Tangier

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