The Lighthearted Quest (32 page)

“Oh
no,
Paddy dear. I had to have a piece—and how could I know he would be so tatty?” She felt in her pocket again and drew out a lump about the size of a cake of bath soap, worn down to little more than an inch in thickness, and examined it. “It's frightfully
heavy,”
she said, balancing it in her hand—“like lead. And it's got funny marks on one side, almost like the bark of a tree. Look”—and she held it out.

“Really, Julia, you are a crazy creature!” said Mr. Lynch, laughing in spite of himself, as he took the piece of rock from her hand. “Golly!—it
is
heavy,” he said, handing it back. “But do for goodness sake put it away where it can't be seen.”

“Handbag,” said Julia, opening the article. “I suppose that consignment is on its way down to Master Bathyadis.”

“Undoubtedly, I should think.”

There are two ways at least of entering Marrakesh by road. The main highway from Casablanca goes straight into the town, showing nothing of the astonishing oasis with its miles and miles of palms, their dark fronds swinging in gentle restlessness against the sky in the perpetual movement of air from the High Atlas beyond; there is however a détour which leads round into this lovely and peculiar place to enter the city from the South—this Mr. Lynch took. Julia gazed entranced as they passed through grove after grove of the strange plumed trees, rising from creamy sand; this, unlike Casablanca, was wholly Africa—and African too were the long low castellated walls, sandy-pink at all times, rose-pink then in the rich sunset light, through which they passed under a gate-tower into the town, and drove through a relatively modern quarter to their hotel.

The Mamounia is not in the least African, in spite of gallant attempts with rugs and furnishings; it is pure cosmopolitan comfort, plus a splendid view and a delightful garden, in
which the wise have breakfast. Julia and Mr. Lynch were among the wise next morning, and ate rolls and drank coffee in air heavy with the scent of stocks in full bloom.

“It's rather a bore to come to a place like this, and then spend one's time doing Scotland Yard stuff,” said Mr. Lynch, leaning down to pick a carnation, which he put in his buttonhole. “However when you've finished I suppose we'd better hustle off to the Administration and enquire for Mr. Nussbaumer.”

“I've been thinking about that. Would he have come through here on his way South from Fez?”

“He needn't, if he was coming direct from Fez and going down to Tagounite or Ouarzazate or Zagora—he could cut through the Atlas by the pass from Azrou to Boua Sidi; the road isn't so good, but the buses use it. But mustn't he have come to Casa to switch from the car to the camionnette?”

“Of course—but
when?
Would he pile all those trousseau-coffers into the saloon? I should have thought they'd be a bit conspicuous. Wouldn't he be more likely to go straight to Casa from Tangier, change machines, go back to Fez, and pick up the trunks, and then on South?”

“I think you're right—yes. In which case there's no means of telling whether he'd have come through here or not.”

“Except by asking.” Julia leisurely poured herself out another cup of coffee. “I hope your friend's friends play. And then to the blonde Hortense.” (Julia had told Mr. Lynch about Hortense.) “I shall feel a frightful fool talking about Mademoiselle Astrid, knowing what we know now.”

“I should see her all the same. She might give you a line on when to expect them, or even more exactly where they are.”

“Yes—especially if I show her this,” said Julia, taking the orange-coloured piece of rock from her handbag and fondling it. “Look—it exactly matches my jacket!”

“Do put that thing away!” said Mr. Lynch, almost irritably. “I wish you hadn't got it.”

At the Administration offices a tall courteous official, looking slightly like General de Gaulle, led them, Paddy's card in his hand, into a typical French office; rather untidy, and reeking of Gaulois cigarettes—excusing himself, he read the note brought from Casablanca. He seemed a little surprised, stepped to the door, and asked someone unseen for files; then he turned to the two English people. “If one might ask why—?”

Mr. Lynch was very ready. Mademoiselle was
journaliste,
and concerned herself with all aspects of life in Le Maroc. Julia, taking the hint, whipped out her Press card and did some patter about her interest, and that of her readers, in conditions of living for
women
in the remoter areas—which, she understood, were ameliorated by activities such as M. Nussbaumer's. The Frenchman smiled; partly no doubt at Julia but, Paddy guessed, a little also at her mission—the French are apt to consider that ‘the woman's angle' takes care of itself. Some papers were now brought in, which the official—again saying “You permit?”—studied, occasionally consulting his assistant. Then he turned back to the visitors. Yes, M. Nussbaumer was quite well known; for the past year, or nearly, he had been making regular trips, going South about every two months, though he did not always pass through Marrakesh. He had however gone down five or six weeks ago, and should be back any day. If it would assist Mademoiselle, it might be possible to establish from one of the more southern posts when he was likely to return.

This was an unhoped-for boon; Julia, turning eyes of a loving dove onto the handsome officer, said that this would in effect assist her immensely. She would call again—when should she call again?—to learn the result of M. Le Commandant's so kind enquiries.

If Mademoiselle was at the Mamounia, the officer replied, there was no need to derange herself; he would give her a blow of the telephone.

“I prefer to call—I detest the telephone,” said Julia. “Towards six?”

“Yes, towards six. By then I should know.”

Outside—“Now to the Post Office,” Julia said.

“What for?”

“To find Hortense.”

“What do you mean? I thought you had her address.”

“So I have—but it begins at the Post Office.” She got out her diary, and from that small garden outside the yellow building they turned and twisted through the bright sunny streets, following Purcell's directions, till over an ochre-coloured wall leaned a medlar-tree, with a building much taller than most of the houses in Marrakesh rising behind it. “Here we are,” said Julia.

This preliminary visit to Mademoiselle Hortense was of course intended to be inconclusive, and was—but it had side-effects. They went through a small door into an untidy but charming garden, and rang a bell at the door of the tall house; Hortense herself let them in and led them upstairs, to floor after floor, a room or two on each, all full of really beautiful and valuable antiques—the best, Paddy muttered to Julia, that he had seen yet in Morocco. But already Julia's heart was not in this visit, nor in the antiques, though she forced herself to praise a lovely eighteenth-century robe, woven in tones of plum-colour and dull gold. On the top floor of all, mint tea was offered them as they sat in comfortable armchairs.

“Funny place. I must say I'm glad to know of it,” said Mr. Lynch while they waited for the tea—“Colin or no Colin. They've got superb stuff.”

“I hate it!” said Julia unexpectedly.

“Why on earth?”

“I don't know. It makes me feel nervous, for some reason. Do let's get away as soon as we can.”

“Must drink the tea,” said Mr. Lynch.

Julia got up and went over to a window, restlessly—suddenly
she unslung her field-glasses and put them to her eyes. “Paddy, come here,” she said, rather low.

He got up and went over to her. The window commanded the street; there stood his car, and behind it a tall Arab, writing something in a book.

“Take the glasses, and tell me if that man has a wart on his nose,” Julia commanded.

“Yes—as pronounced as Cromwell's. Why? Know him?”

“It's Abdul, the guide I had at Fez. Look, Paddy, either Moshe did memorise your car-number, and he's checking, or this place is being watched. Anyway he's taken it now,” she said, as the Arab stowed away the notebook in his voluminous robes.

“Come back and sit down,” said Mr. Lynch—“don't let it get on your nerves.” They regained their armchairs just in time, before an Arab brought in the tea, followed by Mademoiselle Hortense. Julia, sticking rather grimly to Purcell's directions, arranged to come the following morning to have another look at the prune-coloured robe.

As they drove away—“Of course, if these people are known to be contacts for Herr Nussbaumer—or Mr. Smith—I expect the house would be watched as a matter of routine,” Mr. Lynch said.

“Yes, I daresay—but why a guide from
Fez?
I don't
like
it, Paddy.”

Marrakesh has none of the withdrawn, enclosed, secretive quality of Fez. The whole city in its wide plain lies open to the sun, within its low peach-pink walls; the exterior, at least, of every building can be seen, nothing is hidden—one would say that Marrakesh has no secrets. Least of all does it attempt to hide its own highly peculiar life—on the contrary, on the Djema el F'na, the great open
place
in the centre of the town, this life is lived in fullest publicity, but in a strangely absorbed fashion. The dense crowds which fill it all day and till late into the night comprise practically every race from Northern and even Central Africa: sitting in circles on the ground round the professional story-tellers, watching every gesture of the narrator, or standing five or six deep round the dancers—white-clad men ranging from grey-beards to young boys—craning their necks to miss no detail of the beautiful foot-work; eager groups crowd about the vendors of cures, herbal or magical, or even modern proprietary brands from Europe; jolly groups sit outside the open kitchen booths, eating happily; veiled women throng the stalls where sweetmeats and strange foods are sold.

It was the self-containedness, the absorption in their own affairs of this vast mass of exotically-clothed people which chiefly impressed Julia when Mr. Lynch led her through the great Square after leaving Mademoiselle Hortense, judging, quite rightly, that the Djema el F'na is enough to afford distraction to anyone, however nervous. When they pressed into a circle to watch the entertainment going on within it no one paid any particular attention; even the man who took round the collecting-bag seemed to do so at the same regular intervals.

“Yes—it's not done for tourists; this is the playground of
Africa,” said Mr. Lynch, when she remarked on this. “Now come and have lunch.”

The Café de France lies at one end of the Djema el F'na, separated from its crowds by a not very broad street, along which cars pass all the time; that end of the square is closed by a mosque, beyond which a wide passage leads through into the maze of the souks or bazaars; just beyond the café a side-street leaves the main street on the right. The whole front of the café is occupied by a broad verandah filled with small tables and divided in two by a screen of coloured glass; it is raised barely a foot above the level of the street, and since there is no railing, Moors of all ages, from little shoe-shine boys to the sellers of musical instruments, freely step up to pester the European patrons—the sedate Arab habitués who sit for hours drinking coffee they leave severely alone. A door at the end furthest from the glass screen opens into the bar, which is indoors; beyond it flights of stone stairs lead up to the coffee-terrace on the roof.

The bar is rather smoky and murky, and Julia opted for having their drinks and lunch on the verandah, where she could watch the coming and going on the great
place.
The casual African tempo prevailed in the Café: the drinks took a long time to come, so did the lunch; various pedlars, with uncanny persistency, sidled up to the table over and over again, stealthily laying on it something that they desired to sell—Julia laughed, Mr. Lynch repelled them good-humouredly. The food when it did come was quite as good as Purcell had said; in particular there was a rich mutton stew over which one had to sprinkle a brown powder as fine as flour, with an unknown and delicious taste—when Julia asked the waiter what it was he said “Cumin”.

“Oh
what fun!—'tithe of mint and anise and cummin' like in the Bible.”

Passing through the bar on their way up to the roof for coffee, Julia was greeted by someone—“Good afternoon,
Miss Probyn”—peering through the gloom, she saw Mr. Reeder.

“Oh, how do you do? I hardly knew you in those clothes!” the girl said. Indeed the
Vidago's
mate was curiously altered by civilian dress; in his rather good tweeds he looked like a country squire. He invited them to have a drink. “No, we've eaten; we're having coffee on the roof; come with us,”—which Reeder did.

There are two things which everyone must do on the roof of the Café de France: look at the view of the High Atlas, and eat Cornes de Gazelles, long slender curved cakes of ground almonds, with their coffee. The High Atlas that day was shrouded, a distant blue line with here and there a cold snowy gleam among high clouds; the party were thus able to concentrate on the Cornes de Gazelles, which are too sweet for most tastes.

“Know Toledo?” Mr. Reeder asked. “At that restaurant in the Square there they give you marzipan cakes just like these, only stumpier.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Julia. “How funny.”

“Not really, you know. Did you notice the metal clappers those dancers use down on the square? Just the same principle as castanets. Spain really is practically Africa; down the southeast coast even the butterflies are the same.”

Mr. Lynch was rather impressed by the sailor's display of knowledge, but the mention of the dancers drew Julia to the parapet; leaning on it, she tried to use her field-glasses, but found herself completely baffled. The square was so vast that even when she could pick out faces in a particular circle, when she put down the glasses it was hard to be sure which circle she had been looking at. “Hopeless,” she said to Paddy, re-seating herself.