THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  The man shook his head slowly and, turning to one of the others, translated the question. There was a short conference. ‘No, monsieur, not here.’

  ‘Try him with this,’ Jordan suggested and passed the page from the notebook to Grainger. ‘See if he knows this address.’

  The butcher looked at the paper and began nodding. ‘This is one other souk, monsieur, not here. It is close by the docks at the port. Go there and ask.’ He handed it back to Grainger and carried on with his business.

  It was a short drive to the port and by the time they got there the afternoon was fast ebbing away. The souk was housed in newly constructed sheds with iron pillars and red-tiled roofs.

  ‘This is better,’ Jordan muttered as they left the car and began to walk. They found the Boucherie Ben Tazi almost immediately. Behind the counter an old man was cleaning a large wooden butcher’s block, rubbing salt into the wet surface then scalping it with a broad-bladed knife, scraping away a fine top layer of the wood to give it a new clean surface.

  ‘Salaam, sayidi.’ Grainger waited. The man stopped what he was doing and came over to where they stood at the counter. He gave them a toothless grin and said something in Arabic.

  ‘Français,’ Grainger responded with the single word. The old man held up a hand then called loudly into the back of the shop. ‘Aziz.’

  A door opened and a person appeared. He was unusually tall for a Moroccan, broad across the shoulders with a solid barrel chest. He did not have the appearance of a man who would be easy to intimidate.

  ‘Monsieur Aziz?’ Grainger asked in French.

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘You know a man called Hajji Karmalan?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘He gave us your name; he said you might be able to help us.’

  Aziz looked at the men in front of him, sizing them up, making a judgement. He rubbed one hand down his blood-stained butcher’s apron, then held it out, offering only the unsoiled back of the hand to be touched by both in greeting. ‘How can I assist?’ he said warily, this time speaking in English.

  ‘The Hajji said you had helped him out. You and your brother. You had carried four heavy carpets from his shop to a cart in a street close by.’

  Aziz made no reply, giving only the hint of a nod. His dark eyes flicked from one to the other of them. ‘Is this important?’ He raised two thick eyebrows.

  ‘The Hajji,’ Grainger suggested cautiously, ‘said you thought there was a body in the cart, a body that was alive.’

  Aziz gave a shrug of his huge shoulders. ‘What we saw is what we saw. There was a body wrapped in sackcloth – and it was tied. It was too big to be a sheep and too small to be a cow. When we put the carpet in, it moved. This much I can tell you – this much I saw; that is all.’

  ‘There was somebody with the cart?’

  ‘Two, maybe three. I only saw two for sure.’

  ‘Did you get a look at them?’ Jordan butted in. ‘What were they like, these men?’

  Aziz shook his head. ‘No, it was dark – but I can tell you one of them was not from this country, or any other along this coast. He was the same height like me. Not so big here.’ He clapped both hands on his chest. ‘And white, a man from the north I would say. His hair was very pale, almost the same like the colour of the straw of the hat he was wearing.’

  Grainger shot a glance at Jordan. ‘Was it a panama hat maybe? Like this?’ He lifted the panama Braiden had given him before he left for Tangier.

  ‘No, it was one of those with a flat top. Why do you need to know these things?’

  Grainger ignored the question. ‘Do you know where they took those carpets?’

  Aziz threw him a look of suspicion. ‘Why do you want to know?’ There was a measured tone to the way he said it.

  ‘You might as well tell him,’ Jordan said tersely.

  ‘We had a rendezvous with the Hajji for this afternoon. When we got there he was dead, and his boy Hassan, both dead.’

  Aziz made no reply. He stood calmly behind the counter, digesting the information he had been given, his breath slow and deliberate. ‘Do you know who did it? Tell me and I will kill them.’

  ‘You’ll find him in a yard just up from the carpet shop,’ Jordan said glibly. ‘I wouldn’t bother, though; I think we pretty much did the job already. He had this in his pocket book.’ Jordan laid out the piece of paper they had found on Alphonse Bouchard. ‘It has your name on it – I guess you and your brother were the next on the list to be bumped off.’

  ‘Do you know why? Why they were killed?’

  ‘We think it had something to do with who was in the bottom of that cart.’

  Aziz touched his forehead in an action of respect. ‘The Hajji was a good man. Ma sha Allah. God’s blessing be upon him. I heard the carpets were taken to the commercial wharf but I don’t know where. Only I heard that a man, a beggar I think, spoke about seeing the cart and hearing a voice call out.’ He turned and called to the old man who was still cleaning the block. ‘Baba.’ The man came over to join them. Aziz lapsed into Berber Arabic. ‘Ha,’ the old man said as the conversation progressed, ‘ha,’ again. Then he said something in reply to Aziz, a long string of Berber coming out of a grizzled and bearded face.

  ‘Yes,’ Aziz confirmed, turning back to the other two, ‘he has heard it was a beggar. He works the area of the port – but he doesn’t know his name or where you might find him. I am sorry. You must go and ask along the dock wharves – but be careful. It is certain the gendarmes will be looking for someone to arrest. That could be you. They are not to be trusted. Inshallah, you will be successful. Adhab mae Allah. May you go with God.’

  The sun was setting as they arrived back at the villa. Grainger poured out a beer and slumped down into a chair out on the veranda. ‘Looks like we’re at another dead end.’

  ‘We should go to the port tomorrow; see if we can find this beggar guy. It’s a godawful longshot, though.’

  Jordan took a slug of his beer. ‘I’ll get what we have on this Bouchard character over to the embassy in the morning. Maybe they can come up with something.’

  *

  The bus station in Fez was no more than an open piece of ground; hard, dusty ground, pounded flat by the passage of overladen vehicles and the soles of a thousand sandals.

  Stretched out around the perimeter, the battered relics that passed for buses, now third and even fourth hand, waited; the faded paint on their engine covers already shimmering under the morning sun. It would be another hot day.

  Filling the compound, milling bodies crossed and recrossed, dragging and shouldering bags and parcels, searching out the right transport for their destination. Mangy dogs threaded and meandered in among the legs, scavenging, sniffing at the ground, lifting a leg and pissing on the wheels of the waiting vehicles.

  A man who was gathering the fares for one of the buses put out a hand to bar the way of a boy.

  The boy, who looked like he might be begging or thieving, had one foot on the bottom step and was about to board.

  ‘Off!’ the man shouted, ‘no riff raff, no beggars!’

  The boy held up a coin and waved it in the face of his adversary. ‘Nah, baba, see, I have money. I can pay. I am a man of business.’

  At this the fare collector broke into a broad laugh. ‘A man of business, indeed. And what kind of business is this that should have need of an unwashed boy?’

  ‘I am a messenger – and I can pay my fare.’

  The man’s face softened. ‘So how far do you go with your messages?’

  ‘All the distance,’ the boy grinned, then added with an air of insistence, ‘I have important business.’

  ‘Well then, it will be two francs if you travel inside, one franc if you travel on top.’

  ‘How about if I travel on the ladder?’

  The fare collector widened his eyes. ‘It would be free – but – it is not permitted to travel on the ladder. Besides, sayidi, for a man of such important business it would not be dign
ified.’

  ‘Then I shall ride on top,’ the boy said, ‘and here is one franc.’

  The man took the coin, bit hard on it just to make sure it was silver and not aluminium, then put it into his bag.

  Chapter 18

  A change of direction

  She would keep the child. She had made up her mind. She had rehearsed it a hundred times in her head, the words she would use when Carlos returned and the matter was confronted. She was uncertain how he would take it. He was a man used to having his own way in everything, even when his father disapproved; so she knew it was going to be difficult. She was, however, determined, even though the prospect of his anger raised a sense of anxiety in her. For the moment, though, he was two thousand miles away and she had no idea when he would return.

  Tamaya had become protective. It had been impossible not to feel the tension of the rift between Evangeline and Carlos. She had heard the raised voices and seen the sullen rejection when she had served dinner on the evening the news was imparted. She fussed over everything. She was constantly enquiring if madame wanted anything. She wandered around plumping up cushions, cleaning more often, polishing furiously, offering tisanes and drinks she had been told by her mother were good for the constitution. It was as if she had taken on the protective role of a mother watching over the anxious moments of a daughter’s first child.

  Finally it became too much. ‘For goodness sake, Tamaya, stop fussing like a lost hen. It is only a baby; women have babies all the time.’

  ‘Yes, madame. I am sorry.’

  Evangeline, seeing the look of disparagement her words had caused, quickly added. ‘I know you mean well, Tamaya. The time will come when I need care – but not now.’

  Tamaya went back to the kitchen, a smile lighting her face. A baby would bring joy and life into the house. Then the dark shadow of Don Carlos invaded a small corner of her mind, soaking like spilled ink on a pure sheet of blotting paper, an unwelcome stain.

  Carlos had been gone for three weeks and there had been no communication. Tamaya thought it cruel but she knew it was the way of the de Lorca family. Centuries of privilege had rendered them indifferent to those whose lives they controlled. A fear began to grow inside her: a fear for Evangeline and the baby; a fear of what Don Carlos might do when he returned. The Spain of Franco was a hard, pitiless place where anything could be made to happen if you had sufficient power. The de Lorcas had that power – and a long reach.

  Together with the fear, an idea was also growing in her mind. An idea of flight, of escape, of getting beyond the reach of Carlos de Lorca. France she knew was out of the question but there was Portugal. Better still, the British were in Gibraltar and that was not far. The only question in her mind was how to share these thoughts with her mistress. She could not be sure her concerns and ideas would be welcomed.

  *

  At the end of the fourth week after Carlos had left for Buenos Aires, there was a visitor. The bell on the front gate clanged out its hollow ring and Tamaya was dispatched to see who it was. ‘It is Señor Cortez, here to see you, madame.’

  As she conducted him to the salon a cold spike stabbed deep into Tamaya’s gut. This, she was sure, must be some errand for Don Carlos.

  ‘Please,’ Evangeline said when he had entered the room, ‘do sit down. I will ask Tamaya to bring tea.’

  Cortez remained standing. ‘That is kind of you, Señora de Lorca, but I have other pressing business. I shall not be stopping.’ The tone was formal and the delivery awkward. He was clearly a man on a mission, and from his stance it appeared it was a mission for which he had little appetite.

  ‘I shall be brief. I have heard from your husband. I am instructed to arrange a termination of your pregnancy. A doctor will attend on you here. Please be assured it will be discreet.’

  For a moment she felt weak and sick. She struggled to control the trembling that was running through her body. It was what she had secretly feared ever since his veiled remarks before he left for Buenos Aires. Now, here it was, confronting her and she felt helpless. There was no one she could turn to. She was a stranger in a hostile land.

  ‘I shall not consent to this.’ She grasped at the words

  like a lifeline.

  Cortez showed little emotion. His expression, though not hard, had no pity in it. ‘I am sorry, señora, but that is not possible. It is the command of your husband.’

  ‘Do I have no say in this terrible decision? Do I have no rights?’

  Cortez heaved a deep sigh. He shook his head. This woman in front of him clearly did not realise her position. ‘Señora, do you not understand that when you married Don Carlos you agreed to obey him? He is your master and you are his property. You have no rights other than to be an obedient wife – that is the law of this country.’

  ‘Is it the law that you are permitted to murder an unborn child?’

  Cortez was a lawyer, and faced with such a question his ethics compelled him to answer as a lawyer. ‘No señora, it is not.’

  Inside her the fear and caution had subsided; now her anger flared. ‘Then I shall fight this malicious idea. I will not be violated in this manner.’

  From his face she could see he was a man caught in the trap of two directions. On one side, his client; on the other, the law. Once more he slowly shook his head. ‘I would not advise that, señora. The family of de Lorca is not one you should oppose. The outcome would not be good. Now I must leave. I will call you again when I have arranged the time with the doctor. I am sorry, but it is best that we do this – both for you and the child.’

  Tamaya took Cortez to the gate and when she returned to the house it was clear Evangeline was angry. ‘What is it, madame? Not bad news of Don Carlos, I hope.’

  ‘It is the worst news I’m afraid, Tamaya. Don Carlos, he wants to kill the baby.’

  Tamaya’s face crumpled. ‘Madame, they can’t.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Tamaya, it seems they can.’

  Over dinner Evangeline immersed herself in the terrible choices laid in front of her. She picked and pulled at the food, finding it difficult to get it into her mouth. When she had forced herself to eat what she could she pushed the plate aside. She had made her decision. She still had money and that would have to be her salvation.

  ‘I think you are right,’ she said when Tamaya came in to clear the table. ‘It is time to think about leaving this place.’

  She had slept better than she thought she would, though it was a sleep riven with the wild fantasia of dreams: dreams of pursuit and insecurity, of falling from mountain tops, of dark empty houses and narrow lanes that led to nowhere. She dreamed of Richard and saw him clearly, and although she woke to the pangs of loss, she also woke with a new determination.

  ‘I have a plan, Tamaya. I shall go to the British in Gibraltar. The car belonging to Don Carlos is here in the outbuilding. I shall drive in it as far as Algeciras and abandon it there. If I leave a note for him saying where it is and that he should collect it, well, then I cannot be accused of theft. I believe him mean spirited enough to make such a charge. Now, the only question I have is what to do about you. If you wish I will release you to return to the house of Don Ferdinand or you can come with me. You must choose.’

  ‘Madame, I cannot return to the household of Don Ferdinand. I would be severely punished. I would be blamed because I did not betray your plans to Don Carlos or the family. I cannot go back. I would prefer, madame, to stay with you. I have been happy in your service.’

  Evangeline looked pleased. She had formed an attachment to this woman, and an unspoken bond of friendship had grown up between them. ‘Then it is settled. I shall go to the bank in Girona today and take out my money. I do not believe we have much time. Telephone Señor Hernandez and tell him I need his taxi service. While I am gone you should make your own preparations to leave.’

  Señor Morales, the manager of the Banco Popular de Girona, greeted her with a civility that he reserved for his most important clients. When she h
ad first come to him to deposit the money she had brought with her from France, he had considered her a person of means, though deeper in his mind there was the taint of her status: a foreigner and a refugee. After her marriage into the de Lorca family his prejudice had been swept aside and she was afforded the full honours due to her.

  Accordingly, and in keeping with the etiquette of the bank, tea was served in his office before any business was transacted. There were the usual enquiries as to her wellbeing, the health of Don Carlos and some small talk about the progress of the war against the British. ‘Now,’ he said cheerily, ‘what service can I do for you today?’

  ‘I wish to take my money out of the bank. I need it for another investment.’

  Morales seemed taken aback. A patrician look with the hint of a smile spread across his face, the look you might give a child who has said something silly but charming. ‘Señora, your account, it has been closed. You have no money.’

  She was stunned and confused by the statement. ‘You must be mistaken, señor. I have not closed my account, nor have I spent or removed my money.’

  Morales stared blankly at her. ‘But your husband, señora, he closed the account when you were married. It is usual.’

  Once more she was struck by a sinking feeling. Her world was again in freefall. ‘Monsieur,’ she blurted out, forgetting her Spanish and lapsing into French. ‘It is my money, not that of my husband.’

  Morales did not understand. He spoke only Spanish he reminded her. Evangeline stopped, drew breath and then repeated her complaint. ‘He had no right to close my account, Señor Morales. I would like my money.’

  Morales peered at her over the top of his spectacles. For the second time in as many days she was given the same reply. ‘When you married, señora, all your goods became the property of your husband. You have no money, Señora de Lorca. It was his right to close the account. The money was moved to the account of the Minas Delgado y de Lorca in Buenos Aires. It was a lawful transaction, Señora de Lorca. The money has gone – and without the consent of your husband, it cannot be returned.’