thought he could use. 'All right,' he said finally, 'that's very nice. You want to tear things down. But not old buildings. Something else.'
'Yes,' said Driss. 'You know exactly what I mean.'
Achar lit another cigarette. 'Why have you come to me?'
'People tell me you're a man who understands the future. That's why I came. But not just to talk.'
'But you do talk about these things?'
'Sometimes-with people I can trust.'
'It's dangerous to be a dissenter, Driss. There're a lot of people who make their living turning other people in.' The young architect nodded.
Achar leaned back. 'So,' he said, 'you want to see things changed.'
'Yes.'
'Well-we'll see. I'll mention your enthusiasm to some of my friends. Perhaps one of them will get in touch. Excuse me now. I need to rest. Then there're patients I have to see.'
After Bennani left, Achar closed his eyes. Now, thirty-eight years old, he believed in ideas but no longer in men. When he'd been a medical student, at Cairo University, Gamal Abdel Nasser had been his god. He still kept the man's photo on his office wall, but he'd decided years before that Nasser had been weak and failed. All the talk about pan-Arabism, a great new era, a new place in the world for the backward peoples of Islam-all that had been rhetoric for the masses, without any result. Nasser had plunged into the anti-Zionist cause while his regime became corrupt and his power was misused. While he became a world figure, rushing to conferences here and there, to Washington and to Moscow for aid, he neglected the real issue, which was misery, the misery in which people lived. He became corrupted by his glory and lacked the courage to take away the privileges of his friends.
Now Morocco was miserable, it seemed to Achar, and the King, a clever man, was working ruthlessly to preserve his power. He'd nationalized the foreign banks, confiscated the foreign-owned plantations, but the only difference that had made was a few favored Moroccans had become rich. Achar didn't like foreigners much, but his dislike of them was nothing compared with his hatred for the Moroccan ruling class. Not just for the King (who symbolized everything that was wrong) but for the whole rotten system, the payoffs and favors, the entrenchment of powerful families, the shallow self-seeking of commercial people on the rise. The country was going under while they played games in Rabat-a modern Versailles, he thought, where the King distracts his rivals with golf tournaments, luxuries, and intrigues.
Now the system was starting to bend beneath the pressure. Achar, with other men, wanted to be sure that it finally cracked. He'd decided to devote his life to that-it seemed a logical extension of his work. What was the point of treating symptoms when the problem was the disease? He wasn't interested in a military coup. Monarchy or dictatorship-the repression would be the same. He wanted radical change, an austere socialist regime, first of all a program to break the psychological power of Islam. As long as Moroccans could shrug and say 'It's God's will' before their miseries, it was hopeless to try to improve their lot. As a surgeon he'd shown people that the ills of the body could be attacked with a knife. Now he wanted to show them that the system that oppressed them must be attacked the same way.
Yes, he thought, Driss Bennani might be one to help. He could join the cadre that met in the clinic in the night, discussing ways to build a new Morocco, making plans to tear the old Morocco down.
Several hours later he was passing through the waiting room when a familiar face caught his eye. It was Kalinka Zvegintzov seated among veiled Moroccans on one of the hard benches that filled the room.
'Kalinka.' He came up to her. 'Are you waiting to see me?'
When she nodded he motioned for her to follow, leading her to an examination cubicle in the back.
'How are you?' he asked. 'And how is Hamid? I haven't seen him in weeks.'
'He's been very busy, I think.'
'Good. I was worried he'd forgotten us. It happens so often when people leave Dradeb.'
'He's working all the time,' she said. 'Sometimes he doesn't even sleep. When he thinks I've fallen off he slips out to the other room. Then he sits in the dark smoking cigarettes.'
'Thinking about something?'
'That's what he says. But he doesn't talk about his work. I think he's healthy, though. Otherwise he'd come to you.'
Achar laughed. 'Oh, Kalinka. Hamid can come here anytime, whether he's sick or not. I've known him all my life. We were born within a hundred meters of this place.'
She nodded, and as always Achar felt a certain strangeness in her manner, a retreating inside, a distancing from events.
'Now what brings you here, Kalinka? Your spring cold's all gone, I think.'
'I don't know,' she said. 'Sometimes I feel weak. My chest hurts. I'm tired all the time.'
'Well, I'll have a look at you. Come on then. Take off your dress.'
She looked up at him and hesitated. He excused himself to fetch his stethoscope, and when he returned he found her sitting on the examination table in white silk trousers and brassiere. Her dress, an Oriental floral print, was hanging from the hook. He looked at her carefully-her skin was pale and so translucent he felt he could see deep within, even past the network of blue veins.
'You're so very thin, Kalinka. Perhaps you don't eat enough.'
She shook her head. 'I'm not very hungry,' she said.
He began to examine her, listen to her heart, then thump his forefinger on her chest and back. She seemed fragile to him, perfectly proportioned and yet petite, her rib bones so delicate he felt they'd break if he touched too hard. It seemed improper for him to lay his thick, hairy fingers on such a fragile creature, and yet, thinking that, he suddenly understood her attraction for Hamid.
When he was finished with her torso he stared down her throat and then, with his magnifying flashlight, deep into her eyes. The whites were a little jaundiced, he thought. Bent over, so close to her face, he felt suddenly that his head was twice as big as hers.
'You still smoke, Kalinka?'
She nodded and looked down.
'I told you last time you'd have to stop.'
'I try,' she said in her funny sing-song French. 'But there is nothing else for me to do.'
'Don't be ridiculous. Tangier is full of things. You like to draw. Why don't you do that?'
She shrugged.
'Learn Arabic then. It's the least you can do.'
'Hamid is unhappy with me.' She blurted out the words so quickly they caught him off his guard. Then, immediately, she raised her hand to cover up her mouth.
He sat back, looked at her, thought a few moments, then spoke. 'Why, Kalinka? Why is he unhappy? What makes you think he is? Tell me what's wrong.'
'I don't know,' she said, shaking her head. 'Sometimes he looks at me so strangely, and I feel he's about to speak. Then he turns away. He questions me. I try to answer but I can't. He asks me to draw pictures and tell him stories. I try my best but he's not satisfied.' There were tears forming in her eyes.
'You're not unhappy with him?'
'Oh, no! I love him. He's the only thing I care about here.'
'What are these questions? What does he want to know?'
'Everything. He wants to know about the past. About Peter and Hanoi. My life. He asks me questions about my life.'
'Surely you can answer him.'
'No,' she said. 'I try. But I cannot. It's all so vague to me. Like a dream.'
He didn't know what to say. Here was a woman who lived with his boyhood friend, a strange Asian woman who said her past had fled her memory. It was hard enough to be a doctor, to diagnose illnesses, to examine the exteriors of patients and from them divine the processes beneath. But to diagnose a woman's heart-that was beyond his skill.
'You must stop smoking. I insist on that. The hashish makes everybody mad. It's an opiate here-the fog in which Moroccans sleep. People who smoke it turn inward, confused, and can no longer see the world. It's very bad
