"Suspicious?" asked Max sharply.
Omar nodded. "Teman . . , before dawn we must be gone."
"How about gas?"
"That was hardest part of bargain but it has petrol, yes, and a tin of extra. My own truck is in back. Nadija—" He spoke to her in Arabic and she nodded, picking up the smaller bundles while Omar shouldered a rug.
Max leaped up to help and presently Mrs. Pollifax rose with a sigh to join them, thought better of it, lay down on the rug and at once fell asleep.
When she opened her eyes it was to find Omar and Max standing over her, both looking amused. She sat up and saw that both rooms were stripped down to their bare and flaking walls and the little shop was empty except for a few remaining baskets of stones and beads. A glance at her watch told her that it was 3 am, but her several hours of sleep had refreshed and changed her, and she sprang to her feet.
"It's time to go," Max told her. "The town's asleep and Omar's truck is packed, he suggests we leave before he does, and he's given directions."
She nodded. "All right, we leave first. What sort of truck have we?"
He shrugged. "The tires are thin and worn but the engine seems okay." He added pointedly, "Omar thinks that by morning there may be police looking for two American tourists about whom there is much curiosity because they've been missing since Erfoud . . . Nadija heard this when she went to draw water at the well. So as long as we are here, in Omar's souk—"
"—he's in danger. Say no more."
"Right." He suddenly smiled. "And now, my dear Mrs. P., it's time for that djellabah, and a veil, and for you to become a native. Tourists do not ride in battered old trucks."
With interest she donned the robe, finding it as comfortable as a bathrobe over her sweater and slacks. She then gave her full attention to Omar, who showed both of them how to wind the veil around her head so that it covered all but her eyes.
"Nadija—?"
The girl opened her leather bag, brought out a wooden vial and a stick, and applied kohl to Mrs. Pollifax's eyebrows, turning them thick and dark.
"Voila! Very very good," said Max, grinning. "Can you give her a name, Omar?"
"Aisha?"
She had become Aisha.
"And me?" asked Max.
"Bashir."
Now there was nothing left to do but go, and Mrs. Pollifax discovered that she did not want to go, that for a few hours she had felt safe here in Omar's souk, and that what lay ahead of them couldn't possibly be safe. Worse, somewhere in the journey ahead it was possible—or so Bishop had said—they would meet a face that did not match its photo and that would bring danger indeed. In this strange country of strange customs, with its language strange to her as well, with the police apparently aware of her existence—and the first Janko lying dead in a hut behind them—she could not feel sanguine, she was acquiring a burden of unfocused fear and anxiety.
They walked out into the cool fresh night air. The only lights to be seen came from the hotel on the hill; the village itself was dark and silent. There was no moon but the stars in the great arc of sky were brilliant, and their presence was a comfort to her. The truck loomed large, a vague shape in the night but surely large enough to hold a dozen sheep between its bed-walls. Before climbing into the cab she turned to Omar. "Shukren, Omar . . . Bismallah?"
"Bismallah," he said gravely. "May Allah go with you."
"It will be hard for you now?"
He shrugged. "Sometimes the saddle is on the man, sometimes the man is on the saddle."
"And what do we say to identify ourselves to the barber in Ourzazate?"
He pointed to Max. "He has it written: you say Hâdha el-husân arej, the horse has gone lame. Go fast now like the desert wind!"
She climbed up into the cab and Max, already at the wheel, started the engine. "Goodbye, Nadija," she whispered from the window and the truck began to move. "You've forgotten the headlights," she told Max. "Or don't they work?"
"They work," said Max grimly, "but Omar advised against them until we're well away from his house."
She nodded; how foolish of her to have overlooked this, she thought, and as they emerged onto the paved road leading down to the town she fervently hoped the brakes worked well, too. They coasted noiselessly down the hill, the brakes efficiently curtailing their speed, and after passing shadowy alleys and darkened souks they left Tinehir behind.
11
They were both shivering in the pre-dawn chill as they began their drive toward Ourzazate. "Just think," Max said sadly, "on the other side of the mountains—" He removed one hand from the wheel to gesture westward. "At sea level it's warm and green and fertile, and the Atlantic Ocean rims the entire coast, with waves breaking against beaches . . ."
"Stop," she said, placing her hands over her ears.
"And in Marrakech there are palm trees, and one of the most elegant hotels in the world, and—"
"Playground of the rich," she scoffed.
"Yes, with its huge plaza called Djemma-el-Fna, where snake charmers and acrobats perform and—"
"No beggars?" she asked skeptically.
"Oh lots," he said cheerfully. "Pickpockets, too."
She did not want to think of Marrakech. "How far is it to Ourzazate?"
"If Allah and this truck are with us we should be there by noon—Insh'allah."
"By daylight then," she said in relief. "Good!"
They had driven only a few miles from Tinehir when they saw moving toward them the twin lights of a truck, and then as the road curved gently Mrs. Pollifax counted five more pairs of headlights in convoy. She said quickly, "Max—"
"I see them." His voice was sober. "It's still dark but keep your face veiled."
"They could be going to market," she pointed out.
"Five in a row?"
The trucks neared them, drew abreast, each one illuminated by the lights of its neighbor and there was no mistaking the size or color of them, they bore the square-cut drab chassis and squared canvas tops of the military. It was unnerving; she reminded herself that Emily Pollifax and Max Janko had been left behind in Tinehir, they were now two Berbers in a scarred and patched-up Volvo, their names Aisha and Bashir, but she did not count it an auspicious beginning to this new day.
"What do you think," said Max edgily. "Military maneuvers or roadblock?"
"I think in the long run," she told him, "it's kinder to assume the worst, don't you?"
He said in a depressed voice, "I guess so."
She remembered that he'd not slept at all during the night but had helped Omar to load his truck; it seemed a good moment to divert him. "I'm wondering where Omar and Nadija are now," she told him. "With his rugs and his wondrous brass charcoal brazier, and I'm wondering what will happen to Nadija. What future do young girls have here?"
"Not much of one," said Max. "Well, I can tell you what her future would be if she'd remained in Tinehir." He shrugged. "She'd be marrying in two or three years, and the marriage would be an arranged one, and probably not a very good one if Omar's a barâriïs—an outsider. Unfortunately a girl nearly always lives with her husband's family, which—given the position of women here—creates a lot of jealousy and competition and contributes to half the marriages in this country ending in divorce."
"Half!" she said in astonishment.
He nodded. "That's what my statistics tell me. Actually her future should be a hell of a lot brighter in the desert with the Polisarios, where a rather extraordinary thing has been happening, considering it's an Islamic society there, too. With the men off fighting the women have been left to run the affairs at home —they have to! No veils, no cloister, they've set up schools in their city of tents and some of the women fight along with the men as well."
"They're being treated as human beings?" she said in surprise. "How incredible. I've not wanted to mention it but I've been growing hungry for the sight of a woman. Just one. With the exception of the tourists in Erfoud I've seen no adult women unless those bundles in black that w
e passed were women."
"Believe," he said. "Enormous waste, of course, it's doubtful that many in this part of the country have gone to school or learned to read and write. I doubt if Nadija's ever gone to school, for that matter—there's no compulsory education in Morocco, and you can see how she helps her father. Sewing and cooking and childbearing is about the size of their horizon. And gossiping."
"But there will be school for Nadija in the desert?"
"If she wants it, yes," he said. "I like all the things I hear about them. One of your American senators visited their tent city at Tindouf in Algeria before such connections were severed. He was certainly impressed. If I remember correctly he was quoted as saying he'd never met with such discipline, cohesion and sense of nationhood before . . . They simply want their land back."
"And nobody listens."
He shook his head and was silent, his head silhouetted now against a softly brightening sky. It was dawn, and soon the sun rose, spreading a golden light over the land and they drove under a sky of intense blue, interrupted only by long thin wisps of cloud that laced the distant mesas in the east. In the foreground the sun illuminated a terrain that seemed to Mrs. Pollifax to bubble and swirl toward them, so precisely arranged in scallop after scallop of low green hills that altogether it gave the illusion of being in motion. Then the small hills vanished, the earth flattened and turned again to grainy sand. They passed through the town of Boumaine-Dades glowing in the sun, its tawny buildings like children's play-cubes marching up a matching tawny hill. The road curved and began climbing toward other grassless sand-colored hills.
As they approached El Kelaa Max said abruptly, "I don't like to be negative but how are we fixed for money after buying this truck?"
She hesitated, sorry that he'd brought up the subject. "Not well. I'm loaded with traveler's checks, of course—"
"—which to cash would bring the police down on our heads."
"Yes. I've American money in cash but would it be safe to use that?"
He frowned. "Highly doubtful. How would two poor citizens such as we are—Aisha and Bashir—have received U.S, currency? What have you left in Moroccan money?"
She brought her purse from under her djellabah and counted. "Four hundred fifty dirhams."
He made a face. "That's about fifty-two dollars in American money and I've not much more . . , looks like a sardine-and-oranges diet for us ad nauseam." He gave her a quick sidelong glance. "You could nap, you know. You're doing pretty damn well, considering you were nearly killed yesterday and had only a few hours' sleep last night on Omar's floor. I can wake you when we get to Ourzazate."
"I should," she agreed, "except that not knowing what lies ahead of us in Ourzazate makes it surprisingly difficult to relax, not to mention sleep."
"I take it you're thinking not just of the police but of the rotten apple in the barrel?"
She nodded.
"Look," he said, "has it occurred to you, do you think it possible that Flavien was the rotten apple? He could have been the imposter, in which case all the remaining informants will check out okay."
"Lovely thought," she told him wistfully but after considering it she shook her head. "It was definitely implied by Car-stairs' assistant that misleading information had begun arriving through the network, which is what prompted them sending us here, and Flavien had no access to the Polisario network. He didn't even know who the informants were until I shared their names with him."
"Still," he began.
"Don't, Max."
"No wishful thinking allowed?" he asked with a smile.
"Not in this business," she told him with an answering smile.
"Then I'll be quiet," he said meekly.
Perversely she found his silence disagreeable now that he'd brought up the scarcity of money, for it encouraged the flow of even more worrisome problems, such as how on earth they would ever get OUT of Morocco with the police looking for them, and with the pair of them driving deeper each day into the countryside and further away from cities and airports. In fact, she thought, as one negative begat another, there was Muhammed Tuhami the barber to worry about, the elderliness of the Volvo truck, the diminishing money supply as well as their hoped-for exit, and adding up all the uncertainties she said at last, very firmly, "Oh to hell with it."
"I beg your pardon!" gasped Max.
She laughed. "Did I startle you? I didn't realize I'd said that out loud, I simply decided to stop worrying." And having announced this they promptly acquired a fresh worry as the Volvo began to protest the steepness of the hill they were climbing. Max pressed the accelerator to the floor, a few minutes later shifted into second gear and then as the truck continued slowing he switched into low gear. When they reached the crest they each of them gave a sigh of relief but the experience had not been encouraging.
They reached Ourzazate in early afternoon, their hunger not entirely appeased by oranges and sardines but at least reduced to a reasonable level. Entering the town Mrs. Pollifax found herself again disoriented as they drove down a broad and tree-lined avenue past several luxury hotels, followed by restaurants and a cafe, a post office, a bookstore, an imposing bank. The contrast was too startling to assimilate all at once.
"Very French Colonial," murmured Max. "Definitely the French have been here."
"It's certainly—well, European," she agreed.
"And too damn European for that barber we look for. Read aloud for me—very slowly—the address you wrote down for me." He handed over the slip of memo paper on which she'd printed names and towns.
"Muhammed Tuhami, barber . . , corner Street of The Makers of Felt Hats and Street of The Barbers, on way to Great Mosque."
He nodded. "Definitely there has to be an older section, there couldn't possible be a Street of The Makers of Felt Hats here, the French wouldn't have allowed it. We'd better drive around ... We can't afford the gas but we can't afford to stop and ask questions either."
They drove up and down streets lined with walled villas until Max gave a shout of triumph. Pointing he said, "Look ahead—native life triumphs over the Colonial!"
She nodded, smiling as she saw familiar adobe buildings and clusters of men in djellabahs. The)' passed two men riding donkeys, both seated side-saddle to accommodate the huge burlap sacks laced to one side, and as they drove nearer, "Not a medina," she announced, pleased at her growing knowledge. "No covered alleys, it's an open marketplace."
"Yes, let's park and walk. He's got to be here, this is where the real business takes place."
"Do we look for him as Aisha and Bashir, or as tourists?" she asked. "Frankly I think we should go back to being tourists, I don't see any women."
He made a face. "Confusing, isn't it? But you're right, it would cause too much attention, a native woman walking with a man, any native women would be accompanied by another woman. And we're both wearing the wrong shoes, a dead giveaway."
"As tourists we'll bring attention, too, of course."
"But a different sort." He nodded. "I'll park around the corner on a side street and we can quietly become Westerners again."
A few minutes later, with the truck parked and locked, a pair of tourists, aunt and nephew, strolled toward the marketplace. At once a swarm of boys came running, hands outstretched, but Max waved them away.
"You gave before," she reminded him.
"A good Moslem does, the Koran says strong things about giving to the poor," he retorted, "but at this moment I'm not a good Moslem. Give them a few coins and we'd be trailed all the way to Muhammed. If we can find him."
"We have to," she said quietly.
They entered the dusty square that was framed and walled by flat-roofed open stalls, interrupted here and there by threadlike alleys leading out of the market. It was certainly different from the main street of the town and Mrs. Pollifax much preferred its color and vitality. In a far corner a group of men surrounded a herd of goats, arguing and gesticulating as they bargained. The market stalls held crates of s
ardines bedded in ice, piles of oranges, as well as tomatoes, fresh herbs, pots and pans, shoes and tall white plastic jugs of cooking oil for sale. For the most part the djellabahs matched the brown of the earth but a few boys could be seen wearing Western-style zip-up jackets of bright red or blue.
"Look, I've got to find the equivalent of a men's room," said Max, and looking around the square he added, "Dreary thought. Wait for me here, will you?"
"Of course." She watched him go bounding away, pause to ask directions of a boy and then vanish down an alley. Finding a low wall behind her she sat down to enjoy the sun and the scene around her. At once three young boys ran up to her, two of them making what looked to be scribbling motions in their hands. The third child only watched shyly.
"A pen?" she asked. They looked blank, and delving into her purse she brought out an inexpensive plastic pen.
Their response was startled, baffled, and as they again scribbled into their palms the shopkeeper in the souk behind her darted out and shooed them angrily away, and without so much as a glance at Mrs. Pollifax returned to his shop.
She realized that what they'd wanted was money, of course, it was simply that here in the south the hand-motions had changed. She dropped the pen back into her purse, appalled by her naiveté.
The third child had not gone far; he stood watching her with curiosity, and there was something about him that caught at her heart; his eyes were huge in his small face, he was thin as a sparrow, barefooted, his khaki shorts too long and his T-shirt too large. He looks lonely, she thought, and he didn't beg, he only watched, he's digèrent.
She saw Max emerging from an alley. She glanced quickly at the shopkeeper behind her, engaged now in conversation with a friend. Reaching into her change purse she drew out a two-dirham coin and with a smile at the watching boy she put a finger to her lips and conspicuously placed the coin on the wall beside her. As she rose to meet Max the boy darted up behind her and snatched the coin. When she turned to look again he had not fled; he stood his ground and gave her a dazzling smile, as if the two of them had outwitted the shopkeeper and shared a conspiracy. Lifting two fingers to his lips he blew her a kiss.
Mrs. Pollifax and the Whirling Dervish Page 10