Tangier

Monday at the Surete

Aziz Jaouhari had been working for an hour when Hamid walked in late. It was Monday morning and as usual there was much coming and going at the Surete. Civilians and police mingled on the bottom floor, and the basement was filled with people arrested over the weekend.

"Well, Aziz, what have we got this morning?" Hamid hung up his leather jacket and sat down at his desk.

Aziz was looking at his list. "Six tourists in the jug, Inspector-five of them members of a British ballet. They played Rabat, then came up here for fun. We caught them with little boys on Saturday night having an orgy at the Oriental Hotel."

"Robin, of course."

Aziz nodded. "He turned them in. They demanded to see the British Consul, but Mrs. Whittle told me he was out of town. Actually I think he was here but didn't want to be disturbed."

"Doesn't surprise me. He hates the queers." Hamid lit a cigarette.

"Then there's an American, brought in late last night. He picked up a whore at Heidi's Bar. They were walking back to her place when she began to scream. That's his version, of course. She says he was going to break her arm. Anyway, a cop named Mustapha Barrada came along and found a kilo of hash in his jeans. There was a scuffle, and Mustapha beat him up. Doctor saw him early this morning, and I've been in touch with Knowles."

"Good, Aziz. Very good."

"There's more. The hustler they call 'Pumpkin Pie' wracked up Inigo's Mercedes on the Tetuan Road. In the process he hit an old man and crushed his legs. What concerns us is that Inigo reported the car stolen a couple of hours before, so we're holding the boy, whose name is Mohammed Seraj, until he comes in here and swears out a complaint."

"How's the old man?"

Aziz shrugged. "In pain. This Seraj is a wild one. Maybe he didn't even blow the horn."

"Right. Anything else?" Hamid felt weary already and wished he was back home in bed.

"The Prefect wants to see you this afternoon. And Vicar Wick, the one who runs St. Thomas Church, has an urgent matter that he will only discuss with you."

"Tell him to come in."

"You want the Vicar to come in here?"

"He's not a diplomat. I don't have to call on him."

Aziz beamed. "You interested in the ballet dancers?"

"Depends on who they are. If they're nobody special we'll expel them all tonight."

When Aziz finally left, Hamid turned to the window and groaned. It was like this on a Monday-people in jail, incidents from the weekend, trivial details that took up his time. Now he was concerned about Kalinka and found it difficult to concentrate on work. She'd always been strange-that was the secret of her attractiveness-but lately, it seemed to him, her strangeness had increased. She'd smoked the whole weekend, disappearing into a haze of incomplete sentences, utterances in Vietnamese he couldn't understand. It was as if she was trying to tell him something. So many times he had asked her, "Who are you, Kalinka?", and now, it seemed, she wanted to answer but couldn't find the words. She was such a puzzle. Often Hamid would pause to wrestle with her mystery. So far with no result, but still he hoped to find the key.

Aziz came back into the office. "Vicar Wick's on his way over now. The Prefect will see you at six. Inigo is here to make his complaint, and Knowles is with the American downstairs."

"Good. I'll start with Inigo. Then Knowles. Keep the Vicar waiting-half an hour at least."

Aziz gave him an admiring glance, then showed Inigo in. The Paraguayan painter was an extremely handsome young man, with the face of a Mexican saint.

"So, Inspector, you've got my little Pumpkin Pie. He's been a naughty boy. Good thing you locked him up."

Hamid smiled. He liked the artist, was a great admirer of his work. His paintings, all highly realistic, glowed with a translucent sheen. There'd been a time, when Hamid was a boy, when he'd thought a painter was someone who whitewashed a house.

"Yes, we have him, and since you're the owner of the car, the responsibility would normally fall on you. You reported it stolen so you seem to be absolved, but since Pumpkin Pie is your houseboy, it puts the affair in a curious light."

"Ha!" said Inigo, smoothing his long black hair. "I don't know where you get your information. Pumpkin Pie is my lover and does absolutely nothing around the house."

Hamid smiled again. "Yes. Of course. But to us, you see, houseboy and lover come to the same thing. What happened? Did you have a quarrel? How did he get hold of the keys?"

"Stole them, of course. As he's stolen nearly everything else. The boy's a kleptomaniac. There was a time when you would have cut off his hand."

"Yes. The old Koranic justice. Harsh, merciless, and irrevocable punishments. Sometimes we wish we could still mete them out. But we're trying to be civilized now."

"A big mistake, if you don't mind my saying so. When this country becomes civilized, it'll be time for me to leave. I came here for the barbarism. I like the feeling of being in a violent land. And the faces-gaunt, strong, primitive-they're the faces I dreamed of in Paraguay. Like yours, Inspector-a classic. Perhaps someday you'll be kind and model for me."

"I'm flattered, but I don't have the time-"

"A minute! Let me look closely!" Inigo stood up, leaned over the desk, and carefully inspected Hamid's face. "I swear I've seen this physiognomy before. Perhaps in one of the drawings by Delacroix." He sat down again. "It constantly amazes me-this sense I have that Morocco is still the same. Did you know that when Delacroix came here he spent days in the Socco sketching everyone who passed by? Hundreds of faces. Sometimes fifteen or twenty on a page. I'd swear yours was one of them. Has your family always lived in Tangier?"

"We're from Ouazzane. But enough about my face. The keys-did Mohammed have access to them? Was he normally allowed to drive your car?"

Inigo brought his fist up hard against his forehead, then squeezed shut his eyes. "Ah, Inspector, if you only knew-if you only knew the trouble I've had with that boy. He's a sadist, positively a sadist. Every day he tortures me to death. He steals my drawings, takes them to Madrid, and sells them on the street. Then he comes back penniless, makes sweet apologies, and I take him in again. He's not only a thief; he's a liar too. Constantly he lies about where he's been. With friends, he says, at some obscure cafe, and I nod, though I know perfectly well nothing he says is true. He's been in some shabby hotel with some disgusting British queer, acting the part of the rough street whore, probably beating the faggot up. I've bought him beautiful shirts, silk scarves, a motorcycle, the best perfume. My God, he was dressed in rags when I found him guarding cars in Asilah after a certain countess dismissed him from her staff. But the more I give him the more he takes. We've fought, actually come to blows. He once threw one of my paintings, still wet and unvarnished-threw it down a stairs! I bought a swan for my swimming pool. He captured it, strangled it with his bare hands! The boy's completely schizophrenic, but I need him, so what am I to do? Suffer, I suppose. Suffer! As people say an artist should. But why? Why should I suffer? My paintings have made me rich. I have the finest, absolutely the finest house in Tangier. I live on the Mountain. Museums collect my work. Everything I paint gets snapped up. My prices climb. I get richer. And still my suffering goes on."

He removed his fist, settled back exhausted in his chair. "I must accept it, I suppose. My destiny. God's will, as you people say. It's written. Mektoub. But why? Why? Here I am, a great painter, perhaps the greatest technician since Velasquez, living with a nasty little street whore who uses me terribly and is way beneath my style."

Hamid listened, amused at Inigo's antics and the melodrama of his life. The artist, he knew, was fond of monologues, whose effects he always tried to gauge as he went along.

"I gather," he said finally, "that you're not particularly impressed."

"Oh," said Hamid. "I am. But forgive me if I keep my feelings to myself. In this office I've heard every sort of confession. I listen, I observe, but I refuse to judge."

"Ah. Then you're a student of human nature, a man much like myself. Still I'm glad I've told you this. Better for you to understand me than to think me mad for what I'm going to do. I want Pumpkin Pie released. I won't press charges, and I withdraw everything I've said. He didn't steal my car-I handed him the keys."

Hamid studied him a moment. "You realize, of course, that you'll have to pay damages, settle with the injured man? A Moroccan judge, knowing that you're rich, will want to teach you a lesson. It'll be extremely expensive-you can be sure of that."

"Yes, yes." Inigo waved his hands. "I understand. And I'm resigned. Money means nothing in the end. I simply want to return to my house, face my easel, and paint." He was quiet for a moment, then lowered his voice. "Tell me, Inspector. When will you let him go?"

"An hour or so. Aziz will show you where to post the bond."

"I brought my checkbook just in case."

"No guarantee, of course, that he'll return to your house."

"Oh, I know that. But he will. Sooner or later he will. He needs me, in his way, as much as I need him."

They both rose then, and Hamid shook his hand.

"I accept your decision, though I think you're making a mistake."

"Of course," said Inigo. "I'll pay for it later. I know that. But there's nothing I can do. It's my flaw-the flaw in my character, you see."

When Aziz came back Hamid asked him what he thought. "The Nasranis are all mad," he said.

"Perhaps, Aziz. Perhaps. Now give me a few minutes to smoke a cigarette. Then bring in Vice-Consul Knowles."

The session with the Americans was quick. The prisoner was brought up, sat numb in his chair while Aziz read aloud from his dossier. When that was finished Hamid asked him if he agreed with the reported facts. The American shook his head and stared down at the floor.

"Listen here," Hamid said, "you'd do much better to confess. It's your word against a man of the police. Tell us who sold you the hash, sign a confession, and maybe the judge will go easy on you. But make us prove our case and the sentence will certainly be harsh." When he saw that this had no effect, he signaled Aziz to take him back to his cell. "Think about it," he shouted when the American was passing through the door.

He looked at Knowles, who seemed anxious and stiff. Hamid didn't particularly like him, though he wasn't certain exactly why. Sometimes in the mornings, driving to work, he saw the Vice-Consul and his wife jogging parallel to Vasco de Gama, appearing and disappearing among the trees and mists. He passed over the prisoner's passport, watched while Knowles copied the number down.

"Well, Mr. Knowles, what do you think?"

"You're asking me?"

"Why not?"

Knowles squinted, then shook his head. "A hippie. I think he's a hippie." He ran his fingers through his hair.

"But he denies everything-now why does he do that?"

"I don't know why you ask me, Inspector. I know nothing about the case."

"You know as much as I do. You're his fellow countryman. I was hoping you'd help me understand the processes of his mind."

Knowles shrugged. Hamid studied him for a moment, then decided to make a leap. "I have the feeling," he said, "that you don't much like this work."

"The work's all right. It's just, well-"

"Aren't you happy in our little town?"

"Yeah. Of course. Tangier's great."

"What is it then? Every time I see you you look disturbed. I know it's not pleasant to come into a police station, but I wonder if there's something more than that."

"I guess I'm a little nervous-"

"You know I've been observing you, Mr. Knowles."

"You have?"

"Oh, yes. Not you especially. But I watch everything, and I've seen you too."

Knowles turned away.

"A week ago, for instance, there were several occasions when you particularly caught my eye. You were sitting in your car outside Peter Zvegintzov's shop. Nothing wrong with that, of course. No crime. But I began to wonder. You seemed to be waiting for someone, though your wife wasn't in sight. Being a curious sort of fellow, I began to ask myself: Now why, why would a young man from the American Consulate be watching outside this particular store? And I never did figure it out."

Hamid fastened his eyes on Knowles, until the American finally looked back. He'd become extremely nervous-so much so that Hamid decided to change the subject.

"None of my business," he said. "You're your own man here. But forgive me if I give you some advice. Try to be helpful to the prisoners if you can. I know you're only required to give them a list of lawyers and a little counseling on our local laws, but your predecessor did a lot more. He was friendly to them, even used his own money to buy them soap and cigarettes. It's not very pleasant, you know, downstairs."

"I know." Knowles nodded his head. "But I don't want to get involved. Better to keep everything official-that's what our handbook says."

"Well, perhaps you're right. Still I admired the last vice-consul very much. He may not have liked the people he had to see, but he understood their pain."

When Knowles was gone Hamid waited a moment, then went to the window to watch him enter his car. It was driven by a Moroccan chauffeur who for years had been one of his informants-without-pay.

He returned to his desk, lit another cigarette, and tried to clear his mind. Then he heard noises coming from the street and moved back to the window again. A middle-aged lady, a Riffian in a red-and-white-striped skirt, was struggling with two policemen and screaming for her son. A small crowd had gathered to watch the scene, and Hamid saw other inspectors watching from their windows too.

Why do we watch? he wondered. Why are we all voyeurs? When he returned to his desk Aziz was waiting by the door.

"The Vicar's cooling his heels. You ready for him now?"

Hamid nodded, then began a shopping list in Arabic which he continued after the Vicar was shown in. When he was finished he turned the paper over and looked up at the Englishman with a smile. "Well, Vicar Wick," he said. "This is the first time you've been here, I think."

"Yes, Inspector Ouazzani. And I confess I'm not happy about it at all. A most unpleasant matter has forced me to come. As I explained to your assistant, I had to see you and no one else."

Hamid folded his hands and placed them on the desk. "Very well. You're here. Please tell us what we can do."

Vicar Wick, a short, stout, nervous man whose hair was slicked back with some sort of oil or cream, turned to look at Aziz. "It's most confidential, Inspector. I prefer to speak to you alone."

"Mr. Jaouhari is my homme de confiance. I promise you he's totally discreet."

"Still I'd prefer-"

Hamid shook his head. "Many people come into this room and say the most amazing things. It's necessary for me to always have a witness. Then if there's a misunderstanding later on-but I'm sure you understand."

"Hmmp! I see! Yes, yes." He turned back to Hamid. "Oh, very well." He was fidgeting. "This is a most delicate matter. Most delicate, indeed."

Hamid was becoming impatient. "Yes, Vicar, now please tell us what it is. We have lots of work this morning. A number of your fellow countrymen have been arrested with Moroccan boys."

The Vicar's eyes began to flutter. Hamid studied him. The man chewed his fingernails. Another high-strung Englishman, he thought.

"You've heard of Mr. Peter Barclay, I presume?"

"I know him, of course."

"Good. Then you know the kind of man he is. And his importance to us British here. I needn't tell you that Mr. Barclay is from one of the greatest families in the British Isles-that his cousin is a duke and that he is related to Her Majesty in six different ways. He is, in short, a most distinguished person, and we count ourselves fortunate that he is a member of our little church."

"Yes, Vicar, we know all of that. Now please get to the point."

"I'm getting to it, Inspector, if you'll just let me tell this my own way. At our Sunday worship service there comes a time when we collect money from our parishioners. For the maintenance of St. Thomas, of course. Mr. Barclay, as one of our members, always takes charge of the plate. After the service he counts the money and enters the amount in our books."

Hamid nodded. Aziz, whom the Vicar couldn't see, looked at Hamid and rolled his eyes.

"Yesterday, Inspector, we had our service, and as usual there were a number of envelopes on the plate. I should explain that we provide them for people who wish to remain discreet. Discretion, you see, is most necessary, since the plate is passed hand to hand."

"Yes, I see that. Yes."

"Well, yesterday after the service Mr. Barclay began his usual accounting, and among the envelopes he found this."

The Vicar reached into his breast pocket and extracted a piece of paper wrapped in the cellophane from a package of cigarettes. "I took the precaution of putting it in plastic. Mr. Barclay and I both touched it, of course, but the culprit's fingerprints may be on it as well."

Hamid looked down at the item on his desk. "What is it?" he asked.

"It's a note, Inspector. A note. Without doubt the most malicious note that I have ever read. A note the likes of which has never before been handed to anyone in our church. A note which says things I cannot bring myself to repeat."

Hamid raised his eyebrows. "What does it say?"

"Please, sir, read it. Read it for yourself. In the strictest confidence, of course."

The Vicar glanced at Aziz, who was wincing with disappointment, while Hamid spread the paper out. The note was written in a violent shade of red ink; the handwriting was even, full of carefully modeled loops.

YOU DEFILE THIS HOUSE OF THE LORD, PETER BARCLAY. A GOOD THRASHING IS WHAT YOU NEED. YOU'RE A PEDERAST, A TWO-FACED HYPOCRITE, BUT OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST CANNOT BE DECEIVED. LEAVE TANGIER, YOU SWINE, OR BE STRICKEN DOWN. THE LORD'S HOUSE WILL BE CLEANSED.

Hamid read through it quickly, then read it a second time with care. He wanted to be certain he understood all the nuances of the text. "It seems quite straightforward," he said finally, looking back at Wick. "Tell us what happened next."

"Nothing happened. This excrescence was simply read. The evidence before you speaks quite plainly for itself."

"Hmmm. Well, I'm afraid something is escaping me if this, in fact, is all."

"All! But don't you see? The most distinguished Englishman in Tangier, a man who but for the grace of God might have been a duke, is insulted in the British church by an anonymous note full of calumnies and threats."

"Yes, I see all that. What does Mr. Barclay have to say?"

"The poor man's been quite brave about it. He pretends to laugh it off, though of course he's deeply hurt. You see the gravity, Inspector? We simply must find out who wrote this and expel him before others are similarly attacked." He lowered his voice to a shaking whisper. "Oh, how I would love to know who among us has done this thing. With such a maniac in our midst we may all be driven from our church."

Hamid sat back. "All this is very interesting, Vicar, and I certainly understand your concern. But there's nothing we can do for you here. This isn't a matter for the police."

The Vicar sat up straight, angry and amazed. "Not a matter for the police! What else are the police for, may I ask, if not to solve cases such as this?"

"There's been no crime, Vicar. At least not under Moroccan law. No criminal act has been committed, so we're powerless to intervene."

Wick grasped the note, smudging any fingerprints that might have been left. "But the threats!" he said, shaking the paper in Hamid's face. "The threats! 'Stricken down!' 'A good thrashing!' These are violent threats."

"I myself see no threats. Only imputations, and entreaties to God."

"It's blasphemy!"

"Perhaps. I happen to be a Moslem and therefore not all that well acquainted with your faith. But the laws of my country are clearly spelled out. They say nothing about blasphemy in a foreign church."

"So that's it! The law doesn't apply to us."

"That's not true, but you may think what you like. I'm simply telling you I cannot help. You British must settle this among yourselves."

A long pause then, as the Vicar realized that Hamid could not be swayed. "I see," he said finally, standing up. "I see very well that I shall find no justice here. Good day, sir. I thank you for your time. And may I say that I think things have come to a sorry pass when the police refuse to deal with a foreigner's complaint."

He stalked out then, and when he was far down the hall Hamid and Aziz began to laugh.

"Another example of the Nasranis' madness, Aziz. Note it well!"

"I have, Hamid. I have. But please-what is a British duke?"

"A grand signor. A great lord. But the point is that Mr. Barclay is not a duke, though he would have everyone in Tangier think that he is. And what the note says is absolutely true-he does make love to boys. But enough of this nonsense. There's still work to do. Take care of the ballet dancers-call them up here, interrogate them, and make many thinly veiled threats. I'm going out for a while. I'll see you after lunch."

Hamid began to drive about the town aimlessly, in an attempt to clear his head. He passed the Emsalah Tennis Club, saw Omar Salah's car parked in the drive. He was tempted to go in then and play Omar a hard, fast set. But he knew he would feel guilty if he played during working hours, and, too, he knew what people would say. "Ah, Hamid Ouazzani is now an inspector of police and has become unbearably corrupt. He plays tennis in the daytime while the criminals roam Tangier. He has forgotten his humble origins, is now as rich and arrogant as Salah, whom he imitates."

He laughed at the thought, and at all his missed opportunities to become rich-all the bribes offered him, and sternly refused.

He turned down the road to Dradeb, then drove slowly so that he could look carefully at everything and see if there was something new. He often tested himself this way, believing that if he stared long and hard enough at familiar sights he might begin to understand them in a different way. He passed only one foreigner on the road, Laurence Luscombe, walking with an empty market basket from his home at the far end of the slum. Luscombe's face looked haggard, and there were pink blotches on his cheeks. His white hair was blowing in the breeze-gentle, thanks to Allah: the harsh winds of May had subsided for a time.

Hamid passed Dr. Radcliffe's car, parked as usual before the house of Deborah Gates. There was no trace of foreigners as he entered the heart of the slum. The shabby buildings, no more than a single brick thick, looked as though they might fall upon the street. Children in ragged clothing ran back and forth, and he thought of his friend Mohammed Achar busy in his clinic, struggling to keep up with the endless flow of the diseased. Often, now, when he drove through here he recalled his childhood and his struggle to get out, the old cherif who'd taken an interest in him, the year he'd spent preparing for the police exam. It had been difficult. He'd passed, and now he was free. Yet he knew that a part of him would always feel at home in this slum. At La Colombe he slowed down, startled by the appearance of a black official car bearing the flag of the United States. It was the limousine of the American Consul General, Daniel Lake. Now he too was frequenting the shop. Hamid tried to look inside but the sun was in his eyes. He glanced at his watch, discovered it was nearly eleven, time for his weekly meeting with his favorite informer, Robin Scott. He turned his car and drove through Dradeb again, then up a narrow, winding road that took him by the Italian cathedral and onto the Marshan.

He saw one foreigner walking there, by the wall beside the municipal soccer field. It was the writer Darryl Kranker coming from the love nests near the Phoenician tombs. He was followed by three small boys who imitated his gait and made obscene gestures behind his back. Kranker was unshaven and in disarray. Another pederast, Hamid thought, another one who likes small boys.

He paused for a moment, watched as the boys passed his car. Kranker paid no attention to them, though they called to him in Arabic and wiggled their behinds. It was pathetic that so many people-painters, writers, British aristocrats-had found their way to Tangier in order to satisfy perverse needs. Hamid disliked nearly all of them, not for their sexual tastes, but for the way these tastes corrupted them and in turn corrupted the town. People had begun to say that it was the Europeans who had brought homosexuality to Tangier. Hamid knew this wasn't true-its existence had attracted the Europeans. Still their exploitation of the Arab vice offended him when it was coarsely and publicly displayed.

He'd had his own experiences with loving men when he was fourteen years old. He and his friends used to go fishing along the beach below the villas on the Mountain Road. Then they'd go into the bushes and play with each other for release. In those days all girls were kept at home, and women never walked the streets unveiled. There was no shame connected with having sex with one's friends-one grew out of it in time. But as he grew up he began to see it in a different way. It was something that made the Europeans leer as they tried to lure boys into their cars. He'd told his brother, Farid, who was beautiful and four years younger than himself, that if he had sex with a foreigner he would beat him up. Farid had done it anyway, and Hamid had forgotten the threat. Farid's affair had been with a notable, no less a personage than Patrick Wax. Out of that relationship, which had lasted three years, he'd earned enough to open up his shop. That was the way it was in Tangier, a good means for a handsome boy to advance. Perhaps Farid had been fortunate. He'd traveled to Europe, owned fine clothes, met princesses, been a guest aboard a yacht. A luxurious if degrading life for a time, but at least now he had his shop to show for all his pains. Would Pumpkin Pie be as lucky, or would he end up without a cent? Hamid could imagine him ten years older driving a taxi in Tangier.

He drove to Rue Haffa, parked his car, then walked down the narrow street. He loved the Haffa Cafe — the best of the traditional ones in Tangier. The mint tea there was flavored with orange blossoms in the spring, and with shiba all year around. Hamid liked to come here by himself at odd times, particularly in the autumn, when the hawks hung above the Straits and the air was so clear he felt he could touch Spain if he reached out. And, too, here he had his regular Monday meeting with Robin Scott, between eleven and noon, when no one else was around.

As he entered the cafe, mewing kittens ran between his legs. He found Robin in the garden in the back, seated at a small iron table scribbling in his notebook and sipping from a glass. He liked Robin. There was something endearing about his full, round face, dominated by the huge mop of heavily curled reddish hair. He sprang up when Hamid came into sight, making an elaborate flourish with his arm.

Robin looked healthy, and for the hundredth time Hamid wondered how he managed to survive. His needs were simple-he had a room in a fleabag medina hotel-but still Tangier was becoming expensive, and Robin's fortunes did not increase. The poems he wrote were infrequently published in obscure Canadian magazines, and he received only a stipend for his weekly column in the Depeche de Tanger.

It was a gossip column, written in English and devoured by the Mountain crowd. They admired him for his well-aimed barbs but deplored him behind his back. He was too witty for them, dressed in shabby clothes, and was dangerous on account of his outspokenness and his unpredictable beaux gestes. Francoise de Lauzon had once told him that she didn't like his beard. He'd shaved it off the following day, then sent her the bristling hairs by express.

"Ah, Hamid, have you heard about the blowup at the English church?" Robin liked to begin their talks with bits of shocking news.

"The Vicar was in to see me this morning, in the strictest confidence, of course. He wanted a full investigation, which I refused. But I see the story's all over town."

Robin laughed, then pounded the little table with his fists. "Oh, the English, the English!" he said. "They're so antiseptic and they have such complicated lives." He laughed more, and then began to cough. He was fascinated by gossip, excited by it, collecting it the way other men collected stamps.

"We're holding a quintet of British ballet dancers on account of you."

Robin beamed. "Oh, Hamid. I loathed those nelly queens. They were rude to me-nasty little snobs." He did a quick imitation with a free-flowing limp wrist. "Wanted me to drink their sherry, share their Russian cigarettes, then thought I was a Philistine when I ordered beer and lit a cheap cigar. But I could tell at once they shared my vice. Mind you-with me it's all mental now, ever since my arrest."

"Yes," said Hamid. "Of course."

"Anyway, I heard around the Socco they were on the lookout for little boys. And I said to myself: 'My friend Hamid hates anything that smacks of the corruption of Moroccan youth.' Thought I'd do you a service and turn them in. A sweet revenge when I saw them taken away."

"Were they caught in the act? I didn't read the dossier."

"Caught with their pants down. A veritable orgy at the hotel. I could hear their squeals even in my room, though they were three floors above."

Their relationship had begun ten years before when Robin was twenty-five, and Hamid a mere detective in the foreign branch. When Hamid first saw Robin he was lying nude on a great, old, sagging bed with two boys working him over and another four looking on. Hamid had been furious, determined to see him expelled, but in their interviews something about the Canadian boy mitigated his disgust. Maybe it was his honesty, and his irony about himself. Whatever it was, Hamid had been touched, and when he'd discovered how much it meant to Robin to live in Tangier, how much he loved the town and wanted to stay, he'd offered him a bargain which in the decade that had passed he'd found no reason to regret. Robin would be allowed to stay on providing he kept clear of younger boys. In return he had to become an informer and turn in others indulging in his vice. To Hamid's great surprise, Robin had leaped at the chance. He loved to pry into people's lives and felt no scruples about being a traitor to his kind.

"What's going on with the Americans and Zvegintzov?" Hamid asked. "First it was Knowles, now it's Lake hanging around the shop."

"Yeah. Someone told me he and Lake have gotten thick, that Lake's in there a couple times a day."

"What's it all about?"

"Beats me. But the American's a curious bastard. Does his work all right, but his eyes are strange. He thinks he's some kind of mechanical genius. Always working on his car or down in the cellar fixing the water heater."

"I saw Luscombe on the way up. Looked awful. What's happening with him?"

"Poor Larry." Robin lit up one of his cigars. "Big brouhaha at the theater club. They're all ganging up on him, especially Kelly, who wants to take over the stupid group. There's a play Saturday. You ought to come. Even if it's lousy I'm going to give it a good review. Pathetic, isn't it, the way people take things so seriously here? These theater people, Larry excluded, are the worst trash in town. Mountain crowd's what interests me. Have you heard the latest on the Codds?"

Before Hamid could say he hadn't, Robin began his tale, twinkles embellishing his face as he came to the juiciest bits.

"Seems old Ashton and Musica were fighting a lot last year, and Ashton, bless him, told her off. Said he wanted an 'open marriage.' That's one of these arrangements where the husband and wife live together, Hamid, but get their sex in other people's beds. I got to hand it to Ashton-he's seventy-three. Musica, I think, is sixty-eight. They don't look like much now, but he's got a name, famous in Ireland, you know, though I think his poems all stink. And Musica isn't all that dried up-there's still a little juice in that bag of bones. Anyway, they spread the word among the younger set-bargaining fame for youth, or something like that. God forbid, of course, that anyone on the Mountain would hear. Someone told me they approached the Manchesters, though I find that hard to believe. No takers, finally, so the 'open marriage' idea faded away. But old Ashton, who's got a few quivers left in him, decided what they really needed was a good old-fashioned partouze. Seems they've actually approached some hustlers in the Socco, but nothing's happened yet because Ashton's too stingy to come to terms. But who knows what the future will bring? Ashton told me once that he's written five pornographic plays, all stashed away in some Swiss bank vault, to be released only after his death. Can't bear the shame now, poor man-afraid his friends in Dublin will turn their backs. Meanwhile Musica bides her time, planning to cut loose as soon as she gets her mitts on all his hoarded pounds."

Just the thought of those two old people making love with a hustler and a prostitute made Hamid shiver as he smiled.

"Makes you lose your appetite, doesn't it?" Robin said.

"Now that you've told me I don't think I can look them in the face."

"Never could myself."

They both began to laugh.

"By the way, is Barclay really upset about the note?"

"Doubt it. Man's a stone wall. Couldn't care less. But he's telling everyone what happened because he loves being in a scandal, and of course everyone listens and bows and scrapes. Wouldn't be surprised if he wrote the damn thing himself. Reminds me of an incident that'll show you how cold he is. Do you remember that weird case when David Klein was attacked by his houseboy in bed?"

"Yes. He was knifed by Achmed Ben Riffi. His penis was half cut off, and then Dr. Radcliffe sewed it back."

Hamid prepared himself for a good story, full of superbly imitated accents, expansive gestures, and pauses to build up the suspense.

"Yeah, the good doctor's greatest feat. Anyway, the instant after Klein was stabbed, he reached onto his bedside table and picked up the phone. He was in shock, of course, so his mind wasn't functioning too well. Instead of calling the doctor or the police he rang up Barclay at his home. Typical. They all think Barclay can solve everything here. Anyway, David rings him up and Peter answers the phone. 'Oh, Peter,' David whines, 'the most awful, the most frightful thing has just happened to my cock. I think my Achmed has cut it off.' 'Sorry, David,' Peter says, 'but I can't talk now. I'm bidding for a slam.' Then he hangs up. Klein, you understand, was bleeding to death. Thank God he found Radcliffe at home. It must have been the only night he wasn't with pretty Miss Gates."

"Oh, Robin." Hamid was laughing away. "You know more stories than Zvegintzov, and certainly more than me."

"Actually I don't get around all that much. I'm not invited anymore into the great houses on the hill. But because of the column they still keep in touch. They come to me all the time and tell me terrible things. The malicious ones always bring the best. Like Kranker-he's full of dirt. I don't like him, so I try not to use his stuff. But every once in a while he gives me something good, and then I can't resist."

"Any new personalities you want to tell me about? I rely on your antenna, you know."

"Thanks, Hamid. I appreciate that. Aside from the church affair, Tangier's had a very dull week. But our high season begins in a month. Then everything'll pick up."

Hamid nodded. There was a pause. "I'm concerned about you, Robin," he said. "How long are you going to stay here and waste your life?"

"Now don't start that again-"

"I will. When we met you were a real hippie-not one of these imitations I see around today. You were wild and passionate about life, but now I see you're settling in your ways. You neglect your work and bury yourself in gossip. Watch out, Robin. The years will pass, and in the end you'll find you're just another Tangier writer, a shadowy presence who doesn't finish his books."

"Hmmm. Maybe so. But I'll have one distinction left."

"What's that?"

"I'll still be an informer for the police."

"Oh, yes. You'll always be that. Perhaps, as you've said, it's your real metier."

"You know, Hamid-" Robin began to laugh. "You're the only Tangerene who dares to speak to me like this. The others are too terrified because of the power of my column. They come around regularly to kiss my ass, and I adore them for it since I've kissed ass all my life and now, finally, I'm in a position where people must kiss mine."

"Still-"

"I know. You think I should leave, become serious, start a new life. Actually I'm thinking of starting a business here. My clients will be rich people who want to make it in Tangier. For an extravagant fee I'll set them up. Sooner or later they'll get to Barclay's for lunch-he'll try out anyone once. My final payment is delivered the day they get the invitation, but after that they must keep me on retainer if they don't want to be blasted in my column. I could make myself a fantastic living and enjoy the pleasure of being completely corrupt."

"But you wouldn't sell out your column, would you?"

"No. I suppose not. As much as I adore the idea of being your informer, and long to roll about in the gutter, the integrity of the column must be preserved. We're alike in that way, Hamid. I've often wondered why you haven't allowed others to make you rich."

"Oh-I don't know. I'm a simple man. I want to be respectable. An honest cop."

"Oh, Hamid, you're beautiful. And lucky too. I live alone, picking up scum here and there, whatever crosses my path. But you have Kalinka, and you're in love."

Back at the Surete at two o'clock, Aziz greeted him with a grin. "I've completely terrorized the ballet dancers. They want to see you and beg for mercy on their knees."

"Spare me, Aziz. You take charge of the case. If the prosecutor agrees, ship them out tonight. Take them in handcuffs to the airport. The humiliation will do them good."

"Marvelous idea. Why didn't I think of it?"

"Because you're only a detective. A long time yet before you become the chief. I want you to contact our informants at the American Consulate, find out what you can about Zvegintzov and Lake. Has Zvegintzov been there for dinner? If he has, what did he say? See the butler and check with the maids. Also there's Kranker, the American. See the visa people downstairs and tell them to harass him a bit. When he comes in they should hold up his renewal. I think he's messing around with children, and I want him scared."

There were a few more matters to dispose of, then Aziz left and Hamid began to go through the motions of his job. He read dossiers and checked the status of his cases, but his mind kept returning to Kalinka. He thought of her sitting in their salon, or lying in their bed, smoking, filling her lungs with the harsh, acrid smoke of hashish. He must get her to stop, slowly, gradually, lead her out of her world of dreams. Then maybe he would marry her. But would she be different, a different person? Would he love her as much as he did now?

It was a difficult afternoon; the problem of Kalinka nagged until he grew impatient and telephoned her at home. She was in a daze, as usual, and there were long silences as they spoke. She asked him to buy her a television set. He said he'd think about it-it depended on the cost. He didn't think much of Moroccan TV-Saudi Arabian love dramas and propaganda from the Ministry of Public Works-but he knew she needed something to amuse her as she sat alone at home. She needed stimulation. In the summer, he promised himself, he'd take her regularly to the beach.

By the end of the afternoon he'd cleared up all his papers. A few minutes before six he set off for the Prefecture. He waited in the Prefect's anteroom for ten minutes, until a young man in a sharply tailored European suit approached him with a nod. "Inspector Ouazzani, I'm the Prefect's new assistant. He's ready to see you now." Hamid followed the assistant, a type he didn't like-glossy, smooth, educated at a French lycee, a young man destined to grow rich on bribes.

The Prefect was another sort, fat and charming, dressed in a traditional Moroccan robe. Hamid knew he was corrupt, but with a moderation his assistant would never understand. The Prefect stole just enough to keep his family in a decent style. It would never occur to him to milk a fortune from his job, or to look away from an injustice which might do a poor man harm.

"Sit down, Hamid," he said, waving toward a leather couch. "I already have one complaint today. The British Consul called, said you refused to investigate some nonsense at the British church. Well, don't worry. You did exactly right. I defended you, as I always have."

"Thank you, Prefect," said Hamid. "Now listen to a complaint of mine. Over the weekend we arrested some British ballet dancers. When they asked to see their consul, his wife lied and said he was out of town."

The Prefect laughed. "I'll remember that. Really, Hamid, you have the most difficult job."

"It's going to become even more difficult. Among the diplomats now we have two philanderers-Mr. Fufu, the UN man from Uganda, and Baldeschi, the Italian Consul. Both of them are accumulating mistresses at a greater than normal rate. Of course I'm grateful they're heterosexual-such a rarity among the foreigners here. But eventually someone's husband's going to find out, and then we're going to have one of those 'diplomatic affairs.'"

The Prefect laughed again. "I know you can handle it, Hamid. But I didn't call you here to gossip. A serious matter's come up. The Ministry of Interior has received information from Egyptian intelligence through our Cairo Embassy. The Egyptians claim an Israeli assassin is coming to Tangier.”

Hamid was puzzled. It didn't make any sense. There were no important personalities in Tangier who could possibly interest an assassin, and as for the King, he espoused the Palestinian cause in a half-hearted way, but he was unpopular in the north and rarely used his palace in Tangier.

"Perhaps they've confused Tangier with Algiers. They've been that stupid before."

"Any ideas, Hamid?"

"The only thing I can think of is that there's an old Nazi here they want to get."

"Very good. Anyone in mind?"

"That's the trouble, Prefect. I don't think there're any left. But I'll look into it and let you know."

Driving home, he thought about the problem. A Nazi hunter made sense, but who could the target be? He thought and thought, sifting through hundreds of names. The implications were difficult to accept, for if he was right there was someone living in Tangier, someone quite poisonous, who lay dormant and had escaped his scrutiny for years.

That night when he made love with Kalinka all his tensions ebbed away. She was a mystery to him-she smoked hashish, her mind worked the opposite way from his. But none of that mattered when she touched him with her tiny hands, curled her long, thin legs around his thighs, tickled his genitals with her toes. Feeling himself grow hard within her, feeling her fragile, glistening body throb beneath him and hearing her gasps against his ear, he was inspired to a tenderness he had never felt with any other woman, a sense that she was exquisite and that it was his pleasure to make her body sing. In bed with other women he had cared only for himself, but Kalinka's moans and embraces made him as interested in giving as in taking, and so he let her guide him in his moves rather than thrusting to his own release. He treasured this new-found gentleness and loved her for provoking it. It was far better, he had learned, to make love to a woman than merely to use her to allay desire.

Yes, she had taught him about love, and now he could not imagine experiencing it any other way. She'd come into his life strangely, romantically, providing him with a refuge from the harshness of his work and from all the struggles that consumed Tangier.