William Bayer - Tangier

Hamid longed for an air conditioner, anything to relieve the heat. The churning fan that hung from the ceiling of his office made a sirocco of the stifling air. There was a water cooler out in the corridor and a machine that dispensed paper cups. He brushed by it many times each day. He hated it. It mocked his thirst.

Such a clutter on his desk, such a jumble of cases he could never solve. He hurt from Ramadan, suffered from the fast. One was not supposed even to swallow one's own saliva, or insult Allah by smoking a cigarette. It was mad, he knew, to abide by these rigid rules, especially since he did not think of himself as a particularly religious man. The President of Tunisia had told his people that the Koranic laws no longer applied, but Morocco was different, a theocratic state. The pressure to conform was enormous. Only combat battalions were exempt.

Truly, he thought, it had been an awful summer, miserably hot, filled with crimes. Then there'd been the suicide, less astounding as an isolated act than for the hatred and bitterness it aroused. The original note addressed to Barclay, which had triggered the Vicar's loss of faith, had never harmed its intended target, and its author, whoever he was, was still unpunished and unknown. But the Vicar, who'd taken on the burden of that author's guilt, was now despised in death.

Ah , he thought, the infinite complexities of the foreigners, the inscrutable workings of their minds . But really the whole business bored him now-the Mountain seemed alien in the face of the agonies of the fast.

Still there were things to do, distractions from his thirst. He'd just received orders to put aside his outstanding cases. Members of the royal family were due in Tangier at eight o'clock, and their security had to be arranged. Aziz had made up a special duty roster and was out now fetching a map of the Mountain Road. Soon the two of them would sit down, mark it up, decide where to post the men. The problem, as always, would be to protect the corridor through Dradeb.

Laurence Luscombe made his way down Rue Marco Polo, tilting back his body as he walked. The narrow little street was steep and treacherous; he was careful not to trip. The bright lights of Avenue d'Espagne lay ahead. It wasn't night yet, but it was Ramadan and someone had forgotten to turn them off.

He whistled "Mad Dogs and Englishmen" to keep his courage up. Across the tracks, lining the beach, were the little bathing clubs, the bars and restaurants, and the Shepherd's Pie. It was a few minutes past seven. The others, he knew, were already there. They were prompt at least-that was one thing he could say. God knew he'd trained them long enough, taught them how important it was to be on stage on time.

It was a deliberate choice on his part to show up five minutes late. He'd planned things, practiced his speech before his mirror, refined every gesture, timed each gulp and pause. He was going to give a performance tonight, perhaps the greatest of his career. He was confident, well rehearsed, but a little nervous too. There was, as always, the dread of rejection, the thought that the audience might hiss or boo.

Ah-there was Derik Law's little Humber by the curb, the Calloways' cream-colored Buick, Joe Kelly's Renault 16. Yes, they were there all right, probably wondering where he was. The Drears, and Jack Whyte, Jill and David Packwood, of course. Well-let them wait a minute longer. Let them just simmer in there. Let them stew.

He started to cross Avenue d'Espagne but leaped back to avoid a bus. Lord, it was terrible the way these famished Moroccans drove. They aimed right at you, as if they wanted to run you down. Well, maybe they did, he thought.

He walked a few more paces down the sidewalk, then attempted to cross again. This time he made it, over to the railroad side. He crossed the tracks, stepped onto the beach, trudged his way across the sand to the door of the Shepherd's Pie.

What a dump it was, the Packwoods' place. "English Spoken Here" a big sign said. There was another one below: "Private Party. Closed Tonight." He recognized David Packwood's sloppy lettering, the same dribbling style he used on TP sets. It was a dump. Imagine calling a restaurant the Shepherd's Pie. So coarse. So non-U. It could be worse, he thought. They could have called it the Fish and Chips.

What could one expect anyway? The Packwoods were trash, like the Drears and the Calloways. They had their little summer business, their little bar and restaurant on the beach. Four thousand, five thousand quid-they claimed they cleared that much catering to Cockney British tourists, the aftershave perfumed set, the Piccadilly queers. Well, they made a living at it, enough to see them through the winter months, though Jill always looked a fright when the summer was over-David kept her cooped up in that closet of a kitchen turning out those disgusting greasy pies.

He checked his watch. Too late to turn back now. He made his way to the door, paused a moment, screwed up his courage, pushed it open, and stepped inside.

There they were, the lot of them, looking at him just the way he knew they would. Guilt! Shame! It was written all over them. The shame of it, to call a meeting when they knew perfectly well his supporters couldn't come. Well, let them stare, damn them. It didn't make any difference now. He took them in, one by one, met each set of eyes straight on. They lowered theirs, of course-except for Kelly. That scarred-up little bastard had no shame.

To hell with them! To hell with Kelly too! They'd beaten him; the game was over now. Derik would have stood by him if he'd decided to fight it out. Barclay had said the Vicar would too, but then the Vicar had killed himself.

"Evening," he said in a gentle, fatherly voice which had nothing to do with the way he felt. "Sorry to be late. Don't want to delay the routine. Sunset years, you know. Can hardly keep up with you youngsters anymore."

He smiled then, as broad and charming as he could. They were staring at him quite curiously now. They'd been expecting something else. He knew what that was: a broken man, whining, pathetic, enraged. They'd come for blood, to see the old bull slain. Torment him, kill him, haul him away. Well, he'd not give them the pleasure of seeing that; he'd give them a lesson in class.

"Listen," he said, stepping to the center of the room, using the space between the tables as if it were a stage, "there're a few words I want to say before we get on with business." They were all ears then, craned forward in their seats. He smiled at them kindly and looked around again. His timing had been good-he'd thrown them off their guard.

"I was seventy-five this year, you know." A little grin then, just as he'd rehearsed. "There comes a time when a man has to face the fact that he's, well, past his prime. Then it's time to step aside, for someone younger, with a steadier hand. I've been giving that a lot of thought of late, and I've decided it's time now to retire."

He heard a murmur, looked around, saw that Jessica Drear had raised her brows.

"I know this comes unexpectedly. We're meeting here to decide about next year's plays. But I thought I owed it to you to say this first, so that the new man, whoever he may be, will have a chance to put his stamp on the season that lies ahead. Now I don't want to be sentimental, lay on the syrup and all that. I just want to say how much I love you and how much working with you these last years has meant. Jill and David. Rick and Anne. Derik. Jack. Jessica and Jessamyn. Joe. We've failed at times-all of us have made mistakes. But, by Jove, we've tried, tried hard to put on good plays. They can't take that away from us. No one can. So-I just want to thank you for your loyalty to me, and for just being the great people that you are."

He paused, choked with rehearsed emotion, looked around, sensed his speech was having its effect. That line about loyalty-that had hit them where they hurt. He could feel them softening, knew he had them won-an actor's power, and he savored it a while before he continued on.