William Bayer - Tangier

"But what, Hamid?"

He shrugged. "There've always been rumors about Peter, that he was a Communist, even some sort of Soviet spy. I heard them years ago but never found anything to back them up. But now I wonder. How did he end up here? When you mentioned that Hanoi was something like Tangier-well, I got an interesting idea."

They walked together in silence for a time, among people lying in bathing garments in the sun, children running this way and that, Europeans lounging on the terraces of the bathing clubs. They passed the Shepherd's Pie, the Packwoods' little restaurant. Hamid saw Joe Kelly sitting shirtless there, drinking, surrounded by a coterie.

"Hello, Farid!"

It was the hustler Pumpkin Pie in a tight bikini bathing suit, strutting on the sand. Hamid noticed he gave a certain sort of smile as he walked by, and that Farid responded with a signal of his own.

"You know that trash?"

Farid nodded uncomfortably, and Hamid immediately regretted what he'd said. They always avoided the subject of homosexuality, though Farid knew it was part of Hamid's job to rid the city of its reputation as a gay resort.

"Well, I must get back, Hamid. Time now to reopen my store."

They embraced, then Farid walked away. Hamid watched until he'd crossed the tracks.

He enjoyed the minutes just before midnight, sitting in his car up the street from Gottshalk's hotel. There was something almost sensuous about the wait-the prospect of action, the tension building up.

Then it all happened, precisely as he'd planned: a hushed, whirring siren; police whistles strangely soft; commands in Arabic; muffled screams; the thud of shoulders against wooden doors with feeble locks.

His men, moving with sleek precision, gracefully sprung his trap. Everyone in the hotel was caught by surprise. Soon the lobby was filled with frightened guests. Some of the Moroccan boys tried to escape across the roof, but Hamid had people posted there who snatched them as they fled. Others, wriggling under beds, were pulled out squirming by their heels. Men who were arrested nude or who'd left their passports in their rooms were politely escorted back upstairs. Aziz paired off those he'd found together, then, calling off their names, tried to match them to the registration list.

Hamid wandered about the lobby, pleased by the size of his catch and the cool, understated way the raid had been carried out. The night clerk was shaking, and Gottshalk, in his tattered djellaba, stood helpless, wrists cuffed behind his back. Hamid circled him in wonder. This disgusting man worked with the Americans; he was received by Lake and Knowles.

When Aziz had everybody sorted out, he motioned Hamid aside.

"About a dozen," he said, "caught with underage boys. And one Dutchman in bed with a girl who doesn't appear to be his wife."

Aziz blew a whistle then, and when the lobby became silent Hamid stood up on a chair. He looked around at the faces staring up at him. I know these men , he thought, have seen them every summer of my life . Rigid stances, sharp eyes, a certain anguished preying look, pursed lips, beckoning smiles-suddenly he thought of Farid. They were frightened, he could see, and flawed. For a moment he was touched. He certainly didn't hate them, but he disliked the corruption of their lust.

"Good evening," he said in French. "My name is Ouazzani. I'm chief inspector of the foreign section of the Tangier police. There have been grave violations of registration laws in this hotel, and violations of our vice laws too. Those of you who are improperly registered, or who were discovered in bed with underage Moroccan youths, will be taken now to headquarters in our bus. There you'll be interrogated, and your consular representatives will be called if you wish. The rest of you may return to your rooms. We apologize for disturbing you and wish you a pleasant sleep. We ask, however, that you leave in the morning and seek other accommodations in town. The manager of this hotel is under arrest. Tomorrow, at noon, this building will be closed."

He repeated his announcement in English, then stepped down from the chair. Aziz released the guests entitled to return to sleep, and led the rest outside.

Hamid followed them to the Surete, watched them herded into a communal cell. A team of interrogators began work. Fingerprints were taken and everyone was photographed. It was a madhouse, the Moroccan prisoners gaping at the newcomers, the boys getting a stern lecture from Aziz.

Hamid stopped at the police canteen, drank a cup of coffee, telephoned Kalinka, told her he'd soon be home. Back upstairs, from the corridor outside his office, he looked in at Gottshalk manacled to a chair.

"Mr. Gottshalk," he said, briskly walking in, "with you I have an airtight case. There're six or seven boys downstairs swearing out depositions right now. They say you corrupted their morals, turned them into prostitutes, and forced them to perform unnatural acts for money paid to you by foreign guests." He paced around Gottshalk, speaking calmly, pausing now and then to emphasize a word. "No question what's going to happen-you'll do ten years at least. What shall we do for you? Call a lawyer? Get hold of Vice-Consul Knowles? Get you pen and paper so you can write out your confession? Find you a knife so you can slit your throat?"

Gottshalk's face was twitching. His bald spot was pumping sweat.

"Inspector-could I please speak to you alone?"

"You want me to dismiss the guards?"

Gottshalk nodded.

Hamid smiled. "No bribes, my friend. Save your breath. You're finished here. The only question is whether we send you to prison or put you on a plane and ship you out."

A glimmer of hope appeared in Gottshalk's frightened eyes.

"I might expel you," said Hamid. "Permanently. Tomorrow. With all your assets frozen here. To make an example of you. To let everyone know there's no profit anymore in running a boys' hotel. Give me a complete confession, submit in writing to a confiscation of everything you own, and tomorrow you'll be put on the early plane for Madrid. Otherwise-ten years."

"You don't give me much choice."

"I give you more than you deserve."

Gottshalk looked at him in sorrow and despair.

"Quick," said Hamid, "make up your mind."

He felt quite pleased a quarter hour later as he drove home through the night streets. At last, he thought, he'd begun to act. He'd rid the town of one of its least attractive residents, and now he wondered how much longer it would take him to finally clean it out.

Kalinka was waiting up. She'd been sketching. The table where they ate was covered with drawings and pastels. He told her what he'd done, his management of the raid.

"Oh, Hamid," she said. "I had no idea you had that kind of power."

She was silent then, and he thought: She's thinking of Peter, wondering whether I might do the same to him.

"You wouldn't do that to Peter," she said. "I knew he was wrong when he said you would."

She was amazing, could read his mind, just as he was learning to read hers. He moved beside her, placed an arm around her shoulder, hugged her, kissed her face, her hair.

She began to talk then, after a little while, of her memories of Poland, showing him her drawings, her words pouring out. There was a school. She'd sketched it. Hamid looked at her pictures, then closed his eyes. Gray buildings. A gravel playground surrounded by a fringe of badly tended grass. Kind teachers. A long, narrow attic dormitory room. Bare light bulbs. A row of beds. When it rained she lay awake listening to the raindrops on the roof.

Singing-he saw her in an assembly hall, her eyes fixed on foreign flags. It was a school for orphans, sons and daughters of martyred revolutionaries. Many Asian faces, Koreans and Vietnamese. They were stirred, all of them, by the verses of the Internationale.