THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  She smiled at the servant standing there trying to do what little she could to help her. She was touched by the kindness of the gesture. ‘And what of Don Carlos? He has given his bond to the court. I could not betray that, Tamaya.’

  The phone rang just after she had finished breakfast. It was Cortez. ‘You speak to him, please,’ she instructed Tamaya. ‘You can tell me afterwards.’

  Tamaya listened, a hopeful look in her eyes. ‘He wants you to go to his office, mademoiselle, this afternoon. He says he may have an answer to your problems.’

  When they arrived at Cortez’s office he requested that Tamaya go to a separate room. ‘It is a very private matter,’ he insisted. Then he conducted Evangeline to his room. When they entered she was surprised to see Carlos sitting next to the desk. He immediately stood up, a broad smile on his face. He took her hand, gave the usual kiss, then offered her a chair. Cortez made himself comfortable. He, too, had a smile on his face.

  ‘This has been the idea of Don Carlos.’ He spoke slowly and enunciated carefully so that she might understand. ‘Under the law of Spain, mademoiselle, it is not possible to deprive a Spanish person of their right of abode.’

  ‘But I am not Spanish, señor, I am French.’

  He held up his hand. ‘That is true, but that can be changed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It is simple. If you were to marry a Spanish national, you would automatically become a citizen of Spain – with all the rights of your husband. Don Carlos has offered to take your hand in marriage.’ Carlos was gently nodding.

  Evangeline sat there open-mouthed, lost for words. She was stunned by the suggestion and for a moment thought she must have misunderstood.

  ‘I would deem it an honour, Evangeline.’ Carlos put out a hand to touch hers. ‘You must know I have a great affection for you.’

  She flinched at the touch. Her face coloured in a ruddy blush. If she had not understood before, she was now in no doubt. Her first reaction was to say no – I’m sorry but I can’t. She was still too raw from the news of Richard.

  Seeing her reticence, Carlos moved his chair a little away from her to give her space. ‘I know this must be a shock and I am sorry if it has offended you. I only wanted to help and this was all I could do.’

  He looked profoundly ill at ease and embarrassed. There was an awkward hiatus, a gulf across which no one felt able to reach.

  ‘It is a good proposal, mademoiselle,’ Cortez said in a voice tinged with consolation. ‘It would most certainly work.’

  Evangeline’s mind had stopped spinning. She had absorbed the first shock and now she started to weigh the proposal. ‘Dear Carlos, I know your intention is honourable and I am grateful – but you must understand, this has come as a shock. I need time to think about it.’

  ‘Will you do just that?’ Don Carlos said tentatively. ‘Not for me but for yourself.’

  ‘There is not much time if we are to manage this,’ Cortez advised. ‘We have only two weeks.’

  ‘Can a marriage be arranged in two weeks?’

  Carlos gave a solemn movement of his head. ‘It is possible to arrange a civil marriage for people who are not of the Catholic faith. You are a Lutheran, as you told me, and me – my family has influence in the church – it can be arranged.’

  She looked at Carlos. He was a handsome enough man and he seemed kind. It was a way out if she could bring herself to do it. ‘Give me twenty-four hours to think and sleep on it. I will let you know tomorrow.’ With that she got up and, wishing them both a good day, collected Tamaya and left.

  The following morning before breakfast she made a phone call to Carlos. ‘I have considered your kind and thoughtful proposal – and my answer is yes.’

  Chapter 15

  The man in the Persian carpet shop

  Grainger slowed the Citroën. ‘This’ll do.’

  They were in a broad tree-lined avenue. He pulled the car up onto the pavement and tucked it in tight to another vehicle. There, he calculated, it would be lost in the carnival of carelessly abandoned machines that littered the kerbs on both sides.

  Jordan went round to the back of the car and, opening the boot, took out a canvas bag. He slammed the lid down and joined Grainger on the pavement. He held up the bag. ‘Trench gun; don’t wanna be caught out a second time.’

  They made their way along the avenue, Jordan still limping slightly from the hit he had taken from the green Renault, four days earlier.

  The carpet shop was in the street of Mohammed V; a dark, narrow, ill-formed alley, flanked by tall grey buildings. It was a place where the light of the sun was a stranger which barely penetrated the gloom of its precincts.

  Not far along from where they had entered the street they came to the shop. The painted board above the window was inscribed with the owner’s name in Arabic and in French. Underneath it announced ‘Tapis Orientale et Perse’.

  ‘This looks like it.’ Grainger heard the metallic sound as Jordan reached into the bag and pulled back the breech to load the shotgun. ‘For Christ sake, don’t shoot the bugger before we get a chance to talk to him.’

  A grin spread across Jordan’s face. ‘Just being cautious.’ He stretched out a hand of invitation. ‘Shall we?’

  Inside, the shop was an open space. There was no furniture other than a desk and three chairs. In the middle, piles of rugs and carpets were loosely stacked where they could easily be peeled back one at a time for a buyer to inspect. The walls too were hung with merchandise: prayer mats, small rugs and much bigger specimen pieces – those of higher value. The air smelt of cotton and whipcord.

  A slender, dark-haired man in his fifties greeted them. His complexion was pale and the hand he offered in greeting was delicately manicured, snakeskin smooth and cold to touch.

  He smiled graciously, a mendicant in expectation of a reward. ‘Barfamah,’ he said, using his native Persian; then added effusively, ‘bienvenue, herzlich willkommen, welcome.’ The smile converted to an expression of smug satisfaction as he demonstrated to these foreigners that he was an educated man. ‘There, now you have it in the four languages at my command. How can I be of service gentleman?’

  ‘Are you the trader from Esfahan?’ Grainger trotted out the first line of the password. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘I am. I sell only the finest carpets.’

  ‘Good.’ Grainger let his shoulders relax. ‘Then you know what we have come for.’

  The man moved towards the biggest pile of rugs. He pulled a prayer mat from the top of the pile. ‘The one you have chosen is expensive.’

  ‘How much,’ Jordan asked, suspicious that the price of the information they were seeking was about to rise.

  ‘Twenty thousand of your English pounds.’

  ‘Too much – and I’m American. I only talk in dollars.’

  Hajji Karmalan tilted his head a little to one side and half raised his hands, palms faced upwards and open. ‘In which case – thirty thousand.’

  Grainger was shaking his head, his lips tight and a look of frustration on his face. ‘This isn’t the Esfahan bazaar; we didn’t come to haggle. You know the price on offer.’

  Karmalan gave a dismissive puff of his breath. ‘The price, my friend, is the price,’ he shrugged, ‘and I am from Tehran, not Esfahan – a small point, I know, but I like correctness.’

  Jordan was unimpressed. ‘The offer is ten grand. Carry on arguing like a two-bit swindler and it goes down.’ Karmalan stiffened; he hated these arrogant foreigners and their imperious attitudes, the way they thought they were somehow above him.

  ‘I think you forget your place, sir.’ There was a cold, measured anger in the way Karmalan eyed them. ‘I would remind you that my nation comes from a noble civilisation. We are the heirs of Cyrus, whom you chose to call the Great. When our streets were lit and our houses paved with marble, your ancestors were living in caves, rubbing two sticks together to make fire. Do not presume to consider me in a lower order than yourselves
, because it is quite the reverse.’

  Jordan’s look changed to menacing. Grainger watched as he unzipped the canvas bag. He could see what was coming next. As Jordan reached into the bag, Karmalan continued to deliver his lecture. ‘We are,’ he insisted, ‘the children from the cradle of civilisation.’

  ‘Quite so, old chap,’ Grainger cut in. He knew he had to pull the plug on this and cool things down. ‘Indeed, it was the cradle of civilisation. It’s just a shame somebody dropped the baby on its head. Now, let’s act like the civilised people we claim to be and settle the business we came for. Okay?’

  ‘Fifteen thousand,’ Karmalan said coldly.

  Jordan shook his head. ‘You guys just don’t fucking learn. It now goes down to five. You wanna see it go lower.’

  It was too much for Karmalan. ‘You must leave my shop. It is clear to me we have nothing to offer you. Now go.’

  That did it for Jordan. He pulled out the trench gun and stuffed the barrel hard up under Karmalan’s chin. ‘Okay, let’s get this straight, buddy. You don’t wanna talk, that’s fine by me. I might just as well blow your fuckin’ head off ‘cos you’re damn all use alive.’

  Karmalan went rigid. His eyes widened into a stare. Grainger put up a hand and calmly pulled the barrel of the gun away from the now quivering victim. ‘Steady on, Tommy. I’m sure Mr Karmalan wants to tell us what he knows.’ He looked straight into the eyes of Hajji Karmalan. ‘Hajji baba, khoob na bud hast. Al on khaily khatternak hast. Dato tuman dollari bri shumar bettar hastid. Man bar shumar rafiq hastam.’ He put a hand on Karmalan’s shoulder and smiled.

  Jordan stood and waited, the trench gun barrel lowered. He had no idea what Grainger was saying or even what language he was using – but it seemed to be working.

  Karmalan had calmed. He jogged his head a little, indicating that he was coming to terms with the proposal. He smiled politely at Grainger. ‘You are an educated man, sir, I salute you. Where did you learn to speak modern Persian?’

  ‘University.’ Grainger waved a hand at the chairs. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘We should have tea,’ Karmalan announced, as if all that had gone before had never happened.

  Jordan looked at his watch. They had already been there for more than a quarter of an hour. ‘Leave the tea; we don’t wanna hang around any longer than we have to.’

  Karmalan would not hear of it. ‘We cannot conclude a deal until we have had tea together. It would not be proper. Besides, should anyone come into my shop all will seem normal. Hassan!’ He got up. ‘I shall arrange for my assistant, Hassan, to make tea.’

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke his lingo,’ Jordan said after Karmalan had left. ‘Boy, you are one annoying smartass. Anyway, what did you say to him?’

  ‘Only that he was in a dangerous position and you would probably shoot him – and it was better he settled for the ten grand on the table.’

  ‘And he bought it?’

  ‘He did.’

  Karmalan came back followed by a youth with a tray and three glasses of tea.

  ‘Okay let’s have it; spill. Where is Émile Xicluna?’

  ‘A month ago a man came into my shop – a German, I think; at least he spoke in that language.’ Karmalan picked up his tea glass and took a sip.

  ‘What did he want?’

  He raised his eyebrows at Jordan. ‘Well now, sir, he bought several carpets, four if I remember. Big carpets. Now this was unusual just by the quantity. My customers rarely buy more than one large carpet, sometimes more than one rug – but four carpets, large ones, that was indeed unusual. Stranger than that, though, he did not bother to look at them. All my customers consider carefully the carpet they buy – these are not inexpensive items. But, no, he just pulled back the corners of the top four carpets on the pile, demanded to know how much, then he paid me. He paid me what I asked.’

  Grainger shrugged. ‘Bizarre. Is that normal?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Karmalan resumed. ‘It is not. Nobody pays the first price. I offered him tea and he refused. He just gave me the money and instructed that they were to be taken to the end of the street where he had a cart waiting.’ Karmalan broke again to drink more tea.

  Jordan looked at him impatiently. ‘And?’

  ‘Carpets are heavy. I could not carry them myself so I instructed Hassan to go to the souk, to the shop of a butcher, Ben Tazi, and ask two of the brothers who work there if they would come to carry the merchandise. Aziz and Mohammed are strong and young. It was dark when they arrived. They took the carpets happily; they would be paid for their work. But when they came back Aziz looked worried. Then he told me, as they arrived to put the carpets into the cart, two men who were waiting there put a large sack in it. They were told to lay the carpets on top of the sack. Aziz says the sack moved. In that moment he thought it was perhaps a sheep or maybe a goat. By the time he had returned to me, however, he had changed his mind. He was sure it was a human body in the sack. Later, there was a rumour in the souk. A man claims that when he passed by the cart he heard a voice cry out, a voice that spoke in the dialect of Algiers.’ Karmalan went back to his tea.

  Jordan thought for a moment. ‘Okaaay, does anyone know where the cart went?’

  ‘The man who heard the voice says he followed the cart. He was curious about this pile of carpets – that spoke. He says it went to the port. That is where you should look if you wish to find Émile Xicluna.’ Karmalan stopped; he had finished.

  ‘What about this man?’ Grainger asked casually. ‘Could you find him for us?’

  Karmalan was less than enthusiastic. He became reticent and hesitated. ‘It could be dangerous. I am not sure.’

  Jordan dug into the canvas bag again but this time pulled out a brown envelope. ‘There’s ten grand in dollar bills in there. Find me the man and I’ll find you another five grand.’

  The offer was too much to resist. ‘Come back tomorrow, in the afternoon but before evening prayers. I shall try to find him.’

  ‘The man who bought the carpets,’ Grainger asked as they were about to go out onto the street, ‘can you describe him?’

  Karmalan cast his mind over the question for a few minutes. ‘He was tall, like you, sir. I do remember he had very light coloured hair like straw and blue eyes. I am sure he was German. Oh, and he had one of those straw hats, very flat on the top. I think you call it a boater.’

  Chapter 16

  An unhappy affair

  It was not what she had planned; in her mind she had always imagined something quite different from that with which she was now confronted. There would be no wedding dress, no feast, no bridesmaids in attendance; only her, Carlos, the officials at the mayor’s office, with Cortez and Tamaya presenting themselves as witnesses. That was all the law required, and this was a marriage of convenience. Events dictated that it had to be done quickly.

  Carlos did what he could to bring a touch of romance to the event. There were flowers and after the formalities had concluded he drove her in his car to Girona where he had arranged accommodation in the Hotel Historic, the best hotel in the city. They dined in its elegant restaurant and afterwards retired to the honeymoon suite. It was only a three-day stay and she was glad. She had a husband and she was now safe from the threat of the tribunal. In any other world, and with Richard, she would have been in the arms of deep happiness – but this was not any normal world, this was the reality of expedience. At night, in their marital bed, she tried not to think of Richard but she could not get him out of her head. It would pass, she told herself. All she needed was time.

  Don Ferdinand refused to see her. They had been married for more than a week and although Carlos slept in the house and dutifully carried out his role of husband, the family shunned her. He did not offer any explanation and she had not asked for one, but in the end she decided it had to be aired. Over dinner one evening she decided to broach the matter.

  ‘I do not understand why they do not like me, Carlos. Is it because I am a foreigner?’

  It
was clear from his reaction that he did not welcome the discussion. ‘It will take time, my sweet flower,’ was all he would say, then closed the subject.

  *

  Antonio Cortez came to lunch. He entered the house with confidence and wore a satisfied smile as Tamaya conducted him to the salon. ‘It has succeeded,’ he announced to Evangeline, ‘the court has dismissed the charges against you, Señora de Lorca. You are exonerated.’

  For a split second she cast around her for another person. She could still not get used to being called by that title. It was especially difficult as almost no one referred to her by her first name.

  After lunch she left the men to talk and smoke cigars while she went into the garden and sat under the orange tree.

  Cortez came out into the garden to take his leave and wish her a good afternoon. Shortly after he had gone Carlos came out and sat next to her. His expression was awkward, like that of a man who carried bad news.

  ‘Cortez has received a letter.’ His face was grave and his voice sombre. ‘It came from our family lawyer. My father is proposing to challenge the legality of our marriage.’

  ‘Can he do that?’

  ‘Cortez says no, but nothing is certain when it comes to the law, especially when it is in the hands of Don Ferdinand. He has said he will cut me off and withdraw my allowance unless I cooperate.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I will fight him. I have my own investment. I can survive without his charity.’

  ‘Your Argentinian venture. Will it be enough?’

  ‘There is a great demand for aluminium in this war; it could become more important than gold.’

  ‘Is it aluminium that you are mining then?’

  He smiled patronisingly. ‘Not quite, sweet flower; bauxite, that is what we are mining. It is the ore from which aluminium is extracted.’

  ‘Is it profitable, Carlos?’