They went through one of the arches into a small patio with a fountain and trees. One of the trees must have been an orange tree for they suddenly walked into a heavy waft of orange blossom. A spiral staircase wound up out of the patio and they found themselves on an upper balcony on which men were sitting on leather cushions around low tables.
They chose a table at one end of the balcony, from which they could look down on to the patio. The evening was heavily warm but the fountain freshened the air. A waiter brought small bowls of olives and nuts and little plates of salted cakes.
Chantale hesitated.
‘They do serve alcohol,’ she said, ‘but perhaps that had better wait until the meat.'
Instead, they drank fruit juice, freshly made and deliciously cool.
‘It’s what most Moroccans stick to,’ she said. ‘But the French – and a lot of French come here – can’t get through a whole evening without wine.'
‘This is a Moroccan evening, is it?’ he said.
‘Do you mind?'
‘Not at all. I find it . . .’ He searched for the word and found that only the French one would do. ‘. . . sympathique.’
She seemed pleased.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is the right thing to feel.'
Everything was relaxed, soft, gentle. The voices were low and courteous. There was no loud laughter as there probably would have been in England. The people smiled and touched each other affectionately, intimate but without any sexual connotations, simply enjoying the social contact. This was Arab, he thought, at its best.
Yes, sympathique was the word. But it was an odd one to use after the way he had been spending his time. It wasn’t his preoccupation with Bossu but everywhere he had had the sense of strain, of tension barely contained. It had been there on the street that first night when he had intervened on behalf of Mustapha, there in the pig-sticking and in the presence of the soldiers, everywhere. There, too, in people’s conversations: in the conversation with Sadiq and Mr Bahnini, and with the Resident-General and Mr Suleiman, with Juliette and with Monique, running all the time like an undercurrent.
He said this to Chantale and she nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that is Morocco, too.'
She was the only woman on the balcony. He wondered if that, too, was Morocco.
It didn’t seem to bother Chantale. But was there a hint of defiance in her assurance? A deliberate, un-Moroccan assertiveness? He wouldn’t put it past her. But if there was, it co-existed with the lack of assertiveness that he had found before in Arab women. Or was that just a question of manners, something shared with the men, a quintessential difference from Western culture?
Later, they went up another flight of stairs to another balcony, where again people were sitting at low tables and where the ripple of the fountain was even more gentle, but where they had the compensation of being more exposed to the moon so that the whole balcony was bathed in its soft light.
Some of the people up there were clearly French, and there were women among them. So far as he could see there was no sense of strain.
Waiters brought silver bowls, towels and kettles of cold water so that they could rinse their hands before eating. That, said Chantale, was absolutely required because the food was eaten with the fingers only and also because the polite thing to do was pluck out tasty morsels from the dish in front of you and offer them to your neighbour.
She reached out a hand, took up some couscous, moulded it with her fingers into a little ball and placed it on Seymour’s plate.
‘Bismillah,’ she said. ‘That means: In the name of God. But it is not just religious, it is part of the caida. It makes the food more than just food. Not exactly holy, but special.
’ Later when the main dish came, a kind of pastrilla, with layers of different meats underneath a crust of delicious flaky pastry, he reached into the dish, took out some pigeon, and put it on her plate.
‘Bismillah,’ he said.
Sitting at the receptionist’s desk when they returned to the hotel was a middle-aged Moroccan lady.
‘My mother,’ said Chantale.
She smiled at Seymour and there was something in her smile that reminded him of her daughter. She was still a beautiful woman but the face was thin and drawn, as if it had seen harsh times, and the large, dark eyes were wary. They appraised Seymour in much the same way, he thought, as his own mother’s eyes appraised any woman he brought home for the evening. He thought he would say this to Chantale later. It might comfort her.
‘One of the pleasures of Tangier, Madame,’ he said, ‘has been meeting your daughter.'
‘Tangier has many pleasures,’ she said neutrally.
Just at that moment the front door of the hotel opened and Mustapha came in.
He stopped when he saw Chantale’s mother.
‘Madame!’ he said.
‘Why, Mustapha!’ said Chantale’s mother, with unaffected pleasure. ‘How are you keeping? And your wife?'
‘Well, Madame.'
‘And the child?'
‘Well, too, Madame. He has had chickenpox.'
‘But better now, I hope?'
‘Oh, yes, he has put it behind him. Another one is on the way.'
‘Another child? Oh, how nice for you both! Congratulations, Mustapha! And to your wife as well.'
She suddenly looked anxious.
‘Mustapha . . .'
‘Madame?'
‘Which midwife are you going to use?'
‘Maryam, we thought.'
Chantale’s mother pursed her lips.
‘Maryam is getting old now, Mustapha. And your wife had difficulties the last time.'
‘I know, but –’
‘Why not try Aisha?'
‘Well . . .'
‘If it’s money, Mustapha, we can help.'
‘It’s not money, Madame. Though thank you very much. It’s . . .’ He twisted awkwardly. ‘Well, the fact is, we had a little to-do with her husband a few weeks ago and he got hurt. Not badly, not badly,’ he hastened to add. ‘But things have not been the same between the families since, and I don’t like to ask her.'
‘But this is ridiculous! She’s very fond of you all, and, you know, these days, Mustapha, she would be a much better bet. You want the child to be all right, don’t you?’
‘Oh, Madame!'
‘Of course, you do. And you want your wife to be all right, too. You mustn’t let these foolish quarrels get in your way. Aisha would be much the safest choice.'
‘Yes, Madame. I know. But . . .'
‘But what, Mustapha?'
Mustapha hesitated.
‘I – I don’t like to go, Madame.'
‘Mustapha!'
‘Madame?'
‘Mustapha, you’re not scared, are you?'
‘Scared? Me?'
‘No, no, of course you’re not scared. I didn’t mean that. I meant that – it’s not easy for you to climb down, is it?’
‘Well, no, Madame. Not with Hussein.'
‘Would you like me to have a word with Aisha?'
Mustapha crossed the foyer and then, with unexpected grace, kissed her hand.
‘I will speak to her tomorrow.'
‘Mustapha,’ said Chantale, ‘did you come in for something?'
‘Well, yes, Chantale, as a matter of fact I did. It’s like this. We’ve heard that Ali Khadr and some of his boys are coming over tomorrow night and, knowing how you feel about these things, we wanted to tell you ahead. Knowing how you feel about these things.'
‘There is to be no fighting,’ said Chantale peremptorily.
‘No, no, there won’t be. It’s just a case of getting a few of our lads together to defend ourselves.'
‘No fighting!'
‘Yes, but they’re coming over. And we can’t just stand there, can we? I mean, it would look bad, wouldn’t it?'
‘Where does Ali Khadr come from, Mustapha?’ asked Chantale’s mother.
‘The Sukhariya.'
&nbs
p; ‘Oh, I know that part. Why don’t I go over and talk to him?'
‘Oh, no, no!’ said Mustapha, appalled. ‘You can’t do that!'
‘Oh, yes, I can. I know that part. I used to go to the mosque there. I know, why don’t I go to the mosque? They’ll soon put a stop to it.'
‘No, no, really. Madame! Really! It’s just a bit of harmless fun. We don’t want to get the mosque mixed up in this. I don’t think religion and – well, not religion – ought to mix.'
‘I’ll go this evening,’ said Chantale’s mother with decision. ‘After seeing Aisha.'
Mustapha left, unhappy. In the moment before the door closed Seymour heard Idris’s voice.
‘Well, you really mucked that up, didn’t you?'
Chapter Eight
The next morning Seymour went to see Mr Bahnini. He showed him the membership list of the hunt that Monsieur L’Espinasse had given him.
‘Do you know any of these men?'
Mr Bahnini studied the list.
‘I know quite a few of them.'
‘Did any of them use to come here? To see Bossu?'
‘One or two, yes.'
He gave Seymour their names.
‘Do you know what they wanted to see him about?'
‘They probably wished to make some representation. On a point of interest concerning their business usually.'
‘Can you tell me what their business was?'
Mr Bahnini looked at the names again.
‘Something to do with the railway. They all work for contracting firms.'
‘In Tangier?'
‘All over the place.'
‘In Casablanca?'
‘Certainly.'
‘Wasn’t there some question of a railway in Casablanca? A few years ago?'
‘It was just a local railway. Connecting a quarry with a building project on the sea front.'
‘And were these men by any chance something to do with that?'
‘Yes. Yes, I think they were. I remember their names. I did some of the contracts. I had just started working for Monsieur Bossu at the time and remember being surprised.'
‘Surprised?'
‘At how big they were. In relation to the project, the railway, that is, for it was just a small one. But I think the contracts took in a number of other things as well.'
‘There was nothing odd about them?'
‘No, no. People raised questions about them at the time but they always do. In my experience ordinary people don’t understand contracts. Because they don’t understand them, and because they’re suspicious of lawyers, they think they’re all part of some conspiracy by the rich. But usually they’re just straightforward arrangements for the conduct of business. The rich like to tie things down in case they lose money.'
‘And you were working at the time for Monsieur Bossu?'
‘Yes, he had lured me out of the Ministry.'
‘Which Ministry was that?'
‘The Ministry of War.'
‘Under Sheikh Musa, would that have been?'
‘A long way under. I was in the Accounts section. That was, actually, quite a good place to be in Morocco. You were safe there. Under the Parasol. No one could get at you. And under Musa you weren’t asked to do wrong things. They gave you a good training, too. It was always easy to get a good job after you’d worked for them. That may have been why Monsieur Bossu wanted me. If ever a man needed a good accountant, he did.'
‘Because he was often doing things that were questionable?’
Mr Bahnini considered.
‘Perhaps a little,’ he conceded. ‘They seemed so to me. We would never have done them in the Ministry. But, I thought, maybe that was the way things were done in business? But I wouldn’t say they were ever more than questionable. Not downright dishonest.'
He smiled.
‘That wasn’t the way he made his money, if that was what you were thinking. He earned it through fees, usually for negotiating something. He was very good at that.'
‘And this railway that you mentioned, did he have a hand in negotiating that?'
‘Yes. It was one of his earlier jobs. And I don’t think he did it very well, not as well as he would have done later. The route of the railway led through a Muslim cemetery and that caused all sorts of trouble. People said afterwards that he ought to have foreseen it and bought them off.'
‘It was thought to have sparked off the trouble, I gather?'
‘Well, yes.'
‘There was a lot of feeling about it?'
‘Oh, there was. Even in my own family. Sadiq was very difficult at the time. He was still at school and the students got very worked up about it. For weeks he wouldn’t even speak to me. It was a relief when he went away to university. The strain on my wife . . .! So when Monsieur Bossu moved back to Tangier and asked me to go with him I was only too glad to go.
‘Of course, you never escape from these things. Afterwards I was always known as Bossu’s man. So you can understand that when he died, I was – well, I won’t say pleased, that would be a nasty thing to say, and he had always treated me fairly, but – I felt as if a load had been lifted off me. I saw a chance to start again. I could even go back to Casablanca, which is where I came from originally, although it would not be easy.
‘That is why, when Mr Macfarlane asked me to stay on, I refused. I just couldn’t. I feel that I couldn’t, any longer.'
When he went out, the group of young men were sitting again in the café across the street. He could see Sadiq, and also the other one, who had been involved in the altercation with Chantale the day before, Awad. When they saw him, Awad said something to Sadiq and they both jumped up and came across to him.
‘I would like to express my thanks for your intervention yesterday, Monsieur. At the time I wasn’t sure whether I should accept your suggestion – I wanted to make a stand! But, on reflection, I see that you were right.'
Seymour said that was very generous of him, and that he had been talking to Chantale, and that she was taking more or less the same line. It ended with Awad and Sadiq inviting him across the road to join the group at the table.
They were mostly drinking tea, although some were having fruit juice. At first they were rather shy but then, led by Awad and Sadiq, they began to question him eagerly: about England, certainly, but also about Istanbul. They were all radical but also, it seemed to him, very naive. They took as their pattern the recent revolution in Istanbul which had led to the ousting of the Sultan. It was what they had hoped for in Morocco: but then the French had stepped in!
What, now, in the new circumstances, should they do? Leave the country or stand up for a new Morocco here? He had the feeling that it was something they discussed endlessly. Probably it was what they spent their days doing.
Exile or resolution? Twist, or bust? He could see it was a very exciting thing to discuss. But would it ever issue in anything? Would it stay at just talk?
Or not?
Another conversation was going on, apparently endlessly, behind him.
‘Mustapha, I told you it was a mistake to warn Chantale!'
‘Well, I had to, didn’t I? After what happened that other time.'
‘Yes, but we’ll be over there this time.'
‘She still won’t like it.'
There was a pause. Then Idris said: ‘Suppose we hit them at their place? Before they’ve even started?'
‘We could do that,’ Mustapha conceded.
‘Well, then . . .'
‘But it would make no difference. If she’s already been to the mosque.'
‘Maybe it wouldn’t.’ It was Idris who conceded this time. ‘But I still don’t like it!’ he said.
‘Well, I don’t, either.'
‘They’ve got to be taught a lesson. That’s what I said, Mustapha, if you remember. That’s what I said to you at the time. “They’ve got to be taught a lesson.” There are rules in this game and they’ve got to follow them. Otherwise, things get bloody lawless!'
‘I wa
s waiting, Idris.'
‘We shouldn’t have waited. We should have hit them hard straightaway. Because if we don’t, they’ll do it again.'
‘I hear what you are saying, Idris.'
‘It’s our territory, isn’t it? And they invaded it. Came right in. If we let them get away with it, they’ll be over here again. And again. And then it won’t be our territory any more, will it? It’ll be theirs!'
‘I know exactly what you mean, Idris.'
‘Well, then . . .'
‘I was waiting. Shall I tell you why? Because I wanted to find out who was behind it. Look, I know Ali Khadr. He wouldn’t have done this on his own. It would never have entered his thick head. Someone must have put him up to it. Put him up to it, and maybe even paid him a bit, because he wouldn’t have done a thing like that for nothing. Someone must have put him up to it. And what I was doing, Idris, was waiting to find who it was, and then bloody hammer them.'
‘That’s smart, Mustapha!’ said Idris reluctantly. ‘That’s smart. But . . .'
‘Yes, Idris?'
‘Are you sure? About someone putting him up to it?'
‘Look, Idris, it’s not his territory, is it? He came from outside. So how did he know about it? A new hotel that wasn’t even on his territory? The day after they moved in? Someone tipped him off, Idris, and I want to find out who it was.'
‘Well, I’m with you there, Mustapha. But – couldn’t it have been the police who tipped them off? Someone said it was the police.'
‘But, Idris, again: it was our territory. The police know that as well as we do. Would they have let anyone else in on it? Would they?'
‘Well, no . . .'
‘And look at another thing: everyone in the quarter knows Chantale and her mother. You could say they were our people. Everyone knows that. Everyone here, that is. And they wouldn’t like it. Our people! So they had to go outside the quarter to get someone to do it. Get someone like Ali Khadr, who wouldn’t know any better. People here wouldn’t like it. The police know that as well as anybody. I’m not saying that someone in the police might not have tipped them off, maybe told them that they’d moved in, that the moment was ripe. Although if they did, they’d do well to keep quiet about it. So you see, Idris, I’m not so stupid after all. There’s someone behind this, and I want to find out who it is. That’s why I was waiting!’
A Dead Man in Tangier Page 11