The Spider's House (23 page)

He was always hearing the complaint: “America has not helped us.” That was only the first sentence of a long and fearful indictment whose final import was, to him at least, terrifying. And time passed, with hatred of France and America growing each day, being artificially inculcated in every segment of the population by the clever young cynics sent out for that purpose. Yet it was impossible for him to take sides in such a controversy, because whenever he thought it all through to some sort of conclusion, the controversy always seemed to evaporate: it was as
though the two sides were working together to achieve the same sinister ends.

“Or is Moss right, and am I a hopeless reactionary?” The key question, it seemed to him, was that of whether man was to obey Nature, or attempt to command her. It had been answered long, long ago, claimed Moss; man’s very essence lay in the fact that he had elected to command. But to Stenham that seemed a shallow reply. To him wisdom consisted in the conscious and joyous obedience to natural laws, yet when he had said that to Moss, Moss had laughed pityingly. “My dear man, wisdom is a primitive concept,” he had told him. “What we want now is knowledge.” Only great disillusionment could make a man say such a thing, Stenham believed.

For protection, to follow out his train of thought, he closed his eyes and tilted his head upward so that he might appear to be listening to the conversation. Perhaps thus he could be assured of a few extra seconds alone. But it soon became evident that his very resolve to escape for a moment was on the contrary a sign that he had been absent and was being drawn back. The words of Kenzie and Moss began to penetrate to his hearing; he was on his way back to consciousness of the canvas chair, the sun in the garden, the trembling poplars.

“Are you asleep, by any chance?” Moss inquired. Stenham forced himself to smile indulgently before he opened his eyes.

“No, just content.”

“I believe you’re invited tonight to Si Jaffar’s for one of those interminable dinners, aren’t you?”

“Now I’m not content. Why did you remind me?” Stenham asked.

“I didn’t suppose you had forgotten it, and I mentioned it because I intend to talk about Si Jaffar, and I want to caution you against repeating any of what I’m going to say.” Moss now ceased looking seriously over his spectacles and smiled. “It’s a perfectly absurd tale, but I think you and Hugh would enjoy it. Yesterday the old man and I met by chance in the Ville Nouvelle, and I invited him to sit with me at the Versailles. He ordered one of your ghastly American drinks—one of those outlandish
medicinal mixtures called Tipsy Kola or some such thing, and then proceeded to hug the glass as though it were at least Armagnac. An hour later he was still taking tiny sips, and talking, talking, of course, all the while, in his incredible French.”

“What about?” asked Kenzie.

“Oh, scandal of various sorts, juicy bits about the French, mostly. And a little about the Moroccans. They
are
extraordinary people, these Fassiyine.”

“I expect he told you some amusing things.”

“Some were most amusing,” Moss answered absently. “Toward the end of our interview I managed, only God knows how, to take enough control of the conversational reins to steer us into the highly delicate subject of Moulay Abdallah. I began by asking him if he knew how many prostitutes the quarter housed. His little eyes became even more pig-like than usual, and he began to wring his hands, but so violently I thought’ the skin would come off any minute. ‘Oh,
là,
Monsieur Mousse!’ he wailed. “This is a very difficult problem. It is so many years since I have paid a visit to our renowned quarter, you understand—’ The old reprobate! I’m told he’s there every week at least once. But I asked him if he’d say it was nearer five thousand or twenty thousand. By this time he was rubbing his hands in the other direction to ease the pain. ‘Ah, Monsieur Mousse! None of my acquaintances has ever attempted to count the unfortunate girls!’ This is merely to illustrate the difficulties and hazards that one can’t escape if one wants to converse with the old fox.”

Stenham did not feel that Moss’s caricature did Si Jaffar justice, even though it was recognizable; there was a whole other side upon which it did not touch at all.

“But I’m nothing if not persevering,” Moss continued. “I went ruthlessly ahead, as you can imagine, in the hope of getting to my point before some friend of his came by and ruined everything. I was finally able to get down to age groups, and mentioned little Khémou and my divine baby Haddouj, making it quite clear that anything over fifteen was not for me. At this point his smiles were dripping like treacle from his old face, and he was merely caressing his fingers rather lecherously. ‘Ah, you
are so right, Monsieur Mousse! It is the little ones who are the precious pearls. Among us it is said that they are like the first tender shoots of wheat that spring up to announce the return of life to the earth,’ or some such balderdash. I can’t possibly remember all he said, because he went on and on, absolutely delighted with the turn the conversation had taken, singing praises of budding trees, early adolescence, swollen streams, young doves learning to fly, and keeping it all, now that I think of it, quite general and impersonal, so that actually in the end it was I who had said everything and he nothing—but nothing at all. Wherever I was able, I dropped a hint, you know, how it was jolly difficult for a painter to get a model, and how I realized it was out of the question even to dream of getting one anywhere
except
from some house in Moulay Abdallah, and how even there I knew it was almost impossible. And each time he would nod understandingly and agree: ‘Oh, yes, out of the question, naturally.’ … ‘Ah, yes, Moulay Abdallah.’ … ‘Ah, of course, almost impossible. You are quite right.’ And so eventually I had to put it to him. I said: ‘Si Jaffar, do you think you could use your influence to get me a model?’ At this the old monster merely closed his eyes like a cat. He had on both pairs of glasses by this time, and he made a most peculiar-looking cat, I can assure you, with his white silk hood up over his fez. When he opened his eyes, he said: ‘Monsieur Mousse, I understand your difficulties. I am able to sympathize with you. I sympathize even very strongly, and I assure you that no matter what hardship it may cost me, you will have a model at your door at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’ That sounded more like what I wanted to hear, and I thought it would be only politic to let the subject drop.”

Stenham listened apathetically. For one thing, whenever the two Englishmen talked together in his presence, he felt, unreasonably enough no doubt, that he was in some subtle fashion being left out of the conversation. And then, since it was he who originally had brought Moss and the Moroccan family together, he did not wholly approve of Moss’s efforts, however roundabout they might be, to enlist the old gentleman as a procurer.
However, a story told by Moss never became downright boring, because its course followed a carefully plotted graph. And so he listened. Suddenly, before the tale was anywhere nearly finished, he knew how it was going to come out. “My new model is a monster!” Moss’s note had read. And he remembered the bent and misshapen old man he had met in the patio. A feeling akin to admiration for Si Jaffar awoke in him, and he began to chuckle. Moss turned reproachful eyes upon him. “You beast!” he cried. “Don’t you spoil my story!”

“I won’t. I’m sorry.” He ceased laughing aloud, and merely smiled. It ended exactly as he had foreseen: the ancient gentleman was indeed the model Si Jaffar had sent.

“Priceless,” said Kenzie.

“That seems to me a rather civilized way of having a good time,” Stenham said. He did not want to see enmity develop between Moss and Si Jaffar: in a place where the circle of acquaintances was so small, a feud could complicate everyone’s life no end. “It’s a practical joke, I’ll admit, but about a thousand percent more subtle than our kind, don’t you think?”

“No,” Moss objected, turning around in his chair to look for the waiter, “I rather fancy it’s more than a mere joke. They don’t go in for jokes, you know. My feeling is that it was meant decidedly as a rebuff. But there you are; you can cudgel your brains about it for the next ten years, but you’ll get nowhere. The old fox will be as innocent as a newborn babe the next time I see him. What can you do? It’s rather devastating, I must say.”

“But what amuses me,” insisted Stenham, “is the note of madness they can inject into any situation at the drop of a hat. Like the other day when I met the hotel manager in the Medina and stopped to talk for a minute. You know I never go into the office, so I never see him except in the street somewhere, and then’s when I have to pass the time of day, which means a little dissertation on the weather. Which is what we were doing, when suddenly a very dignified gentleman approaches and says in French:
‘Pardon, messieurs
, but I believe you were discussing amber? May I ask if you were referring to cut pieces, or to amber in its natural state?’ What do you say then?”

Moss did not appear to see any connection between this story and his own experience. “What, indeed?” he said distraughtly, craning his neck again to catch sight of the waiter.

At the far end the gate opened; the day, the garden acquired sudden meaning as she skipped down the steps. All of what a moment ago had seemed a complete cosmos now retreated instantly into the background to become nothing more than the décor in front of which the principal character was to move. She was in her early or middle twenties, and she wore a white silk shirt and white slacks. The men rose as she came lightly toward them, turning this way and that among the tables and chairs.

“Ah, charming,” Moss murmured, but in a very low voice.

Her form and face were such that she belonged to the happy category of women who can always be sure they are attractive under any circumstances, even the most adverse; her carriage and manner of walking made it clear that she knew this. Also, Stenham felt, she took it so much for granted that she did not attach very great importance to it. He had a brief vision of windswept sunny places as she came near. Then Kenzie said: “And this is Mr. Stenham, a compatriot of yours. Madame Veyron.”

The waiter had come into the garden behind her, and stood at a respectful distance during the first moments of conversation. Again it was Moss who called him over and impatiently told him to set the table.

“If I’ve kept you waiting,” she said, “you must blame it on this town. I suppose it’s an old story to all of you, but when I get wandering around down in those
souks
I just can’t leave. It’s fascinating.”

“It never gets to be an old story,” Stenham assured her. “At least, not to those who like it. Of course, not everybody likes it.”

She put her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Now, really. How could anyone help loving it?”

Kenzie laughed. “A great many people seem to be able. It’s not one of the favorite tourist spots, by any means. A bit overpowering, I should think, on first contact.”

She seemed to be considering; the serious expression enhanced the straightforward beauty of her features. “Overpowering.
Of course it is. But don’t we all like to be overpowered, one time or another?”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Moss. “For a while it’s pleasant. But once one ceases to be awestruck by the complexity of the streets or the completeness of the still medieval society, unless one has discovered other virtures in a town like this, it can become most
unoverpowering
—a bloody bore, as a matter of fact, I should think. So the tourists come, stay a day or two, and go on somewhere else. For which I confess I give thanks.”

“Well,” she said, in a suddenly very flat, American fashion (as she spoke it came and went, Stenham noticed, that small reminder of the part of the world in which she had grown up, and which had formed her), “I’ve been here all of three days, and so perhaps you can believe me when I say I think, I
think
, anyway, that I’ve found enough unspectacular aspects around the town to qualify me as a potential Fez-lover.” She folded her hands together and squeezed them, hunching her shoulders at the same time; the gesture seemed that of a small girl. “It’s so
exciting!
” Then she fished in the pocket of her slacks and pulled out a pack of Casa Sport.

“Here,” said Kenzie. “Have one of these.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No, I like this black tobacco. It goes with the place. I’ll always associate the smells here—the cedar wood, the mint, the fig trees, all the other mad, wonderful smells—with the taste of this tobacco. At home in Paris I always smoked Gauloises anyway, but these are very different, somehow. Not the same taste at all.” She took two puffs and turned completely to face Kenzie. “I have a confession to make. I’ve ticked off that guide you got me, and found myself another who can at least walk. Your old Santa Claus couldn’t keep up with me. He was always straggling miles behind, panting and rolling his eyes like a lunatic. He hated me, anyway. I
had
to get rid of him.”

Kenzie’s expression was one of displeasure, but he merely said: “Oh? You want to be careful.”

She looked to Stenham for confirmation of this opinion. “Do
you think so, Mr. Stenham? I know you know the place inside out.”

He did not want to pique Kenzie by assuming the omniscient part she had assigned him. “A girl can’t be too careful,” he said with a grin.

“And you, Mr. Moss, what do you say?” she went on, making a game of it.

“Oh, I should think if he was an authorized guide he’d be safe enough.”

“No. I mean in general. Do you think it’s dangerous for me to go around alone?”

“I should say that in normal times the place was absolutely safe, but of course now—Well, they
are
dreadfully fanatical, you know.”

“You’re all a bunch of old fuddy-duds,” she complained.

Moss and Kenzie seemed to stiffen imperceptibly, and turned their heads toward Stenham, as if to discover from his expression whether she were seriously annoyed. Her remark obviously was not one to be expected during the first few minutes of an acquaintanceship. He decided not to enlighten them, and changed the subject.