William Bayer - Tangier

The Foster Knowles‘ : elastic bodies-lanky minds

The Ashton Codds : out-of-date clothing; a last hurrah

Patrick Wax : cold, flawed steel

Dr. Sedgewick Radcliffe : wrinkled neck

The Willard Manchesters : sloppy socks

The Clive Whittles : imperious airs

Deborah Gates : squishy wench

Darryl Kranker : malformed queer

Percy Bainbridge : fragile pride

Lester Brown : barracks buttermilk

The Drears : God help us!

Vincent Doyle : old literary lion nibbling on his own claws

Lord and Lady Pitt : wrinkled parchment

Heidi Steigmuller : cigarettes-and-whiskey voice

After a while Robin gave up-too many people were thronging in. Tessa and David Hawkins appeared in riding garb, their crops stuck into their boots.

In the last minutes before the service began there was a feverish rush for seats. There was suspense too-the sort one might expect at an arena just before someone is due to be thrown to a lion.

When Peter Barclay walked in, late as usual, all heads craned. He went to the front pew, cool as anything, Robin thought, head held high, upper lip stiff, stabbing methodically at the floor with his cane. Some dastard in the church had done him a nasty deed, but Robin could read nothing on his face but a decadent aristocrat's pride.

Soon the overcrowding and the pleasant weather outside began to build up the heat. People's foreheads gleamed, and by the reading of the first psalm Robin felt wet patches growing beneath his arms. He'd worn a ratty tweed jacket, and cursed himself for the mistake.

He hadn't been in a church in fifteen years, but it seemed to him the service was running much too long. It was as if Vicar Wick, enthralled by his captive audience, wanted to unleash every bit of hocus-pocus in his Anglican bag of tricks.

Robin was disappointed at the sermon. Taking Christ's Golden Rule as his theme, the Vicar preached a full ten minutes on the virtues of loving one's neighbor as oneself. Robin was lulled and about to doze, believing his excitement had been falsely aroused, when suddenly, after the reciting of the Lord's Prayer, the Vicar stepped to the middle of the transept and made a gesture with his hands. He'd been holding them together, fingers touching at the tips, with the meekness of a pastor ministering to a patient flock. But then, without any warning, he clasped them smartly behind his back. That moment his eyes became flinty, and he resembled a sergeant addressing raw recruits.

"Members of St. Thomas," he began, in a new, brusque tone of voice, "I have the sad duty to report to you this morning on an occurrence that has taken place within these walls. Someone, some member of our flock, has seen fit to use our little church as the launching pad for a personal attack. In an act of craven cowardice unworthy of a Christian, this person, behind an anonymous cloak, used our collection plate to deliver a slanderous attack upon the gentlest, kindest, most noble-hearted man to have ever graced our community in Tangier. It saddens me to say this, but in all my years as a vicar I have never before heard of such an act. I do not know whose twisted mind is responsible for this sin. Nor do I care to know his name. Since the act was clearly premeditated, the heat of anger cannot be an excuse. It is sad for us to know that there is such a creature in our midst, someone so evil, so vile, so lacking in grace and tact as to perpetrate such a deed. This person has defiled this holy place, but our church is strong and cannot be hurt. And the man who was attacked is also too strong and good-yes, I say good, and honorable too-to allow this injury to fester long. I conferred with him today, before the service, and he told me that he has forgiven the transgressor in his heart. He has, in Christ's own way, turned the other cheek. Now it remains for us to do the same. I ask you all now to join me in a prayer. May God forgive this poor creature for what he's done. May He show him the way to confession and repentance. And may this creature, so long as he does not repent, wander godless, without grace, lonely and scorned, until he must face his Maker and be judged."

There was such exquisite silence as the Vicar spoke that even Robin restrained a burp. When he finished the Vicar bowed his head, and everyone else did the same. Then, for a full minute, there was silence while the entire congregation prayed. Finally, when the Vicar said "Amen," the organ burst forth with "Jerusalem," and while Peter Barclay passed the plate everyone stood solidly and sang.

By far the best touch of the morning, Robin thought, was the way he and everyone else were scrutinized as they left. Wick stationed himself just outside the door, with Colonel Brown on one side and Barclay on the other. Since Robin had sat in the back, he was among the first to run this gantlet, receiving a stiff "Good morning" from the Vicar while the Colonel, short, bull-necked, his bald head gleaming in the sun, peered searchingly into his eyes, and Peter Barclay looked him over with a grin.

After he was through (found innocent, he hoped), he watched the others endure the same scrutiny. When, finally, all had passed, he watched them form themselves into muttering groups.

Ah, the English, the poor, antiseptic English , he thought as he wandered back to the Socco for a beer.

It was only later, at six that afternoon, that he heard what happened next. He was with Herve Beaumont, prowling the medina, when they ran into Kranker, who stopped to report the news.

"Everyone," he said, "thought old Wick put on a damn fine show, and that would be that until Scotland Yard and the Colonel cracked the case. Barclay sauntered back into church to count the money, and then, a few minutes later, we heard a scream."

"What happened?" Robin's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Well, my dear, it was something ! A piece of writing paper, the same as was used for the infamous note, was pierced by a steel needle. Something moist and squishy was pinned inside. Peter took it apart, and, to and behold, he found a freshly killed sheep's eye streaming with blood."

"A sheep's eye! That's Moroccan voodoo!"

"So it seems. One can apparently buy such things from a man who sells spells a little ways down from the church. Lester Brown hurried over to him, steaming with rage, but the Moroccans shooed him away. The medicine man's a mystic and a cherif, and he wasn't about to answer a lot of silly questions from an angry infidel. No one knows who did it, of course, but we seem to have a maniac in our midst."

On Sundays Peter Zvegintzov opened La Colombe at twelve to catch the Mountain crowd as they made their way home from church. Lake knew this (he'd become a regular customer and close observer of the shop), and also knew that Peter kept irregular hours on Sunday afternoon, closing sometimes at two, sometimes as late as four, depending on his sense of the needs of his clientele. In the few weeks that Lake had been frequenting the shop he'd tried, as often as he could, to come in just as Peter was closing up. He felt there was some advantage in being the last customer-opportunities to ask Peter how his business day had gone and to project himself as a sympathetic friend.

Thus on the last Sunday in May he waited nervously in his office in the deserted Consulate, anxiously calculating the best time to arrive. These planned intersections with Z had become a game. Lake had never willed himself into a friendship before, but he found the process exhilarating, a distraction from the frustrations of his work.

On his way over to La Colombe, driving through Dradeb, he asked himself why he was doing this, what goal he was hoping to achieve. He wasn't clear about it, had only the vaguest sort of idea. It had something to do with the forging of a link, creating a relationship with a man who seemed very different from himself, and yet with whom he felt a bond.