Charmed, she blew a kiss back to him.
"Now who the heck are you tossing kisses to?" asked Max, looking amused.
She only smiled and shook her head. "Shall we go? I count six alleys to explore."
"Mercifully with street signs," he said, and grasping her arm he led her past a stall of oranges to the nearest alley with a sign affixed to the wall. Its swirls and curlicues of Arabic struck her as almost musical in their grace.
"Assammarin," read Max. "That translates as Street of The Horseshoers, let's move on."
Next came The Street of Sellers of Silk Thread, and after peering down it they strolled on to the next cobbled exit.
"Al-hajjamin," he read. "Hooray—we've found The Street of The Barbers!"
She said nervously, "Does that mean dozens of barbers to inspect?"
He grinned. "Probably fifty years ago it did but I doubt it now. Care to describe our man before we set out?"
She stopped and closed her eyes to concentrate. "Younger than Omar, perhaps only thirty or thirty-two. A short dark beard, pale oval face, short and thin in size. In the photo he wore a shabby striped djellabah. Looked intense—very intense —also poor."
Max nodded. "He would be, yes. I'm mainly a translater and decoder, but the Maghreb's my specialty and—"
"Maghreb?"
"Morocco, Algeria and Tunisia . . . But aside from translating I do know that in this country a barber's ranked very low on the social scale—considered almost beyond the pale, so to speak—and yet because he provides important news and gossip he has a popularity in spite of his profession. In barber shops people talk and people listen."
"Perfect for an informant! So there's a caste system here?"
"Not really," he said. "This is a country of tribes, and the old ways linger, it's a matter of which tribe you come from and whether you're related to any saints or descended from Mohammed's brother-in-law Alt. Even the poorest of poor can be treated with great respect if they've important connections."
They passed a shop filled with displays of leather purses, a man cutting leather at a counter; a shop with two men pedaling away at sewing machines, and a narrow souk displaying slippers in rainbow colors with curled and pointed toes. "Barouches," commented Max. As they strolled nearer to the end of the street there was a promise of sunshine and space ahead; at the corner they found waiting for them a sign bearing an outline of scissors, with the same curls of Arabic beneath it.
"Keep your fingers crossed," growled Max.
This shop had a dusty glass window and door, and they stopped to peer inside. The barber's room was very small but clean and bright, which pleased her. A single chair, gloriously-old and ornate, stood rooted in the center of the room, its seat covered with red plush; it rested on a base of elaborate iron scrollwork so deliciously intricate that it reminded Mrs. Pollifax of Victorian gingerbread. It was a handsome old barber-chair and she thought it a sight to bring a gleam of covetous-ness to the eyes of an antique dealer. There was a mirror on the wall that had been corroded by time and mildew and shared space with a photograph of Mohammed V and of the present King. There was a rough bench for any waiting customers.
A client already occupied the glorious chair but the barber himself had his back to the window. "Suspense mounts," she murmured, but at that moment the man turned and she breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Reprieved again," she whispered. "That's Muhammed Tuhami."
"Surer"
She nodded.
"Let's go in, I'll pretend I need a trim."
The entry of tourists—and one of them a woman—startled the two occupants of the shop. Nodding politely Max guided her to the bench and they sat down. To the barber he said, "I need a trim. Do you speak English?"
Observing Muhammed, Mrs. Pollifax thought he looked both older and wearier since his photograph had been taken for the gallery of informants, but his intensity had not diminished even when he said cautiously, "A little. Parlez-vous français?"
Max at once began speaking in fluent French and Mrs. Pollifax sighed, her curiosity boundless but thwarted. Muhammed laughed once, a little weakly; the occupant of the chair, swathed in towels, smiled, and in an aside Max told her, "I'm telling them that as tourists we brought swimming suits but have met with much cold."
"Ah yes, the weather as usual," she murmured.
Towels were unfurled and Muhammed's customer rose, obviously a man of prosperity for he wore a white djellabah over well-pressed Western slacks and shirt. Coins were bestowed on Muhammed, he bowed to Max, gave Mrs. Pollifax a curious glance and went out, closing the door behind him.
There was silence. Muhammed held out towels to Max and waited. Max said slowly, carefully, "The horse has gone lame . . . Hâdha el-husân are)."
To Mrs. Pollifax's surprise Muhammed's facial expression showed not the slightest astonishment; with the greatest competence he went to the door and locked it, pulled down its steel shutters and returned. In the dimness they examined one another, Muhammed silent and waiting.
Max said, "We come from Omar's souk in Tinehir. We come to tell you the chain—the network—has been broken."
"Omar," repeated Muhammed, nodding. "But—" He looked puzzled. "Omar is brawkin?"
With apologies to Mrs. Pollifax Max returned to French but she found that by watching Muhammed's face she could guess something of what was being said to him. There was a widening of eyes, a look of horror—perhaps that was Hamid ou Azu's murder—followed by a narrowing of eyes—she thought now he was learning of the first Janko's identity—and then a startled glance at Mrs. Pollifax, which prompted her to assume that Max's synopsis had reached the saint's tomb and Flavien's death. When the words Tinehir and Omar were spoken, his face softened and he spoke.
Max, translating, said, "He is happy to hear that Omar has left for the desert. Now of course I have to tell him that he's in danger, too. I don't think this has hit him yet."
This was explained to Muhammed, which took a few minutes, and for the first time Mrs. Pollifax saw his eyes register alarm and then fear. "No, no," he protested, backing away from them. "I cannot go—cannot."
"It could be dangerous to stay."
"Yes, yes I comprehend but—" He broke into French again and Max sighed. Translating he said, "He tells me his wife is sick. He says that Allah has blessed him with a pearl of a wife and there is love between them. He says she cannot be moved and he can't leave her."
"Oh dear," murmured Mrs. Pollifax, and felt a stab of compassion for him. He impressed her as an ordinary man with ordinary worries and concerns. He was probably trembling on the edge of poverty, barely making ends meet, and caring for a sick wife and yet something—and she wondered what—had turned him into an uncommon man and set him apart from his neighbors. There looked nothing of the rebel about him, yet very firmly he had adopted a dangerous secret life, and entirely without recompense. She wondered what had altered his way of thinking: was it an injustice done to him here in this country, or had he friends among the Polisarios, or did he belong to a tribe that had once slept under the stars in the desert? She said gently, "It could be all right, you know, Max. If Muhammed is known only to the man ahead of us, in Zagora, and the man in Zagora turns out to match his photo—"
"Talk about wishful thinking!" Max exclaimed. "We're down to the last two possibilities, you're talking Russian roulette now."
She turned to Muhammed. "Ask him if he's heard lately from the south, from the man in Zagora?"
He moved to the calendar on the wall with the Islamic year 1410 in huge letters at the top. His finger found a month and traced the numbers until he met with a small x in the corner and spoke.
"He says three weeks ago," Max told her, translating. "A longer silence than usual, he admits."
"Sounds rather ominous," she said uneasily. "He must do something to protect himself. Tell him he has to see the danger and think of his wife if he should be taken away!"
Muhammed lifted a hand and gestured. "Come," he said. "I show." He lifted a cu
rtain in the rear, exposing a doorway, and led them down a short passageway into a small dim room in which half a dozen women in black huddled around the sick woman. At their appearance the shapeless black shadows rose and fled the room, leaving only Muhammed's wife lying on a mat.
Muhammed spoke to her softly and beckoned Mrs. Pollifax to come forward. Joining him she looked down at his wife. She was strikingly beautiful, like a Madonna with eyes made huge by kohl; she smiled and with a welcoming gesture reached out a hand.
Mrs. Pollifax grasped and held it. "Shukren—and hello," she stammered. "Max, what's wrong?"
"She lost a child four days ago, Muhammed tells me. It was upside down in her womb and born dead. It's a wonder she survived."
"Was there a doctor?"
"Midwife. Now his wife is very weak, she lacks strength and—"
"—and spirit," finished Mrs. Pollifax. She looked thoughtfully at Muhammed's wife and then reached into her voluminous purse to bring out her large jar of multi-vitamin tablets, followed by a 200-dirham note, the equivalent of twenty-five dollars in American currency. Handing Muhammed the jar sha said, "Please, two of these pills—" She lifted two fingers. "Two each day, and with this money a doctor, and perhaps more food."
He backed away but Mrs. Pollifax was stern. "For you no, Muhammed. This is for your wife, the pearl that Allah sent you, so that you can have choice—to go, or to hide, or to stay."
"But so much," he gasped, as he saw the size of the bill, and lifting his eyes to Mrs. Pollifax he said softly, "You speak of Allah, you have to have been sent by Allah." He placed a hand over his heart. "Shukren, madame."
"Now we must go," Mrs. Pollifax reminded Max. "It's already afternoon and if we don't hurry—it's a hundred more miles to Zagora, isn't it?—we'll never reach it today."
He nodded and told this to Muhammed. "Maybe for a few days your shop should stay closed?"
Muhammed nodded absently; he was looking at his wife. "If Allah wills it," he murmured, "if strength returns ... We are baràms here—outsiders—but perhaps in a few days, with money, there may be a way to go." He turned to them and said with dignity, "You give us hope. May Allah's blessings go with you, sir and madame."
They had reached the door to the street when he called out to them, "Wait! Stop!"
They turned.
"There sjabor—" He spoke hurriedly and with passion in French and she thought that Max looked alarmed.
"What is it?" she asked.
"After innumerable apologies," said Max, "he explains that while he must stay with his wife there is a boy, their only son. He offers the money back—anything—if we will take the boy with us to Zagora, to the house of his wife's sister, because if there is danger it is wise that he go."
She said quickly, "But of course we can do that, can't we, Max? Tell him to keep his money and yes—oui—the boy can go with us."
Max made a gesture of comic helplessness. "The lady—" he told Muhammed "—Tante Emily, my 'arnma, says oui."
"Ahhhh," murmured Muhammed, and the murmur contained all the pent-up tension of his suspense as he had waited, it spoke more than words of his accumulating anxieties. "Thank you, thank you, he has just come back. He is nine years old, named Ahmad, I call him."
"No, tell us first where to deliver him. The directions," Max said, bringing out notebook and pencil, and Muhammed exploded into Arabic and French and then disappeared to fetch the boy.
"Here he is," he said almost immediately.
The boy emerged from the shadows of the passageway, his eyes fixed shyly on Mrs. Pollifax. Seeing him she laughed. "But already we've met! This is your son Ahmad?"
It needed several moments of explanation to establish the fact that Mrs. Pollifax was the tourist-lady who had given Ahmad two dirhams with which he had bought sweets and oranges for his mother.
Muhammed's eyes glowed at this and he nodded. "He likes you early—bon!" With much pride he added, "He knows the English kinder than me, you will see. Ahmad, by tonight you will be in Zagora with your 'amma."
"Only if we start now," pointed out Max. "Tell him he must walk behind us until we reach our truck where we will change into djellabahs and not be tourists any more."
Muhammed embraced his son and murmured into his ear; Mrs. Pollifax recognized only the words Allah and Bismallah, and then Muhammed opened the door to them. "Nehna abid Allah''' he said to Max.
Max gravely nodded. "Yes, we are all servants of Allah. Goodbye, Muhammed, and be careful."
12
Leaving the barber shop still as tourists, with Ahmad keeping his distance behind them, they took the time to stop at a souk and buy plastic sandals, and then to invest in what food they could travel with, which turned out to be more oranges, tins of sardines, black olives, two bottles of mineral water and five of cola, all of which further depleted their funds. They were followed out of the marketplace by a troop of beggar boys so rapacious that at last it became necessary to appeal to Ahmad to send them away, since the sight of tourists climbing into such an ancient truck would become a rare topic of conversation and only too well remembered if they were interviewed later.
Ahmad turned on the boys and spat words at them.
"What is he saying?" she asked.
Max grinned. "We have corrupted the boy, he is shouting curses at them."
"Such as?"
"Perhaps the most picturesque curses were 'May God give you fever' and 'May God give you fever without perspiration."
Suppressing a grin Mrs. Pollifax said with dignity, "Thank you, Ahmad, thank you."
Once rid of the begging boys they pointed out their truck to Ahmad, and its appearance obviously excited him; ha climbed inside to reverently touch the steering wheel and then to stroke the gear shift, smiling a smile of deep contentment. When he glanced at Max and Mrs. Pollifax and saw them changing clothes he watched Mrs. Pollifax's clumsy entanglement with her veil. "No, no," he said, in high humor at seeing them change from nasrani to native, and with a grin he secured it carefully for her. He brought a holiday feeling to this departure that was unfortunately brief because the guidebook hinted at new mountains ahead before they reached the plains, and already it was doubtful that they could reach Zagora before dark. There had been no hint of mountains on their map and it was the guidebook that proved accurate. Heading south toward the desert, and the border again, the first lap of their journey was precipitous, taking them high above the river Draa. From a dizzying height Mrs. Pollifax looked down with tightened nerves on the narrow green valley through which the river ran, as serpentine as the road over which they drove, which had been carved out of a cliff thousands of feet above. The valley was fertile, the goats and sheep clinging to the steep green slopes and grazing, but it was impossible to appreciate such a pastoral scene when she could only think how easily they might hurtle down to join them.
But if the Volvo panted and groaned it didn't falter. It had acquired a personality of its own, she decided, and like the people of the mountains it had adjusted to malnutrition and impoverishment and had grown stubborn and stoic. Ahmad sat between her and Max, his hand holding hers tightly. Occasionally he looked up to smile at her; if his English vocabulary was limited his eyes spoke for him: she had given a two-dirham coin, worth so little, and in return she was being given all the gratitude in his ardent young heart. For him there were no worries about failing brakes or steering mechanisms, his trust was total.
Max, however, had begun to look haggard. They might have nursed the hope of reaching Zagora before nightfall but there was no pushing the truck and there began to be shadows in the valley below and then across the road as the sun sank lower in the sky.
"We're not going to make it to Zagora," she said at last, flatly.
"We'll be damn lucky to finish with these hairpin curves while it's still light," he growled.
It was with great relief that they coasted down the last hill and looked ahead to a darkening road that stretched for miles across a flat landscape.
"Thank God," said Max.
She nodded. "We've got to stop, we don't know what's ahead in Zagora and we need sleep, food and daylight."
He gave her a quick glance. "Quite."
They began to look for a place to camp that was concealed from the road. They passed a cluster of houses where the black silhouette of a woman could be seen carrying a load of firewood on her back, and then a mile further along they came upon a grove of olive trees. Max drove the truck in among the trees and when they were well hidden he turned off the engine. The silence was profound: they could hear neither cars nor people nor even bird calls; it was the hush before sunset.
"I think," said Max grimly, "that following today's driving my nerves ought to be well honed for the Grand Prix. The tires on this truck are threadbare, the wheel alignment crazy, the brakes suspenseful and we've maneuvered roads today that had more curves than a belly dancer."
Ahmad gave him a happy glance. "When I grow big I will be driver of truck, too."
Mrs. Pollifax smiled at him. "He certainly watched you like a hawk, Max, every move that you made. Come, let's eat and we'll feel better. There's the tarpaulin in the back and the ragged blanket Omar left for us, we'll sleep under the stars."
They climbed down from the cab and into the rear of the truck, carrying their food with them. Seated cross-legged in the deepening twilight they opened tins of sardines and distributed colas. If Mrs. Pollifax found herself growing rather tired of sardines and oranges she only had to observe how eagerly Ahmad ate his ration to feel humbled.
"By the way," said Max, giving her a thoughtful glance, "I don't like to bring up disagreeable subjects while we're eating —it's hell on the digestion, of course—but I'd like to point out that we're coming nearer to the end of the list, and, if one of these remaining two chaps turns out to be the villain of the piece, has it occurred to you that we can scarcely follow instructions and visit a post office to send a cable when the police must be looking for us now, and every post office, bank and hotel alerted?"
Mrs. Pollifax and the Whirling Dervish Page 11