by Janice Law
“That leaves one ‘somewhere in Europe,’ as we used to say.”
“I’d assume so, probably complete with provenance and appreciating in value every moment.”
Richard gave me a sour look. “They were, of course, paid for by Her Majesty’s Government.”
“Not that I got anything out of it! Kindly remember that they were done under duress and without your Official Secrets Act and all the rest, I’d cheerfully tell the world.”
“Your silence has been duly noted, as well as your assistance to Mrs. Angleford. But full-scale protection for you is simply not on. You have enemies here, and you’d do well to leave on the morning ferry.”
He took a final draw on his cheroot and threw the butt into one of the flower beds. “Your usefulness to us is at an end,” he said. “Keep that in mind.”
Chapter Eighteen
I did not take Richard’s advice. I rented a small flat in Tangier and pretended that I was there to paint. What I really did was embark on a round of drinking and parties and beach boys as if bidding farewell to my youth. Maybe I was. Mine had lasted a lovely, long, irresponsible time, and let it never be said that I didn’t give it a good send off.
I hung around the rougher parts of the medina at all hours and visited the sailors and smugglers’ dives down by the harbor. Sorry to say, just about everyone I picked up was very far from “Mayfair” in every conceivable way. And David? David was drinking himself to death to a jazz beat, pounding the keys nightly at the Meridian, improvising on the thousand and one pop tunes he knew by heart like some latter-day Scheherazade. Only while she was courting the shah and having fun in bed, he was courting the grim reaper via single malts and Spanish brandy.
I stopped by his room almost daily. Note I say “room.” The rather pretty house was long gone, the rent money having vanished into the pockets of a mob of thin, pretty, lamented boys and into the capacious wallet of the proprietor of the Meridian. Now David played for drinks, and how he covered his rent I have no idea. Sometimes the door stayed locked; other times, he’d let me take him to lunch.
We’d go to a cafe in the Petit Socco, both hung over and irritable. Sometimes he’d eat and rouse himself to be amusing, but more often he’d sulk over his wine or flirt with the waiter or proposition some passing youth. Even that was better than the days when he remained silent in his room, leading me to panicky imaginings of other, swifter exits from this life. I almost envied Edith Angleford, who’d had an enemy and gone after him without hesitation and could say she’d done all she could.
I avoided the Meridian. That is to say, I resolved every evening that I was never again going to set foot in the place. And almost every evening by eleven or so, I’d find myself with one group of friends or another who were going, definitely going, to the only place with decent jazz and a decent piano, the only place where one saw tout Tangier: the Meridian. In truth, I didn’t want to go, and I couldn’t stay away.
There were rare evenings when David was in a mellow mood. “Ah, Francis!” he’d call, as if he hadn’t seen me in days, as if I had just arrived in the Zone, as if I were a longed-for and welcome companion. Then I’d sit beside him on the piano bench, matching his whiskey with champagne, and for an hour or so, it would be like old times, the good old times. “Pull yourself together, Francis!” Nan would say in my ear, but I ignored her, just as I ignored Richard’s warning.
Of course, I took Richard even less seriously than I took Nan. I ignored clear signs that someone was interested in me and not for my well-known charm and beauty. Footsteps behind me, dark cars in my vicinity? Sure, I noticed, and more than once I jumped into a cab and had it take me to the Palace Hotel, one of the Zone’s clean, well-lighted places. There I took a room and stayed locked in it until morning, when I made a stealthy exit through the kitchens.
But I didn’t book passage on the ferry to Gibraltar or appeal to my gallery for funds to fly home. There are times when safety just isn’t the ticket, when internal weather of the heavy variety demands a bit of external bluster. Or in my case, the ever-piquant dangers and pleasures of rough trade.
You might say that at last I was really appreciating all Tangier had to offer, and it still offered a lot, despite the best efforts of the police commissioner and the prospect of the new Islamic monarchy. Yes, indeed. I was out every night, collecting bruises until near dawn, when I would leave a favorite dive near the beach. I can still hear the old Flamenco singer, a woman with a long, horsey face and a voice like a foghorn with secrets.
Then came a night when the moon was down, and a stiff sea wind raked the dark shore. I was quite drunk, which takes some doing because I have a great capacity for alcohol and a talent, let’s face it, for self-preservation. Maybe I’d become infected with David’s despair, or maybe I had already decided on a flamboyant end to a fool’s errand, but instead of turning toward the town or caging a lift from a friend with a car, I walked down on the beach, strewn with weed and rubble and smelling of sewage.
What was I there for? A vague notion of adventure covers the ground, as I’d been eyeing a young fellow in the taverna. He wore a faded red turban and a loose shirt over canvas trousers, and his face was tanned almost black, although his eyes were a light, steely gray. He cut up his bread with a lethal-looking knife and knocked back glasses of red wine before singing the bass line along with the Flamenco artistes. I bought him a drink, and he courteously declined another as he was momentarily due on his ship.
Just the same, I left ahead of him and loitered along the shore—time’s winged chariot and all that in the back of my mind. I expected him, you see, and I wasn’t alarmed when I heard voices over the wind and turned to see two strangers approaching. In a sober frame of mind, I might have, would have, heard alarm bells. At the moment, full of crazy expectations and a powerful desire for oblivion, I raised my hand in greeting. Then I saw that the younger man was not my turbaned friend from the taverna. This one was short and broad-shouldered and wearing a bad suit. Inadequate tailoring has acquired a particularly sinister meaning for me, and when he threw down his cigarette, I recognized my danger. By then it was too late, for he was close enough to lunge at me, and my reflexes were not quick enough to evade him.
I landed full length onto the sand. I swung my fist at his face and squirmed from his grasp. I managed to get to my feet, but before I could make a run back toward the taverna, his companion struck me hard in the ribs. I fell onto the sand again, my face in the wrack and shells and stones. I got to my knees, swinging wildly, desperate to get upright and away from the flurry of blows and kicks that sent blood pouring from my nose and mouth.
I even held up my left wrist with my replacement gold watch, but these weren’t robbers. They were set to beat me blind, and with a huge effort, I seized one of them around the knees and, unable to get onto my feet, sank my teeth into his thigh. A shout and then a blow to the back of my head. I had a split second to register extreme danger, then nothing more.
Wet, that was the first sensation. Something wet on my face. And then damp, to which add gritty and a sharp pain in my ribs that echoed one in my lower back. Then a brilliant light that closed my eyes and twisted up my features and caused a frightful pain in the back of my head and an irresistible desire to lose everything I’d eaten or drunk since first thing in the morning.
Voices in Berber, and I was lifted from the sand.
I automatically began to struggle before a voice said, “Police. Vous êtes hors de danger maintenant..” I felt a surprised relief, then I remembered nothing more.
I woke up with a headache, like the worst imaginable hangover. Add to that a nasty sense of impending nausea and the feeling that the bones of my torso had been rearranged in some infelicitous way. I wasn’t breathing right, either, and a timid investigation of my nose revealed wads of cotton packing. Broken? I removed the packing, loosening crusts of blood that sent a nasty rivulet down the back of my t
hroat and led to an acquaintance with the kidney-shaped pan beside my bed.
I was in the hospital. St. Barts? Guy’s? Queen Mary’s? Some unknown private clinic? That didn’t seem right. St. Barts was in London. And I was … ? For a moment, I faced a fearful blank. I hadn’t a clue and unwilling to guess, I closed my eyes.
The next time I woke up, I felt, if anything, worse, with a rich assortment of pains and scrapes and a thumping at the back of my head, which was wrapped up in a turban—no, in a bandage. There was a turban somewhere, although I couldn’t locate it. But I wasn’t in London. I knew that now. Which opened the interesting question of my location. Paris? Berkshire? Monte Carlo? No, something in the air was not right. Some smell, some spice, a little whiff of sewage.
And then I knew. I was in Tangier, and somehow I had gotten off the beach where I had been. Been doing what? Night, I’d been on the beach at night, expecting, anticipating—who? What? A man with a turban. For wild revelry with no more than a few bumps and bruises. I’d looked at the sea, that dark omnivorous void—Stay away from beaches, Francis!—and then … then, nothing. Until a bed, a hospital bed, a kidney-shaped pan, pain all over.
Had I picked up a psychopath? Had my sense for danger let me down? An unpalatable idea, and maybe it was just vanity, but I thought not. Not the man in the turban. Not him. Who? And the beach? Why the beach, which is no more than tolerable to me at best? And why that particular stretch of shore, which was filthy and abandoned?
A variety of ideas floated in and out of my mind, but, unable to concentrate, I went back to sleep. The next time I woke up was near sunset; outside I saw big shadows and the intense, saturated colors of North Africa. I was lying in a hospital with a drip in my arm, and I’d been beaten badly. Because I had walked on a beach where I never should have gone. For a moment, just for a moment, I understood David perfectly and knew that his beach was the Meridian.
“You must take the bitter with the sweet, Francis,” Nan said in my ear. I was about to argue that point with her when the door opened.
In walked a smart police officer in a fine uniform. He had a thin face with a long jaw blue with stubble and large, black, dissatisfied eyes. He handled his cigarette elegantly, and he stood for a moment, smoking and looking me over. I got the impression that he didn’t much like what he saw. Well, he wasn’t at the top of my charts, either. I closed my eyes experimentally to see if I could evade him by dropping back into the nether regions, but this time I remained conscious. At least marginally. I opened my eyes again.
“You have suffered a head injury, monsieur.”
I would have nodded, but I couldn’t risk moving my head.
“You might well have been killed.”
Although I don’t trust policemen on principle, I believed that.
“Who?” I asked. My voice sounded weak and far away as if it intended to take a powder and leave me entirely. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Do you know who?”
“We have arrested two men.”
“Two?” I tried to remember two men and failed.
“Can you tell me what you remember, monsieur?”
“The beach,” I said. “I remember walking on the beach below the taverna.”
“Alone?”
“Yes. But with good hopes.”
His lips twitched with distaste, but he said nothing.
“Then I woke up here.”
“You were attacked by two men. Both known to the police.”
I had an image of a park, a big London park, and then of a small stone room. “Soviets?” I guessed.
But the officer had said all he was going to say. “It is unsafe for you here. You are to leave on the first ferry tomorrow.”
I started to protest, but he held up his hand. “You will be given a ticket. Your safety here, monsieur, can no longer be guaranteed. And we lack the manpower to protect you on beaches below tavernas. Bonsoir, monsieur.”
He made a little formal bow, turned on his heel, and strode out.
I lay still for a moment, making an inventory of my various aches and pains. I sat up experimentally. My head throbbed, but I stayed upright. Then I pivoted and tried putting my feet on the floor. The tiles seemed a long way down but after a moment, success. Stand up, Francis. That was a little less successful. I sat down again, aware of a tugging at my arm.
Of course, the IV line. I checked the bag. Almost empty. I picked away at the white sticking plaster and pulled out the needle. Clothes, now. Where were mine? Pants on a chair. No underwear. Will have to do. No shirt. No jacket, either. Ruined with blood and vomit, probably. I struggled into my pants; even they were crusted with sand and dark spotted with blood. I tucked my long, open-backed hospital gown into the pants and looked around for shoes. Lost on the beach, probably.
I felt in my pocket and touched my wallet. Inside, I was surprised to find a handful of bills remaining. That gave me scope, and I immediately made plans to decamp. Secretly seemed best, and I opened the door to check the situation. Though I watched for several minutes, the ward must have been changing shifts, because I saw only one nurse, and she was far down the hallway. Just the same, I preferred not to risk the main entrance. I walked barefoot to a utility stairs that led down to the laundry room and went gingerly out into the hospital courtyard, trying to keep my throbbing head steady.
On the street, I hailed a cab to the souk, where I bought a cheap shirt, a large straw hat, and a pair of sandals. Did I say that I had a plan? In retrospect, nothing so sensible. So what was in my mind at the moment? One word: David.
I sat at the very back of a quiet cafe until dark. I drank mint tea and ate a handful of dates, unable to face anything more substantial or more alcoholic. Although I’d felt fine exiting the hospital and tolerable shopping in the souk, I was now barely upright. A visit to the cafe lavatory revealed a catalogue of damage, including one eye blackened and swollen shut. My nose had been permanently altered, and I’d lost a tooth. My head was wound with an impressive blood-stained bandage. “You should be in hospital, Francis,” said Nan.
I had no intention of that. Eight o’clock. Nine o’clock. At nine thirty, I pushed back from the cafe table and moved slowly and stiffly through the evening crowds to the Meridian. I hesitated on the sidewalk, listening. When I heard the piano, I went inside.
Early yet for the Meridian crowd, but David was already playing. I recognized “When They Begin the Beguine,” one of his favorites, and ignoring the surprised (and sometimes shocked) glances, even the occasional greeting, I made my way to the piano. A murmur followed me, and I suddenly hated the whole crowd. They knew our history, and they were expecting, hoping even, for a scene. Though many were amusing, and some were friends, I would not miss them. Not one.
I staggered against a table and came to rest leaning on the piano.
David looked up. “You’ve been in the war, Francis.” It was a statement with neither surprise nor sorrow.
“Two men tried to kill me.” I sat down on the bench.
“Well,” he said without looking at me. He put a wealth of suggestion in that one word.
“Not what you think,” I said. Meaning adventures, meaning rough trade, meaning smugglers’ haunts and general recklessness—although the latter were indeed implicated.
He took a drink. I noticed the vast number of empty glasses adorning the top of the piano. “You should not have come back,” he said in a dull, affectless voice. “You are not safe here.”
“I couldn’t stay away. Though I wanted to.”
David did not respond. I had the sense that he was far away, that he had succeeded in leaving our ordinary life behind. He began another tune, “The Man I Love.” He laid out the theme, then buried the melody in variations and chromatic wanderings that escaped my comprehension. “Consider me dead, Francis,” he said.
They picked me up outside the Meridian. Two spiffy policeme
n with a car. I didn’t resist. They drove me to the station, where, to my surprise, they didn’t put me in a cell. I was led, instead, to what must have been a sort of break room with a quite comfortable cot. I was locked in, just the same, and one of the officers in careful English told me that I was to “leave on the morning ferry.” He also asked me for the keys to my room and said that my bag would be delivered in time.
So I had all the comforts and service of a decent hotel, courtesy of the Zone police, and in the morning, I had a visit from the top man himself, who intended to escort me personally to the ferry. Had I not felt half-dead, I would have had questions about the whole proceeding, but preoccupied as I was with my unhappy body, I consumed the roll and coffee I was offered and got meekly into the big black Chevy that served as the commissioner’s personal chariot.
We were early for the ferry departure, and the commissioner had his driver park along the waterfront and take a cigarette break.
When we were alone in the car, the commissioner said, “You understand, monsieur, that you must leave? And stay out of Tangier?”
“What I realize is that this is all illegal.”
“There is a certain legal flexibility in the Zone,” the commissioner agreed.
“Then there is nothing to stop me from refusing to leave.”
There was a silence. “Very soon, we will be incorporated into the Kingdom of Morocco. I would like to present the new authorities with a good record for protecting the safety of our inhabitants and visitors. When one is in danger, it is my job to do my best to protect him.”
I said nothing to this. The man was beginning to sound reasonable.
“You do not like me,” he observed. “Because I am a colon, a pied noir from Algeria with a provincial French accent.”
“Wrong. I dislike policemen in general. You are only a particular instance.”