Tangier

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-'