Torch of Tangier

by Aileen G. Baron

  Once, she looked back. She thought she saw Korian and the German standing together. Just a glance exchanged between them, just a glance for a split second, and then Korian disappeared into the throng of milling people.

  How could they know each other, she wondered. Maybe it’s just my imagination.

  The German hurried to catch up with her, and Lily took off again, plunging into the crowd.

  She rushed ahead, until she heard the call, “Balek, balek,” from behind. It was what she had been waiting for.

  She looked back to see a wood-seller leading a donkey overloaded with panniers of firewood. The creature plodded unsteadily among the stalls, the wood shifting from side to side as the ass stumbled through the crowd.

  This time, as she knew he would, Herr Balloon did not stop. Lily halted. As Herr Balloon passed alongside the donkey, she ducked behind him, brought her knee up sharply into the back of his leg, and pushed him forward.

  He careened into the donkey with a loud cry and fell to the pavement. A profusion of stacked wood cascaded over him. Lily ran, peered over her shoulder once to see a throng gathered around the wood-seller and Herr Balloon, and kept on running.

  She hurried on through the crowded streets to tea.

  “Moroccan houses,” Lalla Emily was saying in a voice as thin as paper, “like hearts, look inward.”

  She wore a silk caftan richly embroidered with gold thread. Lily gazed at the elaborate mosaic pattern of the tiles on the wall and floor, the ponderous Venetian mirror, the carved balustrade that ran around the upper floor. Like so much else in the house, the tea was a blend of Moroccan and British traditions.

  Lily, surprised to see Adam Pardo, wondered why he was here. The guests—Lily, MacAlistair, and Adam Pardo—sat on a divan that ran the length of the room. At a small table inlaid with mother of pearl, Lalla Emily poured tea into glasses crammed with mint leaves. Her thin hands, laced with veins, shook from the weight of the teapot. Her grandson Phillipe passed the glasses and a platter of pastry, heavy with honey.

  The faint sound of the surf from the nearby beach reached them.

  “I met my prince charming out there, on the strand,” Lalla Emily said, waving in the direction of the water. “I had come to Morocco as a governess. We would ride along the sand every day, the children and I, to take the fresh sea air.” She paused, the glass of tea in her hand, her eyes focused on some distant memory. “The first time I saw him, I fell madly in love.”

  “As did your prince,” Phillipe said.

  Lalla Emily put down the glass. “A sad day for both of us.”

  “Not so,” MacAlistair said. “A great day for the children of Morocco.”

  She folded her hands in her lap. “My beloved Abdulsalam was the leader of the religious brotherhood of Tabiya in Ouzzane.”

  “Devout pilgrims flocked to Ouzzane to receive his blessing,” Phillipe added.

  Lalla Emily smiled at her grandson and stroked his hand. “I was a parson’s daughter.” She sighed and leaned back. “Like the good wife of an English clergyman, I took baskets to the poor, visited the sick.” She looked down at her hands, shaking her head. “I was new to Morocco and naive.”

  Upper-class Moslem women rarely ventured out in public —not to the markets where they sent their servants to shop, and certainly not to the houses of strangers.

  “People in town must have been shocked,” Lily said.

  Lalla Emily nodded. “Appalled. But when I saw children and young mothers dying needlessly of diseases that could be prevented.” Her voice, already faint, quavered. “There was a smallpox epidemic, no vaccinations. They called the deaths the will of Allah. I raged against them, chastised them for believing in a cruel God.”

  Lily could imagine the scandal among the powerful Tabiya Brotherhood at the behavior of the wife of their hereditary leader. Since it had been established in the eighteenth century by a descendent of the Idrisides—the founding dynasty of Morocco—the brotherhood controlled the north and the district surrounding the remote hilltop town of Ouzzane.

  Lalla Emily’s eyes clouded over. “I couldn’t stop. I was determined to inoculate the children of Morocco. I enlisted the help of the leaders of the European community, invited them to the house. The brotherhood was up in arms. I was consorting with nonbelievers in the house of their leader.” She looked down at her hands again, her fingers twisting. “My husband was ruined, and I had ruined him.”

  She gazed at Lily as if seeking exoneration. “I had a cruel choice—between the lives of thousands of children and my love.” She paused again. “I left Ouzzane and came here to Tangier to finish my work.” Her hand brushed against her cheek. “My beloved died two years later. They tell me it was of a broken heart.” She put her hand on Lily’s arm. “Some day, you too may…”

  Her voice trailed off with a sigh.

  The room was hushed. Lily waited through the silence that hung in the air as grave as mourning.

  Lalla Emily reached into her sleeve for a handkerchief and dabbed at the moisture that brimmed in her eyes. She turned to her grandson. “Phillipe, my dear, will you play for us?”

  Phillipe put down his glass and went to a piano in the adjacent room. Lily reached for her glass of tea, then set it back down and listened as the strains of a Chopin nocturne, liquid and eloquent, washed over them.

  “Our family always has shown musical talent,” said Lalla Emily, her head bent, intent on the sound. “If you will excuse me, I leave you to your business.”

  She rose, lifting herself with the help of a gold-headed cane with an intricate chased pattern. Leaning heavily on the smooth, well-worn handle, she moved slowly into the courtyard and closed the door behind her.

  MacAlistair and Pardo looked at each other, then at Lily. She tried another sip of the hot tea.

  “First of all,” Pardo said. “What we talk about here must never leave this room.”

  “Why so mysterious?” Lily tried the tea again. It burned her throat.

  “You’ve heard of the OSS?” Pardo asked Lily.

  “It’s a branch of G-2?”

  “Office of Strategic Services. Civilians. Technically, it’s under G-3, Organization and Training Division.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “The OSS uses experts, specially trained personnel, university professors—linguists, archaeologists, anthropologists like Drury—for activities outside regular military channels.”

  So that’s what Drury was up to. Lily had heard rumors about some kind of work by Ruth Benedict, Margaret Mead, and Rhoda Metraux—all former students of Franz Boas, who had founded the department of anthropology at Columbia.

  Some of this made sense to Lily now. “You and Drury were Boas’ students at Columbia, weren’t you?” She paused and thought some more. “You’re talking about the National Character Studies, Culture at a Distance projects? The kind of thing we’re working on at the Legation?”

  “That’s for the Office of War Information, OWL I’m talking about the OSS.”

  “It’s all alphabet soup to me.”

  “Archaeologists like Nelson Glueck work for the OSS.”

  Lily knew that Nelson Glueck, director of the American School of Archaeological Research in Jerusalem, was conducting an archaeological survey of Transjordan. “So Glueck’s not just doing a survey?” Lily asked. “He’s mapping out terrain and military installations?”

  Pardo nodded. “Right. The job of the OSS is to get ahead of the Army and Navy, lay the groundwork for them. Find out things. Make contacts they can’t.” He spoke slowly, carefully, as if he expected her to take notes. “The thing is, anthropologists, archaeologists can go anywhere. It’s the nature of their work. Before you came, Drury checked you out. And we’ve done some background work on you. For security clearance.”

  “You want me to do a survey?” she asked.

  “Not exactly. This is more urgent. You’re on the ground here. OSS headquarters for North Africa is here in Tangier.”

/>   “Oh, for God’s sake,” MacAlistair said. “Get on with it.” He leaned forward, his hand on his knee. “This spring and summer, our forces broke the German drive to Egypt. Rommel retreated back into Libya, ending the threat to Suez. Now it’s time to attack Rommel from the west, destroy Axis forces in the Western Desert, push him out of Africa.”

  “We have to get a foothold in North Africa,” Pardo said. “Secure bases for intensified military operations against the Axis in Europe. It takes a lot of personnel. We need help—people like you who know the Middle East—to prepare a local underground for backup.”

  MacAlistair stood up. “Drury has been working with the Riffians. They’re ready to step in, if needed.”

  “We work through the Moroccan Nationalist Party,” Drury had told her. “They despise the French.”

  “If Drury signals them,” MacAlistair said, “they’ll assemble and seize a few key positions, cut off roads, garrisons, deliver guns. The Americans will handle Morocco and Oran, land troops, drop parachutists. We’ll be further east.” He coughed gently and placed his hands on the small of his back, stretched, and coughed again and waited for the paroxysm to finish. “Our convoy’s already left Glasgow and Liverpool. In a few days it will be poised off the coast of North Africa.”

  Lily wondered what her place in this was. “Well then, why—?”

  “Here’s the point.” MacAlistair moved an armchair closer to the divan and sat down. “Tangier is going to be communications HQ here in North Africa for Operation Torch, relaying messages between Casablanca and Gibraltar.”

  Lily stared at the tea glass and curled her fingers around it. “Operation Torch?”

  “That’s the code name for the landings in North Africa,” Pardo said. “I’ll be in Casablanca. You’ll assist Drury in Tangier. Think you can handle it?” He paused. “Think about it. If you agree, there’s no turning back.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Lily started back to the Legation. Bits of paper, scuffed shoes and slippers, scraped along the street in her peripheral vision. She needed to think, to ponder what she had just heard, to be by herself before she went up to The Mountain.

  Her sandals flapped against the crooked sidewalk.

  Assist Drury.

  What would she have to do? How would she do it? What would her duties be?

  She gave a perfunctory nod to the marine on duty, entered the Legation and started down the hall to her office. The building had the feel of afternoon drawing to an end: doors clicking shut, typewriters stilled, drawers closing.

  She opened her office. Korian stood at the desk, rifling through the top drawer.

  When she spoke, her voice was cold. “You’ll find nothing of value there.”

  He looked up, eyes alert, fingers moving. “I was looking for a paper clip.” He closed the drawer and shoved his hands in his pockets.

  What was he really looking for?

  “Ask the secretary.”

  “The secretary’s already left for the day.”

  “So should you.” Lily moved into the room.

  “I’m working late.” Korian had edged away from the desk and started out of the office.

  “So I see.”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind,” he said from the door.

  After this, Lily vowed, I’ll always lock the desk.

  The Mekraj was already at the villa, seated in the garden talking to Drury, when Lily arrived.

  “We need a new mosque, for the grandeur of Allah,” he was saying. “With a new minaret, proud as a finger, that shows Allah in his uniqueness.”

  “With a great golden door,” Drury added.

  “Not so. The door must be humble and small, to show that humans are humble and small. But inside must be large, like the glory of Allah. When you cross the line through the sacred door, you bow your head, you wash away the thoughts of the world and enter a different place.”

  “You shall have your mosque, you shall have your minaret, tall and square, reaching to the heavens, calling the faithful from every corner of the earth.”

  The Mekraj glanced at Lily and MacAlistair standing in the corner of the garden, then back to Drury.

  “It’s all right,” Drury said. “They’re working with us.”

  “Secrets, secrets,” the Mekraj said. He turned to Lily and MacAlistair. “You cannot know a city until you enter its gates, you cannot know the Moroccan house until you set foot inside, you cannot know a woman until she removes her veil.”

  The Mekraj poured the tea, arcing the amber liquid with a flourish into mint-filled glasses on the tray in front of him.

  “You see,” he said, gesturing at the tea tray that sat on a mother of pearl inlaid table, “the entire universe is here. The sinia,” he pointed to the polished copper tray, “is the earth, the teapot is the sky, and the glasses hold the rain that falls when it unites the earth with the sky.”

  He cradled the hot glass in his hand and sipped, then put it down. “Our warriors are brave.”

  “But now they must be like snakes,” Drury told him. “Strike and hide, strike and hide.”

  “After the great Moulay Yousef conquered Marrakech,” Imam Tashfin said, “he was inspired by Allah to carry his warriors across the Mediterranean, to bring Allah and make order on the Iberian continent. ”We can do no less for our own land.“

  “Then we can count on your help if need be?” asked MacAlistair.

  “A good man keeps his word. When I get the forty thousand francs to help build the mosque, my followers will know we must establish order. They are brave, very brave warriors, the sons of warriors, and men of peace.”

  “Forty thousand francs?” Drury said. “Zaid told me fifty thousand.”

  “Ah,” said Imam Tashfin. “Forty thousand for Allah and ten thousand for Zaid.”

  “Zaid is taking a cut? Zaid is trying to cheat me?”

  “Zaid is not an evil man. Not yet. But his soul wanders. It is caught in the twilight between the world of the Romany—what you call the western world—and the world of Islam. He tries to cure his soul with greed. Some day he may slip on the greed and fall into the abyss.”

  MacAlistair had been sitting on the low wall that encircled the garden. Now he stood up. “Not Zaid. I know him…” His voice trailed off and he looked into the distance. “I know him well, for a long time, a very long time. He’s earned my trust over and over.”

  The Mekraj looked at him and sighed. “Each man’s destiny is different. They can be next to each other, wear the same dress, eat the same food, but their destiny is not the same.”

  “We may need your help very soon,” Drury said.

  Zaid appeared in the corner of the garden and Lily wondered if he had been listening. He sauntered toward them, his brow furrowed, his hands stiff against his sides.

  “We were speaking of making a miracle,” Drury said to Zaid.

  The Mekraj held his glass between his thumb and index finger and sipped. “It says in the Koran that a miracle will come out of the West.” He turned to Lily and smiled. “Morocco was always Al Maghreb Al Aqsa, the farthest west, at the edge of the Sea of Darkness. Beyond that, there was nothing.”

  “But—” Lily said.

  “Ah,” the Mekraj said. “You are going to say that you come from beyond the Sea of Darkness.”

  Lily nodded.

  “Our wise men tell us that the Prophet knew of the lands beyond the Sea. But in the days of the Prophet, Allah was not known there, it was nothing but a great void until men from Andaluse brought Allah to them. Then the lands blossomed and entered the world.”

  “A miracle will truly come out of the West.” Drury leaned toward him. “From beyond the Pillars of Hercules, out of the Sea of Darkness. It will lead you back to the golden age, back to the days when you ruled Andalusia. But you must help.”

  “What miracle?”

  “Within a week, it will rise out of the sea,” Drury said. “Bismillah, in the name of Allah.”

  “May it come t
o pass. Inshallah. God willing.” He lifted the hood of his djelaba. “And the fifty thousand francs for the new mosque?”

  “In the bank tomorrow.”

  “Tell Tariq to come to the Friday mosque. Tell him to bring the fish that you catch in Andaluse.” The Mekraj draped the hood of the djelaba over his fez, enveloping his face in shadow, and turned toward the door. “Inshallah,” he whispered. The word wafted after him and floated in the air like the flutter of the djelaba in his wake.