Tangier

'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.