Mrs. Pollifax and the Whirling Dervish

by Dorothy Gilman

  They were talking again but she could no longer relax now that Max had begun directing small shocks at her. She began to apply herself to the soup, which was as delicious as Max had said it would be.

  Suddenly Mahfoud blew out the candle and hushed them. He walked to the window, tugged at the blanket over it and peered outside. They waited in silence, listening, and then Mrs. Pollifax heard it, too, the sound of cars or trucks a mile away on the highway. Until now she had not realized the utter silence in a country village at night, or how sound traveled in such silence. Now she, too, waited to learn whether the sounds faded or turned toward them to grow louder.

  The sounds grew softer, faded and disappeared and the room was filled with sighs of relief. Mahfoud hung the blanket over the window but he didn't light the candle again and when he spoke his voice was agitated. He was afraid, and Mrs. Pollifax, guessing his thoughts, lifted her bowl to her lips to empty it before they were told to leave.

  She had not been entirely correct, however, because now the name of Ahmad was repeated a number of times, and she could see him squirming where he sat. Sidi Tahar spoke, Ahmad spoke, Mahfoud's wife broke in and then Mahfoud. "What is it, Max?" she interrupted.

  "They are saying now that Ahmad should go with us. They know Sidi Tahar is a holy man because he has the mark—the sudjda—on his forehead from his devotions. They trust him. They don't say they know where Sidi Tahar is going, but they tell me that if his parents come for Ahmad they would only take him where Sidi Tahar is going, and it would be safer for him to go with us."

  "Safer? I wish I could share their faith," she said ruefully. "Do they know we're being hunted, dreadful word?"

  "Well yes," Max said, "but you see—" He shrugged helplessly, with a smile. "They're not terribly interested in us, we're only nasrani, but Sidi Tahar is a holy man." He lowered his voice to a near whisper. "What they suggest makes me think they know a great deal more than we give them credit for, and they're very doubtful that Ahmad will ever see his parents again."

  "Oh no," she protested, and then stifled her obvious words of alarm and said weakly, "Insh'Allah," understanding that this was no moment to worry over Ahmad's parents when there were so many other worries. They must get away quickly now, before any cars turned down the dirt road by the graveyard to search for them here. There was the walk into the hills that lay ahead of them, too, but the important thing was to go.

  The talk had ended, and Max and Sidi Tahar were rising. She carried her empty soup bowl to Mahfoud's wife and thanked her. They walked out of the house to the truck, led this time by Mahfoud's son Rashid who would drive now, with Max seated in the cab beside him.

  There was a flurry of farewells, punctuated by Bismallahs and Insh'Allahs; Mrs. Pollifax and Sidi Tahar and Ahmad were helped into the open back of the truck, and with a grinding of gears they pulled away, heading now across untilled ground and over roadless fields toward the rocky hills they hoped would conceal them.

  18.

  Mornajay approached Rouida in mid-afternoon of the next day, stopping his car on the outskirts to observe it and guess what he might expect. Off to his far right the last of the mesas had dropped away until it was no more than a djebal of rocks pointing a finger to the south. Ahead of him sprawled the village, and beyond it he saw with great pleasure that he had reached the true desert at last: it stretched without interruption as far as the eye could see, a seemingly unending flow of sand and pebble that met with nothing at all until it reached the distant horizon and a cerulean blue sky. He'd forgotten what such space could be like, and how it rested a man. Even the village, its adobe built from the same desert sand, matched it in color, blended into it and merged with only the shadows cast by the sun defining its difference, the sunbaked walls blank except for the occasional small square window or the longer shadows of mysterious entrances.

  He wondered at Rouida's taking root here in this inhospitable corner of the country, and then in the foreground he saw the well, circled by concrete, and this clearly explained the reason for its fragile existence at the fringe of the desert: there was water here, it was an oasis. Not one of Hollywood's lush date-palm oases, for he saw only one tree rising above the low flat roofs, and it was this deficiency that gave the village the look of bones that had been stripped and bleached by the sun. There were no roads or streets; compounds stood apart with great spaces between them, as if to give release to the inhabitants from the narrow alleys and dark rooms inside. If there was wealth here, he thought, it was well hidden from the tax-collectors. There were certainly no shops for tourists but a long low building bore a cola sign in faded colors: this shabby cafe and the well, then, marked the center of Rouida and this was substantiated by the several groups of men who stood talking or idling under the cola sign.

  In Zagora he had visited the prefecture to receive his laissez-passer to travel here. The man had made every attempt to send a Tuareg guide with him but Mornajay had frostily argued him down, emphasizing his press card, dramatically holding up his camera and repeating over and over that he needed to spend more than an hour in Rouida.

  "It is already past noon," the prefecture had pointed out.

  He had agreed that yes, it was indeed early afternoon.

  "There are no hotels or hostels for the night," the Prefect had emphasized.

  Mornajay had replied that he was quite capable of sleeping in his car.

  Why was this?

  "Because," Mornajay had explained, "I wish to photograph the desert at sunset and at dawn, being not a tourist but a photographer, a man of work."

  Reluctantly he had been given his pass, which he would soon have to present to the prefecture here to be stamped— whatever came to Rouida must also leave Rouida, he thought wryly. He would then have to find and introduce himself to the headman of the village if he was to breach those inhospitable blank walls facing him. He drew out the list that Carstairs had read to him over the phone in Spain and reassured himself that it was Khaddour Nasiri, the bathhouse keeper, for whom he must look. He nodded; a public bath was an excellent place for hearing gossip and news; certainly anyone riding into Rouida from the desert along the caravan trails from Mali, Mauritania or even, furtively, from Algeria, would almost immediately-head for the bathhouse to wash away the heat and grit of the desert . . , and to talk.

  But there were no clues as to where the bathhouse was located. Beyond the cafe he could see the flat-roofed squares of compounds extending out into the desert—urban sprawl, he thought wryly—and he was reasonably certain, given the architecture of the country, that a maze of alleyways and narrow passages lay behind each of those blank closed walls, as well as dozens of families.

  He would need to be persuasive and very, very careful. Challenged by the uncertainties that lay ahead he pressed his foot to the accelerator and drove into Rouida.

  The headman of the village was named Madani el-Kebaj, and he proved to be a mixture of centuries of intermarriage among the desert tribes. His royal bearing suggested Tuareg blood but his Sudanese heritage had given him a polished black face that was dramatically framed by a snowy white turban. He wore a gray djellabah, and thrust into his broad leather belt was a genuinely old and extraordinary knife with intricate silver designs. Speaking in French Mornajay introduced himself, presented his lais-sez-passer and his ID card to him, and watched as he read both of them carefully with pursed lips. When the man spoke it was in a surprisingly soft, almost caressing voice, and in English. "Please allow me to offer you tea."

  Mornajay smiled politely and with effusive thanks asked if he might first take photographs while the light was so fine, and accept el-Kebaj's invitation at a later hour. "I'd like to catch some of the normal life here in your town. Its being at the edge of the desert"—he gestured toward the golden brown sand that stretched to the horizon—"makes it of special interest."

  "Yes? Such as what?" he was asked curiously.

  "The jerran—public ovens—perhaps? and the bathhouse? and perhaps—" He shrugged.
"Are there camels about?"

  El-Kebaj said helpfully, "We expect a caravan in the morning."

  "Wonderful," Mornajay told him. "Bon! I've been given the okay to stay for two days, a pity its not longer but that's why I'd like to start at once if you don't mind."

  El-Kebaj gravely bowed. "I offer you the hospitality of my house, then, for the night."

  "Very kind," Mornajay said uneasily. "Very kind indeed. Now I wonder if you could show me just where the bread is made, and where the baths are, and—" He was beginning to feel foolish, "—I imagine you have splendid sunsets, I'll want to capture one of those."

  The djellabah rustled, el-Kebaj nodded and he was led past the cafe and around the corner into the great open sandy space that separated the walled compounds. Of course, he thought, these great spaces are a necessity for camel caravans . . , try herding hundreds of camels into a narrow alleyway! The sun was warm but not searing. They passed an archway leading into a narrow alley and then some distance beyond it an open door, and here el-Kebaj slowed his pace.

  "The hammam," he said, pointing.

  "The what?"

  "Bathhouse. Behind it, against its other wall, is the public oven. It will be hot, monsieur, we will go in."

  It was a very efficient combination, thought Mornajay, a huge open oven, flames leaping upward—to the right the entrance to the women's bathhouse, to the left the men's—and presumably the baker of bread drew from the same fire in the rear. It would make sense, of course, with fuel being so scarce ... A boy was tending the fire, an older man haranguing him. He was swarthy, with a bristling moustache, and if this was the bathhouse keeper he wondered how to get the man alone and talk to him.

  "His name?" he asked politely, inserting a flashbulb into his camera.

  "Khaddour Nasiri," explained the headman.

  Mornajay lifted the camera to his eye and snapped a photograph. Hearing his name spoken Nasiri turned and looked grumpily at Mornajay and managed a reluctant nod. "Do you speak French?" asked Mornajay.

  Nasiri shrugged indifferently. "Out."

  "One more picture and then I wonder if I could photograph you outside in the light, with the building behind you . . . Could you spare a minute?"

  El-Kebaj gave the man a nod, suggesting that he do this, and Mornajay realized the headman was going to accompany them, that in this village where nothing much happened he was providing the headman with an Event. He should have guessed this; with a sigh he led them out, where the two men stood uncertainly in the sun and a swarm of boys came running. It was ironic, it was comical and it was terrible, there was to be no privacy at all.

  Orders were issued by el-Kebaj and the boys stood back, chattering among themselves, giggling—a wretched lot, thought Mornajay testily, and they'd soon be begging money from him. He posed Khaddour Nasiri alone in front of the door in the wall and drew back to join the headman and the boys and focus his camera.

  He found his problem not insoluble. With everyone watching and waiting he suddenly grunted, shook his head in dismay and walked up to Nasiri to fuss with his turban. Arranging it more artistically he murmured in a low voice, "I must speak with you alone, Khaddour Nasiri. There has been trouble. If I mention the names of Sidi Tahar Bouseghine in Zagora and Muhammed Tuhami in Ourzazate you will believer"

  Nasiri turned his head to look at him but his expression remained unchanged. Mornajay withdrew to begin snapping photos, kneeling, standing, turning to include the headman and the children. Presentí}-, with this scene exhausted, he handed out one-dirham coins until his pockets were empty, thanked el-Kebaj, and begged to be left alone to wander around taking a few photographs at random. The headman hesitated and then nodded, spoke harshly to the boys, gesturing them away, and promised tea when Mornajay was finished.

  Relieved of both headman and boys, Mornajay turned and strolled casually up the broad and sandy thoroughfare past the last mud-stained walls of the village toward the greater open space beyond that was peopleless and flat and almost golden in the late afternoon sun: the desert.

  He felt Khaddour Nasiri's approach before he was joined by him.

  "There is trouble?" said Nasiri softly, standing beside him.

  "There is trouble," Mornajay told him. "If your Allah is kind they may come to Rouida. There is no longer any other way out of the country and the police are looking for them."

  " 'They?' " he repeated alertly, a different Nasiri now.

  Mornajay nodded. "Yes, and we must pray for baraka. Two people, one of them a woman, came from the West knowing something was wrong. Now everything is wrong, they too are in trouble and 'on the run,' if you know what that means. Have you any transport?"

  "A very old truck with old tires," said Nasiri, nodding, and added with a faint smile, "but the engine is fine and new, and there are big desert tires safely hidden away. A wireless is also hidden."

  Mornajay snapped a picture of the empty desert and then turned to Nasiri, smiled at him and lifted his camera to film a close-up of his head. "Get them ready," he said out of the corner of his mouth. "And it might be wise to find a turban and djellabah, very old and worn, for me." With a final nod he strolled on toward the desert to take several more photographs. When he turned back Nasiri was gone.

  Unfortunately his feeling of success—after all, he had reached Rouida and found Khaddour Nasiri, which was no small job—began to dissipate during the next hour when he was given too much time to think. He had not realized that the serving of tea to a guest in this country was as complex and ritualistic as the Japanese tea ceremony; it involved a great deal of sitting and waiting. There was a marvelous brazier to admire, which heated water in an even more marvelous copper kettle. A boy coaxed the fire along with repeated use of a bellows while Mornajay sat rather uncomfortably on a mat and watched. When the water was at last brought to a boil el-Kebaj arrived, to sit cross-legged on the matted floor with a tray holding glass cups in front of him, each filled with sprigs of green mint. This was accompanied by a bowl with great chunks of sugar. Water was poured into a cup and very gravely el-Kebaj added sugar and tasted it, his movements slow and sensuous. The tea was returned to the pot for added embellishments and the process began all over again.

  Like wine-tasting, thought Mornajay crossly. He sat in a room with peeling cement walls decorated with the ubiquitous photograph of the King, and an Arabic calendar that advertised incense. There was a huge wood-and-glass buffet at the end of the room and one overstuffed European chair, otherwise the room was lined with rugs folded up in corners or unfurled on the floor. He suspected that he would be sleeping on one of them tonight, and this was when his optimism began to leave him as he wondered what the hell he could do for anyone who did reach Rouida, and what the hell he'd do if no one came at all? His time was limited here by his laissez-passer and he had to leave the next afternoon, unless by some means he could persuade el-Kebaj to approach the Prefect and win him an extension. It was true enough that he'd made contact with Khaddour Nasiri, and yes that was a triumph, or had been, and it was true that Nasiri had transport, but how on earth could any stranger wanted by the police arrive here to be spirited away without half the townspeople in pursuit?

  The headman nodded at last, gestured to the boy who lifted the tray and carried the tea to Mornajay.

  Mornajay forced himself to smile but it was difficult, he felt as if he'd cut the smile out of paper and pasted it on his face. "Merci beaucoup," he said, and hoped the glue didn't show.

  19.

  It would be a drive to remember, thought Mrs. Pollifax, if she was to be allowed a future for remembering. She could discern no road or cart-track behind them as they careened ahead in the darkness over untilled ground. Placed in the rear of the truck, with nothing to grasp and hold on to, they were tossed around like marbles in a box, for although Rashid did not drive fast he drove with resolution, presumably following a known footpath. They bumped, they slithered and they slid, always on the slant as the truck mounted small hills, descended them and clim
bed again. Rashid drove without lights but the darkness was not absolute, he seemed to know where they were going but the only illumination came from the thin slice of moon high in the sky.

  Now as the truck reached the top of a hill and swung briefly to the left she could look back and see the tiny village they'd left, only a cluster of tiny shapes now, but seeing it she clutched Sidi Tahar's arm and pointed. The lights of three vans, miniature now, were entering the dirt road by the cemetery and heading toward the village of Mahfoud and his neighbors. They had escaped just in time.

  Sidi Tahar's gaze followed her pointed finger and he nodded. "Yes—Allah Akbar, God is great," he said simply, and then the truck swerved and they lost their glimpse of the village, entering a barren plateau of rocks.

  On and on Rashid drove, until Mrs. Pollifax decided that hell was not a place of fire and demons but an endless drive in the night over rocks and stones toward an unknown and probably unpalatable destination. She had just begun to accept this new concept of eternity when the truck slowed and came to a stop in the shadow of two high pillars of stone. Max called out, "Are you all right?" A moment later his head appeared over the quarter-panel and he said, "If I'd known Rashid could drive this far into the hills I'd have had you sit up front. I'm sorry. I wanted to talk to him and I don't think even Rashid knew we'd make it this far."

  Sidi Tahar said thoughtfully, "It offended the flesh, it is true, but not the bones."

  "Oh it was good" cried Ahmad eagerly. "This is a fine truck!"

  With dignity Mrs. Pollifax said, "I will climb out—if I can —but it would motivate the process to learn how many miles Rashid has driven us."