William Bayer - Tangier

The two of them, Barclay and Weltonwhist, nodded vigorously and exchanged a knowing glance. They seemed more impressed with Kelly's craftiness than with his own quite desperate plight.

"Oh, yes, he's shrewd," Luscombe said. "Kelly's crafty like a fox. But he mustn't be allowed to get away with it. That's what I've come to say. We must all fight him together. Teach him a lesson. Collapse the conspiracy right on his head."

A silence. Camilla looked over at Barclay, who was staring off into space. Evidently he was weighing the consequences, considering what the two of them should do.

This time I need you , Luscombe thought. This time you mustn't let me down . He'd climbed the Mountain expressly to win over Barclay's support. With Barclay the Mountain would rally to his side; without him he'd surely lose TP.

"You see," he said, quite frantic, hoping to arouse their sense of fair play, "everyone in town's known about these parties for weeks, so Kelly asked for a meeting on just the particular night when he was certain you patrons wouldn't come. He's counting on your frivolousness. That's the core of his plan. Without you he'll have the votes to take over the club. He'll get the treasury-that's two hundred pounds! The lights. The flats. Even the contract with the Spanish Polytechnical school."

He stopped, astonished by his tone, so desperate now, so excited, much too loud and excited for Mrs. Weltonwhist's salon. "Might I have a glass of water?" he asked, realizing he'd been sitting in her house for hours without her offering him anything to drink.

"Oh, yes, of course." She squinted at him, annoyed.

"Well, Camilla dear," Barclay said, turning to her with a savage little smile. "I'm afraid there isn't anything we can do for Larry here. Really, it's an awful shame."

"But surely, Peter, we might manage-"

"No, darling. No possible way." He turned to Luscombe. “We're both invited to Henderson Perry's that night, and we must be there promptly at eight. That's the protocol. Ordinarily it wouldn't matter, but Henderson's invite a batch of Moroccan royals, so of course, you see, we can't be late."

"That's all right, Peter. The TP meeting's set for seven. All you have to do is turn up and vote, then go on to Perry's with time to spare."

He was relieved then, even amused; Kelly was clever, but he'd miscalculated about the time. He was just beginning to relax, certain now that things were going to work out, when Barclay frowned and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Larry, but it's not so simple. These club meetings have a way of running on. Both of us need time to rest and dress, and Camilla's promised to do Henderson's bouquets."

"But you at least-"

"No. Sorry, Larry. It's not convenient. I'm just not going to have the time."

"But please , you must -"

"It's not that we don't want to come, you see, but we're previously committed and now it's too late for us to wriggle free."

"One can't be rude, you know," Camilla said. "I know this is important to you, but surely you're not asking that."

Luscombe slumped back, stunned by their refusal. They'd kicked the breath right out of him. Now he felt too weary to complain. "Convenient," "rude"-those were the things that were important to them. Everything had to be arranged for their convenience. They needed a guarantee they'd be amused. He looked at them sitting there, pitying him with smiles. What did they care, after all, that the actors had turned against him? What did it matter to them that Kelly would turn TP to trash? They didn't care-not the slightest bit. He realized how stupid he'd been to think they ever would.

"There are other voting patrons," Camilla said. "Surely you haven't been depending on us." It was more of a reproach than a helpful suggestion. He'd shown poor form, in her eyes, by placing the onus on them.

"I've tried Vanessa Bolton," he said, "but she's going to Perry's too. The Codds are invited to Countess de Lauzon's, and on to the Manchesters' as well."

"Ugh!" said Barclay, curling his lip. "The Manchesters-they're having some kind of leftover thing. But there it is, you see-Francoise is having a party too."

"What about Percy Bainbridge?" Camilla asked. "He's a patron. At least I think he is."

"I've been to see him, but he won't make a commitment. He's been waiting for you to take the lead."

"Waiting to be invited to Henderson's, you mean." Barclay laughed. "Poor Percy-he'll wait forever for that."

Camilla snickered, and then the two of them exchanged another glance. They were fascinated by gossip, who was invited, who was not.

"Oh, dear me," she said. "Isn't there anybody else?"

"There're the Whittles, but I haven't approached them yet."

"Don't!" commanded Barclay. "That wouldn't do at all. You must be sensitive, Larry. You must think before you impose. Everyone wants to help, of course, but if you're pushy, well, then-" He shrugged.

So that was it: he'd been too pushy, and he'd imposed on them much too long. He stood up abruptly. They'd given the signal. Now it was time for him to go.

"There's the Vicar, isn't there?"

"Yes, Camilla! And he just might be willing to come." Barclay looked up, clicked his teeth. "Tell you what-I'll have a word with him. Vicar always takes my advice."

"There," said Camilla with a sigh. "There-you'll have Vicar Wick. You can't say we didn't help you, Larry. I knew Peter would come up with something in the end."

It was hopeless. They didn't understand. Or perhaps they understood too well. Even if the Vicar came he'd have only three votes. They were both gazing at him now, impatient that he leave.

Suddenly he felt unsteady, afraid he was going to faint. Perhaps he'd stood up too quickly. Camilla took hold of his arm.

"Now, now, Larry," she said, guiding him across the room.

"Sorry, Larry," said Barclay, not bothering to rise. "Courage, old boy. Good luck!"

Camilla led him to the door, then most smoothly showed him out. "When the summer's over and things have quieted down," she said, "you must be sure and come around again. Some afternoon, perhaps, when everything's less frantic. We'll sit out in the garden and take some tea."

There was a moment of confusion. He was still clutching her glass. He thrust it into her hand, saw a weak, distant smile, then a nod of dismissal as she shut the door.

He stood alone outside, dazed by the whole exchange. She hadn't even invited him for lunch; all he rated was a cup of tea. It didn't matter really-at this point nothing did. The petty slights, the little glances and winks-what difference now if he was going to lose the club? He'd climbed the Mountain on the strength of a futile hope, and now everything was finished, all was lost. The Tangier Players, his creation, had slipped from his infirm grasp, on account, it seemed, of Peter Barclay's whim and a commitment by Mrs. Weltonwhist to prepare Henderson Perry's bouquets.

He walked away quivering, shoulders hunched, eyes smarting from the harshness of the light. He stopped every so often to wipe his brow, pant and gasp for breath. They'd resumed their backgammon game by now, or perhaps they were still dissecting him. He'd known such people all his life, knew the way they rolled their eyes, the tone they used to express disdain.

He walked as rapidly as he could in no particular direction, anxious to get as far as possible from the house. Time passed. He wandered aimlessly farther up the Mountain, past villas, then into meadows, up always toward the Mountain's crest. He followed narrow, rocky paths, passed ancient wells and children tending goats. There was an old mosque up there, a quiet place he'd stumbled upon years before. He climbed higher, searching, but couldn't find it. He lost track of where he was.