'
'Hmmm. Maybe so. But I'll have one distinction left.'
'What's that?'
'I'll still be an informer for the police.'
'Oh, yes. You'll always be that. Perhaps, as you've said, it's your real metier.'
'You know, Hamid-' Robin began to laugh. 'You're the only Tangerene who dares to speak to me like this. The others are too terrified because of the power of my column. They come around regularly to kiss my ass, and I adore them for it since I've kissed ass all my life and now, finally, I'm in a position where people must kiss mine.'
'Still-'
'I know. You think I should leave, become serious, start a new life. Actually I'm thinking of starting a business here. My clients will be rich people who want to make it in Tangier. For an extravagant fee I'll set them up. Sooner or later they'll get to Barclay's for lunch-he'll try out anyone once. My final payment is delivered the day they get the invitation, but after that they must keep me on retainer if they don't want to be blasted in my column. I could make myself a fantastic living and enjoy the pleasure of being completely corrupt.'
'But you wouldn't sell out your column, would you?'
'No. I suppose not. As much as I adore the idea of being your informer, and long to roll about in the gutter, the integrity of the column must be preserved. We're alike in that way, Hamid. I've often wondered why you haven't allowed others to make you rich.'
'Oh-I don't know. I'm a simple man. I want to be respectable. An honest cop.'
'Oh, Hamid, you're beautiful. And lucky too. I live alone, picking up scum here and there, whatever crosses my path. But you have Kalinka, and you're in love.'
Back at the Surete at two o'clock, Aziz greeted him with a grin. 'I've completely terrorized the ballet dancers. They want to see you and beg for mercy on their knees.'
'Spare me, Aziz. You take charge of the case. If the prosecutor agrees, ship them out tonight. Take them in handcuffs to the airport. The humiliation will do them good.'
'Marvelous idea. Why didn't I think of it?'
'Because you're only a detective. A long time yet before you become the chief. I want you to contact our informants at the American Consulate, find out what you can about Zvegintzov and Lake. Has Zvegintzov been there for dinner? If he has, what did he say? See the butler and check with the maids. Also there's Kranker, the American. See the visa people downstairs and tell them to harass him a bit. When he comes in they should hold up his renewal. I think he's messing around with children, and I want him scared.'
There were a few more matters to dispose of, then Aziz left and Hamid began to go through the motions of his job. He read dossiers and checked the status of his cases, but his mind kept returning to Kalinka. He thought of her sitting in their salon, or lying in their bed, smoking, filling her lungs with the harsh, acrid smoke of hashish. He must get her to stop, slowly, gradually, lead her out of her world of dreams. Then maybe he would marry her. But would she be different, a different person? Would he love her as much as he did now?
It was a difficult afternoon; the problem of Kalinka nagged until he grew impatient and telephoned her at home. She was in a daze, as usual, and there were long silences as they spoke. She asked him to buy her a television set. He said he'd think about it-it depended on the cost. He didn't think much of Moroccan TV-Saudi Arabian love dramas and propaganda from the Ministry of Public Works-but he knew she needed something to amuse her as she sat alone at home. She needed stimulation. In the summer, he promised himself, he'd take her regularly to the beach.
By the end of the afternoon he'd cleared up all his papers. A few minutes before six he set off for the Prefecture. He waited in the Prefect's anteroom for ten minutes, until a young man in a sharply tailored European suit approached him with a nod. 'Inspector Ouazzani, I'm the Prefect's new assistant. He's ready to see you now.' Hamid followed the assistant, a type he didn't like-glossy, smooth, educated at a French lycee, a young man destined to grow rich on bribes.
The Prefect was another sort, fat and charming, dressed in a traditional Moroccan robe. Hamid knew he was corrupt, but with a moderation his assistant would never understand. The Prefect stole just enough to keep his family in a decent style. It would never occur to him to milk a fortune from his job, or to look away from an injustice which might do a poor man harm.
'Sit down, Hamid,' he said, waving toward a leather couch. 'I already have one complaint today. The British Consul called, said you refused to investigate some nonsense at the British church. Well, don't worry. You did exactly right. I defended you, as I always have.'
'Thank you, Prefect,' said Hamid. 'Now listen to a complaint of mine. Over the weekend we arrested some British ballet dancers. When they asked to see their consul, his wife lied and said he was out of town.'
The Prefect laughed. 'I'll remember that. Really, Hamid, you have the most difficult job.'
'It's going to become even more difficult. Among the diplomats now we have two philanderers-Mr. Fufu, the UN man from Uganda, and Baldeschi, the Italian Consul. Both of them are accumulating mistresses at a greater than normal rate. Of course I'm grateful they're heterosexual-such a rarity among the foreigners here. But eventually someone's husband's going to find out, and then we're going to have one of those 'diplomatic affairs.''
The Prefect laughed again. 'I know you can handle it, Hamid. But I didn't call you here to gossip. A serious matter's come up. The Ministry of Interior has received information from Egyptian intelligence through our Cairo Embassy. The Egyptians claim an Israeli assassin is coming to Tangier.”
Hamid was puzzled. It didn't make any sense. There were no important personalities in Tangier who could possibly interest an assassin, and as for the King, he espoused the Palestinian cause in a half-hearted way, but he was unpopular in the north and rarely used his palace in Tangier.
'Perhaps they've confused Tangier with Algiers. They've been that stupid before.'
'Any ideas, Hamid?'
'The only thing I can think of is that there's an old Nazi here they want to get.'
'Very good. Anyone in mind?'
'That's the trouble, Prefect. I don't think there're any left. But I'll look into it and let you know.'
Driving home, he thought about the problem. A Nazi hunter made sense, but who could the target be? He thought and thought, sifting through hundreds of names. The implications were difficult to accept, for if he was right there was someone living in Tangier, someone quite poisonous, who lay dormant and had escaped his scrutiny for years.
That night when he made love with Kalinka all his tensions ebbed away. She was a mystery to him-she smoked hashish, her mind worked the opposite way from his. But none of that mattered when she touched him with her tiny hands, curled her long, thin legs around his thighs, tickled his genitals with her toes. Feeling himself grow hard within her, feeling her fragile, glistening body throb beneath him and hearing her gasps against his ear, he was inspired to a tenderness he had never felt with any other woman, a sense that she was exquisite and that it was his pleasure to make her body sing. In bed with other women he had cared only for himself, but Kalinka's moans and embraces made him as interested in giving as in taking, and so he let her guide him in his moves rather than thrusting to his own release. He treasured this new-found gentleness and loved her for provoking it. It was far better, he had learned, to make love to a woman than merely to use her to allay desire.
Yes, she had taught him about love, and now he could not imagine experiencing it any other way. She'd come into his life strangely, romantically, providing him with a refuge from the harshness of his work and from all the struggles that consumed 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
