THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK
Page 8
It was not so far to the Medina. There he found a small souk, a few stalls and barrows huddled up to the old city wall. At the stall of a meat seller he bought a quantity of hashed mutton, thick with fat and cheap. Further along, under a rough canvas awning, he came to where an old man was selling vegetables, bunches of mint and herbs.
‘Do you have kif?’ the boy asked. The man produced a bunch of dried leaves which he wrapped in a scrap of brown paper.
Having wished the old man a long and prosperous life and the blessings of Allah, and armed with his purchases, he retraced his path back to the riad.
On that morning Tom Jordan, too, had been up early. He had walked the few paces to Grainger’s room and rapped his knuckles hard on the door. He was not expecting a reply and there was none. He had waited, then knocked again and called, his face close to the door. ‘Richard, are you in there?’ When he had crouched down and put his eye to the keyhole he saw the bed; it was still made up and tidy. It had not been slept in. The day was already progressing and there was still no sign of Grainger.
‘Damn,’ he cursed as he waited for the lift. He should have insisted they both went to the rendezvous. At the ground floor he clattered the lattice door open and stepping out into the lobby made straight for the reception desk. At the same moment he caught sight of the concierge and changed direction.
‘I had a visitor yesterday.’ He launched in without an introduction. ‘A man wearing a fez; do you remember? It was you who called up to tell me he was here – in the lobby.’
‘I do remember, sayidi,’ he said, using the Arabic term of deference.
‘Do you know who he is? It’s important I find him.’
The concierge went to a heavy ledger sitting on a lectern to one side of him. He turned a page and ran his finger across it. ‘Yes, here is written his name. There is no address, sayidi, but someone in the Medina will know him. I can send a boy to look for him if you wish.’
Jordan heaved an audible sigh of relief. ‘Sure, please do that. Also I need to put in a call to Tangier. Is that possible from here?’
The concierge gave a polite tilt of his head. ‘If you give me the number I shall arrange it. Will you take it in your room or in the booth?’ He gestured to a row of telephone booths on the far side of the lobby.
Jordan took a 100 franc note from his pocket. ‘Thanks, I’ll take it up in my room.’ He pressed the note into the concierge’s hand. ‘Down payment. There’s more to come if you find me that man.’
The concierge gave an urbane smile. He put the note between the pages of the leather-bound ledger and shut the book with a quiet thump.
The call to the consulate in Tangier was short and to the point. ‘There’s a hitch. Our Brit’s gone missing. I think it could be terminal – you’d better let our friends in London know. I’m waiting on a lead.’
He put the receiver back on its cradle, got up off the bed where he had been sitting and walked across the room to the window. As he looked down into the street, the futility of going out in search of the man with the fez became apparent. Below him there was a sea of fez hats, every other man wore one. It would be pointless.
He sat on a chair and stared at the phone, willing it to ring – but it remained dumb, mute. By midday there had been no news. He got up and left.
Downstairs he found the concierge again. ‘I’ll be in the restaurant getting some chow if you hear anything.’
There was the usual polite tilt of the head and a simple, ‘Sayidi,’ but nothing else. It felt like it was going to be a long haul.
Jordan had waited all day. He heard the call to prayer echoing across the rooftops and looked at his watch. It was seven in the evening and there had been nothing. He figured he would go down to the bar and get a drink; it looked like settling in to be a long wait.
He stepped out of the lift and there he was, the man in the red fez hat. He was standing talking to the concierge and when they saw him they both held out a hand to beckon him to them. A quick rush of relief swept across Jordan. Now he might get some answers.
The man in the fez touched his forehead in greeting. ‘I am so glad to find you here, sir.’ The man looked flustered. ‘Your friend, I have just heard, there has been an accident.’
Jordan took a step back in surprise, it was not what he was expecting to hear. It somehow didn’t seem to ring quite right. ‘What kind of accident?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘He was knocked down by a charabanc. He is in the hospital. I have come to take you to him, sir.’
‘It is the hospital of Ibn Mohammed,’ the concierge cut in. ‘It is a short walk from here; you should go there. This man will take you, sayidi.’
‘Come, sir.’ The man in the fez made for the door with Jordan hard behind him.
‘This way,’ the man shouted and turned the corner into a side street. ‘Here,’ he called, ‘this is my car.’
He opened the back door and, as he did so, two heavily built men grabbed Jordan and bundled him into the back seat. The man in the fez hat stood and watched as the doors were slammed shut and the car took off down the street. He watched it go, a grin of satisfaction on his face. ‘A shame,’ he said under his breath, ‘such a nice looking young man too.’
*
From the top of a slender minaret on the Bab Ikhokha mosque the mournful call of the muezzin drifted on the evening air, summoning the faithful to their prayers. It was seven o’clock.
The boy, who had earlier bought hashed mutton from the Medina, walked cautiously up to the gates of the grand riad. The servants, he knew, would be at their prayers and surely the master of the house, too. From the folds of his djellaba he took two greasy lumps that he had shaped from the mutton hash, and into which he had folded the kif. He tapped lightly on the gates and when he heard the sound of the dogs he threw the two lumps over and into the compound.
Now he would wait a little. He had time; it was the Isha prayer and it would be at least one hour, maybe more. He walked a short distance to where a stone trough with a tap had been placed so that the itinerant might make themselves clean before offering their prayer to Allah. He removed the string sandals and washed his feet. In that quiet spot he laid out a square of cloth on which he could kneel; even an urchin must pray.
When he had finished he returned to the riad where he tapped again on the gate. It was quiet. He put a foot on one of the metal ribs of the gate and, with his fingers finding a hold in the fretted upper part, he nimbly clambered to the top. The dogs, he could see, were now wandering around in erratic circles. He smiled to himself and then lightly dropped into the compound.
One of the dogs moved its head to stare but it did not approach him. Instead, it turned in a tight circle till, with an unsteady gait, it settled comfortably onto the earth where it went to sleep. It was the oldest trick of thieves in Morocco but it had worked. The dogs would be calm for the rest of the night.
The boy moved silently with little more than the light of the moon and stars. With his dark skin and darker clothes the night was his friend. He would be almost invisible as he crept in the depths of the shadows.
*
Grainger heard the sound of a key grating in the lock. The door of the darkened room in which he had been shut swung inwards and a light came on. For a moment he had to close his eyes. He got up off the wooden bed on which he had been lying. The figure of Boukhari hesitated in the doorway, then entered what was little more than a cellar. He rubbed a hand over his short, neatly trimmed, beard.
‘Ah, Mr Grainger, how nice to see you are fully recovered.’
Grainger eyed the man warily. ‘What the hell is this about? You spiked my drink.’
‘Opium, Mr Grainger, is so easily disguised when it is taken in whisky. You had a big dose of opium. You have been away from us for one day and a night. I must confess I was worried. I thought we had killed you – and dead you are worthless to me.’
Grainger looked at him angrily. ‘Okay, so what’s this about, Boukhari? I thought there
was a deal. You won’t get the money this way.’
Boukhari shrugged. ‘There is a deal, though it is not the one you had planned – and as for the money. Well, you are wrong on that also. I already have the money and I will shortly be entertaining your troublesome American friend, Mr Jordan.’
‘Get to the point,’ Grainger sneered. ‘What are you looking for? More money, is that it?’
‘Of course,’ Boukhari said in a voice that was unpleasantly light in its pitch. ‘There is a price on your head, Mr Grainger – I am surprised you did not know it.’
‘Price, what price?’
‘It seems there are those who want you, and they are prepared to pay for you.’
‘You’re selling me?’
‘It is my business, Mr Grainger. It is what I trade in.’
‘Slavery.’
Boukhari again gave a languid shrug of his shoulders ‘Quite so.’ The tone was casually dismissive and Grainger felt the anger rising inside him. He sized up the man standing in the doorway. He did not seem to be armed but he could not be sure. Gently Grainger began to manoeuvre himself closer. He had to keep the man in front of him talking and catch him off balance. He raked his mind for something to say, anything.
‘And what about Tom Jordan, will you be selling him too?’
A thin smile hovered around Boukhari’s lips. ‘Ah, Mr Jordan.’ Again that light almost female voice taunting like a child. ‘Yes and no.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means, yes, I will be paid for Mr Jordan, but only for arranging his death – so, no, it is not strictly a sale.’
The fine distinction seemed to amuse him and he broke into a laugh. It was the opening Grainger was looking for. He took a single step forward, raised a leg and kicked hard into Boukhari’s groin. It was a kick that should have sent his opponent screaming with pain; testicles severely crushed. Instead Boukhari staggered backwards to the wall where he reached into his djellaba and pulled out an automatic pistol.
Grainger froze and waited for the shot but Boukhari again laughed. Grainger just stared in disbelief. How the hell could he have survived that? The blow had been well placed; it had been right on target, he knew it had.
Boukhari read the puzzlement on Grainger’s face and grinned. ‘So sorry to disappoint you.’ The voice was mockingly apologetic. ‘No balls, you see. My family sent me into the service of the Sultan, Abdelaziz. I was castrated at the age of 12 to become a eunuch.’
He cast a brief glance around the room and sighed. ‘Haa. The muezzin has already made the call to evening prayers and I am late. Good night, Mr Grainger.’ The door was pulled shut with a bang and the key turned in the lock. Then the light went out.
Grainger sat down on the bed, once more swallowed up in the blackness of the cellar. Slowly his eyes adjusted. He was not in a total blackout. At one end of the room, at the top of the outside wall, close to the ceiling, there was a small opening covered by a grill. It occurred to him that if he could reach it then it might be his way out. He pulled the bed across the room and stepped up onto it. In the light of the moon he caught a tantalising glimpse of freedom – but the grill was iron and anchored deep into the stonework, and anyway the gap was too small for him to pass through.
He stood there on the bed, staring out into the night until a noise caught his attention. A faint shuffling sound, perhaps a fox, he thought. It came closer, then without warning his view of the outside world was replaced by a dark face, framing the whites of two eyes.
‘Mister,’ a voice whispered. ‘Is that you? It is me Jamil, I have come to help you.’
Chapter 10
The arrangement
‘Don Carlos is here to see you, mademoiselle. Will you see him in the salon?’
‘No, Tamaya, take him through to the back garden and we can sit under the orange trees.’
She waited for a few minutes while she gathered her thoughts, then braced herself for what she thought might be an awkward conversation. Carlos got up as soon as he saw her, gave a little bow of his shoulders and smiled. Perhaps, she thought, he had not been put out by her note.
‘It is so nice to see you again, Evangeline,’ he said gently, then leant forward took her hand and kissed it. ‘So how can we make this position more comfortable for you?’
It was not quite what she had expected, but then she had not been sure of what to expect. ‘It is difficult, Carlos. I don’t wish to appear ungrateful for your kindness but …,’ she paused to draw breath, then, ‘… I cannot accept it as it has been arranged.’
Carlos did not seem disturbed by what she had said. On the contrary, he looked sympathetic. ‘So how can we make this right? Do you wish me to take the servant back? It is no problem, I can assure you.’ The hint of a smile on his voice made her feel better. Why was it this man could always find the right words for her?
‘I would like Tamaya to stay but on my terms.’
‘Which are?’
‘She will become my responsibility and be released from Don Ferdinand’s household. I will provide for her needs, and I will pay her a wage for her work.’
Carlos raised his eyebrows in mild surprise, but there was still that smile on his face. ‘If you wish – but it is not customary to give money to such a servant. Can you afford to do that thing?’
She wondered for a moment if she should tell him: that she had come across the border with 5,000 Swiss francs – now safely deposited in a bank. However, she let it pass. In a country where most had no more than a handful of pesetas it might be imprudent to broadcast she had so much wealth. ‘Yes, of course,’ she eventually answered, ‘I have enough.’ That, she decided, was all she would say.
‘So,’ Carlos said cheerfully, ‘it is settled. I shall let my father know.’
‘Will he be angry that you have given away his servant?’
Carlos shrugged his shoulders and gave a small wag of his head from side to side, puckering up his mouth. ‘Possibly, but probably not. Servants like this have little value in the market and are cheap to obtain – but leave me to deal with that. Now I should take my leave; I have business matters to attend.’ He stood up and taking her hand again kissed it in the fashion of his class. It was a gesture that charmed her.
After she had escorted him to the front gate and returned to the house she called Tamaya back into the salon. Evangeline felt a glow of satisfaction and not a little relief. Matters could now be settled.
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’
‘Tamaya, you have been released from the house of Don Ferdinand, you are now under my roof. I will draw up a list of your duties. You will have a room and food, and I will pay you a wage for your services. I hope you will find the arrangement satisfactory.’
Tamaya stared wide-eyed and looked as if she might be about to break into tears. ‘Oh, madame,’ she half whispered, then checked herself. ‘I’m sorry, not madame, Mademoiselle Evangeline.’
‘Are you content with this?’
Tamaya began nodding her head jerkily. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle. I am very pleased to be in your service.’ She put out her hands as if she were about to grasp Evangeline’s in gratitude but then quickly checked herself. She stood to attention and waited.
‘There is one thing I would ask you not to do, Tamaya.’
‘Mademoiselle?’
‘I think we should also stop this head bowing nonsense; it is awfully silly in this day and age. And another thing. Sometimes I would like to do the baking, especially the croissants.’
At this, Tamaya grinned broadly. ‘Yes, mademoiselle.’
It was the first time since her arrival that Tamaya had shown any tangible emotion. Evangeline noted with satisfaction that a barrier had been pulled down. Life at the house would be much easier, and perhaps even fun were it not for the news that José had brought: Richard was almost certainly dead. She tried not to think of it but he was always there, the memory and the sadness haunting her like a spectre in the shadows.
*
‘I am going to the quay to buy fish,’ she informed Tamaya. ‘The boats will be in shortly.’
The usual knot of women hung around in expectation, all eyes on the small boats as they bumped alongside the dock. Boys jumped ashore and tied off the lines, and the air was filled with the salty smell of newly caught fish and dredged up seaweed.
Squabbling gulls hung in mobs on the breeze, waiting to swoop down on the sprats, thrown unwanted by the men working the boats. On the edge of the quay two old men with shrimping nets fought the gulls to capture the sprats floating in the water; fish too mean for the market but which would provide a stew for a poorer family.
Evangeline waited patiently until a box came ashore, followed by another and another. There were seven boats tied off to the quay, each with their catch displayed in the boxes lined up in front of them. Skippers held up their best fish and called out prices, inviting bids from the gaggle of women now pushing forward. At the front of the press Evangeline caught sight of Señora Rojas, a woman she had hoped to avoid. She hung back while Rojas argued and haggled until she had what she wanted in her bag. As the woman turned to leave she spotted Evangeline. For a brief moment she threw her an ill-tempered glance, then pushed her way on through the crowd. With the departure of Señora Rojas, Evangeline edged up to the boxes. Her eye fell on a pair of good-sized red mullet. Minutes later she too was pushing her way through the thinning crowd and heading back along the quayside street, past the bars and cafés, towards home.
Approaching the end of the street she almost ran into Señora Rojas. She was standing in front of a bar holding court with a small pack of women around her, a glass in one hand. Seeing Evangeline she stepped out into the street to confront her. Three more women followed.