by Tom Gamble
When he woke, there was silence. Only the sound of the wind, fresh, as it buffeted the tarpaulin of the lorry and whistled through the cracks in the wooden floor. He stirred, tried to stretch as best as he could and shivered in the cold air. There came a murmur of voices from outside his blackened and closed little world.
Suddenly, he felt himself being rolled on his side and hands reached down to grab him. He was dragged roughly to his knees and the thought came to his mind that he was to be executed, left there miles from anywhere, bound and rotting beneath the sun. His heart thumped audibly in his ears and raced so fast that he became breathless. A whimper escaped his lips and behind the blindfold, thick tears began to soak into the metallic smell of the material covering his eyes. He felt hands untying the knot, the darkness clearing and then the breathtaking pincushion of a moonless, star-studded night sky. So they wanted him to see it all, the thought came to him, the end: the bastards. Then suddenly:
‘Harry—how are you?’
‘Badr—is that you?’ Summerfield squinted into the darkness and a tall, thin shape appeared.
‘It is me, Harry. Perhaps I can offer you some tea. We have travelled far.’
A few minutes later, Summerfield found himself sitting cross-legged opposite the young man who was serving him a glass of thick black tea, a vague and slightly ironical smile on his lips. Badr finished pouring and brought the glass to Summerfield’s lips. ‘Drink, Harry. It will do you good.’
‘I could drink better if my hands were free,’ said Summerfield, controlling his voice. The silence of the huge sky somehow commanded him to speak softly. He also wasn’t sure about Badr and the situation. He thought it wiser to play neutral.
‘It is unfortunate, Harry, but I must keep your hands bound until we reach our destination.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘So that your mind does not force your body to do something it would regret. You will be untied when we are safe—I promise you.’ Badr leant forwards once more and let Summerfield sip from the glass. ‘Perhaps you would also like a cigarette. You smoke, I believe.’
Summerfield nodded and remained sulky while Badr produced a packet, lit up and placed the cigarette in Summerfield’s mouth. It was a local brand—black tobacco—and tasted like earth. He inhaled and, clumsily, he removed it between clasped thumbs. ‘You know that you have committed a crime, Badr—you and your fellows here. The Americans would call it a kidnapping. At first, I thought it was Lefèvre’s men.’
‘Seen from another perspective, Harry Summerfield, you have been both abducted and saved all at once.’
‘I had been freed. Bassouin intervened.’
‘Bassouin is one of the better of the worse evils running our country,’ said Badr. ‘Though I imagine there were terms attached to your freedom.’
‘Terms he recommended me to violate,’ added Summerfield. ‘You are worse than a band of thieves, Badr. Have you any idea of what my intentions were, what I had to do? You took me from her.’
‘The Administrator’s daughter,’ grunted Badr, non-committal.
‘Jeanne,’ rectified Summerfield. He shook his head. ‘You have absolutely no idea, have you?’
‘I have an idea that Abrach was courting her when you took her from him.’
There was disbelief in Summerfield’s voice. ‘You know that’s not true. You were the one who told me, Badr!’
‘Perhaps I was speculating. It happens to a man, Harry.’
‘Badr—what’s happening? Why this? You’ve become bloody strange. And for God’s sake free my hands—we’re friends, aren’t we?’
‘Friends not yet, Harry Summerfield. And maybe never. We worked together and we have a certain mutual respect. But the word friend is invalid.’ Summerfield pursed his lips and looked away, swearing under his breath. Badr offered him some more tea which he at first refused and then begrudgingly accepted.
They sat in silence for a while, watching as the other men—three in total—sat in the shadows of the lorry and smoked, talking in low, mono-syllabic voices around a tiny flame that occasionally peeped from its hole in the ground. Then Badr spoke, his voice changed, softer now and, thought Summerfield, less aloof. That was one thing that really annoyed him about the young Arab—an intellectual snob and from a poor background—the worst sort. And maybe, he added, as an afterthought, quite like himself.
‘Harry—the world has suddenly changed and Abrach—El Rifni—has realised. I wonder if you have?’
‘You mean the war?’
‘The impact of it, Harry.’
‘Britain and France will be at war with Germany.’
‘The impact for this country, Harry. Our country. Have you thought of that?’ Summerfield frowned and an imperceptible smile showed fleetingly on the young man’s lips. ‘I don’t blame you, Harry. And for the moment, most of the French government in Morocco is also thinking the same. Nobody has actually thought of what it means for this land. Or for all the colonies, for that matter. This will be a war that will change the world.’
Summerfield nodded. It was true. Both he and all the rest of the Europeans were locked onto Europe, the centre of the world. For Badr and El Rifni, the centre of their world was Morocco. Summerfield frowned. ‘You don’t think we’ll lose?’
Badr shrugged. ‘Only Allah knows the outcome. And in any case, either way things will change. Both for the French and the British empires. You see—everyone suddenly needs us. The French have begun mobilising their North African troops, the Americans are promising future financial aid, Germans in white cotton suits have appeared asking for meetings with those connected with the nationalist cause.’
‘You’re a Socialist, Badr—and so are most of those in the independence movement. You can’t seriously endorse a Fascist influence in Morocco.’
‘Of course not,’ said Badr. ‘But we could accept their money and arms for the good of the cause.’
Summerfield grimaced and turned away. ‘Even you have turned cynical!’ he spat. ‘And in any case, what in the hell has it all to do with abducting me? I demand my freedom. I demand that you take me back—now.’
Badr raised an eyebrow and poured some more tea in such a deliberate fashion that it appeared to Summerfield the greatest gesture of irony.
‘I’m afraid that is out of the question, Harry. We have to keep you away from Marrakesh for a while.’
‘How long is a while?’
‘Only Allah knows,’ said Badr, once again.
‘Look—in all due respect,’ replied Summerfield, irritated, ‘leave Allah out of it and tell me. How long?’
‘Two days or two years,’ answered Badr, offering Summerfield his glass.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If Lefèvre is eliminated in two days’ time, you will go home. And if it takes two years, then you will return in two years.’
‘But I’ve nothing to do with that!’ shouted Summerfield, unconsciously trying to stand and falling backwards. ‘And what about the war? I’ve got to get back to England!’
‘Some of your politicians are saying exactly the same as last time—that it will all be over for Christmas. Maybe you’ll miss it, Harry.’
‘This isn’t at all funny, Badr.’ Summerfield was pale with rage. ‘You have no right to keep me here!’
‘You know too many things about us, Harry. You cannot go back.’
‘I must get back, Badr. Can’t you understand? For Jesus’ sake—I have to see Jeanne. I have to convince her to come with me to England.’
‘I suggest you pray to Jesus to make things happen quickly, Harry. That is all I can offer. I will do the same to Allah—and hopefully, you will return to your love and your war the way you want it.’ The young man rose then and began to walk back to the lorry. Summerfield let out a roar of frustration and anger. Badr shook his head, murmured something to his men and Summerfield’s mouth was promptly gagged.
Towards late afternoon, the sun cooling to a copper globe two-thirds into its fall, the
lorry came to another halt. Badr helped Summerfield onto his legs and he wobbled slightly before dropping down onto the gritty ground.
‘We will not stay long, Harry,’ said Badr, gently pushing him by the elbow. ‘Pee behind the lorry and then come this way.’
Summerfield craned his neck to where Badr had gestured. Some fifty yards away was a small cluster of pathetic looking hovels—three lopsided shepherd’s huts in a state of semi-ruin. He nodded begrudgingly, stepped behind the lorry and relieved his painful bladder.
Walking towards the huts, Summerfield wondered why Badr had chosen to stop in such a place. Perhaps it was to eat again, he thought. The first hut was empty, a large gaping hole yawning in one wall where the mud bricks had crumbled. He caught a glimpse of a flapping strip of material and the frame of an old cupboard before he felt Badr squeezing his arm and leading him on. The second hut, one wall painted a fading pea green, looked in sturdier state. Badr stopped before the weathered door and gave Summerfield a slight push.
‘Please go in,’ he said, loosening the gag on the Englishman’s mouth and urging him on with a flick of his head. ‘And close the door behind you. We will leave in five minutes.’
Summerfield looked mistrustfully back at the young Berber. Again Badr motioned with his head. Summerfield stepped forwards, lifted his tied hands and pushed. He slid inside the cool dark interior and with difficulty turned and closed the door, a last slit of light and Badr’s face promptly shut out.
‘Harry,’ came a voice.
‘Abrach?’ His heart missed a beat. ‘Is that you?’ Summerfield looked into the darkness and became aware that several small candles were emitting a feeble light.
‘I am here. Sit.’
At last, his eyes growing accustomed, Summerfield discerned Abrach’s large shape sitting in a corner on—of all things—a red leather armchair one would normally find in a hotel lobby. One of its armrests was disembowelled and its stuffing flowed out. Immediately, Summerfield noticed the merchant’s hands, their odd shape wrapped in two great wads of cloth like a pair of boxing gloves. He looked into his eyes—sad, weary eyes—and sat down on a wooden box.
‘Abrach—Abslem—you must get me out of this.’
‘No salutations, Harry? I believe we were once almost near to friendship. Is this how you greet your benefactor after so many weeks?’
‘And I believe our working relationship finished some time ago too,’ said Summerfield, stonily. ‘Are you going to kill me?’
‘What for?’
‘Because I know too many things.’
‘Not as many as you could imagine,’ replied Abrach, a spark of his former self punctuating his weariness. ‘No,’ he added, looking down. ‘No, I will not have you killed—how could I do that to a man who helped me. No, just remove you for a while, that’s all. Somewhere safe.’
‘Safe for you,’ said Summerfield. ‘Don’t you remember? I was going to leave this bloody country in any case. There’s a war to be fought.’
‘Your war. If you still hadn’t realised, Harry, our war has been going on for nearly forty years.’
Summerfield remained silent, suddenly tired of letting himself be drawn into argument. ‘I suppose I should enquire how you are, Abrach.’
‘Abrach or Abslem, whichever, Harry. Rather than me commence, tell me yourself. How am I?’
‘You’re being cynical, Abrach,’ said Summerfield, surprised by the merchant’s tone of voice. ‘You never were.’
‘We change.’
‘Yes.’ A silence. ‘We change.’
‘So tell me, then, Harry Summerfield. What do you see before you? Do you see a man proud of the business he managed to build? A man more or less tolerant and content?’
‘How am I meant to interpret this irony, Abrach?’ shrugged Summerfield. ‘It speaks for itself. I see your clothes, dirty and worn and the way they tell me you have lost weight. I see your face that has lost its shine—a beard where a neatly clipped moustache once made you look like a Hollywood film star. Is that what you want to hear?’
‘Is it not the truth?’ replied Abrach. ‘Do we not judge by what we see?’
‘You were a fine and intelligent man. A merchant and a benevolent and most generous man.’
Abrach laughed softly and his eyes glittered with reminiscence. ‘I remember the times we walked and talked, Harry. They were good times. I was like a teacher and it was amusing to see how you got along.’
‘A good student, then?’
‘A good student, yes,’ said Abrach, tilting his head slightly. ‘But it is over. And I am no longer a merchant. They ransacked my shops, burnt and stole my stock. They even confiscated what I had in the bank—they can do anything they want if you are an Arab or a Berber.’
Summerfield grunted. ‘I can believe that. They made me wallow in my own shit in prison for three days—a European—so I can believe, all right.’
‘So you see, if you were to ask how I am, Harry…I would reply that I have lost many things: my family, my wealth, my identity, my house, my shops, even the use of my hands. And I fear, Harry, that I am also losing my faith in humanity. My look upon this world is no longer one of wonder and enchantment. It is not with generosity that I look upon people. And while I lose these things, I feel that I am gaining something else—call it cynicism, call it disgust. Harry—however hard I try to fight these new possessions, I know that I cannot win back the old Abrach, the old Abslem. It is terrible, Harry—but I can feel that vengeance will win my soul. I cannot stop it.’
‘It will lead to killing,’ said Summerfield, tiredly.
‘And probably to my own death,’ added Abrach. He sat back and raised his head a little, as though contemplating the moment it would come. ‘So before the last of any good of me goes, I want to thank you for the past and all the good moments and your work—and of course your help. The fact that we are both foreigners here bound us together, I think. And now I ask you to accept your imprisonment. Badr will see to it that it will be as free a sentence as is possible.’
‘Weeks? Years?’ said Summerfield. ‘And this?’ he added, holding up his tied wrists.
‘Only you can know,’ replied Abrach, irony in his eyes. ‘When you no longer wish to escape you will realise that you are free.’
‘Riddles,’ said Summerfield, shaking his head and grimacing.
‘Life is often made up of them,’ answered Abrach. ‘Have you not discovered that yet? Go now. You will hear my name, no doubt, but you will not see me.’
35
Once again, Summerfield found himself on the floor of the lorry as it jolted along an endless series of dirt tracks in the now total darkness. Again the anger came back to him with the realisation that Abrach had had no intention of setting him free. His rage lasted a long time and he bit so hard into the material binding his mouth that it was soaked in his spit while his tongue was now as dry as the sand and dirt on the road.
The hours passed and at last his anger faded to a feeling of bitter acceptance. His mind turned to calculating. He judged they had been driving for five hours in all since the halt with Abrach. They hadn’t slowed. There hadn’t been any police checkpoints. Obviously, Badr knew the terrain and had taken to the remote paths worn through the rocky, sandy gravel plain over the centuries by caravans and nomads. And while the noise inside the lorry was almost infernal, he knew that the vastness of the space outside would swallow it up. No one would hear. Where could they be taking him? The hills? Maybe Abrach’s village? No—they’d gone too far for that. And not in the same direction. The position of the North Star had told him that. They were heading inexorably south east, despite the twists and turns due, no doubt, to obstructions on the tracks. They would have to stop, sooner or later, for petrol, thought Summerfield. And then maybe a chance of getting away. It was a hope. For the next hour, his mind set about planning the best course of action, all the time his eyes fixed steadily on Badr, perched on a tarpaulin above him, observing the darkness. It was not to be. The dreadf
ul monotony of the trip even overcame the noise and little by little, no matter how hard he fought, Summerfield’s eyes closed shut and he fell asleep, long before the lorry began the steep climb into the mountains.
He awoke, shivering, well before dawn. Carefully, he edged his head to a position where he could see a little over the tailgate. The immediate view was one of a blackened mountainside dotted with the shadows of trees and, beyond that and further into the distance, a series of crests and tops, black and jagged against the petrol blue sky. The silence was both powerful and at the same time frail in the dimness. There was a slight haze in the air, the morning mist of the Atlas Mountains. He turned to look at Badr and immediately one of the young man’s eyes popped open. He nodded with a vague smile, though Summerfield did not respond. He was angry again—angry at having slept through the possibility of escape.
Badr approached, which seemed to give the sign to the others to wake and begin preparations for breakfast. The young man stooped down, drew back and seemed to look at him with an air of regret. Summerfield frowned.
‘Come, Harry. Please join us for breakfast. I’m afraid you’ll have to wear our clothes—though I believe you are used to them. Indeed, you like them.’
‘Why?’ attempted Summerfield from behind his gagged mouth. Again he frowned.
‘Your clothes are dirtied. You’ve pissed yourself, Harry. It is not your fault. Come.’
Summerfield felt wretched, but at least he was in clean clothes.
‘You’ll need a cheiche, too,’ mentioned Badr, squatting near the driver who, frying pancakes, was observing Summerfield curiously from above the tiny flames of his fire. Badr climbed into the lorry for a few moments and reappeared. ‘Here,’ he said, offering his two hands to Summerfield. ‘Blue or black?’ Summerfield didn’t look up and reached out to take one. ‘A true homme bleu,’ said Badr and laughed.
They ate msemen—pancakes soaked in honey—washed down with bitter-sweet coffee and Summerfield felt better. After a while, his shame overcome, he raised his eyes and met those of his captors. They showed neither mockery nor interest, their only preoccupation being that of eating and they returned Summerfield’s regard with encouraging nods directed at the rapidly diminishing pile of pancakes.