A Dead Man in Tangier

by Michael Pearce

  Chantale laughed herself silly. Then she recovered.

  ‘Of course, she doesn’t think of it as power,’ she said. ‘And nor do they. The men, I mean. They think they’re the ones who make all the decisions. And I suppose in the end they do. But on the way there’s a surprising amount of influence from the women.'

  ‘You reckon?'

  ‘Well, take this business of Ali Khadr, for instance. My mother goes round to the mosque and says: “You know about this raid, do you?” “Raid? What’s this?” So they speak to Ali Khadr’s wife, and she speaks to him. “What are you doing, you fool?” she says. “Don’t you know you’ll have the mosque up against you?” “I’ve got nothing against the mosque,” said Ali Khadr. “And they’ve got nothing against me.” “They will have,” she says. “Hadn’t you better think again?” So Ali Khadr thinks again. And – surprise, surprise! – comes to exactly the right decision.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll believe that. Especially after having seen the way Mustapha and Idris responded. But, look, in that case there’s another question: if she was so well known in the quarter, how was it that the hotel was attacked?'

  ‘You know about that?'

  ‘Mustapha and Idris told me.'

  ‘Yes, well, it did come as a nasty surprise,’ she admitted. ‘a shock, actually. We thought we were returning home, and then to find . . . I don’t think they realized it was us. We had been away for quite a while, first in Algeria and then, well, all over the place after my father left the army. So we had lost touch with people, we’d forgotten how it was here.'

  She laughed.

  ‘When the hotel was raided, we even went to the police!'

  She laughed again.

  ‘Renaud! Can you imagine?'

  ‘He didn’t do anything?'

  ‘Never does. We ought to have known better. We had come across him in Casablanca. It was a shock to find him here.'

  ‘He was in Casablanca?'

  ‘He was Chief of Police there.'

  ‘At the time of the trouble?'

  ‘Yes. I suppose,’ said Chantale acidly, ‘that they thought he did so well that they could safely promote him to being Chief at Tangier.'

  ‘Have you seen the Chleuh dancers?’ she asked.

  ‘Dancers?'

  She looked at her watch.

  ‘They’ll just have started. They’re very good. Worth seeing. They’re sort of like gypsies. They move around. Only they’re not like gypsies in that they just do dancing. It’s traditional dancing. They come from the Rif. I’ll take you down.'

  She called to her mother. There came an answering call from deep inside the hotel.

  ‘I can’t stay long,’ Chantale said. ‘I must give her a turn. They used to come to our farm. We would put them up, let them sleep in the barn. And that’s where they would do their dancing. They like a firm floor. People would come from miles around. They would take it in turn to go round the farms. My father loved them. He had first seen them in the south. They used to visit the forts there.'

  They were dancing this evening in one of the patios, of which there were surprisingly many. Almost all the large old Arab houses had one, but you might not know it because they were shut off from the street and the entrance was often quite small, marked only by a marvellously carved arch.

  This patio was one of the larger ones. Already, though, it was crowded and people were spilling out on to the street. Because Seymour was tall, he could see over their heads. Chantale was quite tall also and good at worming and she worked a way through into the patio.

  The dancers were all women. They were in long, beautifully decorated skirts and tight blouses. No burkas here! Their clothes clung to and revealed their supple figures.

  Their faces, too. They had striking Arab, gypsy-like faces, with large eyes and straight dark combed-back hair, very Spanish-looking. But, of course, Spain was just across the straits and it could have been the other way round – the Spanish in that part of Spain were very Arab-looking.

  They danced barefoot and the click of their feet on the tiles of the patio was as sharp as the crack of a whip. They danced with intricate, energetic foot movements. It was very like flamenco, Seymour thought; but then, why should it not be, with Spain so close?

  They danced to the beat of a single drum, accompanied occasionally by a thin-wailing sort of flute, and, from time to time, the clashing of a tambourine.

  The audience was an interesting mix. The poor people of the back streets were there, along with the better-to-do shopkeepers; but also businessmen from the big shops and offices of the better parts of Tangier, together with their wives.

  Among the crowd were a number of soldiers, following intently.

  ‘There’re very popular with the army,’ whispered Chantale.

  ‘I’ll bet!’ said Seymour.

  ‘No,’ said Chantale reprovingly, ‘it’s not like that. The soldiers know the dances. And sometimes the dancers. They’ve come across them in the south.'

  He saw de Grassac there, absorbed, like the others, clapping his hands in time with the clicks. And there, too, was Monique, and several of the other people he had seen in the Tent.

  ‘I’ve got to go now,’ whispered Chantale. ‘I must let my mother have a turn.'

  She slipped off through the crowd. Seymour remained, however, watching the dancers to the end.

  It was only as they trooped off that he became aware of Mustapha and Idris standing faithfully near him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I shouldn’t have dragged you here.’

  ‘Couldn’t keep him away,’ said Mustapha.

  ‘It takes me back,’ said Idris.

  ‘You know the Chleuhs?'

  ‘Grew up with them. In the mountains.'

  He hesitated.

  ‘I was just wondering . . .’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Idris?'

  ‘If I might go and have a word with them.'

  ‘I think there could be one or two people trying to do that, Idris.'

  ‘To ask them about the village!’ said Idris indignantly.

  Chapter Ten

  The next morning he went to find Mr Bahnini. The café across the road was empty.

  ‘Not there yet, then?’ he said to Mr Bahnini.

  ‘Sadiq and his friends? They’re still in bed. They think they’re still at university.'

  Seymour followed him into his office. He took out the scraps of paper he had found in Bossu’s filing cabinet and laid them before him.

  ‘Azrou, Immauzer and Tafilalet. Notice anything about these places?'

  ‘They’re all in the south.'

  ‘And scattered. Not in a line, as I thought at first they might be. I thought they might be along the line of the projected railway and that Bossu might be going ahead fixing things. As he should have done in Casablanca. But, no, it couldn’t be that. So what then?'

  Mr Bahnini shook his head.

  ‘Why might you go to them?'

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t –’

  ‘People. They’re about the only places in the interior with people, aren’t they?'

  ‘Tafilalet is really just an oasis,’ said Mr Bahnini.

  ‘But you’d need to go there, wouldn’t you, if you were travelling around? And looking for people?'

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t see why Monsieur Bossu should be looking for –’

  ‘Not Bossu. Someone else. Someone who is already down in the south. And wants people on his side.'

  ‘You’re suggesting –?'

  ‘Moulay Hafiz. The Sultan’s rebellious half-brother. Going from place to place, to all the big places, anyway, trying to build up support.'

  ‘And Bossu?'

  ‘Taking him something that he would need. Money. It would fit, wouldn’t it? The dates show that Bossu visited the places at different times. Why? Because Moulay was there at different times – he was moving around. That would make sense, wouldn’t it? He would want to talk to the local chieftains. He would need to stay in each place f
or a time, he would need time to persuade people. And he would need money. That’s what Bossu was taking him.’

  ‘Money from the north?'

  ‘From people who sympathized with him. Or, perhaps, people who knew he would need to give something in return. Concessions, railway concessions, say, a building concession. People with a financial interest in the development of the south. And not just an interest in the south. If Moulay succeeded in gaining power, the whole of Morocco would be open to things. This was big. Big rewards, and, probably, big interests, in search of them. Whom, possibly, Bossu had been working for since Casablanca.'

  Mr Bahnini considered.

  ‘It is possible,’ he conceded. ‘Moulay Hafiz is certainly trying to build up support.'

  ‘For which he would need money.'

  ‘For which, yes, he would need money.'

  ‘Which Bossu might have been taking him.'

  ‘He might indeed.’ Mr Bahnini hesitated. ‘But, sir . . .’

  ‘Yes?'

  ‘How are you going to confirm it? And – forgive me, sir – there is another thing. Even if you did confirm it – perhaps you will think it not my place to make this observation? – but, even if you did confirm it, what bearing would that have on Mr Bossu’s death? Which, I take it, sir, is what you are really interested in?'

  ‘It might explain why someone wanted to kill him: to stop him.'

  By the time he left the committee’s offices, Sadiq and his friends had taken up their usual position in the café. They waved to him to join them.

  ‘Just for a moment, perhaps . . .'

  But he rather enjoyed being with them. He liked the splendid conversation about ideas of the young and envied them their opportunities at university. Nothing like that for him. And in the East End, if you were at all bright, you were rather conscious of that. It was a poor area and no one from there went to Oxford or Cambridge. Yet many of the immigrants from the Continent had had some sort of education, even been to university, and they brought with them an immense interest in ideas. There was plenty of intellectual discussion in the East End, in the Working Men’s Clubs and the anarchist discussion groups.

  Not so much in his own family. His grandfather had been agin the government in Russia and Poland but that had been an emotional matter rather than an intellectual one. Seymour’s mother, who had learned the hard way in Austro-Hungarian prisons what the discussion of ideas could lead to, shrank now from engaging with them too closely. His father, who had learnt the same lesson, now kept resolutely away from politics of any kind and concentrated on business. Only in Seymour’s sister did the revolutionary passion of their grandparents burn on. She was a member of every dotty organization the East End could provide, and there were many of them: feminist, socialist, trade union, teachers’ – she was a teacher herself, and had dragged Seymour as a young boy, not altogether unwillingly, from one meeting to another. And then been crushingly disappointed when he had joined the police.

  Not much intellectual discussion in the Mile End police station! But Seymour’s linguistic gifts had led to him being put in the Special Branch and used principally with the East End’s many dissident groups. Frightening to some, and especially the government: but when you got to know them, frightening to no one else.

  So Seymour was used to groups like the present one and not alarmed, amused by them, rather, and tender towards them as to the young.

  The conversation was on lines similar to the one they had been having the last time he had met them. They questioned him eagerly about the revolution in Istanbul and were interested, and a little depressed, when he told them that his impression was that the people most instrumental in making it were the young officers in the army.

  ‘No chance of that happening here,’ they said dejectedly. ‘The army’s French.'

  At one point he realized that they were all speaking in French. He thought at first that this might be out of consideration for him but then understood that this was how they habitually spoke. It seemed odd, a bunch of young Moroccan nationalists and yet all speaking French. Then he saw that this was part of their problem.

  ‘It will have to come from someone else,’ someone said.

  Awad banged his hand on the table.

  ‘We shouldn’t be talking like this!’ he said. ‘“It will have to come.” That’s no way to talk. It’s too passive. We should be saying, “This is the way we’re going to do it!” We shouldn’t be leaving it to others. We should be doing something.’

  There were mutters of agreement. Then – ‘Well, we are, aren’t we?’ said someone.

  There was a sudden awkward silence.

  Seymour began to get up.

  ‘Perhaps I’d better leave you to carry on your discussion.’

  ‘No, no, please . . .'

  But the discussion was ending anyway.

  Sadiq got up from the table, too.

  ‘I’ve got to go and see Benchennouf,’ he said. ‘I promised I’d call in this morning. There are some proofs he wants me to correct.'

  He went round the group shaking hands, in the French way: and then, when he came to Seymour, he hesitated, a little shyly.

  ‘Would you like to come with me?’ he blurted out.

  ‘Who is Benchennouf?'

  ‘He’s an editor.'

  ‘He’s Sadiq’s editor!'

  ‘You work for a newspaper?’ said Seymour curiously.

  ‘Well, not exactly work – I don’t get paid, or anything.

  But I do things for them.'

  ‘And sometimes he gets a piece in!’ said someone proudly.

  ‘Well . . .'

  ‘Do come!’ said Sadiq. ‘You’d like Benchennouf. He’s very knowledgeable.'

  ‘And very interesting.'

  ‘Yes, do go!’ they urged.

  ‘He was in Casablanca,’ someone said.

  ‘Yes, I’d like to,’ said Seymour.

  Sadiq led him through ever narrower and increasingly dingy streets.

  Mustapha and Idris closed in.

  ‘Hey, where are you taking him?'

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Seymour. ‘They’re friends of mine.

  ’ Sadiq looked at them doubtfully.

  ‘We’re going to a newspaper office,’ he said, however, sturdily.

  ‘What, here?’ said Mustapha disbelievingly.

  ‘That’s right. In Al-Abbassiya Street.'

  ‘Look, I know Al-Abbassiya Street and there aren’t any newspaper offices there.'

  ‘Yes, there are. New Dawn, it’s called.’

  ‘I know Ali’s, and Mother Mina’s and then there’s the baker at the end – but newspaper?’

  ‘It’s not one of those . . . is it?’ said Idris. ‘Hey, you’re not taking him to one of those indecent places?'

  ‘Certainly not!’ said Sadiq indignantly.

  ‘It’s not Mother Mina’s, is it?’ said Mustapha.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought she was into that sort of thing,’ said Idris. ‘Plain and simple is more her line.'

  ‘It’s not a place like that!’ cried Sadiq furiously. ‘It’s a newspaper office. An important newspaper. New Dawn is what it’s called.’

  ‘New . . .?’

  Seymour, when they got there, could understand how Mustapha and Idris might have missed it. It was a single small room in a dilapidated building with one desk and a typewriter. Dawn, it appeared, had still some way to go.

  Mustapha and Idris exchanged glances.

  ‘We’ll be just outside,’ they told Seymour, and took up position on either side of the door.

  A man was sitting at the desk, smoking.

  ‘I’ve brought a friend, Benchennouf,’ said Sadiq. ‘Monsieur Seymour, from England.'

  ‘I am pleased to meet you, Mr Seymour,’ said Ben-chennouf, in English, extending a hand. He seemed relieved, however, when Seymour replied in French.

  Everything in the place was familiar to Seymour, the small, dingy office, the single typewriter on the desk, the politica
l pamphlets around the walls. The East End was full of such places. Many of the people there had a background in radical politics on the Continent and not a few of them had been journalists. When they had arrived in London they had seen no reason why they should not continue their activities and had set up small presses from which they could continue the good fight.

  Seymour was always being sent to such places and took a relaxed view of them. His own sister worked in about four of them. New Dawn was no different. It was, he soon worked out, a radical nationalist journal: anti-French but also anti-Sultan. It advocated things that in other countries would be taken for granted: an elected Parliament, for instance, and freedom from arbitrary imprisonment.

  Benchennouf, too, he thought he had worked out. He was an educated man (educated at a French university, Sadiq told him later, with some pride) and had the interest in ideas typical of the French intellectual. Seymour could see his appeal to young, university-educated men like Sadiq.

  ‘So how do you come to be in Morocco, Mr Seymour?’ Benchennouf asked.

  Seymour told him.

  ‘Police!’ said Benchennouf, looking accusingly at Sadiq.

  ‘The English police,’ said Seymour quickly. ‘And don’t ask me,’ he said, laughing, ‘why an Englishman should be investigating a Frenchman’s death. In a country which is neither France nor England!’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘it is because Bossu’s death is, in a way, an international matter, since he was Secretary of that committee. And maybe they didn’t want it investigated by a Frenchman.'

  ‘Nor the Mahzen,’ said Benchennouf. ‘Well, I can understand that.'

  ‘You know about the committee, of course?'

  ‘Of course. In fact, when it was set up, I wrote to it. I said that the committee was improper and illegal and that Morocco could not accept any decision that it might make. I got no reply. Naturally.'

  ‘Have you ever met Bossu?'

  ‘I didn’t meet him over this but I’d come across him earlier. But I didn’t trust him. Not after Casablanca.'

  He turned to Sadiq.

  ‘I went for him then, you know, really went for him. Of course, a lot of people did, but I flatter myself that it was New Dawn that really made an impact. We were able to publish details, you see. Details of the contracts. Of course, by themselves they didn’t tell much but I was able to point out the understandings that lay behind them. I demanded that they be made explicit. Of course, they wouldn’t do that. They said that it was all in the contracts. It wasn’t, of course. As we pointed out. And then we told everybody what wasn’t in the contracts.