THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  Shortly after they entered a man appeared from a door on the far side. He was in his late middle age, but he moved gracefully as he walked towards them. The djellaba he wore was of fine material and ornately embroidered but what struck Grainger was how dark the man was. His skin was smooth and supple, as if oiled, and it was clear it had been cared for. He was not an African from the south; his nose was strongly defined and hooked like that of an Arab. Grainger concluded he must be a Berber, and most likely a Tuareg.

  The man in the fez gave a small bow and said something in a language Grainger did not understand, though he guessed it was an introduction as Boukhari immediately said, ‘Mr Grainger, welcome to my house.’ The man in the fez backed away then left them.

  ‘I am so pleased to meet you.’ The man’s voice was soft, a touch feminine, and it purred almost like a cat. ‘Come, I have arranged refreshments.’ He led the way to one side of the courtyard where two Ottoman couches were set by a low table. ‘Let us relax and we shall talk of our business.’

  Another servant arrived with a tray and glasses. Boukhari waved an open hand at the drinks. ‘Whisky and dry ginger, sir. I hope it is to your liking. I shall take a cordial; it is my religion you understand. So, we must drink a toast to your enterprise.’ He raised his glass. ‘B’Saha. May you have good health. Now, how can I be of help to you?’

  Grainger took a polite sip from his glass. ‘Émile Xicluna. I understand you know where he is being held.’

  ‘You have the consideration for our little arrangement? You understand there is a great risk in my passing to you such delicate information.’

  ‘At the hotel. My colleague there will pay you when I have what I came for.’ Grainger looked at the man and raised his eyebrows in a gesture that said, ‘It’s your call.’ He raised his glass and gave a little nod in salute to the other man. ‘B’Saha – or cheers as we say in my country.’ He downed the remnants of his glass and waited for the response.

  Boukhari paused, as if weighing up the proposal. ‘Your man is no longer here.’ He let the words fall slowly and deliberately from his lips. ‘He has moved – to Casablanca.’

  ‘Do you have the location? Where in the city is …’ Grainger’s mouth dried and he felt the room sway, then it seemed to slip round sideways. He looked down into his glass then dropped it and slid clumsily onto the floor.

  Boukhari stared down at the body lying at his feet, a smirk of satisfaction on his face. ‘I will take you there,’ he said very quietly. ‘Not yet, but in the days to come. There is someone there who would very much like to meet you.’

  Boukhari went to one side of the room, opened a door and called out; two men appeared. They picked up Grainger’s drugged body and one on each arm they hauled it away.

  The man in the fez hat came back into the courtyard. ‘There is a visitor, sayidi.’ He stood to one side and ushered in a tall fair-haired man. The man removed a straw boater hat from his head and gave a polite nod. ‘Is he here, do you have him?’

  Boukhari’s expression was conciliatory, as if wishing to please, but his tone was conniving and deceptive. ‘He is,’ he said coolly, ‘but I regret, you cannot have him yet. First we must agree the price.’

  The new man’s face hardened into a scowl. ‘We have already agreed the price.’

  Boukhari hunched his shoulders and held out both hands, like a trader in the souk sharpening his deal. ‘The price has gone up. There are two of them. I have to make arrangements for the other one.’

  The man with the straw boater shrugged. ‘Kill him.’

  ‘I shall, as soon as we agree a price.’

  Chapter 7

  The proposal

  The sergeant left Evangeline at the front gate to her house. He did not bother to escort her in or offer her words of sympathy; he just turned and walked away. It left her feeling as she did with the others in the town, Señora Rojas and the women. She had the uncomfortable misgiving that this deliverance would be short-lived and wondered what else they might have laid up and waiting for her.

  The following morning at eleven Señor Carlos Luis Alejandro de Lorca arrived at the front gates, punctual for his appointment.

  When she pulled opened the gate he removed his hat and bowed. It was a very old-fashioned gesture and at first she wanted to laugh, but thought the better of it in case it offended him.

  Inside the house she led the way through to the salon. ‘Please do sit down, monsieur,’ she said, pointing to a chaise longue, then added diffidently, ‘I am sorry, I should say señor. How do you prefer I call you?’

  He smiled. ‘I should very much like it if you would call me Carlos – if that is not too familiar for only our second meeting.’

  She felt her neck flush slightly; it was some time since she had been in the company of someone this polite. Her brother was, of course, casual and familiar, and José was a rough country shepherd. Only Richard had been this caring and she had almost forgotten what it was like. It reminded her, too, of some of her father’s academic friends back in Alsace – before this war had come along and destroyed everything.

  ‘Then you must call me Evangeline. Can I offer you some refreshment, coffee perhaps or an aperitif? You will stay for lunch, I hope.’

  Again he gave a polite bow of his head. ‘I would be honoured Mademoiselle Evangeline.’

  ‘Then it is settled.’ She got up and went to a vitrine returning with a glass of pale fino sherry, which she placed on a table beside him.

  ‘Now.’ He put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, withdrew a folded paper and held it out to her. ‘This is your permit of temporary residence. I arranged it personally this morning at the padrón municipal.’

  ‘Oh, Monsieur …’, Carlos held up a hand, at the same moment shaking his head. ‘No, no, Carlos, remember? You said you would call me Carlos.’ He smiled.

  Evangeline put the tips of her fingers up to her mouth to cover her embarrassment. ‘Oh! Sorry, of course – but this is so kind of you; and how did you manage it so quickly? I thought …’

  ‘My father is a close friend of the alcalde, the mayor of the town. It is nothing. I simply had to ask and it was done. It is good for six months and then we shall get you another. It will not be difficult.’

  ‘Ah.’ For a moment she was lost for something to say. He was the first person in the town who had shown her any semblance of kindness and she was immensely grateful to have found a friend. ‘Your father must be a person of great importance.’ It was all she could think of to say.

  ‘Yes, it is true, the name of Don Ferdinand is well respected in the region. Many people depend on my family for their employment – their houses – the food they eat – indeed their very lives. He is generous and well loved.’ He smiled again and it struck her that it was a very open, friendly smile; one that made her feel comfortable.

  ‘I wish I could say the same of my own landlord.’

  ‘Is he not good then?’

  ‘Well, he is not bad when it comes to collecting the rent but there are several things which need attention and on that he ignores me.’

  Carlos raised his eyebrows and looked surprised. ‘Oh dear, that is not good. I shall have to speak sternly with my father. This house you are renting is from our estates.’

  Evangeline looked mortified. ‘Oh no.’ She groaned out the words in the same moment clamping both her open palms firmly against her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, recovering her stance, ‘that was rude of me.’

  There was a silence; Carlos widened his eyes and bit back a laugh. Then they both set to giggling. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘it is not polite to laugh at someone’s misfortune but it is such irony.’

  ‘Tell me about your family. Do you have brothers and sisters?’ Again, he smiled and she thought this man is always so polite and so easy to talk with.

  ‘Of course, in my country there are always many children in a marriage. That is the purpose of the union. I have four sisters: Gabriella, Isabel, Serafina and Livia. I hav
e no brothers only sisters. Then there is my mother, Donna Maria Teresa de Silva y Laborda. There are, of course, many aunts and uncles, but sadly no nephews, only nieces. We are a family of women. There are cousins – too many to recount here for it would, I fear, bore you.’

  ‘It is a very large family.’

  ‘Yes, but it is the way with noble families in Spain, and my family owes its titles and its lands to the depths of history, to the times of Ferdinand and Isabella. Now tell me about your family – if you wish.’

  Evangeline gave a small sigh. ‘Oh, we are very ordinary people. I have one brother, Alain …’

  ‘Fighting for his country in the Maquis,’ Carlos interjected, then immediately added, ‘I am sorry, that was rude of me to interrupt. Please go on.’

  Evangeline was taken aback by the remark; it unsettled her. ‘How did you know that – that he has joined the Maquis?’

  Carlos held up his hands in apology. ‘My family knows of most things that are happening in the town. You understand, when a foreign lady arrives and takes a residence in our midst there are bound to be enquiries of a delicate nature.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all she said in response.

  ‘Please do go on. I am sorry I stopped you.’

  She considered it for a moment, then in a voice that was a little flustered said, ‘There is not much more really. We live in the small town of Turckheim in Alsace, close to the old border with Germany. My father was a professor at Strasbourg University till the Nazis banned him from teaching. My mother is just …,’ she paused and gave a barely perceptible twitch of her shoulders, ‘well, she is just my mother. That is all, not a lot really.’

  She stood up and he went to do the same. ‘Please, don’t get up. I shall go to the kitchen and prepare the food.’

  Over lunch he asked, ‘Do you not have a servant to help you, someone to cook?’

  ‘I am used to fending for myself, and besides I don’t think I could find anyone who would work for me. Surely you must know that I am not liked in the town – after all, did you not say your family knew everything about me?’

  Carlos stiffened. The comment had been stiletto sharp and the expression on his face showed it had stung. He was not used to criticism, especially coming from a woman.

  There was a black silence when nothing was said and she found herself regretting the moment and her quick tongue. It had been spiteful but it reflected the uncertainty she felt: her fragile position and the hostility of the town towards her. It was the natural response of a woman determined to stand and fight for her ground.

  It was a gulf counted in a handful of painful seconds but her guest quickly redeemed the moment. ‘You are right,’ and once more there was that smile. ‘It was thoughtless and uncharitable of me to say that thing – but I am shocked that there is such bad feeling in the town. If you will permit me I shall send one of our servants to work for you.’

  She returned the smile and thanked him but, in truth, his generosity had only served to make her feel worse.

  When their lunch was finished she accompanied him as far as the front gate. As she passed the place where the body had been found it triggered a question she had intended to ask earlier but it had slipped her mind.

  ‘Oh, I meant to ask you, did you find out anything about the dead man in my garden? Who he was – why he was put there?’

  ‘Not yet, but Ramirez is investigating. He is a good policeman and a sound detective but there are, even now, so many revenge killings. Most go unsolved. It is a legacy of our terrible civil war.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand – but why put the body in my garden?’

  ‘As you say, there are those in Cadaqués who are hostile towards you. We should leave it with Ramirez. If there is an answer to find, he will find it. Now I must go; my father has work for me to do. I shall send someone to you tomorrow and I will see what is to be done about the poor hospitality you receive from certain people in my town.’ With that he left.

  Evangeline locked the gate and walked slowly back to the house.

  In the late afternoon, when the heat had gone from the day, she went into the library. There she found a book that was written in French which she took out into the garden to read. Sitting under the shade of an orange tree she thought about the day. The anxiety and the sense of threat she had brought with her across the mountains from France had subsided. The kindness of Carlos de Lorca had salvaged her life and she felt a deep sense of gratitude towards him.

  That evening she sat in the kitchen with no more company than a dish of olives, a glass of wine and a piece of cheese. She let her mind drift back to her home town and her parents, and wondered how they were coping. She had several times thought to go to the post office and try to arrange a phone call to them, but she always abandoned the idea. The fear that it might lead the Gestapo to her, even here in Spain, nagged at her.

  She had heard from others that they were here, and the Guardia turned a blind eye to their presence. Maybe it was they who had dumped the body in her garden. Maybe they hoped it would get her deported back to France where they could arrest her. The thought churned round and round in her mind but in the end she concluded it was pointless speculation and dismissed the notion. She felt more confident knowing that she was under the protection of the powerful de Lorca family.

  So, she put her anxiety aside and instead let her thoughts stray to José, Alain and Richard. She constantly thought about Alain and worried he would do something rash again. The Gestapo had already caught him once and it was only thanks to Richard he had been released. There would be no Richard if Alain got himself arrested a second time. Only heaven knew where Richard was. Perhaps he was dead; she had heard nothing and in that silence she tried hard to think less often about him. Though he was still there, deep in her heart.

  The next morning there was again someone at the front gate. She heard the clanging of the bell and when she went down through the garden and opened it she found herself face to face with what she took to be a young mulatto woman. He hair was thick and dark, rolled into a tight pleat at the back of her head. Her eyes were black and her skin a deep rich brown.

  Evangeline stood staring at the visitor, not sure who she was. The woman had a large handbag slung over the crook of her left elbow and a suitcase clutched in her right hand. She looked for all the world as if she had come to stay.

  The woman waited in silence, then said, ‘I have been sent by my master, señorita. I have come from the house of Don Ferdinand. I am to work for you in your house.’

  The conversation with Carlos from the day before flooded in. She had given it no real thought after he had said he would send her a servant, supposing it to be nothing more than a polite suggestion of something he might arrange some time in the future. Now here she was.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Please, we should go up to the house.’ Inside, Evangeline led the way through to the kitchen. ‘Please do sit down.’ She indicated a chair but the woman shook her head.

  ‘It is not right that I should sit in your presence. If you would show me my room, señorita, I will lay out my things and then take your instructions.’

  Evangeline wrestled with the strangeness of her position for a moment. She had not been used to servants in her life, certainly not at her parents’ home. There, her mother did everything; she ran the house herself.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, getting to grips with the situation. There was plenty of room in the house. If this woman was to stay she could have the space at the top of the building, under the tiles.

  They climbed the stairs to the second floor where on a bare landing there was a door opening into a small space; it was no more than a box room. As she pushed open the door Evangeline was swept by a tide of stifling air, brewed up by the heat radiating from the sun-scorched tiles. She stepped inside and flipped on the light switch. A large black fly buzzed past her face and she flinched.

  Evangeline gazed around. She had only been into the room once before, when she had first taken the hous
e. There was one small dormered window, a metal-framed bed and a washstand. In one corner there was an old wooden box trunk piled with papers. The woman seemed unperturbed by the poverty of her surroundings and, going over to the bed, dropped the suitcase beside it.

  Evangeline shook her. ‘No, no, this won’t do at all.’

  The mulatto woman seemed confused. Evangeline stepped back out of the room. ‘Come along,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘we can do better than this.’

  They descended one floor down. There were five bedrooms. ‘Here,’ she said confidently, ‘this is a proper room.’ The woman’s face broke into a faint smile. It was clear she was happy.

  ‘Please come down to the kitchen when you are ready.’

  Ten minutes later the woman appeared in the kitchen doorway where she knocked on the lintel and waited to be summoned.

  Evangeline beckoned to her. ‘Please do come in. You don’t have to knock first. Now, what is your name?’

  The woman looked more at ease. ‘Tamaya, señorita.’

  ‘Tamaya, is that a Spanish name? I’ve not heard of it before.’

  ‘No, señorita, it is Abyssinian. My mother was from that country; she married my father who was French. We lived in Morocco but my parents both died – in the time of the cholera plague. After, I came to the house of Don Ferdinand to work. There was no work in Morocco, you see.’

  ‘Your father was French? Where from?’

  ‘Paris, señorita. He was an engineer.’

  ‘So do you speak French?’