Tangier

y Cahal, that I must finally understand who and what she is. For if I can unravel her, I shall come to understand them all, their whole world, which has baffled me and repelled me and attracted me so long. And then the mystery will be solved. I will be free of it. I will marry Kalinka. We will be happy. I will be a happy man.

He rode the elevator to his floor, stepped out, walked the corridor to the doorway of his flat. He paused outside, knowing that in a few seconds he would find her waiting for him, lying on the bed, the afternoon light painting her curled body, her pipe set at an angle on the table, a cloud of smoke above her head.

Robin

Harsh insistent knocking woke Robin from his dream-of a boy flying a kite in a meadow, of dazzling sunlight catching his gray woolen shorts, causing them to glow like lustrous pewter.

'Entrez,' he growled, semi-comatose. 'Come in, whoever you are.'

The form of a man appeared at the door. Robin recognized the catlike step. 'Inspector Ouazzani. Come in. Come in.' He brushed some newspapers off the stool by his bed.

The Inspector advanced through the gloom, then stopped. A moment later he was at the window throwing open the shutters.

'Christ, no, Hamid! You'll wake me up!'

'Can't stand the smell of hash.'

He came then and sat down, his black leather jacket gleaming in the light.

'You don't usually call so early. I hope there's nothing wrong.'

'There's always something wrong, Robin. You ought to know that.' He put his feet up against the side of the bed. 'This morning, fortunately, it doesn't have to do with you.'

'Well, I'm glad of that.' Robin sighed, then pulled up his naked body and arranged a decaying pillow behind his head.

'How can you live in such filth? The poorest Moroccan wouldn't put up with this.'

They both gazed around at the mess. Suitcases were piled into a teetering tower, books were scattered everywhere, along with boxes of newspapers and other trash. Broken phonograph records and unwashed laundry littered the floor, ashtrays overflowed, and the little table where Robin worked was piled with dishes and a typewriter covered with dust.

'This place is disgusting-absolutely foul. Even your sheets are filthy. What a hole!'

'It's my lair, Hamid. All my treasures are here.'

'At least you could change your sheets.'

'I will. Today is washday. On my way to breakfast I'll take them out.'

'I smell something. Do you keep a cat?'

'They come and go-come and go.'

'Well, I'm disgusted. You live like a pig!'

'This is just my little niche in Tangier.'

Hamid offered him a cigarette.

'No thanks. My throat's still raw.'

Hamid shrugged and lit up. 'Why don't you get an apartment somewhere, get out of this stinking hotel?'

'I should. I keep telling myself that. But I like living day to day. Also, it's nice to have the Socco Chico downstairs. It makes a good salon.'

Hamid shook his head. 'You're lazy. You need a good kick in the ass.'

Robin brushed some crumbs out of his bed-he'd had a picnic the night before. There were some kif seeds too, where his body depressed the mattress. He rolled over and swept them out.

'Ugh!'

'All right, Hamid. Enough about my habits. Please tell me what you want.'

'Nazis,' the Inspector said.

'Nazis?'

'Ex-Nazis-you know what I mean.'

'You mean former Nazis who might be living in Tangier?'

'Yes. That's it.'

'Well-what about them?'

'I want their names.'

Robin shrugged. 'There aren't any since Dr. Keitel left.'

'Keitel?'

'Awful little man. He's in Liberia now.'

'Well, there must be others. Tangier's filled with scum.'

Robin shook his head. 'There're plenty of old collaborators. Lanier, the surgeon. Princess Leontieff-they say she had an affair with Von Stuelpnagel. For that matter there's Madame Diplomante, but she was more of a Fascist type. Plenty of those left, but not the real thing. I guess there were a few in the international days.'

'Some of them must still be around.'

'Of course, Hamid, if you insist.'

'Damn it, Robin, think. You know all the seamy types.'

Robin shrugged. 'There's a German boy who lives in the Casbah, but he must have been an infant during the war. He's writing a book about Himmler, who was 'vastly underrated' he says. I don't know him very well.'

Hamid shook his head. 'That's not what I mean.'

'I'm sorry. I can't help you.'

'All right.' The Inspector stood up. 'Call me if you think of anyone else. And clean this damn place out.'

'Ha!'

When Hamid was gone, Robin slumped back in his bed. He scratched his chest and then a sore on his rump. The Inspector had looked tired, as if he wasn't getting sufficient sleep. What did he mean-he couldn't stand the smell of hash? With Kalinka he lived in it all the time. Everyone knew she was stoned to the ears.

He pulled himself up, limped over to the mirror above his wash basin, and inspected his unshaven face. His hair was a mess, a halo of tight red curls. He needed a bath and a good combing out. He splashed on some water and scratched at his rear again. Suddenly a burst of laughter spilled into the room. He turned to the window and saw two little Moroccan girls watching from a roof across the way. They were giggling at his nudity, their hands covering their mouths. He made a threatening gesture and slammed the shutters closed.

Oh, the medina, he thought, how I adore this stinking place. There wasn't any privacy, and the Oriental Hotel was one of the seediest around, but at least there was life in the medina, not the sterility of the European town. He cupped his balls and bounced them several times. Good exercise, he thought. He tore a comb through his hair with no result, then brought it to his nose and shrugged.

He struggled into a pair of jeans, pulled on a red turtleneck, and stooped to tie his sneakers. Still bent, he gathered up his laundry: socks, underwear, numerous shirts and pants. When he had everything together he ripped the sheets off the bed and stuffed the whole lot into a burlap sack. He loved this sack, for it was stenciled with a pair of shaking hands and the slogan 'A Gift from the People of the United States.' He had a scheme to buy up a truckload, then have the sacks converted into hippie clothes. He was sure he'd make a killing if he ever got around to it, and equally sure he never would.

He was a flight and a half from the lobby, the sack on his shoulder and an unlit cigar dangling from his lips, when he remembered it was Thursday, the day his column was due. He'd have to get it in by noon or face his editor's wrath. Damn, he thought. He didn't feel like work.

Out on the street he paused, wondering which way to turn. He'd given up trying to find an honest laundry- whichever one he came to would have to do. All of them stole, either socks or underpants-the Moroccans were short of both, it seemed. But though they all charged outrageous fees, they were far better than the hotel. He'd had a terrible row there the year before, when the maid had taken all his clothes and washed them without his consent.