Tangier

A Night at the Theater

Laurence Luscombe stood on the empty stage facing the place where the curtains met. He liked to do this on an opening night, stand silent, listen to the house fill up. He looked at his watch. Twenty to eight. In a few minutes The Winslow Boy would go on, and then all the agony of rehearsal, the tantrums and the temperament, would fade before the magic of the play. He would marvel then, as he had so many times, at the power of performance-the way it could seize an audience, hold it in thrall.

But suppose, he thought, they all walk out?

He'd had that anxiety for over fifty years, ever since he'd first gone on the stage. He couldn't overcome it-at the age of seventy-five he still couldn't rid himself of the nightmare of an empty house. He didn't act anymore himself, but the fear had followed him to Tangier. Here he'd founded the Tangier Players, his gift to the city that had embraced him in old age.

Peter Barclay had put it another way. "Thank God for Larry Luscombe and TP. They're something to talk about at our barren dinner parties, fill out our wasted afternoons." Peter was being amusing, of course. He didn't think his dinner parties were barren, or that he wasted his afternoons. Still Laurence believed his remark had been well meant, and now Peter, "pasha" of the Mountain, was a patron of TP and the club's most loyal fan.

It hadn't always been like that. The struggle had been lonely and hard. Laurence thought back as he stood on the empty set. At sixty-five he'd retired to Tangier with the dream of founding a theater club. He'd begun slowly, organizing readings in people's houses while he gathered the corps of loyal amateurs who shared his love for the stage. People had scoffed at first, Peter Barclay among them, but slowly the group had prospered and grown. Someone went to London and brought back lights. Someone else donated canvas and lumber. Gradually the productions grew more lavish and the ragged ends were smoothed. TP became a success, a permanent part of European life in the town.

But now, after all the struggles, the arduous climb to success, the club was facing its greatest crisis, a threat to its integrity and to Laurence's capacity to carry on. Kelly-that American swine, Joe Kelly-was trying to organize a putsch. He didn't yet have the backing, but if tonight's production failed there were people in the group who would take his side. The Drears, the Packwoods, the Calloways, Jack Whyte-that hard core of amateurs Luscombe had made into minor celebrities in the town-they'd turn on him sure as death, and TP would melt to mud.

Laurence knew what was going on, and what he hadn't overheard people made certain he found out. They were saying he was too old, losing his grip, that he couldn't control rehearsals, and that his tantrums were throwing everybody off. There was trouble in TP-no secret about that. People who'd accepted parts were doing the unpardonable and walking out. Others complained that Laurence got too much credit, while they were slighted in reviews. He wasn't disturbed-there was always temperament around a theater. What upset him was disloyalty-the disloyalty of the people he'd picked up along the way, plucked out of their mediocrity, straight out of the gutter in the case of the Drears, then taught and trained and made into stars.

For too long, he knew, he'd ignored the signs, and now he could smell resentment all around. How had it happened? He'd written the bylaws, made TP democratic. Everyone had an equal vote, though he'd always directed by consent. For years there'd never been a challenge or the slightest murmur of rebellion in the ranks. But now Joe Kelly had come to town, and it seemed all that might change.

Kelly! The man was a hack. He'd done years of radio soap opera in New York, played every kind of third-rate circuit in the States. Then he'd had an automobile accident and won himself a settlement in court, enough to come to Tangier, buy himself a little house, sniff around, and start giving little dinners at which he'd been clawing his way to popularity and trying to alienate Laurence's support. He even tried to ingratiate himself with the Mountain set. No chance of success, of course-he was far too grotty in his ways. But his mincing little efforts had caused confusion and, to Laurence, pain.

No sense brooding, he thought. Too much work to be done. He stroked the dusty curtains, then left the stage to check on things in back. Most of the cast was waiting in the wings. He went on to the dressing rooms to hurry the stragglers. In the men's section he found Jessamyn Drear watching Kelly apply powder to his ravaged face. They stopped whispering the moment he walked in. Jessamyn looked at him shyly. Kelly gave him a thumbs-up.

"Brings it all back, Luscombe," he said. "Smell of the greasepaint and all that. Never thought I'd troop the boards again, especially not in old Tangier. Not after the accident. Never thought I would." He raised his hands to his face. "Oh, the scars, Luscombe-the scars. I was a beautiful kid once. Can you believe it? But the years took their toll. Then the crackup in Connecticut, a year in traction, every damn thing broken and torn. They wrote me right out of Suburban Wife. I was in the hospital, listening to the radio one day, when one of the characters announced my demise. There were a few tears, and that was the end of that. No hope of work then. When you're sick they forget you soon enough. No pity. Not in show biz. Play's the thing. Course you know all that yourself."

Laurence was thinking of some way to respond when Jill Packwood stormed in, out of breath.

"Place is filling up, Larry. Looks like a full house. Derik says we can start on time."

He was about to answer her when Kelly interrupted. "Jill, sweetie, your dress is crooked. Better find a safety pin and hitch it up."

"Oh! Thanks, Joe. Wish me luck."

"Yeah," said Kelly, blowing her a kiss. "Break a leg, sweetheart. Break a leg."

When she was gone he put his arm around Jessamyn Drear, then leaned toward Laurence and stuck out his chin. "Jill's got nice little tits," he said. "Course I don't want 'em. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Jessamyn giggled, but Laurence turned away, offended by Kelly's humor and the scent of liquor on his breath.

He'd been impossible at rehearsals, always interrupting, trying to give his own directions to the cast. The man was unprofessional, the way he kept cutting Laurence off. But he was clever too, knew how to handle amateurs, call them "sweetheart" and "darling" and blame everything on Laurence when he turned his back. Kelly told long anecdotes that wasted time, boring stories about his experiences on the road-that charade game, for instance, the one he'd played in Kansas City, where he'd acted out "He who steals my merkin steals trash."

No one, including Laurence, knew what a "merkin" was until Kelly smirked and then explained. "It's a female pubic hair wig," he said, then the vulgar, billowing laughter, the final "Ha! Ha! Ha!" Laurence couldn't stand it, wanted to fire him right out of the cast. But Kelly was good, a professional among amateurs. When he felt like it he had no difficulty standing out. Of course, he wasn't really top class, the way Laurence had been in his prime. Kelly could never have made it on the West End, where Laurence had worked for years. He'd been an actor's actor, not a star but a master craftsman admired in the ranks. His enemies called him "grand," but he'd never stooped to soap opera at least.

Between the wars, when he'd had a little fling with society, he'd been invited to Lady Astor's, where he'd met T. E. Lawrence and Bernard Shaw. And he'd dined one summer at Villa Mauresque, with Noel Coward and Somerset Maugham. Willy Maugham had told a wonderful story that afternoon about the American writer Edna Millay. She'd come in uninvited, in the middle of a stag lunch, looked around at the house, the garden, and all the guests. "This is fairyland, Mr. Maugham," she'd said. He and Noel had chuckled through dessert.

Now that was funny. Real wit. Not like those vulgar nonsense things that Kelly came out with all the time. What had he said last night at dress rehearsal? Something obscene to Jessamyn Drear. Oh, yes, he remembered now-one of his vulgar "knock knock" routines.

"Knock knock."

"Who's there?"

"Fornication."

"Fornication who?"

"Fornication like this you ought to wear black tie. Ha! Ha! Ha!"

Jessamyn had doubled up with laughter. It was ghastly the way Kelly was winning them all. They were so weak in their characters, so flabby in their souls, that they couldn't see through his simpering guile. One day he'd have it out with Kelly, force a showdown, expose him raw. But for the moment he mustn't think of that. The important thing was that The Winslow Boy go on.

He left the dressing room, walked back around the stage to a door where he could watch the audience unseen. Many of the seats were taken, but the ones reserved for Peter Barclay and his group were still empty in the front. The Lakes, the Manchesters, and the Whittles were seated in the Consul General's row. Behind them sat Joop and Claude de Hoag, along with Claude's father, General Gilbert Bresson, and de Hoag's assistant, Jean Tassigny. Behind them he saw the Swedish dentist Sven Lundgren and Robin Scott, who would write the review.

The writer Darryl Kranker came down the aisle with a beautiful Arab boy, and behind him Vicar Wick followed by Countess de Lauzon, blue eye circles matching her hair, and Patrick Wax, in a gold-trimmed cape, holding a thin little pony whip in his hand. Fufu, the Ugandan, was with his wife and an assortment of distinguished-looking blacks. With them was Omar Salah, chief of customs in the port.

The Ashton Codds came next, along with Foster and Jackie Knowles. Laurence, noticing Inspector Ouazzani and his Asian girlfriend, peered around to find Peter Zvegintzov slung low in a seat on the other side.

But where was the Barclay group? He needed Peter tonight, desperately needed the prestige of his praise. If Peter liked the play, then no one would dare speak against it, and Kelly's nasty little coup would be nipped right in its bud. But what if Peter didn't come? He'd promised he would, had reserved a whole row of seats, had even said something about a party afterward for friends. Laurence was counting on that-at the party Peter would put out the word. That night it would spread across the Mountain, would be all over town by the next afternoon. But what was Peter's promise really worth? Laurence knew not much. He was perfectly capable of forgetting the whole thing, or canceling out because it didn't suit his mood. That was the trouble with Peter Barclay, and everybody knew it too. He only did things that were in his interest, and cared only for himself.

Whew! It was desperate now, already three past eight. Still there were people coming in: Inigo, the painter, who'd refused to do the sets, and his Moroccan boyfriend, the one Countess de Lauzon called "Pumpkin Pie." He'd worked in her garden before Inigo had picked him up. His real name was Mohammed, but the Countess had so many of those around her place that she couldn't stand it when she yelled "Mohammed" and six Berber faces suddenly looked up. So she'd renamed them, squeezing their biceps while waiting to be inspired. There was "Celery Tops" and "Coffee Boy" and "Tender in the Night." But Pumpkin Pie was the prettiest of the lot-Inigo had something there.

Where was Barclay? The audience was restless. It was already eight past, and still no sign. They'd be having drinks somewhere when someone would say: "Oh, Peter, do we have to go to Larry's silly old play?" Peter would answer: "Of course not, darling." And none of them would give it another thought.

Laurence was worrying about that, still peering around, when Derik Law, his stage manager, came running up.

"Come on, Larry. We've got to start. It's twelve past. The hall's packed."

"There're still empties up front, Derik. We'll have to hold curtain a while more."

"But Larry," Derik moaned, "for heaven's sake. Everyone's nervous backstage. Joe says we've got to start or they'll all be too keyed up."

"To hell with Joe Kelly, and to hell with what he says! Where does he get the nerve to tell me what to do?" Laurence was furious, his face puffed out and red. "I've forgotten more about theater than that Yankee clod ever knew. Don't they see that, Derik? Don't you? That he's just a phony, trying to undermine me and bring TP down?"

Derik looked at the floor, then shook his head. "I don't think this is the time to get into that, Larry. At the next general meeting, maybe, but not tonight."

"All right. Never mind. We'll start in another minute, whether Barclay comes or not."

He was ashamed of his outburst, especially in front of Derik Law. Derik was his most loyal defender-when the crunch came with Kelly, Derik would stick by him to the end. Maybe, he thought, he was too hard on everybody. Maybe his temper was too short.

There was some commotion in the audience now. A couple of people had begun to clap. Well, all right, damn them. He'd start the thing. He was about to turn, make his way backstage, when he heard laughter coming from the hall. People were trooping in through the rear door. He turned back to look, and then he smiled. The Barclay group had arrived at last.

He might have known Peter wouldn't let him down. He was leading his crowd, that fat old moth Camilla Weltonwhist on his arm, followed by Percy Bainbridge, tall, elegant, and Colonel Brown in his formals, a row of medals festooning his chest. Vanessa Bolton, willowy and svelte, was with her current love, an Italian prince. Lord and Lady Pitt followed, Rachid El Fassi, his stunning wife, some good-looking people Laurence didn't know, with Skiddy de Bayonne bringing up the rear. Certainly they were the cream of the Mountain, the leaders of Tangier. Peter had outdone himself, and Laurence grew serene. Everything would be fine now that Peter Barclay had arrived.

He and Camilla Weltonwhist marched like royalty down the center aisle, and everyone in the theater, even the ones who hated and envied them, turned around to stare. Camilla's diamond collar gleamed, and Peter, handsome, his iron-gray hair combed back, craned his head, stuck out his leathery neck to render greetings to his waiting friends. "Hello, hello, hello," he said, shaking his cane. "Hello, darling. Hello. Hello." He said the word over and over, changing his inflection each time, so that each person received a smile, a special greeting reserved for him.

Even Patrick Wax, for all his airs, his gold-trimmed robes, and his palace of thrones and mirrors-even Patrick, the imposter, had turned around to gape. That was the source of Peter Barclay's power-that he alone among the British residents knew truly who he was. The others intrigued and entertained, moved about the Mountain as best they could, but in the end if they ever reached the top Peter was all they'd find. It was comical, the way they schemed and scraped, because Peter didn't care. Not for anyone, not even for his closest friends. (He called Camilla Weltonwhist "Mrs. Stout" behind her back.) But all that didn't matter, because he created an effect-which Laurence admired the same way he admired a fine performance by Gielgud or Olivier.

Thank God, he thought, thank God he's come. Thank God that Peter Barclay is my friend.

But the moment he thought that, he knew it wasn't true. Peter Barclay wasn't his friend, never would be, never could. They'd known each other all the years that Laurence had been in Tangier, and never, never once in all that time, had Peter had him in his house.

His mind turned back to the play. He let the door slip closed, moved into the wings, and gave the signal to Derik Law. The house lights dimmed, the theater went black, then the great curtains were slowly drawn. The audience applauded the set and settled down. The Winslow Boy began.

Laurence couldn't bear to stand in the wings on opening night, preferred instead to watch from the back. Here he could gauge the reactions of the house, pace about, take notes, and if the tension became too great he could slip out to the lobby for a rest.

Everything seemed off to a good start. He had a sixth sense about such things, could tell almost immediately when an audience was getting glued. He could feel it building now and guessed it was on account of the play. He couldn't imagine people not liking The Winslow Boy, with its commitment to perseverance and family life.

He was thinking about that and about Peter Barclay's praise (was counting on it now) when he felt a flash of pride. TP might be an amateur group, but professional standards were enforced. It wasn't like all those little clubs that Kelly had been involved with in the States. And though every expatriate colony had its group, TP was among the very best in the world. Word had gotten around about that. Some people in Gibraltar had even come over for advice.

Laurence had done Heartbreak House, Death of a Salesman, and King Lear, then produced The Cherry Orchard, Hedda Gabler, and Ghosts. Kelly, damn him, wanted to do Boys in the Band. Said it would be "amusing to put a mirror up to all those queers." Then he'd made a nasty crack about the Shakespeare reading Laurence was planning for the fall. "Bunch of queens playing kings," he'd said. "Let's can the Shakespeare and write our own cabaret. We can beckon them out of their closets, show them what they are. I've already got a title: Queersville-sur-Mer."

It was a rotten, disgusting idea, and Laurence told him so to his face. "Do what you want, Kelly, in your personal life. But don't mess around with TP."

Laurence was wincing over the memory of that when he heard footsteps in the lobby downstairs. A moment later the rear door opened and a young man in police uniform appeared. Laurence brought his forefinger to his lip and pointed toward the stage. The policeman nodded, then moved closer to whisper in his ear.

"Have you seen Inspector Ouazzani?" he asked in French.

Laurence pointed him out. The policeman crept down the aisle to Ouazzani's row, caught his attention, and handed him a note. Ouazzani read it, whispered something to his woman, then stood up and walked back up the aisle.

"Sorry to leave in the middle, Mr. Luscombe," he said. "But I've been called away to work."

Laurence nodded, and Ouazzani and the policeman left. It was damn decent, he thought, of the Inspector to explain.

But what was happening? The hall was silent. No voices were coming from the stage. Laurence turned to see Kelly glaring out, hands on his hips, miming a slow burn. Silence, then a "Hear, hear" from the front. Someone else whistled from the side.

Laurence was aghast. The man had brought the play to a halt. He was about to panic, run down the aisle and cry apologies, when Kelly gave a shrug, stepped back to where he'd been, and resumed his part. Laurence was relieved, but only for a moment. Then he realized that Kelly's acting was taking a strange new turn. He was using a preposterous accent, making fun of all his lines. The audience began to stir. The whole tenor of the hall began to change. The spell that had been building was broken now, and the other actors, terrified, were stumbling and missing their cues.

The audience began to laugh. There was scattered applause in the hall. Kelly, spurred on, bumped into Jill Packwood, then turned to the audience and winked. It was incredible. Kelly was behaving like a lunatic. It had all been so beautiful, and now everything on stage was going mad. A serious drama was being turned into a farce, and the audience, shaken by the change, was laughing like a herd of fools.

Have they no pity for their friends? Laurence was appalled. It was all Kelly's fault. He would see to him, in the dressing room between the acts. He ran out to the lobby, collapsed in a fit of coughing, recovered, then ran around to the stage door. He pounded on it. The damn thing was locked. Thank God, he thought, they're near the end of the act. He couldn't hear the lines anymore; they were submerged in the cruel laughter of the house. He pounded on the door again. Finally Derik opened up.

"What's happening, Larry? I don't understand."

"Horrible, horrible." Laurence could hardly speak. "It's Kelly. He's gone berserk. He's making a shambles of the play."

He pushed Derik aside and ran into the wings, catching the final moments of the act. All the lines were correct as far as that went, but the tone had gone cheap, turning them to rubbish in the actors' mouths. Finally the curtain was drawn, and a great surge of applause erupted from the house. Laurence covered his face and ran off to the dressing room to prepare for the showdown he knew must come.

As he waited for the cast, he tried hard to clear his head. The Winslow Boy was finished now, could never be redeemed. But perhaps out of the shambles of the evening he could reestablish his control. He would put it to the membership, in the few minutes between the acts. They could decide, right then, where their interests lay-with the American hack and his stale jokes or with Laurence Luscombe, who'd taught them how to act.

He was still glowering when they came in, but something in their manner put him on his guard. Instead of pouncing on Kelly, Jill Packwood and Jack Whyte were patting him on the back.

"Now look here," said Laurence. "These antics have got to stop. I don't know why you started, but you've ruined half the play."

"Ha!" said Kelly. "Don't know why we started! In case you didn't notice people were walking out."

"There weren't any walkouts. It was Inspector Ouazzani, called away by the police."

"Oh, come off it, Luscombe. The play's a bomb. There was someone snoring in the first row."

"Who was snoring? Just tell me who he was!"

"That old coot Bainbridge," said Whyte. "We could all hear him from the stage."

"Then ignore him, pretend he isn't there. You've got to go back and do it right."

"Damn," said Kelly, "we were making jackasses of ourselves. A few laughs is what this play needs."

"Joe's right," said Jill. "The audience is lapping it up."

"We'll really give it to them in the next act, honey. Let's all try for collisions at the drawing room door."

"Now listen!" shouted Laurence, red in the face. "I'm the director, and I'm laying down the law."

"Oh, hell, Luscombe, we're only having fun. It's a rotten play. Everyone knows it now."

"It's serious-"

"My ass! It's nothing but a crock of shit. You're standing there all cozy in the back, but our asses are on the line. This is my first time on stage in Tangier, and I don't need a bad review. You always wanted me to play Winslow like a fart. Well, I refuse! Your corny West End stuff doesn't go down with me. Your trouble, Luscombe, is that you've been out of it too long. That audience wants to laugh; I say give them what they want."

"I'm with you, Joe," said Whyte.

"Me too, Joe." It was Jessamyn Drear.

Derik Law stuck in his head. "They're filtering back from the lobby, Larry. It's a two-minute call."

But Laurence didn't hear him. He was glaring at Kelly's eyes. "You're doing this because you want to destroy TP. Admit it! That's your game!"

"Oh, puff-" Kelly blew a smoke ring, then stubbed out his cigarette in a cold cream jar. "I say let's take a vote. TP's democratic, right?"

"Of course TP's democratic, but you don't vote between the acts. I chose the play. I directed it. It's got to be done my way."

"Listen, dear old hack-"

"Don't you dare call me hack, you swine!"

Derik Law bobbed in again. "One minute. Everyone in the wings."

"All right. Now stop it, both of you." It was Jill Packwood waving her arms. "We can't settle this now. I'm for a compromise. I say let each actor make his choice. Those who want to do it Larry's way, fine, go ahead. And the ones who want can follow Joe."

"I'll go along with that, sweetheart." Kelly turned and started toward the stage.

"But that won't work," Laurence yelled. "It won't work, I tell you. You can't compromise on acting style."

Jack Whyte turned, came to him, patted him on the back. "Oh, come on, Larry. Get off your high horse. The audience loves it. Who the hell really cares?"

Through the second half he burned with humiliation, quivered with impotence and rage. The whole cast set out to ridicule the play, and at one point, when Kelly turned to the audience and said "Ridiculous, isn't it?" after his most moving speech, Laurence withdrew to the lobby in a fit of coughing and despair. Even there he couldn't escape-the ruined lines came to him only slightly muffled by the walls, and the titters of the audience, the occasional roars, left him unconsoled.

He left before the end, but even outside in the cool, windless night the thunderous final applause only amplified his shame. Drawn by instinct, he went back for the curtain calls and was shocked by the truth of what Whyte had said: Tangier did love it, did prefer the farce. It was sickening, but there it was. When the applause began to die and the curtains were drawn, Peter Barclay rose to his feet and began another round. The rest of the house followed him, the way the town always did, and so the clapping went on and on.

Finally, when the people streamed out, Laurence listened to their gaiety and suffered even more. Robin Scott gave him a pleasant nod-the review, he was saying, would be good. And Barclay, about to enter Camilla Weltonwhist's Rolls, caught his eye for a moment and smiled. Ouazzani's girlfriend wandered off, followed at a distance by Peter Zvegintzov. Then everyone else drove off, to the consulates or apartments in the town.

Usually on an opening night Laurence would head over to Heidi's Bar to receive congratulations and a few free drinks from friends. But he had no taste for that tonight, couldn't imagine what he'd say. Though the production had been successful, the success did not belong to him. So he left, making his way by the sulfurous street lamps, down the road that led through Dradeb.

He walked everywhere, didn't own a car, couldn't have afforded the petrol if he did. Every day he walked to town to shop and take his daily shower at the flat of Derik Law. People were kind-if they passed him on the road they'd pull over and offer him a lift. But this night the Mountain crowd had rushed off to Barclay's house, and the others went home a different way.

At seventy-five he was still strong, though at times he could feel his energy fade. The drama of the night, all the tension and despair, had suddenly made him feel old. As he walked slowly, watching out for mad stray dogs, he began to dread the coming summer and its heat. How much longer would he be able to make this walk, which was taking so much out of him tonight? Trouble was there was no alternative-he couldn't take taxis, could barely live on his income as it was. He had an inheritance from an aunt, twelve hundred a year, but prices were going up, and the pound seemed to fall lower every day.

He was the only Englishman to live in Dradeb, though he felt no shame about that. Over the years he'd learned Arabic, enough to get him by, and now he had friendships with his neighbors and Moroccans all over town. That was more than anyone on the Mountain could claim-those people didn't know they were in Morocco half the time. He, at least, had some contact with the world, knew Moroccans, shared their struggle to survive.

Better that, he thought, than the easy life, though now he wished he owned more than TP. Why? Why had they turned on him? How could they have been so cruel? They had stood there, supposedly his friends, simply stood there, nodded at Kelly, and acquiesced. He'd been insulted to his face, and not one of them had come to his defense. Were they all so false-Jack Whyte, Jill Packwood, the Drears? Was it true, as Derik had told him, that the Calloways made fun of him behind his back? He couldn't bear the thought-it hurt too much-that his decade in Tangier had added finally up to that.

He was in the middle of Dradeb, lost in the odor of the slum, when suddenly something hit him in the back. The pain was sharp, quick, and instinctively he cried out. Some men sitting in a cafe looked up. He heard laughter and obscene Arabic words. He turned to see a gang of boys, stones in their hands, poised to throw at him again. One of the men said something, there was some shouting back and forth, and then the boys threw down their stones and ran up an alley out of sight.

They had hit him in the shoulder; he could feel the bruise. The man who'd stopped them came over and shook his head. He was old, bearded, a gold tooth in the center of his mouth. Did the foreign gentleman need assistance? Did he need help in getting home?

Laurence thanked him, shook his head, and continued on his way. At least, he thought, the older generation still is decent, though not the Moroccan young. What had just happened would have been unthinkable a year or so before, but now for some strange reason all the young Moroccans were turning mean. It was all those Kung Fu films, he was sure-in Dradeb, often, he saw boys practicing chops and kicks. What did it mean, this anger? Why this hostility toward foreigners when tourism was the bread and butter of the town? Now, lately, more and more he felt this violence in the poorer sections, a vague and generalized rage.

He turned up an alley and entered his house, past the smell of the septic that oozed always near the door. The building wasn't so bad, on the edge of the slum, away from the worst sections, in a quarter that was vaguely middle class. He had two small rooms on the first floor, separated by an archway, ventilated by a window on the street. No hot water, of course, but a clean well around the back; no central heating, not even a fireplace, but he had a butane heater and in winter piled blankets on his bed. There was a toilet, Moroccan style-two cement footprints set into the floor. He didn't mind. And there was electricity, at least, which was a blessing since he liked to read.

He went to his bedroom, hung up his jacket, took off his shirt, inspected his wound. He wasn't cut, though the bruise was tender to the touch. He lay down on the bed that had been a gift from Musica Codd, thought over the evening, and wished that he could sob. But there were no tears left-too many parts lost, too many lovers gone, too many failures, too many disappointments had used them up. Well, it was done, the play was ruined. He would have to discipline Kelly, of course, ban him from the club. But he couldn't do that without a vote, and then the issue would become himself.

What would become of him if he lost TP? Surely his health would begin to fail. It was keeping him alive, the excitement of the club; without it he would hardly have a life. He imagined himself falling with a stroke. How many hours would he lie writhing on the cold cement? They'd find him eventually-people would notice he hadn't been around-and then they'd carry him up to Achar's clinic, or maybe to Dr. Radcliffe's in town. Would the ones who'd turned on him feel sorry then? Would they take up a collection, buy his medicines, bring him books? Or would he die alone, a ruined old actor, come to grief in a slum in Tangier?

It was all too depressing and, he knew, unwise to fall into the self-pity trap. After a few minutes of concentrated misery he made a firm resolve: he would fight Kelly and all he stood for with everything he had, would fight him to save TP, would fight him to save his life.