"In which case the blue Renault has not been seen by the next lookout."
"Exactly. So whether Flavien's body has been found or not is academic for the moment. He's mysteriously disappeared somewhere between Erfoud and Goulmima.
"What's worse," he added gloomily, "there wasn't time for me to collect a fake passport so I entered the country under my own name and it won't take them long to discover there's a real Max Janko in Morocco. They'll start tracing the cars I rented and find that I've been following the two of you, and then they'll begin setting up roadblocks to corner us."
She sighed. "Not a happy situation, no."
"Happy! It scares the hell out of me. We can't possibly expect to drive this car the length of the country without being caught."
She nodded. "Then we'll have to abandon the car, we've no other choice."
"But then what? My God, then what?"
She said calmly, firmly, "I think we simply must risk Tinehir, but after that we'd be fools to keep this car. We'll have to abandon our luggage, too, of course."
"Damn it you're right—and nobody to turn to for help," he added savagely.
"That's not true," she told him quietly. "There are the Polisario informants we were sent to find."
Max's laugh was bitter. "If we can find them."
"In Tinehir there's Omar Mahbuba."
"Sure—unless he's the imposter we were sent to locate, and if so, God help us, we'll have no chance at all."
She looked at him curiously. "How very pessimistic you are suddenly! There are always chances."
He said hotly, "I like your faith but I don't share it."
"Perhaps you're not as experienced as I am? If one becomes desperate enough—"
He laughed. "Experienced! You didn't know? This is my first real job in the field. Languages and statistics and translations are my specialty, I work in an office, and they only chose me because I speak Arabic."
"Oh," said Mrs. Pollifax, taken aback, and realized that her reaction to this was a feeling of doubled responsibility that made her feel rather tired. On the other hand, when she thought about his confession more reasonably, she rallied almost at once: her companion might not be experienced but he had already managed to abort two murders, his own and hers. "No one would ever realize that you're inexperienced," she told him, and was able to say it with complete sincerity; she also felt it time to return to her original objective. "About that food, about lunch—?"
He laughed. "Right you are .., tenacious, too." Bringing the car to a stop beside the road he reached over and opened the door for her. "Into the back with you to hide, we're nearly in Goulmima."
She was not to see Goulmima but Max very kindly kept up a running commentary for her. "Much brighter town," he called over his shoulder. "Very charming iron grillwork over the windows, and I just saw two women scurrying into an alley and neither of them wore black—amazing—and—ah, I see a baehl, a food store. I'll park around the corner from it." He braked and turned off the ignition. "I'm leaving now and locking the doors," he told her. "Not suffocating or anything are you?"
"No."
"Good."
She heard his footsteps fade away, leaving her to thoughts that she would have preferred not to entertain, such as what on earth they would do without a car once they abandoned it in Tinehir. In Fez Hamid ou Azu was dead, in Er-Rachidia Ibrahim had been arrested, in Erfoud she had been able to warn Youssef but they still had to reach Tinehir, then Ourzazate, Zagora and —at the very edge of the desert—the village of Rouida, and if they succeeded in reaching the latter, what then? Trapped!
Stop, she told herself fiercely, you're hungry, that's all, Emily. She turned her thoughts to counting the hours since she'd had food, and had just reached eighteen when she heard Max's voice again.
"Yes yes, Ingileezeeya," he was saying. "Now go away, no more basheesh, comprenez-vous? Scram! Nice meeting you but go." Shrill children's voices rose in a clamor as he opened the door and took the wheel. A moment later the engine came to life and the voices died away as the car was set in motion. Over his shoulder he said, "I hate seeing children beg and they cost me nine dirhams, blast it. You can come up for air in a few minutes, we're only fifty miles from Tinehir now."
From the sound of his voice she guessed that he, too, had spent some of the past fifteen minutes in reflection and that his thoughts had been equally as troubled as hers. But he had returned with half a dozen oranges, four tins of sardines and two bottles of mineral water; her unwelcome fast was ending.
10
Tinehir was a hill village, all cream and terracotta in the late afternoon sun. They had decided to risk one brief foray into the town in daylight, because—as Mrs. Pollifax had pointed out—if they waited until dark they would have to ask directions and they might be remembered if the police followed them to Tinehir. There were also several hotels but Omar Mahbuba and his fossil shop could only be found near one of them.
Allowing themselves one discreet inquiry of a ragged-looking old man, they learned that the hotel they wanted stood on the tall hill overlooking the town, and the winding road to it branched off from the main street. With this established they headed immediately out of town to spend the next two hours waiting for the sun to slip behind the mountains. With their car hidden behind a treeless hill they began to regretfully but ruthlessly empty their suitcases and bags of all but the few essentials that would fit into one knapsack and Mrs. Pollifax's large purse.
"Everything is image in this area," Max told her, scowling darkly. "A lady tourist does not carry a suitcase but a male tourist may wear a knapsack."
"I refuse to give up my djellabahs," she warned him.
"Oh, definitely we hang onto the djellabahs, we may need them if we grow conspicuous, but—" Looking her over critically, "You could certainly carry them—wrapped in newspaper, of course—without destroying your Tourist Image. You could have just bought them."
Heartened by this, Mrs. Pollifax returned to the process of selection. She chose her heaviest sweater to wear under her trench coat; for Max's knapsack she handed over a change of shirt and socks, toothbrush, hairbrush and comb, her jars of vitamin tablets and aspirin. Traveler's checks, money and passport remained in her purse and she found space there for her collapsible drinking cup, water-purifying tablets, the guidebook and the Moroccan dagger.
Max added the turban from his earlier disguise, and his choukhara—the flat leather over-the-shoulder bag that natives wore with djellabahs—their maps, a change of socks, two packets of dried soup and a wool cap.
Now as they drove back into Tinehir at dusk they looked for a small side street not too far from the hotel in which to abandon the Peugeot.
"I think it would be very kind," said Mrs. Pollifax, "to leave the car key in the lock of the trunk so that all its contents can be stolen quickly. I mean, I'd much rather someone in need use them and not the police."
"I'll buy that," said Max, and edged the car between two wretched-looking and dilapidated adobe houses and killed the engine. "Out—fast," he ordered.
She quickly slid out, Max locked the doors of the car and left the key inserted in the lock of the trunk. Carrying knapsack and bundle they slipped into the shadows, two tourists strolling toward the road leading up the hill to the hotel.
Some fifteen minutes later they reached the summit, panting a little from the ascent and discovering that while they had plodded doggedly up the steep hill the sky had darkened and was illuminated by stars and a rising half-moon. They stood a moment on the parapet looking out over the city at shadowed squares of adobe houses and at the starkly silhouetted sweep of mountains beyond the city. Behind them stood the hotel, flat-roofed, sprawling and luxurious, but when they strolled closer they could see no cluster of shops: the hotel occupied the entire crest of the hill. As they stood in the shadows, staring wistfully at the bright lights of the hotel, a car roared up the hill, turned and came to a stop at the entrance. Two men stepped out, and as they reached the circle of light
spilling from the lobby Max drew her deeper into the shadows.
"Stay back, I don't like the look of them," he whispered.
"Why?" she whispered back.
"Plainclothesmen look the same all over the world," he told her grimly. "Same black suits, same gray serious faces."
"Looking for us—or for me, do you think?"
He didn't reply. "Let's search for that fossil shop of yours. If it's supposed to be near the hotel then it's damned well got to be somewhere around here. C'mon, there's a paved walkway-leading around the hotel, let's see what's on the other side."
Ten minutes later they found it: the tiny shop was set just below the hotel on a dirt lane that was lined with other narrow adobe buildings. Words printed on a sign read fosils—suvenirs. A solitary light bulb hung suspended above three wooden steps leading up to a shabby porch where a door stood open, showing a well-lighted area beyond. A gypsy-looking girl of eleven or twelve squatted on the top step rinsing small glass cups in a shallow pan of water; she wore a purple flowered skirt over bright red pants, a blue shirt and torn sneakers. When she smiled shyly at them her teeth were brilliant against her dark skin. Putting aside her cup-washing she ran ahead of them into the shop, calling out to someone unseen, and vanished through a doorway festooned with strings of beads.
They walked inside, finding the tiny room on their right empty of people but filled with objects. "Not just fossils," murmured Mrs. Pollifax, looking around the room at walls hung with carpets and knives, row upon row of fossils and gleaming stones, a gorgeous brass and copper brazier, and wicker baskets filled with beads and necklaces of polished stone. A faded photograph of the King hung on the wall.
A voice from the tiny room on their left quickly distracted her, and she turned: a pair of tourists, man and woman, stood examining a large brass kettle. The proprietor of the shop waited patiently beside them. Now he turned to look at Mrs. Pollifax and Max, a raffish-looking man with sharp eyes and a stubble of beard, short and wearing a shabby brown djellabah.
Beside her Max said anxiously, "Well?"
She nodded. "The right shop and the right man. He matches his photo, Max—he's Omar."
"Thank God," said Max fervently.
The beaded curtains parted again, and the girl came out carrying a tray with two glasses of mint tea for them. When they thanked her she did not smile but returned at once to the porch to continue washing glasses in the pan of water. Leaving the tourists to continue their discussion about the brass kettle Omar Mahbuba came to them with a polite smile. "I show you beautiful objects?"
Max nudged Mrs. Pollifax. Not knowing just how to approach him she said, "Hamid ou Azu is dead."
He looked at her blankly. "A fine carpet? Many fossils, many stones? Come see."
Max said uneasily, "I think he went genuinely blank, you're sure this is the right man?"
Trying again Mrs. Pollifax said flatly, "You are Omar Mahbuba."
Startled, he looked at her, puzzled, frowning, and reluctantly nodded.
She said, "There is in Erfoud a young man named Youssef Sa—"
"Yuaf! Stop!" he cried sharply, and he called out words to the girl on the steps. When she hurried in he pointed to the tourists, went quickly to the beaded doorway and gestured Max and Mrs. Pollifax to follow him.
It was another tiny room, holding a rug, a pillow, a radio and an Arabic calendar on the wall, no more. Once inside he turned on them fiercely. "What is this? Who are you?"
She turned to Max. "You take over, you speak Arabic."
"I talk some English," the man said. "Speak!"
Mrs. Pollifax said, "In Fez there was Hamid ou Azu—he has been killed with a knife, a khanjar" she told him. "In Er-Rachidia there is a waiter named Ibrahim who has been arrested by the police."
He looked puzzled and wary. "But Youssef?"
"There was time to warn him, I think he's safe. Now we warn you—there is trouble, something is wrong."
He looked at them, frowning. "You are Christians, you are nasrani . . . American? English? How is it you know such things? Should I kill you or believe?"
Max said dryly, "I earnestly beg you to believe."
"Tell him what's happened," she said, "and do explain to him the trouble we're in now, too. Deep trouble." She sat down on a pile of folded rugs, tired from the long steep hill, from the day's suspense and from nearly being murdered as well.
Searching for words Max began explaining in Arabic. She caught only the words -photographs, police and moustache, the rest being unintelligible. Apparently Max's storytelling was not mesmeric because Omar interrupted him to say impatiently, "Show me the pictures then!"
Max began again, this time explaining the lack of photographs—she did not envy him—and she had to laugh when Omar placed his hands over his ears and said in English, "Stop! This is a tale from Harun al-Rashid! What can I do but believe?" In a craftier voice, very low, he added, "I will trust you more if you tell me this: where do you go next to warn of this?"
Mrs. Pollifax answered. "To Ourzazate, to a certain barber."
A smile spread slowly over his face, broadening to show a missing tooth; he nodded, pleased. "We have a proverb, Trust in Allah but tether your camel first ... I believe now."
Max shook his head. "I hope we don't have to go through all this in Ourzazate—if we ever get there."
Omar said absently, "No no, there are words I can give you to say to him." He frowned. "This Hamid you spoke of, and this Ibrahim I do not know, but I know the name of the one who passes certain—shall we say merchandise—to me, and the one I send it to. Beyond this, no. You think Youssef is safe? Were you followed here to me?"
Max leaped in to explain the car abandoned in an alley below, and their hope that Omar might hide them for the night and help them on their way to Ourzazate. "If you plan to leave maybe we could leave together—"
Mrs. Pollifax shook her head. "That would be dangerous for him, Max."
"Yes I suppose so," he said regretfully. "Then if you could somehow think of a way to get us out of here, a different car or even donkeys?"
"Donkeys! You?" He laughed. "I need to think, I need time. For me it is better for Nadija and me—she is my daughter—to go south, disappear into the bled, the country. I have a cousin—"
His daughter was calling to him. "Wait here," he said. "My two customers buy."
Max joined her on the rug. "I suppose he sleeps on this, it's his bed?"
"Quite possibly. Tired?"
"Worried is more like it. I hate depending on Omar for help."
She said dryly, "Not too long ago you worried there would be no help at all ... If that man has lived a double life for more than a dozen years, Max, then I imagine he's cleverer than either of us."
Omar returned, stuffing coins and bills into some inner repository among the folds of his djellabah. "We have busy-night, I think. To help you yes, but also for me to be gone by morning."
Max said in surprise, "You can leave that fast?"
Regarding him curiously Mrs. Pollifax said, "Will you be sad at leaving here?"
He shrugged. "My sons already are fighting in the desert. Since my wife died I have been eager to join them, but—" Proudly, "I most helped my brothers in the desert by staying here." He gestured toward his shop. "Always I am read) to pack and go," he confided. "You see how small my souk. You have eaten?"
They each shook their head.
Rummaging in a bag he handed Max a slab of goat cheese.
"Eat while we think. It is important you go to Ourzazate—and beyond," he said significantly, "so we must think hard."
Mrs. Pollifax nodded, and clinging to one of her three Arabic words, as well as to her portion of the cheese, she said "Shukren."
"We have money," Max told him.
"How much?"
Max brought out Moroccan bills and Mrs. Pollifax added her own to them.
"Good," Omar said, nodding. "Very good. I am thinking of Mustapha Benhima's wish to sell his old truck. I can ask what
dirhams he wants for it, I can tell him I owe afabor to a friend in El Kelaa who looks for an old truck."
"But how long will that take? We have only the night," Max said nervously.
Very gently Omar reproved him. "I too must hurry but if patience is bitter it bears a sweet fruit. We are all in the hands of Allah—rest while I do what I must do."
"You could let us help," suggested Mrs. Pollifax.
"Not rest?"
"How can one rest at such a time?"
He nodded. "True. That is so. Very well, you can help Nadija roll up rugs in the souk while I go to see Mustapha. In the night I must load my own truck when no one will see me. Later we will eat."
Surprised, Mrs. Pollifax said, "You take only the rugs?"
He smiled. "The rugs are my wealth, the jewelry and the brass. Fossils and beads?" He spat. "They are for tourists who buy anything, but with my rugs—where I go, which is to the desert—my rugs can be traded for many things. A camel. Goats. Sheep. A tent. Food. Guns."
With this he vanished like a shadow out into the darkness.
There were eight rugs, and beautiful ones: Berber rugs, Tuareg rugs, Moroccan rugs—Mrs. Pollifax marveled at them but they were heavy to detach from the walls and it was strenuous work. Rolling them up as tightly as possible Nadija brought cord to secure them and they piled them next to the door, which was closed and locked now. From a corner Nadija, the practical one, brought several clay pots and a huge brass charcoal brazier. These she lovingly added to the growing pile, and then she brought out goat cheese, a loaf of bread and from somewhere produced two cans of cola. They picnicked atop the pile of rugs, and once in a while Nadija gave them a quick shy smile. Mrs. Pollifax saw that she had packed small things of her own in a greasy leather bag tied with string: a comb, earrings, a few coins, a small copy of the Koran and silver bracelets.
It was already ten o'clock, a long two hours, when Omar returned and dropped keys into Max's lap. "You have a truck," he said. "An old Volvo, very old, but it drives . . . He bargained hard for it and has gone to bed now I think, but still, he is a little—" He made a face.
Mrs. Pollifax and the Whirling Dervish Page 9