William Bayer - Tangier

Hamid was not so sure. These assaults on foreigners distressed him greatly, and he felt there was more to them than the stresses of the fast. Something was changing in the city-there was tension and anger now. For some time he'd sensed this change; now he tried to understand its cause.

The draft was one thing-it was so stupid, he felt, to draft people during the holy month, but the provincial administrators didn't seem to care. The recruiters, minor despots, were pitiless in their pursuit, rounding up young men, shipping them off to army camps, oblivious to the anger they aroused.

As the draft began to gain momentum and the water crisis worsened, Hamid observed flocks of petitioners mobbed outside City Hall. One time, when he was driving by, he saw some women fling themselves before a limousine. When the chauffeur stopped and the women pressed themselves against the car, Hamid had a glimpse of the tense and frightened Governor of Tangier nodding gravely at grievances being shouted at him through the glass. A few seconds later, after the limousine had pulled away, he overheard the women muttering among themselves. "Walu," they said, "we'll get nothing out of him."

It had been years since he'd heard such bitter words-not since his boyhood, the time of struggle against the Spanish and the French. And he heard other things too that gave him pause, mumblings from policemen, reported to him by Aziz, about Mohammed Achar and his protege Driss Bennani, things they were alleged to be saying to the people of Dradeb. There was no proof as yet, no evidence against them, but Aziz told him that certain officers were trying hard to build a case. Achar and Bennani were careful, avoided direct attacks upon the King, but according to Aziz they left little doubt that they were complaining of his regime.

Aziz hesitated after he told him this, as if he wanted to add something more.

Hamid met his eyes. "I understand," he said. "I'll speak to her tonight."

He tried. He put it to Kalinka as calmly as he could. "I'd appreciate it," he said, "if you'd stay away from the clinic for a while. I know you like your work there, but there's some trouble now. Achar and Bennani are stirring things up, and it would be better for me if you stayed away."

She surprised him then-she argued back. "It's my work," she said. "I can't do it if I stay away."

"Of course, Kalinka-I know that. But please don't go down there anymore."

"Why? Tell me why, Hamid."

"Well-" How could he explain? "I have some enemies in the police, and these men are watching Achar. By connecting Achar with you they could make it look as though I'm involved."

"But you're not, Hamid-"

"Of course I'm not. But you live with me, and you're working there." He looked at her.

She frowned. "I'm sorry," she said. "This is what I want to do."

Suddenly he was furious. Didn't she care about his career? He stood up, started to leave the room.

"I just can't give it up," she cried. He stopped, turned to look at her. Her hands were set upon her cheeks. "There's such excitement down there, people doing things, trying to set things right. There's so much more to Tangier than I ever thought, Hamid. So much more than the people who go to Peter's store."

"Are you saying I waste my time?"

"No, not that-"

"You're beginning to sound like Achar."

"Well, he has been an influence, I admit-"

"Oh, yes. An influence! And you've certainly caught his mood. You have, Kalinka. Yes, you have. I know him. He's persuasive. And very attractive too."

She stared at him. "What are you trying to say?"

"That I'm sick of hearing about how noble he is. 'Achar says this.' 'Bennani's doing that.' You're more interested in them than in your life with me."

"That's not true!"

"I hope not."

"Well, it isn't."

"Good. That's good. Now listen, Kalinka, I can't control you. You're a grown-up woman, and you're not my wife. But if we're going to be married, then that's something else. You can't go around and compromise my position. Perhaps you'd better think about that."

"I have thought about it."

"And?"

"Well, I'm not so sure we should be married, Hamid. At least not yet-not for a while."

He looked at her, saw that she was serious, nodded, and left the room. Standing out on the terrace, looking across the city, he had the sense that everything between them was suddenly different. What was happening to her? Why had she become so willful? And he-why was he so difficult, making an issue out of her work just because of a hint from Aziz? He wasn't really jealous of Achar, though there was always the possibility, he realized, that if he tried to dominate Kalinka too much he could drive her straight into the doctor's arms. No, it wasn't that-his real fear was of disorder, the disorder he believed she was helping to sow in Dradeb, and the disorder that now seemed to have entered their home.

He'd wanted to marry her, had only held back until he could clear up some questions about her past. But now that that was solved, her relationship with Peter finally understood, she informed him that she wasn't yet ready herself and that as far as she was concerned their wedding could wait. That was something he hadn't anticipated. She had caught him in his pride.

They were quiet at dinner, excessively polite, then afterward moved about the apartment trying to stay out of each other's way. Finally, just before they went to bed, she broke the tension, for which he was grateful and relieved. She offered him a compromise which he immediately accepted. She'd be willing to stay out of the clinic, she said, but wanted to continue working on the census in the slum.

Census . It sounded more like a petition of grievances to him, something Bennani had organized, a door-to-door survey of what people thought, what they wanted in Dradeb, their sorrows, their complaints.

She cared about it, he could see, and that touched him, to his surprise. He remembered, months before, fearing she might change if she could give up her hashish. He'd wondered then if she'd become a different person, and, if she did, whether he'd still love her as much.

Well , he thought, she has become different, a quite extraordinary person, and there is no question about how I feel-I love her now even more than before.

Sometimes it was just little things that moved him, such as her insistence on participating in the fast. She didn't have to, wasn't a Moslem, but she couldn't bear the idea of everyone suffering except herself. It was hard not to admire her for that, her compassion, her empathy with anyone deprived.

As always, he'd found, the first few days of Ramadan weren't so bad, but having her as his companion in the misery made them even easier to endure. He was proud of her discipline, her ability to suffer all day without food or drink, until the moment when the cannon sounded and the mosques announced the night's release. Then he and Kalinka drank their full of soup and stuffed themselves with honey-cakes. Afterward he swept her in his arms and carried her to their bed.

Here they fondled each other for hours to the music of the city's flutes, soaring out of the pain of self-denial into realms of ecstasy and desire. Tangier seemed different then, so different from the dour city of the fast. They listened to their neighbors celebrating and agreed the nights were charmed.

Yes, she was a different person now, had actually grown, it seemed. Ever since he'd raised the veil from her past she'd become strong, incisive, and direct. Before, he'd seen no way to connect her to the world which he policed. She'd always been separate from the city, his private mystery, but now he felt there was a relationship between his public life and his life with her.

It wasn't just her work, this grievance census she was taking in Dradeb. It was something more, another kind of link. She mentioned it to him that night they fought and made up, an idea she had about the meaning of her mother's life.