William Bayer - Tangier

On the west side of Tangier, on the Mountain, in the light-filled studio of his house, Inigo, the Paraguayan, was staring at a canvas he'd been working on for over a month. It was of Pumpkin Pie in Moroccan pantaloons, bare above the waist, his feet spread and planted firmly on the floor, looking directly out from a background of the sea. Inigo had put more into this canvas than into any he'd painted before. He'd been working frantically, from dawn to dusk every day, striving to make a statement of his feelings about Tangier.

He wanted to paint the boy as an archetypal hustler, strong, savage, willing to please. But there had to be a measure of vulnerability too-a haunted fear of poverty in the eyes. This, he thought, was the key to the portrait-a Nietzschean savagery, a powerful contempt, softened, even bankrupted, by a storekeeper's greed. He'd set himself the task of catching these two elements at once. If he succeeded he had no doubt the painting would fetch a fortune in New York.

But it was even more complicated than that-there was a third quality he wanted too: a decayed sensuality, a barely putrefied eroticism, the allure of vigorous young flesh slightly used, soiled, worn out. It was like painting the Mona Lisa, he thought-so many levels, so much complexity: he needed to peer with great depth into a personality in constant flux.

It was a difficult project, and Pumpkin Pie, as expected, gave him little help. The boy was restless all the time, bored with his model's role. Often he relaxed his pose or simply wandered outside, where he gunned his motorcycle, knowing that Inigo detested the noise. Several times he simply vanished, flew off to town without a word, disappeared for hours and then returned with torn clothes and disheveled hair.

Inigo knew better than to ask where he'd been-he was tired of his own supplicating voice, and of Pumpkin Pie's cunning lies. By now he was inured to the boy and simply accepted him for what he was. He carried on as best he could, continuing work from his preliminary sketches and from the image he carried in his mind.

On this particular Sunday morning the boy sent word by a servant that he was resting in bed, fatigued and indisposed. He's probably masturbating , Inigo thought. Then he shrugged and returned to work. He'd been filling in the background, searching for a perfect clash of shades where the sea would meet the sky. But as he paused and contemplated the half-completed face, he decided to work more on the lips. He wanted to combine charm and arrogance there, catch the two qualities at once.

The painting had come to obsess him. One part of him wanted to finish it quickly, and another to work on it for months. He was repelled by it, and fascinated. Often, not against his will, he found it drawing him into the amoral twilight world of his friend.

Laurence Luscombe walked to town early, his empty shopping basket swinging from his arm. He knew he'd find himself a lift if he waited until the Mountain people left for church, but he had no desire to see them-their questions and glances disturbed his mood.

He'd spent the last weeks keeping to himself. All people did anyway was ask him about the feud-the talk of the Mountain, it seemed, fanned by frequent mentions in Robin's columns. One time when he did accept a ride in Camilla Weltonwhist's Rolls-he couldn't refuse; her driver had pulled right up to him-she talked the whole way of how much "fun" TP was getting to be now that it had "come of age." He knew damn well what she meant: that he was too serious, and that Kelly's vulgar humor made good relief.

This particular Sunday he walked early to the Socco, bought himself fruit and a quarter kilo of fish, then trudged over to Derik Law's flat, a cozy place on Campo-Amor.

Derik, off from his travel agency, met him at the door. "Bathroom's all ready, Larry. Dry towel and fresh bar of soap."

It was kind of Derik to let him use the shower. He'd given Laurence a set of keys to the flat so he could use it whenever he liked, but Sunday was best, since Derik was at home and after the shower the two of them could talk.

"You going to church?" Derik asked, as Laurence emerged from the bathroom combing his hair.

He shook his head. "I've no particular desire to see Peter Barclay in his glory. I've got enough problems of my own."

Derik nodded. "What're you going to do, Larry? Call a special meeting and read Kelly out?"

"Not sure yet. Still have some thinking to do. Be stupid of me to go through with that if I didn't have the votes."

"I know Kelly's got the Calloways and Whyte. David Packwood doesn't like him, though-he and Jill would probably split. "

"What about the Drears?"

"Jessamyn's sold on the Yank, but Jessica's still up in the air. What you've got to do is bring in the patrons. They're entitled to vote, and if enough of them show up you'll win."

"I know. But I don't want to win that way. It would be a Pyrrhic victory and would split the group. I have to think beyond Kelly, to the seasons ahead. If we read him out, with the patrons throwing their weight behind me, we alienate the active members, and when Kelly cries in his coffee they'll all go off with him. The Drears, the Calloways, and the Packwoods are the hard core. That's the problem-what happens after Kelly's out?"

"Well-maybe the best course would be to let everything cool down. Don't call any meetings and forget the summer production. In the meantime you and Kelly could try to work things out."

"Never!" said Laurence, pounding the arm of his chair. "Not after he called me 'dear old hack.' "

"Oh, forget that. He didn't mean it. Suppose Kelly apologized-would that make things all right?"

"He won't do it. Man doesn't have a decent bone in his body."

"But suppose he did ? Suppose some of us went to him, told him how we felt, and tried to patch things up? Neither of you wants to see TP go down the drain."

"Kelly doesn't care a fig about TP."

"But suppose he agreed to split productions with you? Each of you would do two a year, and the rest of the time you'd stay out of each other's way. What would you think of that?"

Laurence sat up straight.

"Have you been talking to Kelly behind my back?"

"Oh, come off it, Larry. You know me better than that. It's just the only way I see. Each of you has to come halfway."

"I founded TP, damn it! Now you ask me to give half of it to a man I don't respect."

Laurence wondered then whether to confide his calculations or wait until later when he was sure. A glance at Derik's sympathetic face convinced him to confide. "I've been thinking about this a lot lately," he said, "and I've a few ideas in mind. Maybe TP is getting stodgy. Maybe we ought to bring in new blood." He paused, gave a little smile. "Not at the top, necessarily, but among the actors. The way I figure it, if I go out and recruit new people it'll throw the old hard core off. I mean they might forget about Kelly and start worrying about their own hides for a while. They all think they're indispensable, but if I brought in Mr. Fufu, for instance, and, say, launched him in Emperor Jones , or the Knowles'-damn attractive couple; they could do situation comedy for sure-then you might see Jack Whyte's hackles rise, and a jealous pout on Jill Packwood's face. See what I mean, Derik-put them on the defensive, make them feel insecure. Then you can bet they'd forget about Kelly and be around to curry favor with me."

Derik thought a while before he replied. "It might work, Larry," he said. "And then again it might not."

Robin Scott came early to St. Thomas-he wanted a good seat for what he'd billed in his column as "the ecclesiastical event of the year." After Camilla Weltonwhist showed him to a rear pew, he began to jot down notes on the personages filling up the church.