Tangier

strange, shadowy scenes. I ask her what they mean. She blinks at me and smiles.'

'Well, Hamid, you have to take her to a doctor.'

'She's been to Achar. Radcliffe too. They tell me she's just a little nervous, and I shouldn't allow myself to become upset.'

'Maybe a psychiatrist-'

'In Tangier? Our so-called psychiatrists are madhouse attendants. Anyway, how can I send her to one of them? I'm an inspector of police. Soon everyone will be saying she's sick in her head. People will use that against me. I don't care, but those pitying looks, those suggestions that I throw her out. Ah!'

He swirled his fork among the eels. Farid pushed back his chair. His face was like Hamid's, but less Berber, prettier. 'She's always been strange, Hamid.'

'I know. At first I thought it didn't matter. She was what she was, I loved her, and that was enough. But now I feel I must understand her. She suffers. Perhaps she longs for something. Some loss. Torment. I don't know.'

Then, sensitive to the fact that he was making his brother uneasy, Hamid switched the subject. 'Have you ever sold anything to the Freys?'

Farid shook his head. 'They don't collect Moroccan things. They like signed French furniture. Impressionists. Roman coins.'

'You've seen all that?'

'One time. With Wax. He was after them for a while. When he smells money on people he warms up to them, and he smelled it on the Freys. He's drawn to rich people. When he finds them the first thing he does is think up a swindle. There was a jade scepter they had, and he wanted it. He had in mind a trade, a pair of short obelisks which he claimed were ancient pieces from Luxor, though I happen to know he had them made by the man who makes gravestones on Avenue Hassan II. Anyway, we went up to the Freys'. This was during the time that Patrick was teaching me interior decoration and good taste.'

Hamid laughed, though his memory of that time was sad. He'd felt such shame for his brother then, the 'bought boy' of Patrick Wax.

'He taught me a lot, you know. Took me to Europe. Showed me the museums. Enough so I could tell that the things up at the Freys' were good. They have an excellent Renoir and some wonderful bibelots.'

'Did you like the Freys?'

'Are they involved in something, Hamid?'

'Perhaps. I can't tell you more than that.'

'Well, all I can say is that they were pleasant enough, though not especially refined. There they were, living amidst all that splendor, but there was something ordinary, peasant-like about them too.'

'Did Wax get his scepter?'

'No. They were shrewd. They saw through him. They sensed he was a charlatan. But they didn't let on. They just smiled and shook their heads.'

As they drove back to the city, Hamid marveled at how much his brother had been changed by the three or four years he'd spent with Patrick Wax. He'd been taken into palaces and chateaux, taught about precious materials-marble, silver, bronze. Now he had his own shop, where he sold rugs and Berber jewelry. He designed candelabra, based vaguely on Moroccan models, which he sold to European decorators at many times their worth.

'It's funny, isn't it?' he said as they were passing through Place de France. 'I became a policeman, and you became an antiquaire. Can you remember, fifteen years ago, the two of us kicking around a soccer ball in the dust?'

He stopped to let Farid off at his store. Farid opened the car door, hesitated, then shut it again.

'About Kalinka, Hamid-'

'Yes.'

'I can talk to her if you like.'

'Well-'

'We've always gotten on. Perhaps she needs a confidant. I'd be happy to talk with her if you agree.'

'Thank you, Farid, but I don't know-'

'Well, anyway let me know if I can help.'

He was grateful to Farid for that, but thinking about it through the afternoon, he decided he must continue to try with her himself. But differently than before, along another line.

That evening he waited until they were finished eating dinner and were reclining on banquettes with their cups of tea. Kalinka always prepared Oriental tea, rather than the sweet mint kind that usually followed a Moroccan meal. He'd become used to it, now preferred it, and liked the little wicker basket she'd made, based on a Vietnamese idea, molded inside with silk-covered stuffing so that the pot fit snugly and the tea stayed warm for hours.

'I saw Peter yesterday,' he said.

'Oh-' She didn't seem surprised.

'An interesting meeting, Kalinka. He told me a secret about Tangier.'

She smiled. 'Secrets. Secrets. He has so many secrets. Poor Peter, so many secrets in his head.'

'He doesn't follow you anymore, I hope.'

'I'm sorry I told you that.'

'You had to tell me.'

'No, Hamid. You become too angry. Peter's harmless. He follows me, but it isn't what you think.'

'What is it then? Tell me. Explain it to me. Please.'

A silence. She put down her cup, then placed her hands together on her lap. 'We were never married. I told you that. He brought me up. He took care of me. He brought me here to live.'

'Yes, you've told me, but you've never told me why. Why did he introduce you as his wife? Why did he pretend?'

'He thought-I don't know. He did it-that's all. When I came here from Poland he just did it. He said something then, but I don't remember. So many years ago. Something-he said that it would be easier that way. I would have more protection. He wanted to protect me. It was so difficult for him to bring me here.'

'So people thought-'

'Yes. That was it. He wanted them to think I was his wife. There was his name on my passport. Kalinka Zvegintzov. He arranged that. It was difficult to do. The same name-he showed me that. Put the two passports together, showed me the name was the same. 'We're married now, Kalinka,' he said. I remember now. He laughed. 'That's our secret, Kalinka. That's how we'll protect ourselves.' '

'And you accepted that?'

'Oh, yes. It didn't make any difference. I was only a girl then. When we were alone together he treated me the same. Don't think anything bad, Hamid. Nothing happened in all those years. We slept together in the back room of the shop, in our separate beds on opposite sides of the room. He only touched me as a father would. Kissed me as if I were his child. But he liked the secret. He would become very gay whenever he mentioned it. 'They think you're my wife,' he'd say, laughing, nodding his head. 'Such fools. It's good to have secrets from people, Kalinka. A man should always have secrets. It's a fine feeling when people are fooled.''

It was so strange. Hamid felt no anger anymore, but lost, lost in a mysterious plot. He'd seen her passport, had examined it many times. It documented a marriage which she claimed did not exist. But why? Why these secrets? What had Peter's motives been?

'Is Peter your father?' he asked, immediately regretting the question, for it had been direct questions such as this which had always made her turn away.

'No,' she said. 'But he was my father's friend. He took care of mother and me. He loved my mother-I'm sure of that-though they were comrades, nothing more.'

'And your real father-do you remember him?'

'I never saw him.'

'But Peter told you?'

'Yes.'

It occurred to him then that since Peter was so fond of secrets, he might have lied to Kalinka about her father too. 'On your passport it says 'Father's name: unknown.' '