Weltonwhist complained to Mr. Salah about the shortage in town of Camembert cheese. The talk then turned to the price of aubergines, and the quality of grapefruit and courgettes. General Bresson complained to the Governor about his difficulties with his telephone. The Governor replied that he'd look into the matter the next time he had a chance.
THE NOTE: Much talk this week about the note delivered on the collection plate at St. Thomas Church. No one knows who wrote it yet, but rumors are all over town. Will our amateur sleuth, Colonel Lester Brown, be able to smoke the villain out? He's an avid reader of detective novels, we hear. The Vicar's up to something too. The service this Sunday may be the ecclesiastical event of the year.
OTHER SCANDALS: Sad scene at the airport a week ago Monday night. Members of a certain British ballet company were escorted to the London plane in handcuffs by Tangier police. Tourists gawked and flashbulbs popped. What was it the dear boys did?
TANGIER PLAYERS: Fever over at TP has gone up another ten degrees. Larry Luscombe, the club's founder and president, has told this column he won't resign. 'Not under any circumstances,' he said, and we take him at his word. If worse comes to worst, and the AMERICAN power play does succeed, Larry has promised he'll start another group.
DIPLOMATICALLY SPEAKING: The Foster Knowles’ out the other night at Heidi's Bar, along with the Willard Manchesters and the Ashton Codds. The young Knowles’ are becoming quite popular, we hear. A number of our older fellow Tangerenes have joined their early morning jogging group.
BY THE WAY, speaking of Heidi's, we wonder how they liked the food. We were poisoned there, ourselves, last week, by some over-pungent ratatouille!
DIPLOMATICALLY TOO: The Dan Lakes have been seen socially with Peter Zvegintzov. Just shows that detente works, even in Tangier.
BITS AND PIECES: Tessa and David Hawkins back from Dublin, where they bought an Irish jumper. This brother and sister horseback riding act, which has won every prize in Tangier, will be heading down to Rabat soon to take on the Royal Equitation Team.
ON THE LITERARY FRONT: Kranker, Klein, and Doyle back from Marrakech, where the three literary lions held forth at the Glaciere. The fourth member of the old quartet, Martin Townes, has been in deep seclusion for a month. We don't know what he's cooking up, but there are rumors that CERTAIN TANGIER PERSONALITIES may find themselves in his forthcoming book.
PEOPLE COMING: Pierre St. Carlton will be at 'Capulet' by June 15. Our dapper Indonesian friend Jimmy Sohario is also expected soon. Dolores Faye spent the spring in Nepal and will come here after a stopover in Jaipur. No word yet on Henderson Perry, but his yacht has been spotted off Iran. When he gets here the real parties will start, and the talk won't be about the price of aubergines either.
FINALLY this from the Beaumonts (younger generation): a valuable pre-Colombian
Robin pulled the last page out of his typewriter, sat back and gasped. He'd written the entire column in ten minutes, without stopping to choose his words. He lit up a pipe of kif and inhaled. Then he read the column through.
Poetry it wasn't. He folded the pages neatly, sealed them in an envelope, and threw himself down on his bed. His dream of making his name with serious verse had fled him years before, and now he didn't care anymore-life in Tangier was much too gay. There were still too many marvelous characters to meet, too many fine young bodies to screw. Hustler. Police informer. Dope dealer. Gossip. Robin, the redheaded weasel with the barbed tongue. He was all of these things, and had found himself a town that matched his seedy vision of his soul.
A little before noon he gathered himself up, walked out of the medina to the offices of the
An hour later he was at the base of the Mountain, having walked across the city and through the valley of Dradeb. The Jew's River was marshy, full of debris. Women, washing clothes there, had spread sheets on the banks to dry. As he hiked by La Colombe, he saw Peter Zvegintzov closing up for lunch. The Russian was wrestling with his iron grill, but Robin didn't stop to help. Zvegintzov was like a tailor, he thought, with a little bedroom tucked away behind his shop. There he sat, glasses glinting, worrying over his accounts.
At Villa Chapultepec he rang the bell, then waited before the iron gate. Finally a servant opened up and led him through the house. It was a rambling old Moorish palace where the younger Beaumonts, all in their twenties, sat about wasting time. Their parents were in Paris fighting off litigations that had followed the collapse of the family's bank.
Robin was led down long, damp corridors and finally into a great salon. Here he was greeted by Herve Beaumont, a dark, brooding young man of twenty-five. His two younger sisters, Guyslene and Florence, came up too, and Robin slipped them a kilo of kif. Herve handed him some soiled banknotes, and Florence grasped his hand.
'Oh, Robin,' she said, kissing both his cheeks, 'you're just in time to see our film.'
She led him around to greet the other guests-all people he knew. They were sprawled on sofas yards apart, and he had the impression of an inanimate group. There was Patrick Wax, who raised his little pony whip in salute, Inigo in a white suede vest worn over a black shirt, the Hawkins' in riding clothes, Madame de Hoag with Jean Tassigny, and Martin Townes.
Townes was perched on a huge white Marrakech hassock, his blue-tinted glasses cocked warily on his nose. Robin sat next to him-though he didn't know the writer well he liked his looks and saw a plate of hors d'oeuvres nearby. The Beaumonts and Inigo were smoking kif. Wax was sipping champagne, the Hawkins' were drinking vodka, Claude de Hoag a pastis, and Townes a bottle of beer.
'You know,' Robin said, 'it's amazing to find you all here. I just finished writing my column, and there's not one of you I didn't name.'
'You write nasty stuff, lad,' said Wax, hissing through his teeth. 'But I love it anyway.'
'What did you say about us, Robin?' Herve passed Florence his pipe.
Robin brought a finger to his lips. 'They're sealed,' he said. 'Anyway, you can read it yourselves Saturday morning. Nothing juicy, I assure you, though I mentioned your missing statuette. Oh, yes-I did take a few swipes at the conversation at Barclay's Tuesday night.'
'Good for you,' said Wax. 'He's got it coming to him, the bloody snob. So grand he is, and so awfully dull. I'd love to know who wrote that note.'
'You're a prime suspect,' Robin said.
Wax laughed. 'Unfortunately I don't go to his dreadful little church. They're all such phonies there, and the Vicar's liturgy stinks. But I'll be there Sunday-to hear the sermon, though not, I assure you, to pray.' He brought down his little whip hard on the arm of the couch. The smokers were too stoned to turn, and the Hawkins so drunk they didn't hear.
'I doubt,' said Townes, fixing Robin with a stare, 'that you could have said very much about me. We rarely see each other, and everyone knows I don't go out.'
'That's just what I wrote. I suggested you were up to something. Scribbling something nasty in that windowed tower of yours.'
'You speculated, then?'
'If you want to put it that way.'
Townes looked at him closely, then turned back to his beer. Robin lit his own pipe and watched Herve set the projector up.
'Listen, everybody,' said Florence. 'We're going to show the film. It's just a home movie-nothing dirty. Move your chairs around. We'll project it on the wall.'
'Guyslene will do the commentary,' said Herve.
'No,' said Guyslene. 'Florence.'
'I think Florence might do better,' said Patrick Wax. 'She's a little less badly stoned.'
'All right. Now someone draw the curtains.' When no one did, Florence drew them herself.
