Tangier

I

Hamid Ouazzani-he was the keystone in the arch, the pivot upon which the story was to turn. He didn't look like what he was-an inspector of police. High Berber cheeks, a lean, ascetic face, no mustache. He used to wear a beaten-up black leather jacket and black moccasins he bought by the dozen in Marrakech. He moved softly, without effort. His eyes glowed with curiosity and warmth.

Hamid knew everything about us, for we were all his wards. In a town full of men and women who nourished themselves on gossip, he knew more than any of us, and relished every story that grazed his ear. To him Europeans were the most fascinating creatures on earth. He kept track of us with a professional concern tempered by a sympathy for our strange and complicated ways.

The whole police force was in awe of him, for he could explain our actions with a clarity that cut through their bafflement the way yellow light cuts through fog. He had more informants than any of his colleagues, but spent practically nothing for his information. He held the sword of permanent expulsion over all our foreign heads. .