‘Of course, señorita. It is the language I grew up with.’
Evangeline felt a sudden surge of pure joy run through her. Here was someone she could talk to without the constant struggle of trying to find the right words. All right, she was a servant, but what did that mean to someone who had not grown up within that social divide.
‘In that case, Tamaya, we shall speak French in this house.’
That night in bed she felt the warm comfort of having another woman under the roof. A person who shared her language. Somebody she could talk women’s talk with; she would be as much a companion as a servant. ‘Well, Don Carlos,’ she whispered into the night, ‘I could kiss you for that.’
Chapter 8
A light in the darkness
The sound of a gentle tapping on her bedroom door brought Evangeline out of her dream. It was one in which she had seen Richard and called to him, but he had looked right through her as if she were not there. It had been profoundly sad and she was pleased to be woken from it. At first she could not understand the noise, then she remembered the new servant, Tamaya.
‘Yes,’ she called out. ‘What is it?’
The door opened and Tamaya came one pace into the bedroom, then stopped. ‘Will you take your breakfast in the dining room, madame, or shall I bring it to you here in the room?’
The question flustered her for an instant. She was not used to being waited on – in fact she had never been waited on at all except in restaurants, and once when she had stayed in a hotel. ‘Oh, I will come down to the dining room, Tamaya – yes, that is what I shall do.’
Tamaya gave the customary half bow. ‘Of course, madame.’
After Evangeline had finished her breakfast she instinctively went to the kitchen where she had it in mind that she would wash the dishes. She was met by the sight of Tamaya, wiping down the draining board. The plates from breakfast had been washed, dried and carefully placed on the shelves. She hovered there for a moment, then turned away. There was nothing for her to do. In the salon she dropped herself down onto a sofa where the realisation sank in that she was a creature of habit. Her life revolved around routines; things that were done in a given order, dictated by necessities and priorities, ritual tasks performed without the need for thought. Now, it occurred to her that her life was being emptied of these things, things that filled her time, that ran her day, things that gave structure. It felt strange and vague, as if she were losing control.
She got up and went back to the kitchen. Tamaya was no longer there. She found her in the dining room polishing the glass panes of the vitrine. The table had already been laid out for lunch.
Tamaya abruptly stopped polishing as she became aware of Evangeline standing there watching her. She let her arms drop to her side as if coming to attention. ‘Yes, madame?’ She lowered her eyes and waited for an instruction.
Evangeline hesitated; she was unsure of this new position, this relationship of mistress and servant. She had no point of reference. ‘Oh, nothing.’ She uttered the words without conviction. ‘Carry on with whatever it is you are doing.’
She went back to the salon but couldn’t settle down. Instead she went out through the back door of the kitchen and into the garden where she sat on a wooden bench and looked at the unripe fruit on the orange trees. At home, in Turckheim, it had been simple. She had her job at the shop of Joseph the baker. She went every morning and made the pastries. Sometimes, if her brother Alain was on another task, she drove the small green baker’s van, delivering bread, bretzels and cakes to the hotels in the town. In the evening she helped her mother to prepare the food for the dinner table and then, together, they washed the dishes and put them back in their proper place. There was cleaning to be done, clothes to be washed, linen to be pressed. In the evening she had her books and there was the radio to listen to.
Then everything changed. The Germans, once good neighbours, had become occupiers. Alain had been arrested and she had fled, taking Joseph’s van – and now here she was. There were no friends to talk with, no radio to listen to. All of the books in the shops and the town library were Spanish, a language in which she was only crudely competent. She had taken refuge in the chores of the house as her daily distraction while she sat out the war and hoped for an end so that she could go back again to France.
Now it appeared that even this was to be taken away from her. The intention, she told herself, had been good, that Carlos had wished to help her – but there had been no discussion on what role this servant would play. When Carlos had offered a servant she had some vague notion it would be confined to help in the kitchen. Now she felt she was being overwhelmed. She was not even sure of the extent of Tamaya’s duties. She would, she decided, need to talk with Carlos, though she was not sure when they might meet again.
The next morning started with the same knock on the door and the same enquiry as to where she would take her breakfast. When she went to take her morning bath she was surprised to see that the water had been drawn and a fresh towel draped over the wooden rack. Sitting in the water she wondered if the rich ever did anything for themselves.
At breakfast she was surprised to find a croissant in the pastry basket. She had not been able to find croissants in any of the shops in the town and had always liked to make them herself. She knew she had not baked anything since the arrival of this woman so there must be a baker in the town whom she had yet to find.
When she had finished her breakfast she went straight to the kitchen. ‘Tamaya.’
‘Madame.’ The woman assumed her usual stiff appearance that she automatically adopted when awaiting instructions. It was a stance that left Evangeline feeling ill at ease.
‘Where did this morning’s croissants come from? They were fresh.’
‘Yes, madame.’
‘So where did you find them?’
‘I made them yesterday, madame, and baked them this morning.’
Evangeline was short of words. Baking was her province; it was what she did. Was that also to be stolen from her. That did it, she decided; things had to be sorted out. ‘When you’ve finished in here, Tamaya, please come and see me in the salon. There are some things we need to settle.’
Standing in the doorway of the salon, Tamaya waited to be summoned.
‘Come in,’ Evangeline said briskly, trying to hide the reality that she was probably more nervous than the servant she was about to instruct.
‘Madame.’ Tamaya moved smartly to where Evangeline was seated in an armchair and came to attention.
‘Please sit down,’ Evangeline said gently, trying to put the woman at her ease.
Tamaya looked awkward, her arms hanging limply by her sides. Her dark black eyes darted down at the sofa where Evangeline had pointed her hand in invitation. ‘Madame, it is not my place to sit in your presence.’
At first Evangeline was unsure of what she had heard. ‘I’m sorry Tamaya, please explain.’ The woman clasped her hands together, fidgeting her fingers nervously.
‘Don Ferdinand would not permit such a thing, madame.’
That shook Evangeline’s patience. It was bad enough that she had to sort out this muddle without having the de Lorca shadow hanging over her. ‘Do sit down,’ she half smiled, trying to appear sympathetic, ‘you’re making the room look untidy.’ Tamaya sat, balanced precariously on the edge of the sofa, as if she found it impossible to sit fully on it.
‘Good,’ Evangeline was beginning to fell more at ease with the situation. ‘Tamaya, while I have been very pleased to have you here, I am afraid you cannot stay. I shall have to ask you to return to the house of Don Ferdinand.’
Tamaya’s face was distressed. She looked blankly at her mistress. ‘Madame? I have not done my tasks properly?’
Evangeline held up her hands in desperation. ‘I am happy with your work but I am sorry, this is an insupportable position. You have been sent here by Don Carlos, without him telling me what it is you are to do here, what your duties shall be, how long you will st
ay – nothing. Do you not see how difficult it is? I don’t even know who pays you.’
‘Oh, madame, I am not paid. Only I get my food and a room.’
The statement pulled Evangeline up short. She was appalled. To her mind this was nothing short of old-fashioned serfdom. She sat silently for a moment or two. ‘Well, it won’t do,’ she finally pronounced.
Tamaya looked as if she might be on the verge of crying. ‘Madame, please, if you send me back Don Ferdinand will become very angry. I shall be punished.’
Evangeline felt herself being manoeuvred back into the original position. ‘Right,’ she said with authority. ‘You may stay – but there are conditions. We shall need to decide your duties. I simply cannot have you running around doing everything.’ She threw up her hands again. ‘It leaves me with nothing to do except eat, drink and sleep – I shall get fat. And there is another thing. If you are to stay then you will work for me, not Don Ferdinand, and you will receive payment for your work.’ She stood up indicating the interview was over. ‘I shall talk with Don Carlos about these matters but for now you may stay.’
Tamaya gave the customary half bow. ‘Thank you, madame.’
‘And do please stop bowing every time I speak to you, It is not necessary and I don’t much like it – and please also do not call me madame, my name is Evangeline.’
At this Tamaya looked embarrassed. She cast her eyes down to avoid looking into Evangeline’s face. ‘Then how will I address you, madame? It is not proper for me to call you by your name.’
It was clear this request cut a deep wound into the woman’s cultural code but there had to be a compromise. ‘I am not married, you may call me Mademoiselle Evangeline. There, that I think will do well enough for both of us.’
Tamaya bowed, then quickly corrected the action. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle.’
It was a delicate matter. On the one hand she did not want to offend Carlos by returning what was essentially a gift. On the other she could not continue to accommodate the existing position. It was best done, she decided, in a note. Carlos, she was sure, would understand. Straight after lunch she penned her message and having sealed it in an envelope instructed Tamaya to take it to him. In it she had asked if he would call on her to discuss the matter.
At a little after two o’clock, Tamaya announced that there was a visitor clanging the bell at the front gate. ‘That will be Carlos,’ Evangeline said, surprised that he had responded so quickly. ‘Please bring him to me, Tamaya. I will see him in the salon.’
Minutes later, Tamaya was standing in the doorway of the salon. ‘It is a stranger, mademoiselle, but he says he is known to you.’
Evangeline looked mildly surprised. ‘A stranger?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle, he looks like a rough peasant to me. I have left him to stand in the hall.’
She thought for a moment. ‘Right, I shall see him there.’ She got up from the sofa where she had been sitting in the expectation of entertaining Carlos. ‘Has he said what he is here for – this peasant?’
‘No, mademoiselle.’
The moment she stepped into the hallway she sensed things were not good. The man waiting for her was not a peasant; it was José, his Catalan beret clenched tightly in both hands. In his eyes was the look of bad news.
She stood limply for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Is it Alain?’
José shook his head slowly. ‘No, it is Richard.’
A mixed sensation of relief and fear ran riot in her. ‘Come into the salon. You can tell me there.’
José was brief and to the point. ‘I had a message from the Americans at La Vajol. Richard was in Morocco. They got news he was captured. They say it is sure he has been killed. I am sorry.’
Chapter 9
One man down
It was midnight and still no sign of Grainger. Jordan left the bar where he had been since seven o’clock and went to the reception desk.
‘That man who called to see me and my friend earlier today. Do you know where I can find him? Do you have an address or a phone number?’
The receptionist frowned. He shook his head slowly. ‘No, sir. I do not think I have ever seen him before.’
‘Hmm, is there anyone else who might know?’
The receptionist looked at his watch. ‘The only other person you might ask, sir, is the concierge. It is too late tonight; he has gone to his home. He will be here in the morning and you can ask your question then.’
‘Okay, how about a man called Ali Ben Boukhari? He’s a trader. I understand he lives here in Fez. Are you familiar with that name?’
The receptionist pursed his lips and thought about the question. ‘Boukhari is a common name in Morocco. What is this man’s business?’
Jordan said nothing. He just shook his head; it was not a question he wanted to answer. He could not be sure it would not compromise the mission. This man on the reception might talk. It might put Grainger into an even worse position. Besides, he could not be certain that anything had in fact gone wrong. There could be a simple explanation. It could be that the negotiations were taking more time than expected. He considered his options. There was little point in going out into the night asking questions. He concluded he had no choice but to go back to his room and wait for developments.
The sun cracked the horizon with a gold glint and on the morning air the call of the mosque floated across the city. A boy of about 13 years, dressed in a ragged brown djellaba with nothing but string sandals on his feet, sat on the kerbside and waited. He watched as a man in a straw boater hat came out of the Hotel Regence, a middle-ranked commercial establishment not far from the place in which Grainger and Jordan had taken rooms.
The man walked briskly in the direction of the railway station. When he got there he went to where the taxis and caleches gathered. He got into one of the better looking vehicles, a car in which the tariff would be more expensive – much more than a caleche. A man with money in his pockets, the boy concluded. He watched from a discreet distance. As it pulled away he took a note of the taxi’s number then squatted down in a quiet corner to wait. The driver, he knew, would eventually return to the station in hope of more business.
It was several hours later when the taxi returned. The boy had been dozing in the early afternoon sun and when he woke he saw it, there in the queue, waiting once more for a fare. The boy got up, stretched his cramped limbs and, sidling over to the taxi, greeted the driver. ‘Salaam, sayidi.’
The driver, who was resting with one arm hanging out of the window, stirred. Seeing it was a boy and not a fare his face became sullen. The boy was without doubt a beggar and would goad him to give cigarettes or, even worse, money.
‘Clear off,’ he grunted, ‘I have nothing for you.’
‘Tell me where you took that man, sayidi – the foreigner with the straw hat.’
It was not what the driver had expected. ‘Huh,’ he gave a short snort through his nose. ‘Why, you wish to rob him? You have a care, boy. He is carrying a pistol. I saw it when he got out of my taxi. You would do well to be careful.’
The boy flicked the remark away. ‘Don’t worry for me, old man. Tell me – where did you take him?’
The man shook his head and laughed in the boy’s face. ‘I am a driver of taxis not a spy for street beggars. Clear off.’ As he said it he flung out his arms to slap the boy round the head, but the boy was too quick and the blow missed its mark.
‘Tell me,’ the boy persisted, now from a safe distance.
The driver changed his tack and, holding out his hand, said, ‘Will you give me some baksheesh for this information you so badly need?’
‘Ha,’ the boy jeered and pointed to a group of men hanging around the station entrance, talking and smoking. ‘Maybe I shall tell them your wife is cheating on you and you are selling your sister as a whore.’
‘They would not believe a beggar like you.’
‘No, but they would laugh at you and they would tell it like a joke in the souks and cafes –
and then, when it had been told a thousand times, people would think it was true.’
At this the driver exploded into a raucous fit of unrestrained laughter. ‘All right, all right,’ he said when he had eventually calmed down. ‘Do you know Bab Khuokha?’
The boy shook his head slowly. ‘Is it far?’
‘No, it is near, close by the mosque they call Bab Ikhokha. There is a very large riad, a villa with a high wall and many rooms. A rich man’s house. Be very careful, boy.’
The boy touched his forehead in a gesture of deference. ‘Shokran, baba.’
The man gave him a worried frown. ‘Take this street for as far as it goes, then ask someone. Everyone will know the mosque Bab Ikhokha.’ He raised a hand to touch his forehead and then his lips. ‘Lah ihefdak,’ he murmured quietly, ‘may God protect you.’
The boy set off at a quick pace, the tread of his string sandals on the road as quiet as a camel’s foot. The heat was going out of the afternoon; the shadows were lengthening and as he reached the mosque the light was beginning to soften.
The riad in front of him was a truly grand mansion. Probably, the boy supposed, it had been built many years before as a palace for a high official. He walked along the foot of the wall which ran around the building. The wall was fully two metres high, maybe more, he thought. The ground was stony and littered with scrub, but it had been managed so that nothing grew against the wall, things that could be useful to those who might wish to clamber over it.
Having circled the wall and what lay around it, he made his way back to the front gates. They were as high as the wall itself, but they were fretted and reinforced with bars. Small fingers could be poked into the frets to find a grip and the bars would provide a toe hold. He tapped lightly on the metal panels. There was an immediate cacophony of barking. Dogs; he was sure there would be dogs in a house of such importance. Hearing voices coming to investigate, he moved quickly away.
THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK Page 7