Michael Pearce - A dead man in Tangier

‘It seems so,’ Salah agreed.

‘And therefore towards you?’

Salah nodded.

‘Now, Salah, think hard. It did not stop, did it, or else you would have seen it when you got near the man. It must have gone on. Now, can you remember: did it pass you, or did it run away over to the left?’

‘Monsieur, it was I that ran away.’

‘And the horse — or pig?’

‘Carried on.’

‘Back down to the main track?’

‘I think so, Monsieur.’

‘Does not that make it seem as if it was a horse?’

‘If it was a pig,’ said Mustapha, ‘it was a very stupid one.’

‘But, Monsieur…’ said Idris.

‘Yes?’

‘You were asking Salah if there were not two horses. But Salah has been speaking only of one. Might not the horse that passed him have been the fat Frenchman’s horse?’

‘I didn’t hear two horses coming towards me,’ said Salah. ‘That I do know.’

It was now well into the afternoon and the heat, as always in Tangier, had built up. Out in the bay there was a distinct haze. The sea was still, though, and not a boat was moving. Not much was moving on the land, either, and Seymour, mindful of Chantale’s injunction, looked around for a place where Mustapha and Idris might take a rest. They were not complaining but their faces were drawn and he guessed that this was the point in the day when they were missing their food.

He suggested that they stop in a cafe, whose tables conveniently spread out into the road; but when he sat down at a table Mustapha and Idris refused to join him.

‘No, no,’ they said, ‘we’ll sit down over here.’

And they sat down across the road in the shade of a big house and rested their backs against the wall.

He tried to persuade them but they were firm.

‘No, no: this gives us a better view.’

A better view? An undistinguished street with small, somnolent shops, a dog or two lying in the shade, the shutters on the houses closed and not a sign of life or a thing of interest: except that at the far end of the street there was another cafe, more populated than this one, with several people sitting at the tables but not much sign of action.

‘We can see them if they come,’ said Mustapha.

‘Both left and right,’ said Idris.

If they come? What were they expecting?

He tried again to persuade them but without success. At least, however, they were sitting down getting some respite, so he decided to leave them alone and ordered himself some mint tea. He wondered if he should order them some, too: but were they allowed to drink during the day? He knew they shouldn’t eat during Ramadan, but what about drink?

He went across and put it to them.

They thanked him politely but declined. A sip of water, however, would be welcomed.

Seymour went back to the cafe and asked if some water could be provided for his friends. He half expected a brusque dismissal, which is what he would certainly have got in England, but instead they nodded approvingly and took some across in an enamel mug; just the one mug, which Mustapha and Idris shared quite happily.

He suddenly realized that he was glad to sit down himself. Although he was in the shade, the heat was still considerable enough to make him languorous. The mint tea, though, was refreshing and he sat on for some time in an increasing doze; which seemed to be shared by everyone around him.

Not at the other end of the street, however. Shouts roused him. People in the cafe looked up. There seemed to be some sort of altercation centring on the other cafe. Mustapha, drawn to any form of disorder, went up the street to see what was going on. There was a crowd, growing every second, and voices were raised in protest.

Mustapha returned.

‘You’d better come,’ he said to Seymour. ‘It’s Chantale. And the French.’

Seymour rose at once.

‘It might be better if it’s you,’ said Mustapha, ‘and not us.’

At the centre of the crowd was a policeman holding a man and beside them was a Frenchwoman, gesticulating fiercely. Beside them, gesticulating just as fiercely, was a fired-up Chantale.

‘And take her in, too,’ cried the Frenchwoman angrily.

‘Yes, take me in, too!’ shouted Chantale, equally angry. She held out her wrists as if for handcuffs. ‘Take me in! And see what happens!’

‘This is injustice!’ cried the man the policeman was holding. He was an Arab and seemed to Seymour slightly familiar. Then he worked it out. It was one of the young men, Sadiq’s friends, who had been sitting in the cafe when he had come out of the committee’s room with Mr Bahnini.

‘He molested me!’ cried the Frenchwoman.

‘No, he didn’t!’ shouted Chantale. ‘He just sat next to you.’

‘I don’t want to sit next to a dirty Arab!’

‘He doesn’t want to sit next to a dirty Frenchwoman!’ shouted Chantale wrathfully.

‘Hey, hey, hey! You can’t say things like that!’ said the policeman. Still holding the young man, he made a grab for Chantale.

‘Take them both in!’ shouted the Frenchwoman furiously. ‘Arrest them! He has molested me. And she has insulted me!’

Another policeman appeared. The first policeman handed the man over to him and tightened his grip on Chantale.

‘You leave her alone!’ shouted someone in the crowd. ‘It’s Chantale!’

‘Hands off, you bastards!’ shouted someone else.

‘Don’t you know how to treat a lady?’ cried a third man.

‘She’s not a lady!’ cried the Frenchwoman. ‘She’s a black!’

The next moment she reeled back from a slap by Chantale.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ cried the constable.

‘She has insulted us!’ cried the young Arab, beside himself. ‘Me, Chantale, the whole Moroccan people!’

‘Why do we have to put up with this?’ called someone from the back of the crowd.

‘Yes, why?’

The crowd began to press forward angrily.

The Frenchwoman turned pale.

It was, strictly speaking, no concern of Seymour’s. He had no authority here. But old policeman’s habits died hard.

He pushed through the crowd.

‘Calm yourselves, calm yourselves, Messieurs, Mesdames!’

‘I am going to hit her again!’ shouted Chantale.

‘No, you’re not.’

He caught the hand just in time.

Chantale tried to wrench it free, then fell against Seymour. He grabbed her and held on to her.

‘Take her to the police station!’ cried the Frenchwoman. ‘She has assaulted me!’

‘Enough!’ said Seymour. ‘Enough!’

‘Enough!’ said another voice authoritatively.

A tall man had pushed through the crowd.

‘Let go of her!’ he said to the policeman holding Chantale. ‘And get them away. Quickly!’

‘Yes, sir!’ said the policeman, releasing Chantale and snapping to attention. ‘At once, sir!’

But then he hesitated.

‘Which of them, sir?’

‘Well…’

‘She assaulted me!’ cried the Frenchwoman.

‘She insulted me!’ cried Chantale.

‘Enough, enough! Madame Poiret, contain yourself! Chantale — really!’

‘And he molested me!’ said the Frenchwoman, pointing at the young Arab.

‘No, I didn’t!’

‘No, he didn’t!’ said Chantale.

‘No, he didn’t,’ said the crowd.

‘He sat next to her,’ said Seymour quietly. ‘That appears to be all.’

The man nodded. Seymour recognized him now. It was the French captain, de Grassac. He recognized Seymour at the same moment.

‘Monsieur Seymour!’

‘We’d better get them away,’ said Seymour.

De Grassac nodded again.

‘Follow me,’ he ordered the policemen.

He began to push a way through the crowd.

The others followed him, the policemen with their prisoners, Seymour, and Mustapha and Idris.