Hammond Innes - The Strange Land

‘Si, si, senor.’

When he had gone, Kavan began rummaging in the oilskin bag and produced a rather battered book that looked something like a ledger. ‘Do you think you could dispose of that for me?‘He held it out to me.

‘What is it?‘I asked.

‘It’s the Jog of the Gay Juliet. I brought it ashore with me as evidence of what happened to Wade. It should be burned now. Do you think you can manage that?’

‘Are you sure you want it destroyed?’ I asked him. ‘I could leave it with a friend of mine — just in case.’

‘No. I’m sure your friend is reliable, but — ‘ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘And I daren’t take it with me, just in case the douane decide to search me. Burn it, will you?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said. ‘What else did you bring ashore with you?’

‘My own papers and visas. There’s some money, too.’

‘How much?’

He glanced at me quickly. ‘Quite a lot.’

I explained to him then that the regulations only permitted him to take so much in cash into French Morocco. I suggested that I bank the excess for transfer to the Banque d’Etat at Marrakech and he agreed. Altogether there was over four hundred pounds, mainly in English notes. ‘Is this Wade’s or yours?’ I asked., He looked at me hard. ‘Does it matter? Wade wasn’t the sort to have dependants.’

There was a knock at the door and the boy came in with his clothes and my jacket. I slipped the notes into my hip pocket. The boy paused as he was arranging the clothes on a chair. He was staring at the oilskin bag which Kavan still held in his hands. The dark, Arab eyes met mine and then he turned abruptly and hurried out. “You said you’d lived in Tangier,’ Kavan said as the door dosed. ‘You know it well?’

‘Well enough to want to get out of it,’ I answered.

‘Can you find Karen for me then?’ His voice was suddenly urgent. ‘I must get in touch with her before we leave. I must tell her where I’m going. Can you do that for me?’

‘I don’t know.’ Tangier wasn’t a big place, not the European section of it. But there wasn’t much time. ‘The best chance would be through the immigration authorities.’

‘No, no. Don’t do that. Not the authorities. But you must know people here — somebody would know about her in a place like this. Please. Find out where she’s living and give her the address of the Mission. Tell her to write to me there as soon as she’s convinced that she’s not being watched. No, not to me. Tell her to write to you. That would be safer. Will you do that?’

‘I’ll try.’ I got my hat. ‘Better lock the door behind me,’ I said, and left him and went down the stairs and out into the bright sunlight of the streets.

I went first to Cook’s in the rue de Statut and was lucky enough to get two wagon-lit berths on the night train. Then I crossed the Zocco Grande to the British bank in the Siaghines where I arranged for Kavan’s money to be changed into Moroccan francs and transferred to the Mission’s account in Marrakech. It was then past midday and I cut up a side street to a small Italian cafe, and there I sat over my lunch and read Gay Juliet’s log.

Until then I think Wade had appeared to me as an almost mythical character. But he was real enough by the time I had finished his record of that winter voyage out from Falmouth. As a kid I had done a lot of sailing — that was back in the days when my father was alive, before he’d gone bankrupt. I knew enough about the sea to be able to interpret, in terms of physical conditions, such laconic statements as: ‘Wind Force 7, gusting 8. Direction S.W. Waves 20 feet, breaking heavily. Lay to under bare sticks, everything battened down. Jan very sick. Pumping every half hour.’ This was off Ushant and continued for fifteen hours. Sometimes he was less factual, more descriptive, as in the entry for November 30: ‘Light S.E. breeze off the land. Heavy swell with sea oily and black. Moon just lipping horizon. Ghosting along under Genoa — no sound except the grunt of porpoises. They have been with us all night, their movements visible on account of the phosphorescence, which is unusual at this time of the year. Jan fit now and has the makings of a good seaman. Pray God it doesn’t;tart to blow again. Both of us very tired.’

The log was something more than a bare record of speed, course and conditions. It was Wade’s personal record, entered up daily from the chart table data and going back over several voyages: Cannes to Naples,and back — Cannes to Palermo and on to the Piraeus, across to Alexandria and back to Nice by way of Valetta — Nice to Gibraltar. The yachts were all different, so were the crews. Sometimes he sailed single-handed. But always the same flowing, easy handwriting, the same graphic descriptive details running through the Mediterranean voyages and on to the final trip out from England. And then, suddenly, two pages from the last entry, the writing changed, became finer, neater, more exact. ‘Dec. 12 — 0245: Course 195°. Wind S.S.E. Force 3–4. Speed 5 knots. A terrible thing has happened. Roland lost overboard shortly after I relieved him. Time 0205 approx. Heavy swell running. Threw lifebelt to him and gybed to bring ship round…’

Wade was dead and Kavan was writing up his log.

There was a rather touching finality about that abrupt change in the writing. After all those hundreds of sea miles, logged and recorded between the brown board covers of the book, this bald statement that the sea had claimed him.

Whatever else the man had been, he was a fine yachtsman.

I rifled through the remaining twenty or so pages of the book. They were blank, except for the last two which contained odd jottings, reminders of things he had probably planned on the long night watches. They were under port headings, such as Naples — see Borgioli — Ring Ercoli — Votnero 23-245 — Cheaper to slip here and get top sides blown off and repainted (Luigi Cantorelli’s yard) etc. I glanced quickly to the last entry and there, sure enough, was the heading TANGIER and underneath — Michel Kostos, 22 rue de la Grande Mosquee. Tel. 237846. There were several other names and telephone numbers and then a note — Try to contact Ed White. Wazerzat 12 (Lavin, Roche et Lavin).

I sat drinking my coffee and wondering about this last entry. Lavin, Roche et Lavin was obviously the name of a French firm and Wazerzat looked like the phonetic spelling of an Arab town — Ouarzazate, for instance.

I closed the book slowly and finished my coffee. Reading that log had brought the man to life in my mind. Reluctantly, I called the patrone and had him take me through into the kitchen, and there I thrust the book down into the red hot coals of the range. I found myself muttering a prayer for him as it burst into flames. The book should have been consigned to the sea.

Coming back into the cafe, I noticed an Arab sitting in the far corner, by the window. I hadn’t seen him come in. I suppose I had been too engrossed in the story of Wade’s voyages. There was something familiar about his face. I paid my bill and, as I walked out, our eyes met and I remembered that he had been in the bank when I had arranged for the transfer of Kavan’s money. He had quick, intelligent eyes and a hard, aquiline face. His djellaba was of the smooth, grey gaberdine favoured by the richer guides and pimps and he wore brown European shoes.

I turned up into the Arab town, climbing quickly towards the kasbah. I wanted to take a look at Jews’ Bay — and I wanted to quash the suspicion that had suddenly crossed my mind.

ť From the Naam Battery I looked down to the sea and across the width of Jews’ Bay. The sea was blue and sparkled in the sunshine. The water of the bay was faintly corrugated and there was a fringe of white where the swell broke on the golden sand. It was a quiet, peaceful scene, utterly at variance with my memories of what it had been like down there less than twenty-four hours ago. There was no sign of the wreck, but a small motor launch was hovering around the spot where the yacht had struck. I turned and walked back to the Place du Tabor, and there was the Arab I had left sitting in the cafe.