Tangier

The Hunter

By the middle of June Hamid Ouazzani began to notice certain things that reminded him of other, less unhappy summers in Tangier. In the early evening a huge moon hung full and low above the city while the wind blew wisps of clouds slowly across its face. There was a smell of overflowing sewers in the Casbah, the screams of cats on the roofs at night, and, as he prowled the Moroccan quarters of the town, he felt an anger familiar from the past. The city was short of water. There was garbage on the beach. At noon the crowds of petitioners were thick around the Surete. Demonologists stalked the streets offering to rid homes and shops of unwanted spells.

Sometimes Hamid would stop his car at an irregularly shaped rubble-strewn lot. Then he'd get out, lean against his fender, and watch boys playing soccer in the dust. He had played himself at this place when he was young, had run for hours in tattered shorts, his stomach distended by worms. After the games he and his friends had shared their bread, then hiked to the beach to wash. He longed at times to relive those simpler days, the joy of kicking at a battered, misshapen ball. But now his life was being written in another way. He was embroiled in the unsavory affairs of men.

Already his desk was piled with dossiers, and the summer had just begun. Even with extra summer help he was having difficulty keeping up. An English girl drowned at the beach. He talked to her weeping mother on a bad connection to Liverpool. A few minutes later he interrogated a Dane arrested for cavorting naked in the fountain at Place de France. There were complicated automobile accidents involving foreigners' cars. How many times would he have to explain to German tourists that their insurance forms were meaningless when they killed a peasant's sheep?

Then there was a tempest on the Mountain over mishandled deliveries of manure. Patrick Wax was the latest in a chain of victims to find a truckload of goat pellets dumped unceremoniously on his lawn. Hamid investigated. The manure dealer claimed he'd received precise instructions on the phone. He proclaimed his innocence. Hamid believed him. They looked up at the Mountain, faced each other, and shrugged.

Later Hamid drove up the Mountain to see the damage for himself.

"Now look here, Inspector," said Wax, pointing at the pellets, covering his nose with a perfumed scarf, "this has got to be a deliberate thing. The pellets were dumped at the very spot where I erect my summer party tent."

"Could have been an honest mistake," said Hamid. 'Perhaps the manure man got his addresses mixed."

"Impossible! The same thing happened to Countess de Lauzon. Someone's calling up and ordering the stuff, then telling the deliveryman to dump it in just the places where it hurts."

"But who, Mr. Wax? Whom do you suspect?"

Wax looked at him, narrowed his eyes. "Bainbridge," he said. "Couldn't be anyone else. He's cross with me, and also with Francoise, because neither of us will have him in our house. This whole thing smacks of Percy's style-just his sort of revenge."

Hamid wanted to laugh, but he listened solemnly as Wax elaborated on his complaint. He took notes and, when Wax was finished, suggested the pellets be raked around to fertilize his flowers.

"Of course," Wax exclaimed, "that's just what I intended to do. But I wanted you to see this first. This pile of shit is the only evidence I have."

Could it be, Hamid asked himself, driving back to town, that police in other countries trouble themselves with matters such as this? The Europeans were crazy, ordered manure dumped on each other's lawns. What did it mean? What was the pattern of their dance?

Later, back at his office, he paced around his desk. The "Manure Affair" was a comic operetta, but there was a victim, the manure dealer, who'd acted in good faith and now would not be paid. The trouble with police work, he thought, was that it was so inexact. Cases overlapped, dragged on unresolved, everything was a mixture of half-truths and lies, the city was a web of interlocking snares. He felt frustrated, longed for clarity. Even his feelings about Kalinka were murky: love for her and troubling questions about her past were inextricably mixed.

A few days later his head was temporarily cleared. He was sitting in his car outside La Colombe waiting for Aziz. The two of them had been making the usual rounds, checking in with their informants. When they'd arrived at the shop Hamid had asked Aziz to go in alone. He'd seen Zvegintzov several times since May, but he found their meetings difficult, fraught with excessive strain.

When Aziz came out Hamid started up the car. Aziz slid into the passenger seat, then laid his hand on Hamid's arm. "He wants to see you."

"Any idea why?"

Aziz shook his head. "I told him you were busy, but he insisted it would be worth your time."

Hamid thought a moment, then nodded and turned the ignition off. As he walked into La Colombe he dreaded another scene, another request to see Kalinka. But he was determined, no matter what Zvegintzov said, to remain cool and aloof.

Peter was waiting for him, both hands face down on the counter. His shirt was wet beneath the arms.

"You asked to see me?"

"I have information."

Hamid nodded.

"This is valuable information. Possibly worth a great deal."

"You know I'm not going to pay you, Peter. We needn't go through that charade."

"I don't want money, Inspector. I simply ask that you recognize the fact that I'm about to give you something you can obtain from no one else."

"If that's true I'll recognize it."

Peter looked at him. "I want more than that."

"Tell me what you want."

"When I have told you this I want your good regard." Zvegintzov ran his tongue across his upper lip. He turned slightly, until his thick glasses caught the light.

"I've always had high regard for you, Peter."

"But you haven't had respect."

"All right." Hamid was impatient. "What is this about?"

"Last week Aziz asked if I knew of any Nazis in Tangier. I can tell you now that I do."

"I'm listening."

"You're surprised, Hamid. You didn't expect to receive such information today. Admit it. You really do respect me a little now."

Zvegintzov grinned, displaying a row of stained and crooked teeth. Hamid stared at him, tense, annoyed. "Admit it. At least admit that you're surprised."

Hamid exhaled. "Yes, Peter, I'm surprised. Does that satisfy you? You've made your point."

"You really do respect me now?"

"I respect you more and more as each second passes by."

"Thank you." His hands, Hamid noticed, were now loosely curled into fists. His face betrayed a child's pleasure-he'd won himself a trivial point. "There is only one case that I know of undiscovered Nazis in Tangier. These people have gone to great lengths to disguise themselves. I believe I'm the only person here who knows who they really are. When I tell you their names you'll kick yourself for not having thought of them. You'll know instantly that I'm right, and you'll gladly acknowledge that I have formidable abilities which you've underrated much too long."

"In a minute, Peter, I'm going to walk out of here "

"Yes, yes. You're busy. I know. The Freys. You know their house, of course. Their collections. Their paintings and antiques. You know they raise Alsatian dogs. But did you know too that there are indictments against them in Belgium? That there are people in several countries who would give a great deal to know that they are here?"

"How do you know this?"

"I've known for a long time."

"How?"

"I've heard certain things. And I've discovered others on my own."

"You have proof?"

"I'm not a judge, Hamid."

"Who are they?"

"So! You believe me. Good!" He leaned forward, toward Hamid's ear, and spoke rapidly in a hoarse whisper, turning away every so often to clear his throat and cough. "They are notorious. The Beckers. Kurt and Inge Becker. Same first names, you see. During the war they ran a confidence ring, pretended they could help prominent Jews escape. They doublecrossed them, stole everything they had, murdered them after they'd signed over everything and placed themselves in their hands. They amassed a great fortune which they somehow managed to have transferred here. You can read about them in books, I expect, and also in Israeli files. Ha!"

He pulled Hamid by his sleeve over to the window, then pointed up at a palace that hung precipitously above the ravine. "Now they live quietly in their big house on the Mountain. That place is impenetrable as a fort. Walls, wire fences, dogs, electric gates. The Freys are courteous people, always dignified and correct. They give money to the local charities, and their servants report that they are kind. There is a rumor around that they are under royal protection. There's nothing more that I can tell you, except that everything I've said is true. They're excellent customers, by the way. Tell me what you'll do."

"You give information to me, Peter. I don't give it to you. But for what you've just told me I certainly hold you in regard."

He was pleased, walking back to the car. Though he knew he couldn't always trust Zvegintzov, this time intuition told him that he should. He had performed, he thought, a marvel of detective work, forming a theory that would explain the presence of an Israeli agent in Tangier, then uncovering information that suggested his theory was correct.

But later, that afternoon, he thought about Zvegintzov and the curious price he'd extracted for the Beckers' names. Why does Peter want my respect? What possible good could it do him now?

He was disturbed the next morning by something he saw on his way to work-a girl, no older than twelve, swinging a cat by its tail against a telephone pole on Rue de Belgique. He stopped his car, called out. The girl glared at him, heaved the cat away, and ran off down the street. The cat was dead. Hamid wrapped the carcass in a newspaper and deposited it in the trash.

Arriving at his office, he felt depressed. A great number of new cases had accumulated during the night. Aziz had arranged the dossiers in order of importance on his desk. Hamid looked at them, groaned, then set to work. By eleven he was finished, and exhausted from the task.

"About Lake," he said to Aziz. "Any idea why he's hanging around La Colombe?"

"We don't have anything on that, Hamid, except that he and Zvegintzov are friends. Lake's had him to the Consulate several times. The Russian takes part in the conversation, sometimes drinks too much and runs off about his clients. Lake's chauffeur says the Consul drives over there nearly every day, and that Zvegintzov gives Lake cigars."

Someone blew a whistle outside. Hamid walked to the window. Two cops were tussling with a boy in front of the building. A small crowd had gathered. A man in a bloodstained butcher's apron was waving his fist. A police jeep was parked by the curb.

"I've never known Peter to give anything away."

Aziz bent forward. "What do you think, Hamid?"

"Nothing. I don't think anything. I wish I were home in bed."

At noon he picked up his brother, then drove out to a fish restaurant on the Atlantic beach. They ordered seafood tapas, dishes of tiny eels and clams and squids, which they ate with bits of Arab bread.

"I'm worried about Kalinka."

He spoke rapidly, after a silence. Farid looked up and wiped his mouth.

"She's very strange lately. She's stopped smoking-Achar convinced her, but in a way that's made things worse. Now she draws and broods. I come home and find her sitting by the window. When I ask her what she's done, she looks at me and I feel her eyes drilling to my heart. I ask about the pictures. She shows them to me-strange, shadowy scenes. I ask her what they mean. She blinks at me and smiles."

"Well, Hamid, you have to take her to a doctor."

"She's been to Achar. Radcliffe too. They tell me she's just a little nervous, and I shouldn't allow myself to become upset."

"Maybe a psychiatrist-"

"In Tangier? Our so-called psychiatrists are madhouse attendants. Anyway, how can I send her to one of them? I'm an inspector of police. Soon everyone will be saying she's sick in her head. People will use that against me. I don't care, but those pitying looks, those suggestions that I throw her out. Ah!"

He swirled his fork among the eels. Farid pushed back his chair. His face was like Hamid's, but less Berber, prettier. "She's always been strange, Hamid."

"I know. At first I thought it didn't matter. She was what she was, I loved her, and that was enough. But now I feel I must understand her. She suffers. Perhaps she longs for something. Some loss. Torment. I don't know."

Then, sensitive to the fact that he was making his brother uneasy, Hamid switched the subject. "Have you ever sold anything to the Freys?"

Farid shook his head. "They don't collect Moroccan things. They like signed French furniture. Impressionists. Roman coins."

"You've seen all that?"

"One time. With Wax. He was after them for a while. When he smells money on people he warms up to them, and he smelled it on the Freys. He's drawn to rich people. When he finds them the first thing he does is think up a swindle. There was a jade scepter they had, and he wanted it. He had in mind a trade, a pair of short obelisks which he claimed were ancient pieces from Luxor, though I happen to know he had them made by the man who makes gravestones on Avenue Hassan II. Anyway, we went up to the Freys'. This was during the time that Patrick was teaching me interior decoration and good taste."

Hamid laughed, though his memory of that time was sad. He'd felt such shame for his brother then, the "bought boy" of Patrick Wax.

"He taught me a lot, you know. Took me to Europe. Showed me the museums. Enough so I could tell that the things up at the Freys' were good. They have an excellent Renoir and some wonderful bibelots."

"Did you like the Freys?"

"Are they involved in something, Hamid?"

"Perhaps. I can't tell you more than that."

"Well, all I can say is that they were pleasant enough, though not especially refined. There they were, living amidst all that splendor, but there was something ordinary, peasant-like about them too."

"Did Wax get his scepter?"

"No. They were shrewd. They saw through him. They sensed he was a charlatan. But they didn't let on. They just smiled and shook their heads."

As they drove back to the city, Hamid marveled at how much his brother had been changed by the three or four years he'd spent with Patrick Wax. He'd been taken into palaces and chateaux, taught about precious materials-marble, silver, bronze. Now he had his own shop, where he sold rugs and Berber jewelry. He designed candelabra, based vaguely on Moroccan models, which he sold to European decorators at many times their worth.

"It's funny, isn't it?" he said as they were passing through Place de France. "I became a policeman, and you became an antiquaire. Can you remember, fifteen years ago, the two of us kicking around a soccer ball in the dust?"

He stopped to let Farid off at his store. Farid opened the car door, hesitated, then shut it again.

"About Kalinka, Hamid-"

"Yes."

"I can talk to her if you like."

"Well-"

"We've always gotten on. Perhaps she needs a confidant. I'd be happy to talk with her if you agree."

"Thank you, Farid, but I don't know-"

"Well, anyway let me know if I can help."

He was grateful to Farid for that, but thinking about it through the afternoon, he decided he must continue to try with her himself. But differently than before, along another line.

That evening he waited until they were finished eating dinner and were reclining on banquettes with their cups of tea. Kalinka always prepared Oriental tea, rather than the sweet mint kind that usually followed a Moroccan meal. He'd become used to it, now preferred it, and liked the little wicker basket she'd made, based on a Vietnamese idea, molded inside with silk-covered stuffing so that the pot fit snugly and the tea stayed warm for hours.

"I saw Peter yesterday," he said.

"Oh-" She didn't seem surprised.

"An interesting meeting, Kalinka. He told me a secret about Tangier."

She smiled. "Secrets. Secrets. He has so many secrets. Poor Peter, so many secrets in his head."

"He doesn't follow you anymore, I hope."

"I'm sorry I told you that."

"You had to tell me."

"No, Hamid. You become too angry. Peter's harmless. He follows me, but it isn't what you think."

"What is it then? Tell me. Explain it to me. Please."

A silence. She put down her cup, then placed her hands together on her lap. "We were never married. I told you that. He brought me up. He took care of me. He brought me here to live."

"Yes, you've told me, but you've never told me why. Why did he introduce you as his wife? Why did he pretend?"

"He thought-I don't know. He did it-that's all. When I came here from Poland he just did it. He said something then, but I don't remember. So many years ago. Something-he said that it would be easier that way. I would have more protection. He wanted to protect me. It was so difficult for him to bring me here."

"So people thought-"

"Yes. That was it. He wanted them to think I was his wife. There was his name on my passport. Kalinka Zvegintzov. He arranged that. It was difficult to do. The same name-he showed me that. Put the two passports together, showed me the name was the same. 'We're married now, Kalinka,' he said. I remember now. He laughed. 'That's our secret, Kalinka. That's how we'll protect ourselves.' "

"And you accepted that?"

"Oh, yes. It didn't make any difference. I was only a girl then. When we were alone together he treated me the same. Don't think anything bad, Hamid. Nothing happened in all those years. We slept together in the back room of the shop, in our separate beds on opposite sides of the room. He only touched me as a father would. Kissed me as if I were his child. But he liked the secret. He would become very gay whenever he mentioned it. 'They think you're my wife,' he'd say, laughing, nodding his head. 'Such fools. It's good to have secrets from people, Kalinka. A man should always have secrets. It's a fine feeling when people are fooled.'"

It was so strange. Hamid felt no anger anymore, but lost, lost in a mysterious plot. He'd seen her passport, had examined it many times. It documented a marriage which she claimed did not exist. But why? Why these secrets? What had Peter's motives been?

"Is Peter your father?" he asked, immediately regretting the question, for it had been direct questions such as this which had always made her turn away.

"No," she said. "But he was my father's friend. He took care of mother and me. He loved my mother-I'm sure of that-though they were comrades, nothing more."

"And your real father-do you remember him?"

"I never saw him."

"But Peter told you?"

"Yes."

It occurred to him then that since Peter was so fond of secrets, he might have lied to Kalinka about her father too. "On your passport it says 'Father's name: unknown.' "

"That's not true," she said. "I know my father's name."

"What is it, Kalinka? Why haven't you told me this before?"

"His name was Stephen Zhukovsky. I didn't tell you because I forgot."

"But how could you forget a thing like that?"

"I never knew this man. He died soon after I was born."

"But Peter knew him?"

"Knew him very well. He and Peter were best friends in Hanoi. Peter told me that, and how my father died."

"Tell me."

"It was terrible," she said. Tears formed in her eyes. "In jail. In Hanoi jail. He was tortured by the Japanese. They tortured him-to death."

"Peter told you that?"

"He was there. He told me he was there. Nearby. In a cell nearby. And he heard my father's screams. They tortured him too, he told me, but not so much. My father was a great hero, he told me. And my mother-she was a great heroine too."

She was crying now and trying to smile through her tears. Hamid moved close to her, held her, kissed her, stroked her hair. In the six months he had lived with her she had never told him so much. He knew that now that she'd begun to talk he must press her to tell him more.

"Your mother-tell me about her."

She thought a moment, then she smiled. "Like Achar," she said. "Mama was like Achar."

"But that's ridiculous-"

"No, Hamid. Of course, she didn't look like Achar." She laughed. "Achar is big and hairy. No-mama didn't have a mustache. But she was like him another way. She worried about people, cared for people and the way they hurt. She hated injustice and worked to set things right."

"So you know Achar is interested in that?"

"Oh, yes. I can see it in his face. That's the thing I remember best about mama-her eyes, her concern. She would have loved Achar."

What a curious thing to say, he thought, and he was surprised that she understood Achar so well. It was uncanny the way she grasped the essence of people. She understood them by intuition. His own mind did not work that way. "Tell me more about her, what sort of things she did."

"She was a spy. She and Peter-together they spied upon the French."

"You're not serious."

"Of course I am."

"But how did you know?"

"They talked about it all the time. You see, Peter had a shop in Hanoi, a shop just like La Colombe. And it was filled with French people, officers and their wives. He sold them things, found them servants, stood in line for them with their letters at the Poste. They talked among themselves, and he asked them questions about their lives. Then he would tell mama-they would discuss these people for hours. They would put together what they knew and overheard-things having to do with transfers, movements of troops, boats that might arrive, airplanes, politics. They talked about all that, and then mama would carry the information someplace else. It was dangerous, I know. Peter was always worried when she left. Sometimes she was gone for six or seven days. We were always so happy when she returned."

"Were they married?"

"No, but people thought they were. Like Peter and me, you see. He pretended my mother was his wife. People called her 'Madame Zvegintzov.' We lived with him behind the shop. Mama and I slept in one bed and Peter in another. There was a curtain down the center of the room. Peter pulled it closed when it was time to go to sleep."

She locked her hands together then and threw them, like a lasso, around his neck. Then she lay back upon the banquette, pulled him down upon her, and buried her face against his chest. Later, in bed, they made love in that special way of hers, that strange Asian way which gave him such delight-lying nearly still, barely touching, changing their rhythm again and again, extending their pleasure to the limits of their ability to prolong it, then joining in a climax that left their bodies shuddering from head to toe.

The next day was busy, monotonous. A gang of Moroccan toughs had burglarized the auto camping grounds. Light bulbs and plastic lenses were missing from all the cars. In the middle of the morning Foster Knowles turned up with a set of worried American parents whose runaway daughter had sent them an enigmatic postcard from Tangier. They showed Hamid photographs and beseeched him to help. He nodded, stared at the photographs. The girl looked lost and innocent. He tried to memorize her features but they blurred before his eyes.

Late in the afternoon he went to see the Prefect. He told him what he'd found out about the Freys and suggested he put a watch around their house. "It's a long shot, of course," he said, "but I can't think of what else would interest an Israeli in Tangier."

It was six-thirty when he left the Prefecture, a good time, he thought, to drop in at La Colombe. He became snarled in a traffic jam in the middle of Dradeb, caused by two huge tourist buses trying to pass one another at the narrowest portion of the road. It was ten to seven by the time he reached the shop. There were no European cars parked in front.

"Ah-it's you, Inspector." Peter was in a jovial mood. "Just like old times. Now we see each other every day."

The Russian was busy straightening up his cigars. Hamid wondered how many hours he wasted arranging and rearranging things, how often he clicked the keys of his old French cash register to ring up a purchase or just to hear the little bell.

"If you're back about that matter we discussed the other morning, I told you everything I know."

"No, Peter, I'm not back about that. I'm here about something else. I want to know what you think you're doing, following Kalinka on the street."

Peter stopped fidgeting with the cigars. For a moment he seemed to freeze. Then he picked up a feather duster and began to move rapidly around the shop, flicking dust off the book racks and the counters covered with games and imported jams and cheese. Hamid stood in the center watching him, waiting for his reply.

"Well," he said finally, "have I embarrassed you? Are you going to answer my question or not?"

"I don't know what you're talking about. Your question doesn't make any sense."

"All right, Peter. Forget I asked. But don't let me hear you've followed her again. I'm warning you. Every policeman in this country will stand beside a colleague when his honor is at stake."

Peter was still waving his duster, even more frantically than before.

"Why did you lie, Peter?" Hamid asked. "Why did you pretend Kalinka was your wife?"

Peter suddenly stood still. Then he lowered his head. "Please," he said, "I so want your respect."

He raised his head again, showed his face, so that Hamid could see the moisture glistening in his eyes. For a moment Hamid felt ashamed that he'd been so harsh, but then he wondered if these tears were only another one of Peter's tricks. Kalinka said he liked to play with people, keep secrets from them, then laugh at them and call them fools behind their backs.

"Who is Stephen Zhukovsky?" he asked, as gently as he could.

"Oh, my God! Don't ask me questions. You have her now. Isn't that enough?"

Hamid moved close, grasped his shoulders, forced him to look into his eyes. "I'm not trying to hurt you, Peter. I don't wish you harm in any way. But I must know. I have to know what this is all about. These pretended marriages. These secrets. You must tell me everything now."

Peter's eyes were squeezed shut, tight behind the lenses that magnified his tired lines. Hamid let go of him and stepped back. Just then he heard the bell that rang whenever a person entered the shop. He turned. The American Consul, Daniel Lake, was there, staring at them from the door.

"Excuse me," said Lake. "I didn't mean to-"

Peter rushed to him, shook his hand, then took hold of his arm and faced Hamid. "You know Inspector Ouazzani, Dan."

"Yes. Of course."

Hamid nodded. The three of them stood awkwardly, staring at one another with simulated smiles.

"Actually, Peter, I saw the light and-"

"Yes, yes, Dan. The Inspector was about to leave."

Hamid started toward the door. Lake mumbled something, then followed him into the street. "Nice night," he said. "Warmer now. Good for the gardens, I understand."

Hamid nodded. He wanted to get into his car, but the American, edging in front of it, had blocked his way.

"Thank you, Inspector, for being so kind this morning with the couple Foster brought around. He told me you were very patient with them. It's so sad about these runaways."

"We rarely find them. They go south, to the desert, or the beaches west of Marrakech."

"Well, we're appreciative just the same. I want you to know that. Foster's impressed with the way you handle things, even though you had him in a sweat a few weeks ago."

Hamid felt the American's hand slap down upon his shoulder. The gesture annoyed him. He moved back a step.

"Come on, Inspector. Surely you recall." Lake was grinning. "You told him you'd been watching him. You asked him what he was doing around a certain shop. He was pretty upset, I can tell you. He came to me. Asked me what to do."

"Oh? What did you tell him?"

"I reminded him of his diplomatic status here. I told him he wasn't under the control of the local police, that he didn't have to account for his actions to anyone but me."

"Very good advice, Mr. Lake."

"Yes, I think it was. But what I'm getting at is the remarkable way you do your job. Foster and I are both impressed by that. You'd observed him. You knew what he was doing. I'm told nothing happens in Tangier that you don't find out about pretty quick."

Hamid looked at Lake closely. He wasn't sure whether the Consul General was trying to fence with him or whether this curious turn in their conversation had been contrived to make some point. Perhaps Lake suspected he was being watched. Perhaps Zvegintzov had told him that he was.

"And Kalinka?" asked Lake suddenly. "Tell me-how is she?"

"I didn't know you knew her."

"We've never been introduced, actually, but she's been pointed out to me as one of the beauties of the town."

Suddenly Hamid was angry. "Perhaps, Mr. Lake," he said in a fierce whisper, "perhaps you've been gossiping too much with your Russian friend."

"Ah-you see!" Lake grinned. "Just as I told you. You do know everything, just as people say."

Lake turned away then, flushed with bravado. Hamid watched him chuckle to himself, then slip into his car. He was puzzled. The man had baited him. But why? What had he meant by it? Lake was not stupid, despite the odd way he babbled on, but there was something off center about him, something strange.

Hamid worked late that night shuffling through a stack of dossiers. He sorted out his cases, searching for coherence, but he could find nothing, no pattern, no sense of order in the town. A Nazi couple on the Mountain-Farid said they owned a Renoir. An American Consul General who leered at him like a fox. A Russian shopkeeper who begged him for respect. The streets were full of confusion. The summer was dry and hot. He was living with a woman, a foreigner, a cipher, whom he loved but could not understand.

Driving home very late, he noticed a car parked outside Heidi's Bar. Passing it, he had a quick look at a man inside, Inigo, the painter, shaking with laughter or perhaps in tears. As he drove farther, his headlights caught a pack of wild dogs running the deserted alleys near his street. In the flat he found Kalinka in bed, breathing gently, eyelids fluttering, safe in dreams and sleep. He stepped out onto his terrace and surveyed Tangier, listening to the clash of radios, each set to a different station, rebounding from the rooming houses all around. Dogs barked. The wind blew. Nothing was clear. The city was a labyrinth, a maze of pain and rage. He thought of people rotting away in decaying buildings, foreigners filled with violent passions, Moroccan children beating animals to death.