THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  ‘Is there an option?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Hmm, somehow I didn’t think there would be. Go on.’

  Harper looked briefly around the bar room. He leaned closer to Grainger. ‘The show gets on the road shortly. We’re pretty sure Fritz and the blockheads will come south. The thinking is they’ll invade Vichy. Take it over right the way down to the bottom. There’s even the possibility they just keep going south till they reach Gibraltar.’

  ‘So where do I come in? Is there a plan?’

  Harper broke into a broad grin. ‘Hell, no. We just want you to go up there and stop them. You gotta gun?’

  ‘Can we be serious for a moment?’

  ‘Sure. We have a number of OSS agents trying to make contact with the Maquis resistance groups. You’ve been through there; you know how the land lies. You know at least one of the groups. I need you to go across the mountains, the way you came in. Set up a liaison between us and them – before Fritz gets his boots on the ground and it’s all sealed up good and tight.’

  ‘How long before I have to go over?’

  ‘We leave here day after tomorrow. I have a little business with our consul in Barcelona first. He needs to be ready in case the Spanish cut up rough. Torch could unintentionally stray into their bit of Morocco – they might not like it. We’re not sure which way they’ll jump. Tomorrow’s your day off – enjoy it. Take a look around the old city; it’s kinda picturesque.’

  ‘There is one thing. I wouldn’t mind looking up the French girl I brought across the mountains. Evangeline Pfeiffer – I heard you might know where she is.’

  Harper assumed an awkward expression. He tightened his mouth into a thin straight line. He knew he was going to have to lie. He’d seen good men get illogical over a girl. He couldn’t run the risk of Grainger going AWOL. ‘Sorry, forget it. She moved on. I think she took up with some Spaniard or other.’

  Harper left at first light, setting out to drive to Barcelona. Over breakfast Grainger planned his day. Harper was right; he needed to forget the girl. He would take his suggestion and explore the old city.

  The river Onyar ran through the centre and had most of the old city lining its banks. There were shops, cafés, bars and restaurants thriving in its maze of backstreets, alleys and avenues. He took a coffee at one of the outdoor tables in a broad tree-sheltered promenade, stretching out his legs and lolling back in the chair. Across the way he spotted an alley that took his interest and when he had finished and paid, he sauntered over to investigate. It was a narrow thoroughfare studded on both sides with boutiques and small shops. He passed each one, glancing with interest at the small displays in their windows. He was passing a jewellery shop when an object caught his eye. He stopped and stared in through the window for a moment, then went inside.

  ‘I am interested in that,’ he said, pointing to the object that had taken his attention.

  The shop assistant took it and placed it on the top of his glass counter. ‘It is one half of a very rare gold Napoleon, señor.’

  Grainger picked it up and ran a finger along the cut edge. His pulse rate had risen. ‘How did you come by this?’ he asked the assistant politely.

  ‘A local lady brought it to me, señor. A foreigner; French, I believe. It is a shame that it is only half of the coin, though it is a very fine piece, señor.’

  ‘I think I would like to buy that. How much?’

  ‘It is one thousand pesetas, señor.’

  Grainger took out his wallet and counted out the thousand. ‘I don’t suppose you know the whereabouts of this lady. It would be good to speak with her about the history of this piece.’

  The assistant smiled obligingly. Ready to be helpful to a man who might return and buy something else. ‘Of course, señor. The lady is here in the city.’ He walked to the door of his shop and, stepping into the alley, pointed back to the promenade where Grainger had been drinking coffee. ‘There in the Carrer Santa Clara. There is a French patisserie. The lady is the owner, señor.’

  A tingle of electricity went through him as he entered the shop. Behind the counter a woman of colour smiled at him. He joined the queue behind two customers and waited. He kept glancing around him, hoping any minute to catch sight of her, but she was not there. The customer in front of him paid and left. It was his turn. The woman again smiled. ‘What do you wish, señor?’

  ‘I was wondering if the lady who owns this shop was available. I would like to speak with her.’

  Tamaya, shook her head. ‘I am afraid she is not here today, señor. Perhaps I can be of help?’

  ‘I was wondering what her name is. I thought she might be someone I once knew.’

  ‘Señora de Lorca.’

  Grainger looked disappointed. He felt the half coin in the packet the jeweller had given him. ‘Ah, no. Sorry, the lady I am looking for is French.’

  Tamaya brightened. ‘She is French, señor; de Lorca is her married name.’

  The words hit him like a club. He felt the dull pain of the revelation. ‘I hope she is well,’ he said, more out of courtesy than interest.

  ‘Oh, very, señor,’ Tamaya exuded enthusiasm, ‘she is expecting her first child soon and is in exceptional good health.’

  That was the knockout blow. ‘Thank you,’ he said in a flat voice and left. He needed to get away from the place and so walked without paying any heed to where he was going. He had lost her, and it was his own fault. Why should she hang around for a prospect as doubtful as him? Damn Charlie, damn Harper and damn the whole bloody war. He stopped midway on one of the bridges across the river, where he paused to take stock. A few minutes later he had decided.

  He found another café, ordered a beer and asked the waiter for a piece of paper, an envelope and a pen. He wrote a sad farewell, folded the note and slipped it into the envelope. Then he took both halves of the Napoleon and dropped them into the folds. He addressed the envelope to Señora Evangeline de Lorca and then slowly retraced his steps to the patisserie shop. He did not go in, but instead dropped it into the letterbox hung on the wall outside; then he left.

  That night he sat in the bar and got very drunk. He would have a headache in the morning but it would be less painful than staying sober with his thoughts.

  Chapter 32

  The bitter and the sweet

  The ride in the van was uncomfortable, and when they reached that part of the journey where the road exchanged its smooth macadam for loose shale, and they climbed through the switchbacks, Maria was forced to slow to a crawl. Evangeline felt every rut and bump and she feared it would be bad for the baby or even induce a premature labour. The women had calculated there was no more than five weeks of the pregnancy left.

  The last time she had been in La Vajol, Harper had told her that Richard was dead, and it had set in train what she had arrived at, and who she had become. It had changed the direction of her life. Now she had been told it was not true and she wanted answers.

  ‘Please wait for me here,’ she instructed Maria. ‘I shall not be long.’

  She raised the knocker on the front door of the house and rapped it down hard, three times. There was the sound of someone behind it but it did not open.

  There was a spyhole in the door; she could see it, and she assumed the person on the other side was looking to see who was there. She was sure that person would be Sergeant McAndrew. She stepped back a pace and waved, just to let him know that she knew he was there, watching.

  There was the sound of a chain being unhitched and a key being turned. The door opened. She had guessed right, there was McAndrew, a welcoming smile on his face. ‘Hi, mademoiselle, good to see you again. You’re looking well.’ Then he saw the bump. ‘Holy cow – oh sorry, miss. It’s just well – that took me by surprise.’ He was gawping at her swollen belly and his face had gone red with the embarrassment of what he had just said. He stood back and beckoned her in. ‘Come in, come in.’ He cast a quick glance up and down the street and then closed the door.


  ‘I’ve come to see Major Harper. I have some questions I would like answered.’

  McAndrew led her to the salon and offered her a seat. ‘He’s not here right now, miss. Maybe I could help?’

  She looked at him unsmilingly. ‘You’ll do just as well. I want to know why your major told me Richard Grainger was dead, when it was not true. He lied to me – why?’

  McAndrew shuffled uncomfortably. ‘It was the best information we had at the time, miss.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I can see it in your face. You knew, both of you. You could have told me and instead you compounded his lie. Richard is in Gibraltar, I know that – what I don’t know is why you would want me to believe he was dead. At least do me the courtesy of being truthful about that.’

  McAndrew’s face was covered in his guilt. ‘Miss, I was under orders from the major to keep my trap shut. I didn’t like it any more than you. At the time he was in Morocco. The mission was too delicate; we needed everyone to believe he was dead. I’m afraid that included you. Truth is always a casualty in war, miss. Is he the father?’ He nodded towards the swelling that held her child.

  Evangeline drew a deep breath and sighed. ‘I only wish that could be so but, thanks to your lie, it is not.’ After she had said it her face fell into a deep sadness and she looked as if she might cry. ‘You ruined my life, sergeant – you and your Major Harper.’ She got up and walked towards the door.

  McAndrew hurried after her. He opened the front door. ‘I’m sorry, miss, I really am – but it’s war. Look at it this way. It’s probably because we made everyone think he was dead that he’s alive now.’

  She stepped out into the street and turned towards him. ‘Do you honestly believe that?’

  ‘It’s war, miss,’ was the only answer she got. She walked back to the van, no wiser than when she arrived. They had hidden behind the cloak of secrecy.

  ‘Thank you, Maria,’ she said, ‘let’s go back to Girona.’ As they drove down the mountain road in silence she mulled over what had happened and wondered if she would ever see Richard again and, if she did, what she might say.

  She would not have to wait long for the answer. When they arrived back at the shop, Tamaya told her there had been a visitor. She handed Evangeline a letter. ‘This was in the mail box, Evi. I think your visitor left it.’

  With a trembling hand she took the letter upstairs to the salon and there she opened it. In that moment, as the two halves of the gold Napoleon fell out of the envelope and down into her lap, she knew it would not be good news.

  When Tamaya came up after the shop had been closed, Evangeline was sitting staring at the single sheet spread out beside her. He face was wet from the tears that life had once again dealt her.

  ‘Here.’ She held out the single sheet. ‘Read it, Tamaya. It will be easier than if I try to explain. I would only cry more tears and I don’t think I could bear it.’

  Tamaya took the single sheet and read what was written:

  My sweetest, dearest Evangeline,

  I thought you might like to have this. You gave it to me once and I know it was a gift; but it seems only right that I should return it now that you have settled your heart elsewhere. I found the other half in a shop nearby and I thought you might like to have that too.

  I will keep the nine lives if that is all right with you. I am afraid I’ve already used up a couple of them but I am sure I will have use of the others before this war is over. You will always be in my thoughts.

  Richard

  Tamaya put the note down on the table. She had heard often enough about him to know what it would mean to her. There was little she could say; there were no adequate words of comfort. She simply sat down next to her friend and put an arm around her shoulder, while she gently sobbed her heart out.

  *

  It was a whole week before she could properly stop the tears, but the pain of what might have been persisted. It hid in the dark corners of her mind, breaking out to torment her in unguarded moments. It lay in ambush when she woke from her uneasy sleep; it was always there, it refused to go away.

  It took a letter from Cortez to bring her back to a temporary truce with the ghosts that haunted her. In it he said he needed to see her urgently.

  It fell to Maria to drive her to Cadaqués. She had little doubt that it was the business of the car that had once more raised itself to challenge her. She had no energy to spare for it. Her term was only a month away and there was a new spectre that had emerged to join forces with the others. What if the child was a boy and it turned out to look like Carlos? Most boys she knew took after their fathers. How would she live with that, a constant reminder of the man who had been the chief architect of her misery? A boy who would grow across her lifetime, always there as a reminder. Could she love such a child?

  They got no further than the junction at Figueres, where they would make the turn onto the road for Cadaqués, when Evangeline let out a gasp. ‘Oh Maria, we have to go back, my waters have broken. The baby is coming.’

  ‘Querido Dios, Santa Madre.’ Maria jumped on the brakes, then swerved left and onto the road for Figueres. ‘It is too soon, señora. There is a hospital in Figueres, we must go there. If we do not the child must certainly die.’

  *

  The appointment with Cortez had been set for ten o’clock. It was midday. For whatever reason she had clearly decided not to attend. He telephoned the shop but the line rang until it rang out. Nobody answered.

  He had spent a week considering the demands of Don Ferdinand and the French policeman. There was, he knew, a process by which Evangeline’s arrest could be achieved. However, it would involve a small problem: a statement from him that the marriage had been entered into fraudulently and that Don Carlos had been misled and exploited by Evangeline Pfeiffer – and that would be perjury.

  He had already been sucked into the schemes of Carlos. He had deliberately withheld from Ramirez what he knew of the body in the garden, and for that alone he could lose his right to practise law. More than that, he had already done enough to warrant a term in prison, should these facts be uncovered. He was caught in a pincer. Don Ferdinand held the power to make his law practice a success – or he could destroy it. These were the choices.

  He had wrestled with his conscience all week, and now, when he finally made what he felt was the unavoidable choice, this important rendezvous had failed. He would have to phone Don Ferdinand and let him know the position. He knew it would be a difficult call.

  *

  The day after arriving at the hospital in Figueres the baby was born. It was ten minutes past six in the morning of the first day of November. It had been a mercifully short labour and a smooth delivery. It was a boy and Maria had been right, it was strong. The infant came into the world at nearly three kilos, with a cry that indicated a good pair of lungs. This was all the more surprising given that it had arrived almost a month before the full term.

  The day after the birth was Sunday. The shop was closed and Maria drove together with Tamaya in the camionette to Figueres.

  Tamaya went over to the crib where the baby was sleeping. ‘Oh, Evi, he is beautiful.’ At that the child’s eyes flickered open. ‘Oh, and the eyes, so blue. He has your eyes. Not at all like Don Carlos.’

  A gentle smile came onto Evangeline’s lips. ‘Yes, I’m glad of that.’

  The following week she was ready to leave. Maria came back again in the van to collect her and sang all the way home to the shop.

  The following week Maria once more made the journey to the hospital with Evangeline and the baby so that the infant could be weighed and his progress in the world checked. ‘He is a most healthy and robust little boy, Señora de Lorca,’ the midwife announced.

  ‘I am so happy he is. Being nearly a month before his time I was worried he would be a sickly child – but see, he is not.’

  At this the midwife picked up her notes and read them. She shook her head. ‘No, it says here the baby was not premature. Your pregnanc
y was for the normal term.’

  ‘But that can’t be. My monthly did not stop until May.’

  ‘Wait while I check with the doctor. He is here today; let me see what he says.’

  Minutes later she returned with the doctor. ‘I can assure you, señora, that your child is healthy and was born at the proper time. It was an almost perfect birth.’

  ‘But I have been regular since I was a girl. There was blood in the beginning of May.’

  The doctor looked at the notes again. ‘There were signs on your examination of a minor membrane rupture. Quite low down. It happens, not often, but it causes bleeding. I can assure you it was not menstruation. Your pregnancy was normal.’

  With that she seemed content.

  Chapter 33

  A time of goodbyes

  In the French hamlet of Les Hauts, in the shadow of the Pyrenees, a man in a rough shepherd’s coat, and shouldering a ruck sack, ambled into the square. He stopped at the fountain, more a water pump with a trough really, where he unhitched the rucksack and, leaning over to a bronze tap, let the water flow. He cupped his hands and took a mouthful. It was freezing. The snow had not yet arrived. The tracks had been ice free but that would soon change. It was the first day of November.

  An hour later the man was still sitting there. He appeared to be waiting for something. Shortly before the start of the next hour a car appeared, a rare site in such a small remote place. It pulled to a halt by the fountain and the man, picking up his rucksack, got in. Only one villager had observed it, an old man. The rest of the village, the able bodied, were down in the lower pastures where the sheep could still graze. Either that or they had gone to hills to join la resistance.