Michael Pearce - A dead man in Tangier

‘Easy? Ye-e-s…’

‘And the same with the settlers. Mind you, they’re trouble-makers, but if you handle them in the right way…

‘And the business interests. Large business, that is. They’re very important. They’ve got a voice in Paris. That’s partly what Lambert was talking about… Bossu, you know… there was a time when he was very close to them. Perhaps he still was…

‘Any more? No, I don’t think so. I think that’s about it.’

‘Well, that seems straightforward,’ said Seymour.

By now it was about eight o’clock and the city was just waking up. The streets in the main shopping quarter were crowded and the shops full of people. Up here, where Macfarlane had brought him, the shops were mostly European, spacious, well lit and with counters which were not sat upon but where the goods were displayed in the European way. The goods, too, were European: shoes from Spain, perfumerie and lingerie from France, elegant European dresses from Italy. You could well have been on the other side of the Mediterranean in the towns of Italy or Spain or Greece.

The shoppers, too, seemed European. At least, they were dressed in European styles. Only the occasional dark-veiled, dark-gowned woman lingered along looking in at the windows. The men were bolder, walking along in twos and threes in the middle of the street, their arms around each other in the Arab manner. Many of them, especially the younger ones, had doffed their brightly coloured gowns in favour of shirt and trousers.

Tangier was evidently changing, and it wasn’t just the political change, the coming of the Protectorate, it was social change: the coming of Western ways of shopping, the abandonment of the intimate cubby holes of people like Ali, the tailor, for the bright, public world of the metropolis.

He was just saying this to Macfarlane when down the middle of the street came a file of white horses. On either side of them were Arabs in short white gowns revealing brawny knees pressed tight to the sides of the horses. With them, also on a horse, was Millet, the horse doctor. He put his hand up and the cavalcade stopped.

‘Hello, Millet,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Taking mounts to the barracks?’

‘Just checking them over first,’ said Millet.

He frowned, and then urged his horse out to one side.

‘Will you walk that one for me a bit, Ahmet?’ he called.

One of the white-gowned figures retrieved a horse from the line, swung down and then for a moment walked it up and down in front of Millet.

‘There! See it? I don’t like that for one moment.’

The Arab nodded.

‘I will tell Sheikh Musa,’ he said.

‘He won’t like that! Someone must have missed it. Musa’s mounts are usually pretty good,’ he said to Seymour. ‘We don’t usually have any trouble. The old man’s got an eye like a hawk.’

The Arab said something.

‘He says Musa will be angry. The man at the paddock should have spotted this.’

‘Will you see to it, Ahmet? And explain to Sheikh Musa? He’ll take your word for it. Ahmet knows nearly as much about horses as Musa does,’ he said to Seymour.

The Arab obviously understood some French for there was a flash of white teeth as he grinned.

‘Musa’s right-hand man. We rely on him, absolutely rely on him, for the pig-sticking. He gets the pigs in position and then, once the chase has started, rides outrider on one side to check things keep all right. See if anyone’s fallen off.’

‘Did he see Bossu fall off?’

‘He saw he had fallen off and sent someone back for the horse. But that was later. Okay. Ahmet, let’s get moving again!’

The file of horses continued on their way. No one took any notice of them. Sights like this were evidently not uncommon in the middle of Tangier.

Macfarlane was taking him to the committee’s offices, which were in one of the big banks. A committee like the Consular Committee would normally have met in the rooms of its Chairman. The British Consulate, however, Macfarlane explained, was too small — its size an accurate reflection of the extent of Britain’s interest in Morocco — and so alternative accommodation had had to be found. The French had offered a temptingly palatial suite in the offices of the Resident-General but this was felt, reluctantly, to compromise too obviously the committee’s independence. The Germans, seeking to ingratiate themselves with the Sultan, had proposed somewhere within the Mahzen, but the Sultan did not recognize the committee and refused to have anything to do with it. In the end, the committee had had to settle for some rooms in the offices of one of the big foreign banks, which, so far as sending out signals was concerned, was probably the worst of all possible worlds.

Macfarlane took him up to the third floor and through a door marked Joint Inter-Consular Committee. Inside were three rooms: a large committee room, an even larger office (Bossu’s) and a rather smaller one which accommodated the committee’s papers and also an elderly man who rose politely from his desk when they entered.

‘Hello, Mr Bahnini,’ said Macfarlane. ‘Still here, then?’

‘I’m just sorting out the papers for the meeting tomorrow. You recall, I hope…?’

‘Ten o’clock,’ said Macfarlane. ‘I’ll be here. What we would do without Mr Bahnini, I don’t know,’ he said to Seymour. ‘Mr Bahnini, can I introduce Monsieur Seymour? You remember, I said I would be bringing him round. Seymour, this is Mr Bahnini, the mainstay of our committee. Especially now that Bossu has gone. He ran the office for him. Clerk to the clerk, you might say.’

Mr Bahnini smiled faintly.

‘And we all know what that means. The man who does all the work.’

Mr Bahnini bowed slightly in polite acknowledgement.

‘And now, for all intents and purposes, clerk. At least for the time being.’

‘Actually, sir, I wished to speak to you about that.’

‘Naturally, your extra duties will be remunerated.’

‘No, no, sir, it wasn’t that. The fact is, I was hoping to relinquish them.’

‘Well, we’re rather hoping that the committee won’t go on for too long-’

‘I was hoping to relinquish them immediately, sir.’

‘That would be a shame, Robert. Just when we need continuity.’

‘I am sorry, sir.’

‘Got something else to go to?’

‘Not exactly, sir. I was hoping to return to Casablanca.’

‘Couldn’t you delay your return? It will only be for a few months. We’d make it worth your while.’

‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

‘It would make a difference to your pension. You do have a pension, don’t you?’

‘A small one. From the Ministry. I worked there before joining Mr Bossu.’

‘A small one. There you are! We’d step it up, you know. I’m sure you could do with some more money coming in. How’s that boy of yours? Has he finished yet? Still an expense, I’ll be bound.’

‘He has just finished at university, sir.’

‘Got anything to go to? No? Well, look here, we might even be able to find something for him. He could assist you in the office. After all, you’re taking on Bossu’s work, so someone will have to take on yours.’

Mr Bahnini shook his head.

‘I don’t think he would be interested, sir.’

‘Just while he was looking around?’ said Macfarlane temptingly.

‘I’m afraid, sir, that for him it’s a matter of principle.’

‘I see. Ah, the young! Not a matter of principle for you, too, I trust?’

‘No, sir. I compromised my principles long ago,’ said Mr Bahnini quietly.

‘Haven’t we all?’ said Macfarlane, sighing. ‘Well, if you’re really sure about this-’

‘I am, sir.’

‘In that case, we’ll have to accept it. Give it another day or two to think it over, remembering what I said about the pension. And then if you still want it, I’ll take the necessary action.’