A Dead Man in Tangier (7 page)

Salah nodded.

‘Now, Salah, think hard. It did not stop, did it, or else you would have seen it when you got near the man. It must have gone on. Now, can you remember: did it pass you, or did it run away over to the left?'

‘Monsieur, it was I that ran away.'

‘And the horse – or pig?'

‘Carried on.'

‘Back down to the main track?'

‘I think so, Monsieur.'

‘Does not that make it seem as if it was a horse?'

‘If it was a pig,’ said Mustapha, ‘it was a very stupid one.'

‘But, Monsieur . . .’ said Idris.

‘Yes?'

‘You were asking Salah if there were not two horses. But Salah has been speaking only of one. Might not the horse that passed him have been the fat Frenchman’s horse?'

‘I didn’t hear
two
horses coming towards me,’ said Salah. ‘That I
do
know.’

Chapter Six

It was now well into the afternoon and the heat, as always in Tangier, had built up. Out in the bay there was a distinct haze. The sea was still, though, and not a boat was moving. Not much was moving on the land, either, and Seymour, mindful of Chantale’s injunction, looked around for a place where Mustapha and Idris might take a rest. They were not complaining but their faces were drawn and he guessed that this was the point in the day when they were missing their food.

He suggested that they stop in a caf
é
e, whose tables conveniently spread out into the road; but when he sat down at a table Mustapha and Idris refused to join him.

‘No, no,’ they said, ‘we’ll sit down over here.'

And they sat down across the road in the shade of a big house and rested their backs against the wall.

He tried to persuade them but they were firm.

‘No, no: this gives us a better view.'

A better view? An undistinguished street with small, somnolent shops, a dog or two lying in the shade, the shutters on the houses closed and not a sign of life or a thing of interest: except that at the far end of the street there was another café, more populated than this one, with several people sitting at the tables but not much sign of action.

‘We can see them if they come,’ said Mustapha.

‘Both left and right,’ said Idris.

If they come? What were they expecting?

He tried again to persuade them but without success. At least, however, they were sitting down getting some respite, so he decided to leave them alone and ordered himself some mint tea. He wondered if he should order them some, too: but were they allowed to drink during the day? He knew they shouldn’t eat during Ramadan, but what about drink?

He went across and put it to them.

They thanked him politely but declined. A sip of water, however, would be welcomed.

Seymour went back to the caf
é
e and asked if some water could be provided for his friends. He half expected a brusque dismissal, which is what he would certainly have got in England, but instead they nodded approvingly and took some across in an enamel mug; just the one mug, which Mustapha and Idris shared quite happily.

He suddenly realized that he was glad to sit down himself. Although he was in the shade, the heat was still considerable enough to make him languorous. The mint tea, though, was refreshing and he sat on for some time in an increasing doze; which seemed to be shared by everyone around him.

Not at the other end of the street, however. Shouts roused him. People in the café looked up. There seemed to be some sort of altercation centring on the other café. Mustapha, drawn to any form of disorder, went up the street to see what was going on. There was a crowd, growing every second, and voices were raised in protest.

Mustapha returned.

‘You’d better come,’ he said to Seymour. ‘It’s Chantale. And the French.'

Seymour rose at once.

‘It might be better if it’s you,’ said Mustapha, ‘and not us.'

At the centre of the crowd was a policeman holding a man and beside them was a Frenchwoman, gesticulating fiercely. Beside them, gesticulating just as fiercely, was a fired-up Chantale.

‘And take her in, too,’ cried the Frenchwoman angrily.

‘Yes, take me in, too!’ shouted Chantale, equally angry.

She held out her wrists as if for handcuffs. ‘Take me in! And see what happens!'

‘This is injustice!’ cried the man the policeman was holding. He was an Arab and seemed to Seymour slightly familiar. Then he worked it out. It was one of the young men, Sadiq’s friends, who had been sitting in the café when he had come out of the committee’s room with Mr Bahnini.

‘He molested me!’ cried the Frenchwoman.

‘No, he didn’t!’ shouted Chantale. ‘He just sat next to you.'

‘I don’t want to sit next to a dirty Arab!'

‘He doesn’t want to sit next to a dirty Frenchwoman!’ shouted Chantale wrathfully.

‘Hey, hey, hey! You can’t say things like that!’ said the policeman. Still holding the young man, he made a grab for Chantale.

‘Take them both in!’ shouted the Frenchwoman furiously. ‘Arrest them! He has molested me. And she has insulted me!'

Another policeman appeared. The first policeman handed the man over to him and tightened his grip on Chantale.

‘You leave her alone!’ shouted someone in the crowd. ‘It’s Chantale!'

‘Hands off, you bastards!’ shouted someone else.

‘Don’t you know how to treat a lady?’ cried a third man.

‘She’s not a lady!’ cried the Frenchwoman. ‘She’s a black!'

The next moment she reeled back from a slap by Chantale.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ cried the constable.

‘She has insulted us!’ cried the young Arab, beside himself. ‘Me, Chantale, the whole Moroccan people!'

‘Why do we have to put up with this?’ called someone from the back of the crowd.

‘Yes, why?'

The crowd began to press forward angrily.

The Frenchwoman turned pale.

It was, strictly speaking, no concern of Seymour’s. He had no authority here. But old policeman’s habits died hard.

He pushed through the crowd.

‘Calm yourselves, calm yourselves, Messieurs, Mesdames!’

‘I am going to hit her again!’ shouted Chantale.

‘No, you’re not.'

He caught the hand just in time.

Chantale tried to wrench it free, then fell against Seymour. He grabbed her and held on to her.

‘Take her to the police station!’ cried the Frenchwoman. ‘She has assaulted me!'

‘Enough!’ said Seymour. ‘Enough!'

‘Enough!’ said another voice authoritatively.

A tall man had pushed through the crowd.

‘Let go of her!’ he said to the policeman holding Chantale. ‘And get them away. Quickly!'

‘Yes, sir!’ said the policeman, releasing Chantale and snapping to attention. ‘At once, sir!'

But then he hesitated.

‘Which of them, sir?'

‘Well . . .'

‘She assaulted me!’ cried the Frenchwoman.

‘She insulted me!’ cried Chantale.

‘Enough, enough! Madame Poiret, contain yourself! Chantale – really!'

‘And he molested me!’ said the Frenchwoman, pointing at the young Arab.

‘No, I didn’t!'

‘No, he didn’t!’ said Chantale.

‘No, he didn’t,’ said the crowd.

‘He sat next to her,’ said Seymour quietly. ‘That appears to be all.'

The man nodded. Seymour recognized him now. It was the French captain, de Grassac. He recognized Seymour at the same moment.

‘Monsieur Seymour!'

‘We’d better get them away,’ said Seymour.

De Grassac nodded again.

‘Follow me,’ he ordered the policemen.

He began to push a way through the crowd.

The others followed him, the policemen with their prisoners, Seymour, and Mustapha and Idris.

After they had gone a little way, de Grassac halted.

‘Is there really any need to go to the police station?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Seymour firmly.

‘She assaulted me,’ said Madame Poiret.

‘Perhaps not undeservedly, Madame,’ said Seymour.

‘She called Chantale a black,’ said the young Arab hotly. ‘If she had called her a Moroccan, that would have been all right. Chantale would be proud to be called a Moroccan. But to call her a black was an attempt to denigrate.'

‘He speaks like a lawyer,’ said Madame Poiret.

‘I
am
a lawyer,’ said the young Arab. ‘Or will be one soon.’

‘Did you do anything apart from sit next to her?’ de Grassac asked.

‘No. And I sat next to her because that was the only table free.'

‘Is this true, Madame?'

‘They should have directed him to another place.'

‘Why?’ demanded Chantale excitedly. ‘Why?'

‘Calm down, Chantale. You are not behaving in a seemly way. And nor are you, Madame.'

‘I don’t believe in letting people get above themselves.'

‘Who is this you’re talking about?’ demanded the young Arab fiercely.

‘You,’ said Madame Poiret. ‘And her,’ she said, pointing to Chantale.

‘Madame,’ said de Grassac, ‘Mademoiselle de Lissac is the daughter of a very gallant gentleman with whom I served and I will not allow any aspersion to be made against her honour. Tell your husband that, and tell him that it is Captain de Grassac who says so. If he would like to take it up with me, he knows where to find me.'

‘Come, come,’ said Seymour. ‘There is no need for things to get so far. Captain de Grassac is absolutely right. This is all best forgotten.'

‘I am not sure I can let it be forgotten,’ said the young Arab stiffly. ‘I have been insulted!'

Seymour took him to one side.

‘Certainly you have been insulted,’ he said. ‘And deserve an apology. But I am not sure how much one from this lady would be worth. And there is a complication, which you as a lawyer will certainly appreciate: about the only hard breach of the law that has occurred is that Chantale has struck the lady. Now, do you want her to have to answer for that in a court of law? Or wouldn’t you prefer to forget the whole thing?'

The young man hesitated.

‘Given the sort of justice we get here,’ he said reluctantly, ‘it might be best to forget the whole thing. Although when such things happen all the time, it is hard to forget them.'

‘Thank you.'

He looked at de Grassac and nodded. De Grassac turned to the two policemen.

‘Okay!’ he said.

They evidently agreed, for he nodded back.

‘Right,’ said Seymour, ‘off you go!'

The young Arab walked away, with dignity.

‘You’re not going to let him go?’ said Madame Poiret.

‘Why not?’ said de Grassac. ‘He appears to have committed no offence.'

‘I shall complain to the Resident-General.'

‘Do. And perhaps I will have a word with him myself. I think, Madame, that it would be best if you went home and sat quietly for a while.'

Madame Poiret paused rebelliously, then shrugged her shoulders and marched off.

The two constables watched her go and then departed, with relief.

‘As for you, Chantale –’ said de Grassac.

‘I am sorry,’ said Chantale humbly. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut. But when I heard what she was saying to Awad, and saw that the police were going to take him away – it was so unjust!'

‘Yes, well, these things happen,’ said de Grassac. ‘It might be wiser if you didn’t get involved so readily.'

‘I’m just an unbalanced, emotional Moroccan,’ said Chantale, not altogether acquiescently.

‘You, Chantale,’ said de Grassac, ‘are sometimes just a pain in the ass.'

Seymour recalled that he had left his tea abandoned and unpaid for and returned to the café. He invited de Grassac to join him. He also invited Chantale but she declined.

‘I have to get back to relieve my mother,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’ve caused enough trouble for one day.'

De Grassac watched her go.

‘I’ve known her since she was a child,’ he said. ‘And sometimes I don’t think she’s changed a bit.'

‘You knew her father, I think you said?'

‘De Lissac. We came out to Africa in the same year. We served together. A good man to have beside you. We were very close.'

‘You obviously know the family well.'

‘Yes. I was the first person he told. When he got married. I warned him. I said, “There will be problems, Marcel! ” “So?” he said. “You will help me solve them.” And, of course, I said I would. We were comrades. I was the best man at the wedding. Actually, the only other man at the wedding.'

He laughed.

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘they tried to break it up. They posted him all over the place, usually to places she couldn’t come to. But, then, to be fair, we were all being posted all over the place, often to places no one had ever heard of, places deep in the Sahara without a name. And I was often posted with him.'

He sipped his tea, and stroked his moustaches.

‘In those early years we were always fighting. You really get to know a man when you’re under fire together. Especially in tight situations. He saved my life, I saved his. Once we were out on patrol and my horse was hit. It went down and my leg was caught underneath. They were coming in on me and I thought I was done for. But then he came riding back, alone, and pulled me out and up on to his horse, and we rode away together. And once I did the same for him.

‘That’s when you really get to know a man. And not just then. There were times when we were together at some lonely outpost where nothing happened for weeks, months. You were thrown on each other. It is important then to have good comrades because otherwise you go mad. As some did. You talk, you talk – that is all you can do. And de Lissac and I talked. We put the world right together. For me especially it was an education. I came from a family which didn’t talk much, an old army family, you understand? His was like that, too, but he had a grandfather he talked with. About the great things, you know: life, death. And now he talked with me. I had never talked like that before. It was a revelation. So there were these things to life? I had never understood that before.

‘And then they had the baby, and we talked about that. Uncomprehending, on my part. I couldn’t see why he was so excited. A baby, just a baby, I thought. But now I come to see – I was the godfather. “You ought to get one for yourself,” he said, laughing. But I never did. We were always moving, you understand? At the places we were posted to there were never any women of the right sort. So, well, no wife, no baby. The only child I ever held in my arms was his.'

He stroked his moustaches again.

‘And then we were posted to Morocco. We even spent some time in Tangier. He was very happy because he could spend time with his wife.'

He looked at Seymour.

‘You know Marie? No? A remarkable woman. Stayed with him through thick and thin. And so – so aware of things! At first I was – well, you know, I had my doubts. About her being a Moroccan, you know. But I could see – see she made him happy. And in time I got to know her too. So easy to talk to, so understanding. I forgot she was Moroccan. What did I care about that sort of thing? What did it matter if she was brown, black, pink or whatever? She was the wife of a brother officer. That was enough.