Amazir

by Tom Gamble

  ‘You’re going to find yourself caught between a pair of pincers, Harry,’ said Wilding, warning in his voice. ‘Any move you make and the jaws will snap tight.’

  ‘Well—I’m on his side for the moment. He’s my patron.’

  ‘A merchant you say? What’s his name?’

  Summerfield shook his head. ‘’Fraid I can’t tell, Jim. Confidentiality and all that.’

  ‘You mean you’re loyal to an Arab when you should be mixing with the French?’ Wilding exhaled. ‘I don’t understand you, Harry.’

  ‘His name’s Abrach—that’s all I know,’ surrendered Summerfield. ‘And keep it under your hat.’

  ‘Abrach? Strange name. And what d’you know about the lady?’ Summerfield shrugged. ‘Not much.’ Wilding pulled a face. ‘No—honestly. It’s all done through several go-betweens. But I do know she’s young and I do know where to find her. In fact, I think I have seen her—but she was with another man, young like herself.’

  ‘God—that poor bastard, Abrach. Poor you!’

  Summerfield waved his hand. ‘No, don’t worry about me, Jim. In any case, I can’t totally be sure it was her, even if she did fit the description. But when I saw the girl with her boyfriend I understood they were in love—you can tell. And a voice said to me: okay, just in case, time to retire from the fight, time to step back and just concentrate on the job.’

  ‘Well that’s something.’

  ‘And I’m almost on the point of stopping the contract. If it was her, now I know she’s taken. I’d be leading poor Abrach into a dead end.’

  ‘So what are your plans?’

  ‘Move on?’ Summerfield paused, weighing up the rhetorical question. ‘Maybe I’d like to travel up into the Atlas and explore a bit. After that—’ Summerfield shrugged—‘Who knows?’

  They remained silent for some time, scanning the view from the roof, each lost in his thoughts. Finally, Wilding sighed noisily.

  ‘Those damn fools—can’t they see they’re pulling the world towards another world conflict. Harry—I’m not interested in fighting.’ Summerfield looked at his friend, nodded and remained silent. Another sigh, this time impatient. ‘Harry—I’m worried. You’re going too far with all this.’ Wilding made a sweeping gesture at the city and then his voice softened. ‘Come back to your own people. It’s not too late. Remember that job in Southern Star?’

  ‘Jim—you worry too much. I’m only interested, that’s all. When you look at things from their perspective you see things you can’t normally understand. Have you ever stopped to think what they feel? What it’s like to be under foreign rule in your own land?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Wilding, directly. ‘I haven’t. And I don’t want to. I’m here for a job, only another few months maybe, and then I’m going back home. Of course it makes me feel kind of uneasy—and I suppose, if I were to think hard enough like you, I’d understand. But I really don’t think dressing up in rags and looking like something out of Ali Baba’s cave would make me any wiser.’

  ‘It must be nice to have a time limit,’ said Summerfield, without anger. ‘A contract.’

  ‘I suppose it makes things easier,’ nodded Wilding. ‘But you can give yourself one, too.’

  Summerfield looked at Wilding and after a few seconds, smiled a little ironically. ‘You’re right, Jim. I listened to you before and it took me away from Spain. Maybe I should take heed again—wait out the summer and then go. Maybe it’s time to return to being a westerner and accept my role.’

  17

  The following evening, Summerfield made his way to Wilding’s hotel and the suit that awaited him. He’d thought about Wilding’s opinions and although a natural part of him wanted to rebel, he had to agree that the American’s logic was a simpler solution. Discussing with Jim Wilding, it was almost as if he had looked at himself from a distance and seen, as Jim had done, how far removed from reality he had become. It was all quite embarrassing.

  Wilding was putting on a tie when Summerfield knocked. Jim looked very suave, very much the American movie star.

  ‘They’ll probably ask you for an autograph,’ grinned Summerfield, entering the room.

  ‘Suit’s in the bathroom, Harry. Try it on—shouldn’t be too much difference in size—it shrank a little during a rainstorm in Mississippi.’ Sure enough, the suit, a light beige cotton affair fitted him rather well. Only his shoes—his cracked and dusty brown, leather ankle boots—looked a little conspicuous. ‘Well, they’ll have to do, Harry. I can’t help you there.’

  ‘I’ll put it down to English eccentricity—or bad dress sense. The French love poking fun out of that one.’

  They took a motor cab to the expatriate district. It was the first time Summerfield had been there and was surprised by the sudden orderliness of mown grass and tree-lined avenues. After a stretch of parkland, a buffer zone keeping out the squalor of the city, the cab turned into a residential sector of large, whitewashed houses and stopped. Getting out, Summerfield craned his head and sniffed at the air.

  ‘Everything okay, Harry?’ said Jim, seeing off the taxi.

  ‘It’s that smell,’ commented Summerfield, humming to himself. ‘Funny.’

  Wilding inhaled. ‘Herbs,’ he commented. ‘Rather a change from downtown manure.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Summerfield. ‘Like a mixture of pepper and lemon. Smells like…’ but he couldn’t put his finger on it. ‘Can’t remember what, though.’

  ‘Come on—mustn’t be late,’ said Wilding, pushing him forwards.

  The house was not, as they had expected, a grandiose mansion, but a rather functional, rather prim and practical piece of architecture built to a standard design like the twenty or so others in the avenue and with a wide, shady veranda at its base. The garden was large, hesitating between landscaped and tended, to wild and sand swept. Several wheelbarrows and an array of gardening tools lying near a shed were evidence that the gardener had a daily struggle on his hands. It was useless to store the tools away.

  At the gate, Wilding tugged on the bell, which despite its large size, let out a high-pitched tingle. Summerfield looked at Wilding and stifled a grin.

  ‘For God’s sake, Harry,’ hissed Wilding. ‘This is top-level. High society.’

  ‘Sorry, Jim –it’s the nerves,’ grimaced Summerfield. ‘I can feel the rebel bubbling inside. Events like this make me want to throw custard pies and break furniture.’

  ‘Jesus—get a grip, Harry.’

  A servant appeared at the house and walked stiffly down the pathway to the gate. His master had obviously told him to put on a good show.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. May I have your names?’

  ‘Salaam alikoum. Chnou smitek?’ said Summerfield.

  The servant’s face froze in panic. His master hadn’t told him about this. Summerfield smiled back and Wilding scowled. ‘My name is Mohammed, sir,’ returned the servant, confused.

  ‘Ana min Sidi Summerfield, Mohammed,’ continued the Englishman and nodded to Wilding. ‘Sidi James Wilding.’

  ‘I pray, please enter,’ bowed the servant and opened the gate.

  There were magnolias in the garden and the setting sun cast a red glow over the gorging flowers. Summerfield made a compliment which made the servant’s eyes shine with pride. Wilding prodded Summerfield in the ribs.

  ‘I’ll try to make an effort,’ said Summerfield. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Whenever someone says that, it’s exactly what I do—worry!’

  They were led through the front door and into the hallway and asked to wait. Standing there, they heard voices from a room to the right, a low babble of French. Wilding inspected the black and white tiled floor, arranged in a criss-cross style, while Summerfield contemplated the stairway with its potted plants and green carpet. A painting, probably a family ancestor, though maybe a French official of some sort, hung on the wall with a sprig of thyme inserted into the top right corner of the frame. He was just about to draw Wilding’s attention to it when a ne
atly dressed little Moroccan lady hurriedly appeared.

  ‘Madame,’ greeted Summerfield, bowing.

  ‘Oh no—I’m just the help,’ replied the woman, declining to return Summerfield’s smile. ‘This way, gentlemen. Monsieur is with the other guests in the drawing room.’

  The host, a sharp featured, intelligent-looking man in his mid-fifties came to greet them.

  ‘Philippe-Charles Lefèvre,’ he intoned, taking extreme care to speak slowly. ‘Head of Regional Administration.’

  Wilding shook hands and Summerfield noticed Lefèvre’s hunched shoulders, a characteristic of long hours spent at the desk.

  ‘And this is your French-speaking colleague?’ said Lefèvre, turning from Wilding to Summerfield and giving the quickest of glances at his shoes. ‘British, are we not?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ returned Summerfield in French.

  Lefèvre’s mouth gave a curious smile. ‘I believe we are allies, Mr Summerfield. Waterloo was a long time ago, was it not? In any case,’ continued the sharp-minded host, turning to his two guests, ‘do come in. I’m so glad you could come. And—rest assured, Monsieur Wilding, many of my guests speak English and would no doubt be interested to make your acquaintance. Drink?’

  The next quarter of an hour saw Wilding and Summerfield introduced to the small circle of guests. Fresquin, the head of the post and telegraph services, had a loud, enthusiastic voice but was diplomatic enough to murmur that he was relieved to see someone different.

  ‘One of the disadvantages of living abroad,’ he intoned. ‘Always the same faces—and my goodness, I’ve had enough of Bridge talk. What brings you to Morocco.…’

  Jean Bassouin, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, greeted them in English. Summerfield took an instant liking to him. Small, witty and full of energy. Lefèvre’s wife, dressed in a pale lemon yellow dress and looking rather pale herself, smiled delicately and proffered her hand—to kiss or to shake, it was unclear. Summerfield shook it and Wilding, gleamingly handsome, gave a baise main.

  ‘So quixotic,’ commented Summerfield.

  Wilding grinned back, his eyes sparkling at Madame Lefèvre. ‘We Americans have a bad reputation for manners. I just wanted to show that we can rival the Europeans when need be.’ Madame Lefèvre’s skin suddenly became a blotchy red and out of the corner of his eyes Summerfield saw a look of concern pass over the face of the maid who happened to be passing by loaded with a tray of empty glasses.

  Several other guests, including officials from the banks, the church and the education authorities were presented. Majorelle, the painter-gardener, had also been invited but was unfortunately held on other business. Finally, Lefèvre turned to Wilding and Summerfield.

  ‘Right—I’ll leave you to mingle. I’ll introduce you to Colonel Le Guédec later—he hasn’t yet arrived. Should be here for dinner. Oh—and then there’s my daughter and her friend, Jean Bassouin’s girl. If they ever decide to come down from the bedroom, that is,’ he added sourly.

  Lefèvre left and they were just about to head for the drinks when Madame Lefèvre intercepted them.

  ‘Mister Wilding—do you play bridge?’

  ‘Well—I—’ started Wilding and before he knew it, Madame Lefèvre had embarked on a lengthy description of the local club, obviously excluding Summerfield from any show of interest. Summerfield frowned, caught Jim’s glance of alarm and grinned.

  ‘I’ll ‘er—leave you to it, Wilding. Just getting a drink.’

  Summerfield made his way to the maid who still viewed him with the frosty mistrust of a goose watching over her flock of goslings.

  ‘MaRHabi!’ said Summerfield, cheekily—‘Welcome!’ The maid wasn’t impressed. Maybe irony didn’t have the same intonation in Arabic. ‘A whisky, please,’ he added, rather petulantly. ‘May I ask your name?’

  The maid handed him across a glass. ‘You have muddied my carpet, sir,’ she replied, tersely.

  ‘Oh dear!’ Summerfield stepped back and looked at where he had been standing. ‘I’m so sorry—would you have a mop or something—I’ll clean it up.’ The maid looked at him in horror, but Summerfield was already stooping to pick up a few crumbs of earth.

  ‘Soumia! What’s going on?’ It was Monsieur Lefèvre.

  ‘No—no—it’s nothing,’ said Summerfield, picking himself up. ‘It’s my fault. I’m afraid I’ve given Soumia more work to do.’

  ‘Good God, man—it’s why we employ her,’ said Lefèvre, raising his eyebrows. ‘Please—dinner is being served.’

  The dining room was spacious, extremely well arranged with nineteenth century rustic furniture—obviously family heirlooms—and painted a pale yellow, much like Madame Lefèvre’s dress. Two tables had been arranged to form a large square covered with a dark blue silk cloth. There were candles, sprigs of magnolias and several eating instruments that Summerfield had never seen before. There was some dithering as the guests, like jockeys jostling before the starting line, moved to and fro before the seats, only to be placed and replaced by the umpire, Madame Lefèvre.

  ‘Garçon, fille, garçon, fille…’ she thought aloud, trying to find a pattern in gender. ‘Oh, dear—Mister Summerfield—more boys than girls, I’m afraid. You’ll have to sit between the Colonel and Mr. Fresquin.’

  ‘They don’t bite?’ said Summerfield, but nobody seemed to understand the joke.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the hostess, quickly. ‘Please sit everybody,’ she announced, herself sitting down next to Wilding. It seemed as though the American had made a friend and Summerfield thought: God, how dreary an existence she must have. It was true that for once, Summerfield’s novelty was outgunned by Jim Wilding’s. Not only was Jim a handsome bugger who seemed to shine out like an exotic animal among the middle-aged French civil servants, he was American—a being from a far-removed continent where film stars got out of limousines on every street corner and beggars could become millionaires within a week. If he were honest with himself, Summerfield felt rather cheesed at this. And as a result, he felt even more rebellious—a great bubbling turmoil in the pit of his belly that threatened to boil over. He felt himself fidgeting and with the greatest effort, tried to restrain himself from saying something déplacé.

  ‘Are you comfortable enough, Mr Summerfield?’ inquired Madame Lefèvre, momentarily bringing a halt to her stream of words to Wilding.

  ‘Thank you, yes. It’s the suit,’ added Summerfield, sitting upright. ‘It’s hard to get used to one again.’

  ‘Harry got used to wearing native clothes,’ commented Wilding, a little smirk on his lips. ‘Very much the Sheikh of Arabie!’

  To Summerfield’s surprise, everyone seemed to find this extremely funny. Everybody that is, except Jean Bassouin, the president of the chamber of commerce, who nodded agreement.

  ‘I wore such clothes when in the field in Algeria. Extremely useful.’

  ‘Exactly,’ added Summerfield, thankfully.

  ‘Yes, but native!’ boomed Fresquin, holding his large stomach from quivering. At that moment the dining room door opened.

  ‘Ah—the youngsters!’ said Bassouin.

  Summerfield froze in his seat.

  ‘I thought you’d taken root up there,’ commented Monsieur Lefèvre, not bothering to look around.

  It was her—the young woman he’d seen outside the gates of the academy—with the young man she’d kissed. Such was Summerfield’s surprise that he failed to notice another young woman behind them, taller, much slimmer and almost eastern in her features.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ said Madame Lefèvre in a silky voice. ‘Please, let me introduce you to our special guests this evening. Mr Wilding from America and Mr Summerfield from England. They’re here for petrol, I believe.’

  Wilding stood up and shook hands. Summerfield, still overwhelmed, remained sitting and only stood up when he caught Lefèvre’s frown.

  ‘Sorry—awfully sorry. You’re—’

  ‘Sarah Bassouin.’ Summerfield glanced at her f
ather, his ally and felt himself reddening. ‘And this is my fiancé, Henri.’ Summerfield turned to the young man, hesitated for a second, taking in his fine features and freshness. For a moment,

  Summerfield’s shadow got the better of him. It was her—the secret addressee. And it was hopeless. Accept, said a voice in his head. Summerfield nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you both. I’m Harry Summerfield.’

  ‘And this,’ said Lefèvre, ‘Is our daughter, Jeanne. Shake hands, Jeanne.’

  Summerfield turned his attention away from the handsome couple and for the first time noticed the slightly olive skinned, slightly shy-looking young lady as she approached. Curiously, she faintly resembled the young Sarah Bassouin. A humming noise came into Summerfield’s head which would, in normal circumstances, be translated as interesting followed by pretty.

  ‘Jeanne Lefèvre. Pleased to meet you, Mr Summerfield,’ she said in English.

  Summerfield smiled and bowed his head slightly. ‘The pleasure is mine. Your accent is faultless.’

  ‘No thanks to our teacher, Sister Marthe!’ said Sarah Bassouin.

  ‘Sarah—a little respect if you please,’ said her father, hiding a smile.

  ‘I’ve done some teaching myself,’ added Summerfield, feigning severity. ‘And I totally agree with your daughter!’ Summerfield glanced round the table. Only Jean Bassouin, Jim and the three young guests laughed in return. Monsieur Lefèvre cleared his throat.

  ‘British humour, I believe. Agnes—’ he pronounced his wife’s name with the precision of a surgical instrument—‘Please show the children their seats.’

  Summerfield found himself facing Jeanne Lefèvre. On her right was Sarah Bassouin’s fiancé, Henri and on her left was Jim Wilding, playing, with the utmost politeness, the perfect guest, listening to Mme Lefèvre’s incessant monologue and frequently nodding his head. Summerfield glanced again at the Lefèvre daughter, so different, so naturally relaxed and a thought went through his mind that she and Jim Wilding made quite a handsome couple. He in his light grey suit and chiselled, though fine features and she in her pale blue spring dress and dark, flowing hair—tied at the back to reveal rather an elegant neck. Her eyes were large, dark hazel and shone with youth, a blend of openness and wonder but also wariness and shyness at having to mix in adult company. Her nose was rather long and slightly aquiline and it was this feature that struck such a difference with those around her. She looked almost Italian.