William Bayer - Tangier

Often in the mornings on his way to work Hamid would drive about Tangier, moving slowly down narrow streets into obscure quarters of the town. He was not sure why he did this, since it delayed his arrival at the Surete, but he supposed he was searching for coherence in this complicated, shimmering city that he loved.

One morning at the beginning of the summer he parked on Esperanza Orellana in front of a carpentry shop. This spot delighted him. He liked the smell of cedar shavings that filled his car, the buzz of the saws in the background as they bit into wood. Sitting here, he thought back to the difficult night before, the row he'd had with Kalinka. He'd come home late, found her out of the house, and later, when she'd returned, she'd confessed she'd been with Zvegintzov at La Colombe.

Peter had summoned her with a long, imploring letter, she'd said, and she'd felt she'd no choice but to go to him and talk. She'd found him pathetic, friendless and alone, afraid that Hamid was out to drive him from Tangier. Peter had begged her not to say anything, to keep secret all she knew, and to persuade Hamid to stay away and leave the past alone.

How could she deny him that, she'd asked. She was filled with pity for this man she believed they'd both destroyed.

Hamid was moved, but then, when he'd asked her to produce the letter so that he too could measure the Russian's despair, she'd replied she'd burned it to spare Zvegintzov his shame. They'd argued then. Hamid had tried to make her understand. She'd said that only the future mattered, and that she didn't care about the past. Later, when they'd gone to bed, he'd lain awake for hours trying to reason his feelings out. He knew she hadn't deceived him, but there was something she shared with Zvegintzov that she still refused to reveal. What was it? What strange things had they discussed in their sing-song tongue? Why did she want to protect him? Why ?

Tormented as he lay in bed, he'd thought for a moment that there was someone in the other room. An intruder, perhaps Peter, prowling, waiting to stab him in his sleep. He'd felt ridiculous but still he'd gotten up, and of course he'd found no one there.

It was then, the following morning, sitting in his car in front of the carpentry shop, that he began to notice certain strange goings-on at the entrance of the Hotel Americain. This dingy pension a few doors down the street specialized in impecunious tourists who could not afford a room on Avenue d'Espagne. What struck Hamid, and suddenly caught his interest, was a group of European males huddling in the doorway with Moroccan boys.

No question of what was happening-the men were slipping money to the boys, who then ran off gaily toward the beach. Payoffs, no doubt, for business transacted in the night. Hamid watched, incredulous, then drove down to the Grand Socco, where he parked in an area reserved for the police. He strode into the medina, into the lobby of the Oriental Hotel, and mounted the steps to Robin's room.

He flung open the door. "Get up!" he yelled, yanking off Robin's sheets. "On your feet, you bastard! Put on your clothes!"

He paused then. He was too angry. He needed time to regain control. "I'll wait for you in the Centrale," he said. "Get your ass down there! You've got things to explain."

A few minutes later Robin appeared in the Socco Chico, picking at the corners of his eyes. "Christ, Hamid-what have I done?"

"You've betrayed me. Sit down and talk."

Robin squinted, shook his head.

"Don't play dumb," said Hamid. "I'm in a lousy mood."

"I see that. What's wrong?"

"The Hotel Americain-that's what's wrong. You're supposed to keep me informed about places like that."

"I didn't know, I swear." He spoke too quickly. Hamid could always tell when Robin lied.

"Don't pretend," he said. "You know the place is swimming in queers."

"OK, Hamid. Stop shouting, please. You shut down one and another opens up."

"I'm talking about our arrangement, Robin. Your job is to fill me about these places. Mine is to keep them from getting out of hand."

"Oh, come on. Is that the real nature of our relationship? Wait! Don't answer!" Robin shook his head. "Look," he said, "people come to Tangier in the summer, they come down here to get laid. They want boys, boys who offer themselves, you understand-because they surely aren't seduced. All right, they need a place to find them. If you close the Americain, it'll just be someplace else."

"You still don't understand."

"What?"

"That I've been relying on you, and you've been holding back."

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Hamid. An informer has to save things up, keep the policeman's interest. It's in the nature of my work as your devoted snitch that I feed you information in little bits. That way you like me better, and I get to see you every week. Honestly, Hamid-I was going to deliver on this. Maybe even today."

"You make me sick."

"You're not angry anymore?"

"Thank Allah, you bastard. Now start talking. I want it all."

"Here? In public? Just being seen with you is bad enough."

"Embarrassed? Good. I don't care-it serves you right."

Robin ordered coffee and then began to talk, rubbing every so often at his crusted eyes and unshaven cheeks. "Gottshalk owns the place. Not the building- les fonds de commerce . You know him-he wears dark specs and a ratty djellaba like a cape. He's an American, been here for years. He's got an 'arrangement' with the American Consulate. I thought you knew about that."

"I try not to remember the details about every seedy foreigner in town. What 'arrangement'? Damn it, Robin, don't spin out a tale."

"Well, Gottshalk's got this deal with the Consulate that when they have an American who's lost his passport or who's out of money and waiting for funds, they stash him temporarily in his hotel. Gottshalk lodges him, feeds him on credit, and doesn't bother to register him with the police. He gets reimbursed, of course, and a service fee besides. For this the Americans think he's great. He's very close over there to Lake and Knowles, which gives him status, because otherwise he's just a bum. Anyway, he's had hot and cold running boys for a while-"

"How long?"

"I don't know."

"Years?"

"A season or two. It's known now in London and Amsterdam. When the queens come down here they know where they can go."

"Disgusting! What's he like?"

"A bastard. Hard as nails. Charges too much and rakes it in from the boys. If they don't kick back seventy-five percent he's got a couple of goons who mess them up. But he guarantees them a place to sleep, and for a lot of boys that's good enough. It would be a pity if you closed him down, Hamid. Put a lot of kids out of work."

"Do you really care?"

"Well, I'm human."

"Yes, Robin, I suppose you are." Hamid pushed back his chair. "Not a word of this," he said. "I'm going to move on Gottshalk. I'll know who to blame if he's been warned."

As he walked back to his car, he allowed his anger to seep away. Robin's just an informer , he thought. How much can I expect ? But he knew perfectly well that Robin was more than that-that over the years he'd become a friend.

He found Aziz waiting in his office, a glass of tea in hand. Hamid looked over the reports that had piled up through the night, then announced that they were going to raid the Hotel Americain. Aziz was delighted, and seeing his pleasure Hamid explained what he had in mind. They'd mount the kind of operation he'd seen in European films-flawless, cool, sleek.

"Midnight," he said, "we'll move in. Empty the place, every room, every closet, every bed. Anyone who isn't registered we'll bring here and interrogate. Photograph them, fingerprint them, warn them, and let them go. Same with the Moroccan boys-no point in holding them. What I want is a case against Gottshalk, enough to kick him out. After we close down his bordello we'll start a cleanup along the beach."