Tangier: A Novel

by Stephen Holgate

“I wish I was sure you were right.”

  “You can’t seriously think—”

  “I talked to a man tonight. He’s half-demented, but he knows something. Or he thinks he knows something—or thinks I know something.” Speaking his half-formed thoughts made them gel. “I think that’s really it. He believes I know something that I don’t, that I’m someone I’m not.”

  “Yeah, it sounds like you’ve just about got everything wrapped up.”

  “He’s afraid of something.”

  “Aren’t we all, baby?”

  He chuckled softly. “What I mean is that when I mentioned my father’s name, he claimed he’d never heard of him. But I could see in his eyes that the name meant something to him—and he was frightened.”

  “This is the guy you say is half-demented.”

  “If I only knew which half.” Chaffee drew a deep breath. “No. I can’t drop this now, Julie.”

  “Why not? Whatever it is, it happened a long time ago. Why can’t you just come home? Make some excuse for your mother.”

  “Because I’m a selfish, self-centered sonofabitch, and it’s about me now. Like everything else in my life has been.”

  The silence grew so long that Chaffee thought the line had gone dead. Then her voice came to him once more. “Chris, come home. This isn’t good for you.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but I have to stay. I have to go through with this.” The next words caught in his throat, but he forced them out. “Any word from Deptford?”

  “About the ... the charges? No, nothing.”

  Chaffee sighed, massaged his brow, noticed his hand was trembling. “God, I’m tired. I’ve got to try to get some rest. Goodnight, Julie.”

  “Goodnight, baby. Go to sleep.”

  “Okay. Just for you.”

  PART IV

  SUMMER 1940

  SEVENTEEN

  After Mohammed Laoui made his goodbyes and drove off, Charlotte nodded at the boy gripping Laurent’s suitcase. The bag again banging against his leg with every step, the boy staggered toward the house.

  The mistress of the Villa Aeaea brushed aside a few strands of her long black hair and looked down at the Frenchman standing at the bottom of the stairs. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but instead gave him a slow, crooked smile, then turned and walked back through the shadows of the colonnade into the house, leaving Laurent to decide whether to follow.

  Inside, the villa was cool and dark and genteelly shabby, with faded furniture and the smell of air long left undisturbed.

  With the boy lurching ahead of them, Charlotte led Laurent down a long corridor, a row of closed doors to one side, dusty windows facing a garden on the other.

  “Laoui probably told you that I have other guests staying here,” she said with only the slightest turn of her chin toward Laurent to indicate the words were directed to him.

  “He mentioned something to that effect, yes.”

  She gave him a deadpan look over her shoulder, and he wondered if he had sounded stuffy. At the end of the corridor he followed her up a staircase that ended in a small landing. Through an open door, Laurent saw the boy heave his suitcase onto a bed. As the boy sidled out, he looked up at the Frenchman expectantly and held out his hand. Charlotte barked something in Arabic and flicked the boy’s ear, sending him running down the stairs and out of sight.

  “Next time I find a houseboy who hasn’t been working in a hotel.” With a lift of her eyebrows, she added, “Join me in the salon for a drink in an hour.”

  After putting his few clothes into a chest of drawers and his shaving kit in the small bathroom, Laurent lay down on the bed. He had managed only a couple of hours of sleep the night before and now fought to stay awake—and fought, too, the lingering sense that something in his hostess’s smile told him that by coming to the Villa Aeaea he was entering into an arrangement more complex than it appeared.

  An hour later he descended the steps and walked back along the corridor. He was struck by the isolation of his room from the rest of the villa. The corridor led nowhere but to his room.

  Searching for the salon in the silent and seemingly empty villa confirmed another impression—the great house was slowly falling into ruin. Cracked paint and broken floor tiles marred every room. The wooden furniture had gone dry, its wood silvery, the upholstery cracked and faded. Yet an air of weary elegance clung to the decaying villa, a romantic appeal radiating from its crumbling masonry and peeling paint. He felt its seductive pull on his depressed spirits, heard it whispering to him to resign himself, to sit back and slowly rot with the house.

  A high ceiling gave the dark-paneled salon a sense of spaciousness and allowed the summer heat to rise toward its open beams. A pair of French doors opened onto the lawn.

  An empty tumbler in her hand, Charlotte lounged on a leather couch, her head propped against its arm, her long legs stretching out along the cushions.

  “I’m two drinks ahead of you.” She nodded at a decanter on the coffee table. “Try to catch up.”

  She waggled her empty glass and he poured them each a finger of whiskey.

  “You’ll have to drink it neat,” she said. “The water’s lousy and I’m out of ice.”

  The whiskey tasted smoky and smooth, and a little wicked at midday.

  Charlotte looked into her drink as if reading something from it. “Mohammed tells me you’ve had a long morning.”

  Laurent wondered how much Laoui could have told her in the few moments before he drove off. Did she know he had tried and failed to leave Morocco, barely avoiding arrest in the process? A cool drop of suspicion trickled down his mind, suggesting she might have known about it before it ever happened.

  “Yes. We had an early morning trip to the beach and back.”

  She gave him a knowing laugh. “Well, you can relax now.” She nodded him into an armchair opposite her couch. “You haven’t eaten today, have you? I’ll have Rabia make you some lunch.”

  He nodded his thanks.

  “Your room suits you?”

  “It’s better than the hotel I’ve been staying in.”

  She laughed again. “Oh, you are the diplomat, aren’t you?”

  “You said you have other guests.”

  She paused, judging whether to acknowledge the fact to him. “Yes. Monsieur Snoussi, a Moroccan. And a Spaniard named Rivera.” She waved a hand vaguely. “They’re travelling somewhere right now. Business,” she whispered, as if it were a deep secret.

  “You have an interesting clientele,” he said.

  “This isn’t a hotel.” She looked at him steadily over the rim of her glass.

  “No, it is the Villa . . . what’s the name?”

  She rolled her eyes, apparently weary of the topic. “Aeaea.”

  The Frenchman cocked his head, silently posing the obvious question.

  A sly smile appeared on her lips. “It’s the island where Circe lived, the goddess of enchantment and intoxicating drugs.”

  “Where she turned men into pigs.”

  “All but Odysseus.” Charlotte smiled as if the joke carried nuances beyond his understanding. “Her island wasn’t a hotel, either. She may have ruined men, but she did not charge rent.”

  “Very sporting of her. In any case, my apologies.”

  She bowed her head, accepting his concession. “There’s a war. People break loose from their moorings. A few wash up here. If it suits me, I take them in.”

  “So, am I here on appraisal?”

  “Mmmm.”

  “I have no intention of presuming on your charity, madam.”

  Her eyes brightened. “You have money?”

  “Very little.”

  His hostess hummed an unhappy note.

  “Laoui must have told you that, too. But if I can find a bank that will allow me access to my accounts in France—”

  “You will consider yourself a very fortunate man. Until then, we can work something out.”

  “Again, I am grateful, Madame . . . I can’t r
eally continue calling you Madame Charlotte.”

  She looked at him with half-closed eyes.

  She stretched out on the couch like a spoiled housecat, her djellaba clinging to her figure with stirring effect. “Light me a cigarette, won’t you?” She nodded at an inlaid box on the table.

  He considered telling her to light it herself, but knew he would be the one diminished by his rudeness. So he offered her one of her own cigarettes, an English brand, and lighted it from a glass bowl filled with matches.

  She drew a deep lungful, leaned her head back, and slowly exhaled. “Wald. Charlotte Wald. Rather pedestrian, isn’t it?”

  Laurent knew she was waiting for him to react to her German surname.

  “It’s as good name as any other,” he said.

  “Exactly my point.” Her mouth formed a comic frown before she added, “Née Chatou.”

  “Ah, you’re French.”

  “Swiss. I am allowed to appear neutral.” She turned onto her side and gazed at him. “You, however, are French. And a diplomat, says friend Laoui.”

  “Without a current assignment.”

  “Ah, a truant statesman. That must make life difficult.”

  “Regrettably, there is little call for freelance diplomacy these days.”

  “For diplomacy of any kind. The world has been turned over to the generals.”

  “Even Tangier has been taken over by Franco’s fascists.”

  “Fascists,” she spat the word. “Franco is a cruel little boy playing at soldiers. The only one worse is Mussolini, puffing his chest out like an offended pigeon, persuading all these Italian males that they’re real men. If you set a match next to that gasbag, he’d blow half of Italy off the map.”

  “You say you are allowed to appear neutral,” Laurent said. “From your comments, I sense it must be difficult. Yet you pass the war in comfort in this grand house.”

  “Comfort? You must think I don’t see the place falling apart around me.” She looked around the room. “I was married once. When it was over, he got a marquessa in Spain and I got a house in Tangier—with no provision to maintain the house, or me.”

  A husband lost to a Spaniard might explain her animus toward Franco, Laurent thought. Certainly, it explained her need for boarders.

  “And you?” she asked. She settled again onto her back and breathed deeply, her breasts rising against the thin fabric. That she had to be aware of the effect only added to its provocation.

  Laurent lowered his eyes, leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him, ready to tell his tale. Before he could get a word out, he sat bolt upright, his face gone blank.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He looked at his hands, spread his fingers. “My wedding ring. I’ve just realized—I don’t have my wedding ring.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What made you think of that just now?”

  He ignored her, rubbed his bare ring finger. “I took it off last night while I put some polish on my shoes. I must have left it on the dresser.”

  “Polishing your shoes before you try to escape on a fishing boat? Tell me you’re not serious. Look, if you simply want to tell me you’re married, I’m willing to believe you.” She shrugged. “I’ll have M’barak go down to your hotel and ask for it.” She looked at his face. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s a little embarrassing. You see, when I left this morning the people at the hotel didn’t know I wouldn’t be returning.”

  “Meaning you neglected to pay your bill. I don’t think diplomatic immunity extends that far.”

  Laurent patted his pocket. “I still have my room key.”

  “So, you must try to sneak in and out without being seen.” Charlotte tilted her head. “Or you can decide to live without the ring.”

  With a jolt of bad conscience, Laurent realized how seldom he had thought of Marie-Therese over the last several weeks. With the chaos of the government’s collapse and his frantic efforts to get to Morocco, he told himself he’d had no time to think about anything but his immediate plight. The worm of guilt eating at him made retrieving the ring all the more important.

  “No, I have to get it back.”

  She sat up and made a face. “All right. I’ll tell M’barak to drive you downtown.”

  M’barak, a tall thin man who served as Charlotte’s chauffeur—as well as her gardener, handyman, night guardian and, in a pinch, her butler—drove the cream colored Citroen convertible toward the center of the city and parked on the same square where Laoui had picked up Laurent that morning.

  The Frenchman got out of the car and walked along a narrow street until he stood opposite the Moulay Idriss.

  If the police had searched his room, as seemed probable, the hotel staff would realize by now he had skipped out on his bill, in which case strolling in through the front door would prove the shortest path to a Vichy prison.

  Instead, he walked past the hotel, turned down the next street and then up an alley to what he judged was the hotel’s back entrance. He tried the door. It was unlocked. Holding his breath, he eased it open and slipped inside.

  The smell of dust and mildewed sheets told him he had the right place. By the dim light of a grimy window, he saw he was in some sort of storage room. He crossed the room and put his ear to the door. Satisfied there was no one on the opposite side, he opened it onto a narrow corridor. Treading silently, Laurent followed the corridor to a servant’s stairway, built when the place might have been, if not luxurious, at least respectable.

  He took the steps two at a time to the third floor. After making sure the corridor was empty, Laurent took the key from his pocket and walked quickly toward his room.

  As he came within sight of the room he stopped. Though he was sure he had locked the door when he left that morning, it now stood slightly ajar. A tingle of apprehension told him to forget about the ring and turn back. Instead, holding his breath, Laurent approached the room and quietly pushed the door open.

  It took a moment for the man searching through the chest of drawers to sense he was no longer alone. Without turning around, he straightened up and held his hands away from his body to show that he was not armed. When Laurent said nothing, the man slowly tuned to face him. He was of medium height, dressed in a pinstriped suit, and wore the expression of a man who thought he was about to be shot.

  At the sight of Laurent, the stranger frowned, puzzled. The fear in his eyes faded and a hard-edged smile spread across his face. In the span of a few seconds, he had shifted from looking like a man who expected to be the victim of violence to one who appeared ready to commit it.

  “Ah, I thought you’d left,” the stranger said mildly, his French colored by an accent, perhaps British.

  Laurent looked over the man’s shoulder and saw that the ring was not where he had left it on the chest of drawers. “I’m looking for Monsieur Laurent,” he said—unoriginal, but the quickest bluff that occurred to him.

  The man cocked his head. “And you know that I’m not him.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  A look of amusement crossed the stranger’s face, undercut by a hint of uncertainty as he tried to decide who he was talking to.

  “Well, if he’s not here . . . ” Laurent said, backing out into the hallway, trying to look mildly disappointed rather than deeply uneasy.

  The man saw the key in Laurent’s hand and chuckled. “If you should run into the little French bastard before I do, tell him I have this.” He held out his open hand, the ring resting in its palm. “I think he’ll be looking for it.”

  Laurent was startled by the anger that came over him at the sight of his wedding ring in this stranger’s hand. Without a word, he stepped back into the room and approached the man, who smiled more broadly, certain that possession of the ring put him in a strong bargaining position.

  Laurent hit him in the jaw.

  The man fell back against the dresser and collapsed to the floor with an expression that might have looked comic if L
aurent had been in any mood to laugh.

  As the man fell, the ring flew out of his hand and skittered across the floor. Laurent scrambled to grab it then turned around quickly, ready for the stranger to get off the floor and come for him. Yet the man did nothing. Lying on the ground, he glared at Laurent, but made no effort to get to his feet. Rather proud of himself—he hadn’t imagined he packed a punch—Laurent made for the door.

  Still on all fours, the man choked out, “Wait, I want to talk to you.”

  Laurent slammed the door shut, locked it with the key he still had in his hand, and ran down the corridor. Behind him, the sound of the man cursing as he tried to kick out the door filled the hallway.

  Laurent sprinted down the back stairs, dashed through the narrow corridor, and shouldered open the door to the storage room through which he had entered.

  This time the room wasn’t empty. Before him stood a thin, gray-haired Moroccan holding a stack of greasy sheets. For a frozen instant the two men looked at each other.

  Laurent recovered first. Recalling the rugby games he’d played in school, he stiff-armed the startled man into a stack of folded sheets and ran out the back door.

  Halfway down the alley, panting from his dash through the hotel, Laurent stopped to look behind him. To his surprise, no one pursued him. The stranger in his room, if he had managed to knock the door down, probably assumed he had gone out through the main entrance. The old Moroccan was no doubt simply happy to have him gone.

  He walked hurriedly to the end of the alley before slowing to a vigorous stroll that he hoped did not look as disjointed as it felt.

  Assuming that the man in the pinstriped suit had reached the street in front of the hotel by now, and fearing that the Spanish police might still have their eye on the square, Laurent took a wide arc through the nearby streets, eventually approaching the square from the opposite direction.

  The Citroen stood at the curb, M’barak sitting behind the wheel.

  He stopped in the doorway of a tavern and watched the square until the handful of people lounging in the sun no longer looked to Laurent like undercover police waiting for him. He saw no sign of the stranger he had discovered in his room.