William Bayer - Tangier

"Who you supposed to be, lad?" asked Patrick Wax, crossing the crowded salon at Francoise de Lauzon's. He looked sharply at Robin, up and down.

"Robin Hood, of course," Robin replied. "Who the hell did you think?"

"Yes," said Wax, stepping back a pace, squinting at Robin again. "I see that now. You're all dressed in green. I presume that silly little stick is supposed to be your bow. Well, Robin, very nice indeed. Just think of the rest of us as your very merry men." He laughed, then smacked Robin on the back. "Good try, lad. We're all aware of your impecunious state. Francoise will forgive you. At least I think she will."

Wax crossed the room to embrace someone else. He'd come as "Jack and the Beanstalk," dressed as a swishy yokel, carrying a huge green phallus in his hand.

Robin didn't know if Francoise would forgive him, and he didn't give a good goddamn. He'd done the best he could with his costume, taking a metaphorical approach. He'd improvised a hood out of an old scarf he'd found beneath his bed, then scratched up a bent piece of driftwood from the beach and strung it with a bit of string.

He loathed costume parties, refused to take them seriously. It was particularly awful, he felt, to be at Francoise's "fantasy evening" tonight. Nothing was worse than to be at the second best. Far better, he thought, to be at the bottom, at the Manchesters' thing, or with the TP scum at the Shepherd's Pie. He knew that Henderson Perry's party would almost certainly be a bore, but to be seen tonight at Francoise de Lauzon's was to have it proclaimed that one hadn't made the grade.

Still there were a lot of people there, seventy or eighty at least. The room was a sea of costumes, and there were people skinny-dipping in the pool. Robin pulled out a wad of paper and began to jot down notes. He'd get back at Perry when he wrote his column-he'd stretch the truth, make Francoise's party sound like better fun.

Florence Beaumont, he noted, made a nice Cinderella; Inigo was her Prince Charming in tow. Percy Bainbridge played an aging Mary Poppins. (Barclay had helped him with the nanny's outfit, Percy'd claimed.) Darryl Kranker was a lisping Sinbad the Sailor, and Herve Beaumont looked cute as the Lone Ranger, with a couple of silver-painted water pistols and an effeminate horn-rimmed mask.

Some people were so elaborately made up that Robin had difficulty discovering who they were. Heidi Steigmuller, the proprietress of Heidi's Bar, wore a rubber mask modeled on the features of Charles De Gaulle. Countess de Lauzon, the quintessential faghag, was Count Dracula, her appearance rivaling Bela Lugosi, while Inge Frey had come as Little Red Riding Hood and Kurt Frey as the Big Bad Wolf. There was, Robin realized, an air of savagery in the room, and all sorts of wicked things going on around the pool. Everyone knew the better party was up at "Castlemaine," but they were all trying to ignore that fact.

Patrick Wax, he thought, put it best when, at one point during the evening, he came up and shook his head. "For a bash like this," he said to Robin, "it's even too much trouble to bathe."

Monsieur de Hoag was driving. Claude, very quiet, sat in the back of the Mercedes with General Bresson. Jean Tassigny, beside Monsieur de Hoag, peered ahead into the night. He watched the Mountain Road narrow and steepen as they climbed through darkness toward the crest.

They were stopped at one point by security police, who swept the car with flashlights, then politely waved them on. Jean turned to look at Claude as the beam passed across her face. She sat still, like a sculpture, staring straight ahead, as cold and pale as marble, he thought, except for her turquoise eyes and the diamond necklace that glowed against her throat.

A little later he looked back again, saw the lights of Tangier glittering far below. Then they were stopped at great iron gates. They gave their names and were waved through to the grounds. They followed a road that ran parallel to the cliffs, past terraces, gardens, pools cut into rock. Finally the road curved and "Castlemaine" came into sight. Jean gasped as they approached it, a huge Moorish palace lit from within by thousands of flickering candles, its great tower looming in the night.

In the front hall they were searched by royal bodyguards, patted lightly through their clothes. Jean thought this frisking was performed with skill, but General Bresson was indignant all the same. "I don't know why they're afraid of us," he muttered. " We don't want to kill them. We're not Moroccan, after all."

They were escorted into a huge reception room where scores of people milled about. Jean recognized the American Ambassador right away; the man had once run for vice-president of the United States.

The Hawkins' were there-the last time Jean had seen them they'd been posing nude for the erotic double portrait by Inigo. Pierre St. Carlton, in a gray velvet suit, chatted with Vanessa Bolton against a wall. Jean was introduced to a number of Brazilians, a grandee of Spain, some confident businessmen from Iran. There was a famous Greek actress who wore fabulous jewels, and an Italian leading man invited up from Marrakech, where an historical film was being shot. Omar Salah came up to them, kissed Claude's hand. Then he put his arm across the shoulders of Monsieur de Hoag and guided him away.

They were waiting, Jean understood, for members of the Moroccan royal family, off somewhere with Henderson Perry in another part of the house. Jean brushed close to Claude, tried clandestinely to take her hand. She showed her annoyance by turning away: she was like that sometimes, ready one minute to risk exposure, furious the next because he'd dared to look at her and smile. He shrugged and started toward the Hawkins', passing near Peter Barclay and Camilla Weltonwhist on his way.

"The trouble with Henderson," he overheard Barclay explain, "is that he has no taste at all. Look at these third-rate paintings. He lives like a very rich dentist, don't you think?"

Jean nodded to himself. The interior of "Castlemaine" was disappointing, especially after the fabulous entrance through the grounds. The walls were covered with dark pictures in heavy frames. There were a few Moroccan antiques, candelabra from Farid Quazzani's shop, but most of the furniture was contemporary and expensive, the sort one might find in the waiting room of a society physician on Boulevard Malesherbes.

Jean tried to talk to the Hawkins', who were uncommunicative and wrapped up in themselves. When he looked back at Claude, he saw her speaking with Salah. The chief of customs was making forceful gestures with his hands. Claude, he was happy to see, was staring back at him unimpressed.

Vanessa Bolton caught his eye, motioned him to her side. "We must stick together," she said, kissing both his cheeks. "We're the only young people except the Hawkins', who of course are stoned."

She brought him into her conversation with St. Carlton. The couturier was holding forth on the phenomenon of American millionaires. "Perry's from Texas," he said, "the only place in the world besides Tangier where people still think titles count. The man's phenomenal. Absolutely ruthless and filthy rich. You've seen the yacht, of course."

"Speaking of toys," said Vanessa.

"Yes, my dear." St. Carlton raised his eyebrows. "All the talk is true. Perry adores them. There's a room here someplace filled with electric trains. And perpetual motion machines-my God! There're all sorts of them around the halls."

"We must look around later, Jean," Vanessa said. "There're such lovely gadgets-"

"Yes," said St. Carlton. "And then there's his cryonics stuff."

"Cryonics?"

"Oh, yes, my dears. He's got equipment that accompanies him everywhere-cylinders of liquid oxygen, a preservation box. If he contracts cancer or falls ill of an incurable disease, his people have been instructed to freeze him in a flash. The idea, you see, is that eventually medical science will find a cure. Then he can be defrosted and treated, even a hundred years from now. Mad? Maybe. The poor man wants to live forever. But who doesn't? Just tell me that."