Tangier (42 page)

Hamid turned away. Robin's mention of Hervé
 
Beaumont brought back sad thoughts of Farid. He'd seen his brother many times since his intrusion in the rug room, but neither of them had spoken of the incident, as if it hadn't happened and Hamid hadn't seen what he had seen. It didn't matter anyway, he supposed. They were brothers and loved each other as brothers should. Farid was entitled to live his life as he liked. And yet it seemed to Hamid that in that moment in the rug room he had stood between opposing worlds which he could not put together in his mind.

Could Kalinka help him reconcile the foreigners' Tangier which he policed with the Arab city in which he lived? Could she give him a vision of Tangier in which all its facets would finally be clearly joined? She'd said he'd liberated her from hashish, and now she would free him from the Mountain. Was that possible? Was she right? Could she really have become so strong?

He had a dream. He was lost in a medina—not the medina of Tangier, for he knew his way through that, but a new and strange medina, a maze of alleyways and buildings, narrow streets that turned at odd angles, filled with people crying out in European tongues. Yes, that was what was strange—there were no Arabs in these streets. It was a medina for Europeans, which was impossible of course, a European labyrinth in which he was caught and trapped and lost. But then Kalinka appeared, slim and straight in a Vietnamese dress. She beckoned to him. He followed her. She became his guide, led him through the labyrinth, and showed him how he might escape.

T
wo-thirds of the way through Ramadan the foreign community of Tangier became possessed. The social madness, the effort to transform a disastrous summer into a glittering fête, reached a peak when five parties of varying elegance and size were scheduled for a single August night.

Everyone's appetite had been whetted, prior to that sweltering evening, by the presence in Tangier harbor of Henderson Perry's enormous yacht. That magnificent boat,
The Houston Gusher
, anchored in plain sight, seemed to advertise the festivities to come.

Those fortunate enough to be invited to Perry's "Castlemaine" would have a chance to devour his Beluga caviar and God only knew how many bottles of his fine champagne. The American Ambassador and half the Moroccan royal family were coming up from Rabat. There was even a rumor (incorrect, as it turned out) that the Shah of Iran would secretly fly in.

In the event that one were not invited to Perry's, the situation was still not bleak. Countess de Lauzon was throwing a rival affair—"an evening of fantasy," she said—at which her guests, the sons of Sodom and the daughters of Gomorrah, were encouraged to appear in outrageous dress.

Then there were the Manchesters, who'd invited their friends to "drink the dregs" on the eve of their departure for Fort Lauderdale. Willard and Katie weren't aware of the other parties when they sent their invitations out, and later, on account of pride, they couldn't change the date. It didn't matter anyway, according to Robin Scott, since their circle barely touched the higher orbits. Peter Zvegintzov, Dan Lake, the Foster Knowles', and the Clive Whittles had accepted, the Fufus were probables, and the Ashton Codds had promised to "try."

The gathering of Tangier Players club members at Jill and David Packwood's Shepherd's Pie was the lowest of the parties in social terms, but held the promise of high drama nonetheless. The Packwoods' little restaurant on the beach would be closed to tourists for the night. Once a nasty bit of TP business was concluded, there would be a beer-and-sausages party to celebrate the end of Laurence Luscombe's reign.

Finally there was a soirée at Jimmy Sohario's, "a party to unwind from parties," as it was billed. Everyone was invited: duchesses, diplomats, hustlers off the streets. The idea was to slip away from the Manchesters', the Packwoods', Henderson Perry's, or Françoise de Lauzon's just after midnight when things were cooling down, then hurry over to Jimmy's "Excalibur," where the revelries would last till dawn.

Tangier was ready, poised for all of this, when the unexpected news of Vicar Wick's suicide broke like a summer storm. A cloud of confusion hung above the Mountain. Lightning bolts of sorrow pierced British breasts.

But then, as the contents of the Vicar's diaries became known, the shock and grief began to lift. The sorrowful image of him dangling from a rafter in the nave of St. Thomas in a noose of his own contriving, gave way to a sense, generally shared, that the old boy had got what he deserved.

Word of his scandalous diaries traveled fast. His expressions of hatred, his detestation of his loyal flock, were greeted with stunned outrage. He held them all responsible, it seemed, for the evils that had descended upon the church: the anonymous notes, the pierced sheep's eye, even the hacking of the altar crucifix. People were prepared to forgive the curse of madness, to say "There but for the grace of God go I," but the Vicar's accusations against them, his hatred so monstrously misplaced, eroded any sympathy they might have felt.

Lester Brown certainly felt that way. "My God," he said, wiping the sweat from his gleaming pate, "how that awful man led me on. He had me spying on people, making lists of suspects whom he knew were innocent all the time. Kept talking about the future of St. Thomas, the hypocrite, as if he ever really gave a good goddamn."

Lester might have had good cause to feel betrayed, but there were others who, though less intimately involved, expressed great fury too. How can this be? they asked, bitter and confused. How could this man whom we honored, made curator of our faith, have stabbed us so cruelly in the back? Other, less pretty phrases were bandied about the Mountain. "A kick in the ass," said Percy Bainbridge. "A knee to the balls," said Patrick Wax. The furor, which raged like a tornado, brought many Englishmen to tears, not in memory of their late vicar, to be sure, but for what his actions told them about themselves.

The Mountain recovered after a while, making a conscious effort to dismiss the matter from its collective mind. "We're not accountable," Peter Barclay told his friends, "not accountable in any way. Besides, we must try to occupy ourselves. The parties, for instance—it'll do us good to let off steam. In the autumn there'll be plenty of time to find someone new to lead the church."

So the storm passed, nearly as quickly as it had come. Spiritually regrouped, the Europeans marched on with their lives. There was much to think about those torrid August days; Tangier was restless, and a night of five parties loomed.

H
amid longed for an air conditioner, anything to relieve the heat. The churning fan that hung from the ceiling of his office made a sirocco of the stifling air. There was a water cooler out in the corridor and a machine that dispensed paper cups. He brushed by it many times each day. He hated it. It mocked his thirst.

Such a clutter on his desk, such a jumble of cases he could never solve. He hurt from Ramadan, suffered from the fast. One was not supposed even to swallow one's own saliva, or insult Allah by smoking a cigarette. It was mad, he knew, to abide by these rigid rules, especially since he did not think of himself as a particularly religious man. The President of Tunisia had told his people that the Koranic laws no longer applied, but Morocco was different, a theocratic state. The pressure to conform was enormous. Only combat battalions were exempt.

Truly, he thought, it had been an awful summer, miserably hot, filled with crimes. Then there'd been the suicide, less astounding as an isolated act than for the hatred and bitterness it aroused. The original note addressed to Barclay, which had triggered the Vicar's loss of faith, had never harmed its intended target, and its author, whoever he was, was still unpunished and unknown. But the Vicar, who'd taken on the burden of that author's guilt, was now despised in death.

Ah
, he thought,
the infinite complexities of the foreigners, the inscrutable workings of their minds
. But really the whole business bored him now—the Mountain seemed alien in the face of the agonies of the fast.

Still there were things to do, distractions from his thirst. He'd just received orders to put aside his outstanding cases. Members of the royal family were due in Tangier at eight o'clock, and their security had to be arranged. Aziz had made up a special duty roster and was out now fetching a map of the Mountain Road. Soon the two of them would sit down, mark it up, decide where to post the men. The problem, as always, would be to protect the corridor through Dradeb.

L
aurence Luscombe made his way down Rue Marco Polo, tilting back his body as he walked. The narrow little street was steep and treacherous; he was careful not to trip. The bright lights of Avenue d'Espagne lay ahead. It wasn't night yet, but it was Ramadan and someone had forgotten to turn them off.

He whistled "Mad Dogs and Englishmen" to keep his courage up. Across the tracks, lining the beach, were the little bathing clubs, the bars and restaurants, and the Shepherd's Pie. It was a few minutes past seven. The others, he knew, were already there. They were prompt at least—that was one thing he could say. God knew he'd trained them long enough, taught them how important it was to be on stage on time.

It was a deliberate choice on his part to show up five minutes late. He'd planned things, practiced his speech before his mirror, refined every gesture, timed each gulp and pause. He was going to give a performance tonight, perhaps the greatest of his career. He was confident, well rehearsed, but a little nervous too. There was, as always, the dread of rejection, the thought that the audience might hiss or boo.

Ah—there was Derik Law's little Humber by the curb, the Calloways' cream-colored Buick, Joe Kelly's Renault 16. Yes, they were there all right, probably wondering where he was. The Drears, and Jack Whyte, Jill and David Packwood, of course. Well—let them wait a minute longer. Let them just simmer in there. Let them stew.

He started to cross Avenue d'Espagne but leaped back to avoid a bus. Lord, it was terrible the way these famished Moroccans drove. They aimed right at you, as if they wanted to run you down. Well, maybe they did, he thought.

He walked a few more paces down the sidewalk, then attempted to cross again. This time he made it, over to the railroad side. He crossed the tracks, stepped onto the beach, trudged his way across the sand to the door of the Shepherd's Pie.

What a dump it was, the Packwoods' place. "English Spoken Here" a big sign said. There was another one below: "Private Party. Closed Tonight." He recognized David Packwood's sloppy lettering, the same dribbling style he used on TP sets. It was a dump. Imagine calling a restaurant the Shepherd's Pie. So coarse. So non-U. It could be worse, he thought. They could have called it the Fish and Chips.

What could one expect anyway? The Packwoods were trash, like the Drears and the Calloways. They had their little summer business, their little bar and restaurant on the beach. Four thousand, five thousand quid—they claimed they cleared that much catering to Cockney British tourists, the aftershave perfumed set, the Piccadilly queers. Well, they made a living at it, enough to see them through the winter months, though Jill always looked a fright when the summer was over—David kept her cooped up in that closet of a kitchen turning out those disgusting greasy pies.

He checked his watch. Too late to turn back now. He made his way to the door, paused a moment, screwed up his courage, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

There they were, the lot of them, looking at him just the way he knew they would. Guilt! Shame! It was written all over them. The shame of it, to call a meeting when they knew perfectly well his supporters couldn't come. Well, let them stare, damn them. It didn't make any difference now. He took them in, one by one, met each set of eyes straight on. They lowered theirs, of course—except for Kelly. That scarred-up little bastard
had
no shame.

To hell with them! To hell with Kelly too! They'd beaten him; the game was over now. Derik would have stood by him if he'd decided to fight it out. Barclay had said the Vicar would too, but then the Vicar had killed himself.

"Evening," he said in a gentle, fatherly voice which had nothing to do with the way he felt. "Sorry to be late. Don't want to delay the routine. Sunset years, you know. Can hardly keep up with you youngsters anymore."

He smiled then, as broad and charming as he could. They were staring at him quite curiously now. They'd been expecting something else. He knew what that was: a broken man, whining, pathetic, enraged. They'd come for blood, to see the old bull slain. Torment him, kill him, haul him away. Well, he'd not give them the pleasure of seeing that; he'd give them a lesson in class.

"Listen," he said, stepping to the center of the room, using the space between the tables as if it were a stage, "there're a few words I want to say before we get on with business." They were all ears then, craned forward in their seats. He smiled at them kindly and looked around again. His timing had been good—he'd thrown them off their guard.

"I was seventy-five this year, you know." A little grin then, just as he'd rehearsed. "There comes a time when a man has to face the fact that he's, well, past his prime. Then it's time to step aside, for someone younger, with a steadier hand. I've been giving that a lot of thought of late, and I've decided it's time now to retire."

He heard a murmur, looked around, saw that Jessica Drear had raised her brows.