Stewart, Angus

by Snow in Harvest

  'What things to do?' Manolo bit into the pastry and laid a white musk of milk on his upper lip.

  ' 'Phone the headmaster—I suppose you'd better say I'm writing too. Book me a call to Gibraltar. Pack. Then ring around the garages until you final a Land Rover for hire. Collect air ticket from Blands. We'll eat out before Raphael's party—Miss Adam is coming too. Oh, English suit.'

  'Which?' This time the coded signal carried some obscure hint of blackmail.

  'Long trousers, if you must'

  Stoically Manolo nodded. He got up. The first morning 'plane is best, hombre.'

  'And goes before the dentist appointment—Oh, and Manolito,' Brown called after the boy. 'Take pyjamas. And generally think a bit when you're packing. People are a little different in Gibraltar, as you know.'

  'I will start behaving like an English boy at once, hombre, for your sake,' Manolo called back ambiguously, confident now perhaps because he was out of sight

  'Damn!' Brown said, quietly, uncomfortably.

  'I'd give a lot to overhear your more domestic explanation to him,' Caroline said, and was puzzled by her own sympathy,

  Brown looked at her. Then, filling the momentary pause, he said, 'Just remember when our severed heads are rolling in the sand after some miraculous suicide pact of honeymooners, that Manolo's been twice bereaved before. And come to that, my widow and son will never know that they're legitimate British subjects; attested to through the incorruptible archives of Somerset House. It's an odd world.'

  They talked on for some time. Caroline accepted a drink. The sun glowed orange against the white walls of the French cathedral, and dropped quickly behind the Rif massif, while the swallows continued to flash about the balcony. A cruise liner hooted impatiently from the harbour. With no shoes to remove, the goatherd knelt on the bare ground to pray, leaning ritually forward until his forehead touched the earth, and remaining like that for a long time. The liner, Brown supposed, would he disgorging its minimum party of fifty at five pounds supplement a head for a Moroccan meal and evening of dancing. Lain in day-long rows, pinkening like lobsters in a safe deckland paradise where chips and tea were gloriously on call at any hour, many were due for disappointment when they discovered that, not even for them, could Morocco provide the erotic fantasy insistently labelled in their collective mind as a 'belly dancer'. But then they'd he spared the knowledge that the rare wine, to essentially first poured for them to taste after the ritual invented by the English, cost one and fourpence a litre from the great bodega casks, that could not conceivably be corked anyway. Three cheers, he thought hollowly, for this great nation from which he had cut himself off none too soon, yet in whose alleged interests he was now perhaps about to risk his life. Doubtless secret agents were another fantasy the trippers might project upon the city. But which of them would find adequacy in Simon Brown? A man whose intention it was to be progressively free from Samsara?

  Then the girl. She seemed intelligent enough. What was she really doing in all this? Perhaps he would come to know her well enough simply to ask. 'Remember,' she had said in a brisk moment during the discussion of their preparations, 'that I am not of your "sloppy and half-hearted" lot.' Why ever should she have felt the need to say that?

  Manolo reappeared to announce that he had found a Land Rover, but that there was not enough cash in the flat to buy his ticket, unless the hombre had some hidden. He also wondered whether pocket-money wouldn't somehow he affected. Brown sent him out to the Medina to make illegal exchange.

  'I suppose his expenses can be defrayed,' he asked when Manolo had gone.

  'It depends how he's to be described,' Caroline said, provocatively. ' "Tickets and temporary provision for kept boy" might meet with disapproval.' If nothing else, it proved the measure of their increasing familiarity,

  'Dependant,' Brown decided. 'I'm only sorry he's playing it to cool towards you. Algebra affects him strangely.'

  'Rubbish. It's perfectly natural unnatural jealousy. He's afraid I may corrupt you.'

  'By definition nothing in nature can be unnatural,' Brown said. The following days would be a trial if he were to allow himself to be drawn into a defence of his way of living. It was bad enough arguing with a man. But a woman's logic was inflexibly circular. Where had he read that the feminine was eternally assured, while the male must be constantly proving himself? It was a trap to avoid at every level. 'I'll have a word with him before this evening,' he said.

  Caroline laughed. 'That's what I meant about longing to overhear the domestic row.'

  'I don't think there'll be one.' Brown spoke half to himself. He felt a curious certainty building within him; and with it impatience for the girl to be gone. Night had fallen completely, and was cool. With almost identical speed, and motions, bats had replaced the swallows in the swooping hunt for insects.

  It was agreed that Caroline take Brown's car and transmit his request to London. He didn't enquire as to the method and place of her doing so.

  When she had gone, Brown sat alone on the balcony. There was a red aircraft beacon on the spire of the cathedral. Harsh lozenges of orange street lighting defined the first quarter mile of the Rabat road. From the east of the city came the hysterical tooting of many motor horns: a wedding, whose still tribal celebrants had simply found a new toy and mode of expression more acceptable to the authorities than the wild firing of muzzle-loaders. The procession of cars could tear around hooting for a full hour; longer if the participants had discovered the equally alien pleasures of liquor. Simon Brown smiled faintly. It had been quite a day for weddings, if neither of his had been very real. London must come up with the documentation. He felt obscurely certain now that they would. After that, it would be a question of carefully assessing the actual danger, with a view to a family move if necessary—perhaps to Tunisia.

  Manolo had returned from the Medina. Brown could hear him bumping around in his bedroom.

  'Hallo, Manolito,' he said uncertainly, from the doorway. The boy was half changed. He looked up, surprised by the silent approach. Then he looked more closely at Brown; shrugged into his jacket, as though he had noticed nothing, turned away to comb his hair. 'What did the West Indians close at?' he asked casually.

  'Manolito, really . . .'

  'Been no sort of spinners' wicket, anyway.' Manolo was intransigent 'Chance of rain, d'you think tonight?'

  'She's simply someone I have to work with, Brown said, placing his hands on the boy's shoulders.

  But there was no part of Manolo's body and mind even remotely dead to Brown's intention. His breathing grew heavier. It was coquettishly now that he wriggled to pull his passport from his breast pocket. Shallow defence became calculated invitation.

  'Hombre, I have looked , these words "let" and "hindrance",' he said, deliberately forgetful of his body while his eyes and hands were on the open book, 'and I think I must ring the Consul and ask whether this is an occasion for "such assistance and protection as may be necessary" . . .'

  * * * * *

  'Ezra's place. Ask one of the girls, stranger.' ran the scribbled note pinned to Raphael Bonnington's door. Two black prostitutes on camp stools mounted guard on either side of it. Thus presumably had the American provided for the guidance of uninitiated guests.

  'Ezra's place?' Jay asked the girls ingenuously.

  Sure enough one of them got up, a lot of teeth showing suddenly as Jay produced the magical words, her pendant ear-rings revolving slowly in the light from a low-power bulb on the landing, which was so browned and fly-blown as to resemble a rotten pear. On patent-leather high heels she clattered down the wooden stairs Jay had just ascended, while her wiry-haired colleague indicated he should follow.

  Emerged into the Petit Socco, Jay's first doubt was lest they run across Naima in the Medina. At this hour it was unlikely. Still he endeavoured to make himself appear as detached as was possible from the stranger, whose flamboyant green and gold print dress would have been conspicuous enough weaving among the mutely robed figures,
even without the other overtly obvious manifestations of her calling. They dived into a dark tunnel, beneath houses, which the battered blue enamel sign proclaimed, presumably without intending any ironic reflection upon Christendom, as Calle de los Arcos. Pools of water, or perhaps urine, lay seeped about doorsteps, collecting a faint glimmer from the last street light; but Jay felt more at ease. On a rooftop a caged wild bird protested pathetically. From behind a rough board door came a man's shouting. Then there was silence once more except for the sound of their own ill-syncopating footfalls. Jay simply followed the brisk bottom before him. The alley took more right-angles. They negotiated a spongey patch of seepage caused by a broken drain, where a surprised cat stared at them indignantly a second before fleeing. Jay now began to wonder what sort of party he was about to attend. Its approaches, at least, struck him as incompatible with the presence of guests like Brown and Manolo.

  Unexpectedly the alley opened out. A hole-in-the-wall bacal was still doing business. A lamp bracket over the mean shop front threw light on to a heavily studded door opposite, and about this were grouped a knot of ragged children, who now eyed Jay with a mixture of shyness and expectation.

  Their common bond escaped him for a moment, until he saw they were all either chewing or blowing bubble-gum. His guide worked the door-knocker, discreetly, as perhaps was only habitual with her, and the children drew back several paces, still resolutely chewing, blowing and watching. The girl who opened the door appeared under the influence of nothing more noxious than ennui.

  'Oh, Zora, thanks,' she drawled, before bringing bored eyes back to Jay who, not for the first time, found himself wishing he were possessed of the total ingenuousness affected by Brodie Chalmers. 'Come on in,' she said, while he was still searching for some appropriate greeting. "You're not Simon, so you must be Jay.' It was an auspicious start 'Sirhub halig!' she flapped at the encircling urchins; but the violence of the words had no backing in her tone, and they showed little disposition to clear out.

  Jay was in a hallway now. His erstwhile companion, he supposed, must have returned the way they had come.

  'Ezra, can you make that just one more slice?' the rather petite American Jewess sang out suddenly to someone unseen, like a provincial waitress.

  'Slice?' Jay queried politely, largely for something to say. 'They've fried a bat,' the girl said; and added, informatively 'In butter.'

  A very old Moroccan lay curled, asleep, on the stone tiles. In an adjacent alcove, immobile, and stark naked, a European girl stood with tears streaming profusely from eyes that stared straight ahead.

  'Hammet caught the bat. Sarha's really gotten way out,' the Jewish girl said, as if these things might merit explanation. 'You're British?'

  'Yes,' Jay said brightly, only just suppressing any hesitant apology that, actually, he was. Joviality might see the evening out, where ingenuousness had deserted him on the doorstep. 'Eh, what happens if Hammet wakes up?'

  'Say!' The girl grasped Jay with an unnerving discovery of enthusiasm, and started toeing the old man into wakefulness. She leant over him coaxingly, jabbing a whispering finger at the statue-like girl, as if persuading an indifferent dog to ferret a ball.

  Jay didn't wait to see the outcome. Sounds came from a farther room; and it was Raphael who was supposedly his host. The house was incredibly dilapidated, large, and windowless. Upstairs, slits in the outer wall might admit dusty probes of radiance during the daytime. Now it was unevenly lit by a variety of electrical fittings best not touched, and of which the most basic were bulbs both precariously fed and suspended by the bare wires twisted about their bases. Sure enough Raphael was in the larger room, as were some dozen other curiously assorted people. But it was at none of these that Jay was staring. Cross-legged on the floor, and wearing what looked like a girl's dress of bright yellow material, was Achmed. The boy saw him just as Raphael called out, 'Hi there!'; but it was Achmed who reached Jay first. After a moment's disbelief, a precipitate rush had him clung about Jay's neck in a tight embrace.

  'Well, you two must know each other!' said the grinning American, coming up.

  'Fus!' Jay exclaimed, laughing when he was able to free himself, 'Labbès!'

  'Labbès!' Achmed said, beaming excitedly.

  'You found the place okay?' Raphael asked.

  'One of your special guides brought me.'

  'Great. We moved down here because it seemed like we had its many folks. And more's coming, I guess.' Raphael looked about him critically. 'Here, let me get you something to drink, and I'll introduce you around. Ezra's lot can be kind of funny. For instance, do you want bat?'

  'I don't want bat,' Jay said; and to the protesting boy, 'I've not been in England.'

  'It's a ceremony they have,' Raphael said, drawing out the vowels. 'Only don't you let yourself be bullied.' He poured Jay a staggering measure of Scotch, and turned to a sideboard where, with fastidious neatness, a row of sugar cubes was disposed upon it heavy silver salver, together with an incongruously utilitarian dropper-bottle that might once have contained some nasal preparation. 'Now this I maybe don't have to explain . . .

  'No, you don't,' Jay smiled, reviewing the little L.S.D. shrine. 'Take that thing off,' he said in an aside to Achmed, suddenly remembering that, however absurdly, Brown and Manolo were due to turn up here.

  'Great.' Raphael looked unaccountably embarrassed as Achmed promptly pulled the yellow dress up over his head, and began to unroll the legs of his jeans. 'Then over here,' he indicated a plate of cakes beneath a plastic dome, whose disposition on the sideboard suggested they were held in similar reverence to the L.S.D, 'we have majoun cookies.'

  'Majoun cookies,' Jay repeated.

  'WA, in fact, they're not genuine majoun.' Raphael suddenly became apologist. 'They just have hash resin Sarha knows how to bake into them somehow. . .'

  'Sarha?'

  'That's right.'

  'The girl in the hall?'

  'Could be.' Raphael looked surprised. Then he clapped a hand to his brow. 'Oh no! Not again! You must excuse me!—Anyway, I've warned you, so you know what's what,' he called back as he rushed off.

  Achmed was changed. Jay looked at him closely. 'I heard about Frederick.'

  'Si,' was all the boy said.

  'You must sleep at my apartment tonight.'

  'Si!' Achmed was more fervent.

  'Poor Fus,' Jay said. 'My poor aile Fus!' He glanced critically at his depleted drink, then questioningly at Achmed.

  'Si! Pocito!' Achmed laughed. He took the tumbler and poured it half full with whisky, supposing it perhaps to be wine.

  Jay looked about him. Apart from a bearded youth flat on his back on a table, legs casually crossed as he smoked kif and stared. at the ceiling, and another, French probably, crewcut, with squared, rimless spectacles, who was intent upon moulding a rubberily doped, and consequently unco-operative girl, into the difficult muscular co-ordination of Rodin's Kiss, the company appeared well conducted. Its members were perhaps reluctant to expand much beyond the immediate preoccupations of individual consciousness. Perhaps this simply meant he himself felt no great urge to talk to anyone present. Jay surveyed them, aware only that he didn't quite belong to their world; that there was an excluding bias at that moment even in his critical assessment, and thinking. He couldn't see Naima in this company. He couldn't see himself here. His drifting was done alone. Partnered, he would want something more. He looked over at the figure of Achmed, withdrawn, as if sensing himself unwanted at that moment. The boy leant against the sideboard, abstractedly polishing his flute with the yellow dress he had removed. Tomorrow Jay would seek out Naima again. They would be happy, as they had been that afternoon, childishly fingering jewellery he could not possibly buy in the suq of the silversmiths. And he must think. He must begin to think.

  A rambling youth appeared at his elbow. He carried a plate, that proclaimed itself as being the property of the Rif Hotel, and on which were two charred kebabs.

  'Eat?' he invited Jay, some
how threateningly. 'I'm Ezra. Only I don't know I can be sure of that. Maybe you can help me, see. I have this fantasy. And in this fantasy it was like I went over Torremolinos or Ibiza some place and I rape one dozen girls. All at once, you follow? Then most likely I kill 'em. Now what do you think of that?' Very slowly Ezra drew the kebab skewer through his mouth, stripping it of its eight or ten cubes of meat with the single swoop. He continued to stare intently at Jay, while juice trickled from his overloaded mouth.

  'Perhaps you're sex-starved,' Jay hazarded.

  'Oh, but I'm not!' The beat who thought he was Ezra chewed manfully. 'Here you can have just any goddam person you see in the street. But anyone. It's different from L.A.' He looked puzzled, pathetic.

  'Yes,' Jay said helplessly.

  'But then I have this other fantasy.'

  'Oh?'

  'That's right. I see maybe a mosquito some insect way the other side of the room? And I know I can throw this plate and kill it right off. That's in the air, mind. Now what do you think about that?'

  The haunted eyes still bored into him. Jay nibbled nervously at his own kebab. 'It's very skilful,' he said.

  At that moment Ezra's eye was caught by a Moroccan in a far corner. Perhaps she would be required to temporarily stay the fate of the dozen Spanish girls. He ambled off only slightly more purposefully than he had come, stripping another kebab skewer unthinkingly into his mouth as he went. Jay watched curiously after him. Had there been a spare girl in the bedroom and a leg of mutton in the kitchen, Ezra would have fucked and eaten. Not necessarily in that order, Jay thought. It would have depended simply upon which room Ezra happened to stray into first.

  Jay addressed himself seriously to his whisky. When he looked up he wondered whether he hadn't had too much, or whether the kebabs too hadn't perhaps been subtly infused with some extract of hemp. It was less that Brown had entered the room with a girl, than that the whole appearance of Manolo struck some faintly familiar chord in him. 'Bloody hell, Simon!' he blurted out, placing the flannel suit, the tie, and even the elastic belt the boy was wearing. 'My old private school!'