William Bayer - Tangier

The next day was busy, monotonous. A gang of Moroccan toughs had burglarized the auto camping grounds. Light bulbs and plastic lenses were missing from all the cars. In the middle of the morning Foster Knowles turned up with a set of worried American parents whose runaway daughter had sent them an enigmatic postcard from Tangier. They showed Hamid photographs and beseeched him to help. He nodded, stared at the photographs. The girl looked lost and innocent. He tried to memorize her features but they blurred before his eyes.

Late in the afternoon he went to see the Prefect. He told him what he'd found out about the Freys and suggested he put a watch around their house. "It's a long shot, of course," he said, "but I can't think of what else would interest an Israeli in Tangier."

It was six-thirty when he left the Prefecture, a good time, he thought, to drop in at La Colombe. He became snarled in a traffic jam in the middle of Dradeb, caused by two huge tourist buses trying to pass one another at the narrowest portion of the road. It was ten to seven by the time he reached the shop. There were no European cars parked in front.

"Ah-it's you, Inspector." Peter was in a jovial mood. "Just like old times. Now we see each other every day."

The Russian was busy straightening up his cigars. Hamid wondered how many hours he wasted arranging and rearranging things, how often he clicked the keys of his old French cash register to ring up a purchase or just to hear the little bell.

"If you're back about that matter we discussed the other morning, I told you everything I know."

"No, Peter, I'm not back about that. I'm here about something else. I want to know what you think you're doing, following Kalinka on the street."

Peter stopped fidgeting with the cigars. For a moment he seemed to freeze. Then he picked up a feather duster and began to move rapidly around the shop, flicking dust off the book racks and the counters covered with games and imported jams and cheese. Hamid stood in the center watching him, waiting for his reply.

"Well," he said finally, "have I embarrassed you? Are you going to answer my question or not?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Your question doesn't make any sense."

"All right, Peter. Forget I asked. But don't let me hear you've followed her again. I'm warning you. Every policeman in this country will stand beside a colleague when his honor is at stake."

Peter was still waving his duster, even more frantically than before.

"Why did you lie, Peter?" Hamid asked. "Why did you pretend Kalinka was your wife?"

Peter suddenly stood still. Then he lowered his head. "Please," he said, "I so want your respect."

He raised his head again, showed his face, so that Hamid could see the moisture glistening in his eyes. For a moment Hamid felt ashamed that he'd been so harsh, but then he wondered if these tears were only another one of Peter's tricks. Kalinka said he liked to play with people, keep secrets from them, then laugh at them and call them fools behind their backs.

"Who is Stephen Zhukovsky?" he asked, as gently as he could.

"Oh, my God! Don't ask me questions. You have her now. Isn't that enough?"

Hamid moved close, grasped his shoulders, forced him to look into his eyes. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Peter. I don't wish you harm in any way. But I must know. I have to know what this is all about. These pretended marriages. These secrets. You must tell me everything now."

Peter's eyes were squeezed shut, tight behind the lenses that magnified his tired lines. Hamid let go of him and stepped back. Just then he heard the bell that rang whenever a person entered the shop. He turned. The American Consul, Daniel Lake, was there, staring at them from the door.

"Excuse me," said Lake. "I didn't mean to-"

Peter rushed to him, shook his hand, then took hold of his arm and faced Hamid. "You know Inspector Ouazzani, Dan."

"Yes. Of course."

Hamid nodded. The three of them stood awkwardly, staring at one another with simulated smiles.

"Actually, Peter, I saw the light and-"

"Yes, yes, Dan. The Inspector was about to leave."

Hamid started toward the door. Lake mumbled something, then followed him into the street. "Nice night," he said. "Warmer now. Good for the gardens, I understand."

Hamid nodded. He wanted to get into his car, but the American, edging in front of it, had blocked his way.

"Thank you, Inspector, for being so kind this morning with the couple Foster brought around. He told me you were very patient with them. It's so sad about these runaways."

"We rarely find them. They go south, to the desert, or the beaches west of Marrakech."

"Well, we're appreciative just the same. I want you to know that. Foster's impressed with the way you handle things, even though you had him in a sweat a few weeks ago."

Hamid felt the American's hand slap down upon his shoulder. The gesture annoyed him. He moved back a step.

"Come on, Inspector. Surely you recall." Lake was grinning. "You told him you'd been watching him. You asked him what he was doing around a certain shop. He was pretty upset, I can tell you. He came to me. Asked me what to do."

"Oh? What did you tell him?"

"I reminded him of his diplomatic status here. I told him he wasn't under the control of the local police, that he didn't have to account for his actions to anyone but me."

"Very good advice, Mr. Lake."

"Yes, I think it was. But what I'm getting at is the remarkable way you do your job. Foster and I are both impressed by that. You'd observed him. You knew what he was doing. I'm told nothing happens in Tangier that you don't find out about pretty quick."

Hamid looked at Lake closely. He wasn't sure whether the Consul General was trying to fence with him or whether this curious turn in their conversation had been contrived to make some point. Perhaps Lake suspected he was being watched. Perhaps Zvegintzov had told him that he was.

"And Kalinka?" asked Lake suddenly. "Tell me-how is she?"

"I didn't know you knew her."

"We've never been introduced, actually, but she's been pointed out to me as one of the beauties of the town."

Suddenly Hamid was angry. "Perhaps, Mr. Lake," he said in a fierce whisper, "perhaps you've been gossiping too much with your Russian friend."

"Ah-you see!" Lake grinned. "Just as I told you. You do know everything, just as people say."

Lake turned away then, flushed with bravado. Hamid watched him chuckle to himself, then slip into his car. He was puzzled. The man had baited him. But why? What had he meant by it? Lake was not stupid, despite the odd way he babbled on, but there was something off center about him, something strange.

Hamid worked late that night shuffling through a stack of dossiers. He sorted out his cases, searching for coherence, but he could find nothing, no pattern, no sense of order in the town. A Nazi couple on the Mountain-Farid said they owned a Renoir. An American Consul General who leered at him like a fox. A Russian shopkeeper who begged him for respect. The streets were full of confusion. The summer was dry and hot. He was living with a woman, a foreigner, a cipher, whom he loved but could not understand.

Driving home very late, he noticed a car parked outside Heidi's Bar. Passing it, he had a quick look at a man inside, Inigo, the painter, shaking with laughter or perhaps in tears. As he drove farther, his headlights caught a pack of wild dogs running the deserted alleys near his street. In the flat he found Kalinka in bed, breathing gently, eyelids fluttering, safe in dreams and sleep. He stepped out onto his terrace and surveyed Tangier, listening to the clash of radios, each set to a different station, rebounding from the rooming houses all around. Dogs barked. The wind blew. Nothing was clear. The city was a labyrinth, a maze of pain and rage. He thought of people rotting away in decaying buildings, foreigners filled with violent passions, Moroccan children beating animals to death.