you doing in a place like that?’
‘Something along the same lines.’ After several moments had elapsed he shot a grin her way and asked, ‘What’s wrong? Can’t you picture me pouring sand out of my boots?’<
br />
‘As you are now, maybe,’ she viewed him in his casual wear, ‘but in the evenings when you’re dressed for the casino I wouldn’t have connected you with anything so adventurous.’
His grin broadened. ‘Don’t let the city folk fool you. I’ve lived in some rough places.’
Vivienne turned her glance to the scenery and mused on what she had just learned. So Trent had another side to his character; one where he had been accustomed to roving as he pleased in raw and unpopulated spots. It was certainly a contrast to the groomed and polished life he led now, and it set her thinking. Which, she wondered, was the real Trent? It was an interesting question.
The landscape was un-African to look at. Cows grazed in the meadows and trees covered the hillsides. There were birds everywhere, small woodpeckers, partridges, and swallows, and in the hedgerows an endless variety of wild flowers. Then suddenly they were twisting down a steep red clay road, the hills fell away and they entered the narrow streets of Tetuan.
It was pleasant wandering in the Andalusian atmosphere of the old Spanish quarter. They took tea at one of the sidewalk cafes and later strolled through the Moorish section, whose winding streets gave glimpses of the mountains. Beyond the Bab Rouah gateway they were caught in the market place again. Here richly embroidered cloths, woven belts and silver jewellery winked in the sunlight. Here too were the inevitable booths displaying the usual bizarre merchandise. Without thinking Vivienne took Trent’s arm and guided him away from where snakeskins and dried animal pelts adorned a doorway, stating humorously, ‘I think one medicine shop will suffice for today.’
His blue gaze fencing teasingly with hers, he drawled, ‘Not interested in hearing what’s all the rage in the Tetuan love potion racket?’ They laughed together and somehow ended up walking hand in hand. They studied the alleyways of the Medina from a point high up in the Casbah, and the forest of minarets, cheerfully counting no less than seventy in the town. Beyond was the Mediterranean, a deep royal blue, and in the distance it was possible to see the coast of Spain in the clear light, and the little white town of Tarifa.
Vivienne found a seat on the rough Casbah wall and put her face to the breeze laced with multitudinous scents from the streets below.
Eyes closed, she was trying to place some of them—fresh fish grilled on charcoal, simmering tajine stew—when she felt Trent at her side.
He offered her a cigarette, flicked his lighter under it and the one he had placed between his own lips and after inhaling said with his idly probing expression, ‘For someone who’s only been here a short time you’re pretty blasé about your surroundings.’
So he had noticed that nothing caused her any great surprise. She smiled and replied lightly, ‘There’s a simple explanation—I’ve been to Morocco before.’
He looked in no way shaken by her remark but merely commented, ‘For a farmer’s daughter you get around.’
Vivienne slid her glance towards the sea. She didn’t want to think of Lucy. Not just now. She reflected dreamily, ‘I can remember the way Fez used to look, rose-pink in the moonlight, and how the fort and mosque on the hillside at el Jadida shone brilliant white against the blue sky.’
‘How long ago was that?’ He rested a well shod foot on the low wall beside her.
‘Four years.’ Where was Trent then, she wondered, jogging into an oasis on camelback? Or preparing to explore the bright light? in some north African city?
He was asking, ‘And you never had a hankering to make a return visit?’
‘No,’ she replied non-committally.
‘Strange! They say Morocco is more Eastern than the East. I’d have thought you’d have been bitten if only in a mild way by -‘ he shrugged with a lazy grin, ‘well, whatever it is that gets one about these places.’
‘Perhaps I was. I came back, didn’t I?’ Her smile held, but only just.
There they were brushing close to that subject again.
Trent lowered his gaze fractionally too. He took a pull on his cigarette, then lapsed into a reflective mood himself. ‘I remember when I first saw you at the airport that day,’ he looked down at her with ironic humour. ‘I had an idea then that you didn’t exactly regard Tangier as the wilds of Africa. You had a look that froze the touts. I think you would have managed to shake them off without any help from me.’
‘True.’ Vivienne bowed low at this touch of flattery. She took advantage of the situation to add boldly, ‘I would have handled the boys in the Medina too if you hadn’t have happened along.’
‘Young thugs, and not all of them boys.’ Trent’s attitude became steely. ‘That was a different matter.’
‘Not so very, for me,’ Vivienne shrugged. ‘I got to know the streets of Tangier very well and learned a lot about Moroccan youths during my six months’ stay here.’
The look he gave her was long and searching. He said at last, with a quixotic gleam, ‘You’re a mysterious creature. I’ve always felt there was something about you that doesn’t add up. What happened here four years ago?’
Vivienne felt a jolt inside. Had she gone too far rambling on about herself? Adopting an air of flippancy, she said laughingly, ‘Does something have to have happened simply because I got a fancy to do a little travelling?’
But Trent didn’t let up on his scrutiny. He said, smiling too in an odd way, ‘You’re old enough to have had half a dozen love affairs.’
The laughter came through her parted lips as she looked .up at him and she felt her breath stop in her throat. She managed to retort humorously, ‘Well, for my tender age, where does that put you?’
‘For a man it’s different. We’re not inclined to carry the scars like you women.’
In the face of his male superiority she was fired into flashing back, albeit sweetly, ‘In everything men give so little of themselves.’
‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he drawled, his blue gaze on her. ‘It depends.’
She felt trapped by his stifling proximity, but by no means helpless— at least not too much that she couldn’t breathlessly twinkle a reply. ‘I do remember you saying when we first met that you never made love by proxy.’
‘Nor would you be satisfied with that either. I said that too.’
Up until this moment she hadn’t wanted to be reminded of Lucy and the business of the letters. Now, like someone drowning, she clutched at the one subject that could save her. ‘I’m lucky.’ It was all she could do to keep her voice light. ‘I was able to meet my pen-pal beau in the flesh.’
‘Are you?’ There was a wealth of meaning and scepticism in his tones. His blue gaze still held hers, but she knew that the spell was broken. After a moment he tossed his cigarette over the wall and they watched it roll and spark in the breeze down the cobbled ramp that led below. He straightened, thrust his hands in his pockets and spoke to the minaret skyline. ‘Four years ago Rob was a healthy young cuss.
His one ambition was to become a professional rugby player. He had the build for it.’
‘He still has a wonderful physique,’ Vivienne said, smiling.
‘Not as he was in those days.’ Trent’s gaze narrowed over the view.
‘He was a young giant. He could tackle anybody on the field.’
‘Did he get to play professionally?’ Vivienne finished her cigarette.
‘More than that. His room’s full of trophies. He was touring up to about a year ago. Then this muscular thing hit him.’
‘It must have been something of a shock,’ Vivienne put in.
‘No, nothing like that. It didn’t happen that fast. At first they thought it was just an attack of ‘flu. Then he didn’t pick up …’ Trent turned his glance, somewhat sceptically her way. ‘But no doubt Rob’s told you all this in his letters?’
‘Oh, of course!’ Vivienne hurried to reply. ‘It’s … just nice to hear it from an older brother.’
She had risen to give some credence to her words. Trent was facing her now. His gaze roamed over her windblown features, then he smiled, but sp
oke harshly. ‘Sure. An older brother can be a comfort at times.’
The lighter mood of earlier had evaporated. Talking of Rob had put a sombre feel over everything. Trent looked at his watch and taking her arm he said abruptly, ‘It’s time we were getting back to the hospital.’
They didn’t speak during the return journey to Tangier. Robert, looking paler as though his day at the hospital had tired him a little, was nevertheless in cheerful frame of mind. ‘Well, how’d it go, folks?’ he asked as soon as they had got him settled in the car and were driving back to Koudia. ‘Did you have a good day?’
‘Splendid,’ said Trent, his eyes on the road.
‘Wonderful!’ Vivienne prattled. ‘We toured the market this morning, then we had lunch at the Thousand and One, and later we drove over to Tetuan.’
‘Good!’ said Robert, looking first at her and then at Trent. ‘I like to think that my best girl and my brother can rub along okay together.
You must do it again.’
Trent swung the wheel and drawled, ‘Don’t forget I’ve a business to run, Rob. I’ve never yet met an accountant who can do the figures my way.’
Vivienne said, looking out of the window, ‘I should really have written some letters home today,’ and then to change the subject she pointed as they drove through the orchards. ‘Oh, look! The blossom has made a lovely pink carpet under the trees. I bet it smells delicious.’
But there was no doubt that she and Trent were back on their respective sides of the fence and for the rest of that week they spoke little to one another. Trent avoided her, she thought, except at the meal tables and the afternoons beside the pool. She told herself that that was fine by her; they really had very little in common. She even welcomed the old antagonism that came bubbling to the surface every rime she thought of him. What did she know about casinos except that it was an occupation and a way of making money that she abhorred?
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