Tangier

'That's not true,' she said. 'I know my father's name.'

'What is it, Kalinka? Why haven't you told me this before?'

'His name was Stephen Zhukovsky. I didn't tell you because I forgot.'

'But how could you forget a thing like that?'

'I never knew this man. He died soon after I was born.'

'But Peter knew him?'

'Knew him very well. He and Peter were best friends in Hanoi. Peter told me that, and how my father died.'

'Tell me.'

'It was terrible,' she said. Tears formed in her eyes. 'In jail. In Hanoi jail. He was tortured by the Japanese. They tortured him-to death.'

'Peter told you that?'

'He was there. He told me he was there. Nearby. In a cell nearby. And he heard my father's screams. They tortured him too, he told me, but not so much. My father was a great hero, he told me. And my mother-she was a great heroine too.'

She was crying now and trying to smile through her tears. Hamid moved close to her, held her, kissed her, stroked her hair. In the six months he had lived with her she had never told him so much. He knew that now that she'd begun to talk he must press her to tell him more.

'Your mother-tell me about her.'

She thought a moment, then she smiled. 'Like Achar,' she said. 'Mama was like Achar.'

'But that's ridiculous-'

'No, Hamid. Of course, she didn't look like Achar.' She laughed. 'Achar is big and hairy. No-mama didn't have a mustache. But she was like him another way. She worried about people, cared for people and the way they hurt. She hated injustice and worked to set things right.'

'So you know Achar is interested in that?'

'Oh, yes. I can see it in his face. That's the thing I remember best about mama-her eyes, her concern. She would have loved Achar.'

What a curious thing to say, he thought, and he was surprised that she understood Achar so well. It was uncanny the way she grasped the essence of people. She understood them by intuition. His own mind did not work that way. 'Tell me more about her, what sort of things she did.'

'She was a spy. She and Peter-together they spied upon the French.'

'You're not serious.'

'Of course I am.'

'But how did you know?'

'They talked about it all the time. You see, Peter had a shop in Hanoi, a shop just like La Colombe. And it was filled with French people, officers and their wives. He sold them things, found them servants, stood in line for them with their letters at the Poste. They talked among themselves, and he asked them questions about their lives. Then he would tell mama-they would discuss these people for hours. They would put together what they knew and overheard-things having to do with transfers, movements of troops, boats that might arrive, airplanes, politics. They talked about all that, and then mama would carry the information someplace else. It was dangerous, I know. Peter was always worried when she left. Sometimes she was gone for six or seven days. We were always so happy when she returned.'

'Were they married?'

'No, but people thought they were. Like Peter and me, you see. He pretended my mother was his wife. People called her 'Madame Zvegintzov.' We lived with him behind the shop. Mama and I slept in one bed and Peter in another. There was a curtain down the center of the room. Peter pulled it closed when it was time to go to sleep.'

She locked her hands together then and threw them, like a lasso, around his neck. Then she lay back upon the banquette, pulled him down upon her, and buried her face against his chest. Later, in bed, they made love in that special way of hers, that strange Asian way which gave him such delight-lying nearly still, barely touching, changing their rhythm again and again, extending their pleasure to the limits of their ability to prolong it, then joining in a climax that left their bodies shuddering from head to toe.

The next day was busy, monotonous. A gang of Moroccan toughs had burglarized the auto camping grounds. Light bulbs and plastic lenses were missing from all the cars. In the middle of the morning Foster Knowles turned up with a set of worried American parents whose runaway daughter had sent them an enigmatic postcard from Tangier. They showed Hamid photographs and beseeched him to help. He nodded, stared at the photographs. The girl looked lost and innocent. He tried to memorize her features but they blurred before his eyes.

Late in the afternoon he went to see the Prefect. He told him what he'd found out about the Freys and suggested he put a watch around their house. 'It's a long shot, of course,' he said, 'but I can't think of what else would interest an Israeli in Tangier.'

It was six-thirty when he left the Prefecture, a good time, he thought, to drop in at La Colombe. He became snarled in a traffic jam in the middle of Dradeb, caused by two huge tourist buses trying to pass one another at the narrowest portion of the road. It was ten to seven by the time he reached the shop. There were no European cars parked in front.

'Ah-it's you, Inspector.' Peter was in a jovial mood. 'Just like old times. Now we see each other every day.'

The Russian was busy straightening up his cigars. Hamid wondered how many hours he wasted arranging and rearranging things, how often he clicked the keys of his old French cash register to ring up a purchase or just to hear the little bell.

'If you're back about that matter we discussed the other morning, I told you everything I know.'

'No, Peter, I'm not back about that. I'm here about something else. I want to know what you think you're doing, following Kalinka on the street.'

Peter stopped fidgeting with the cigars. For a moment he seemed to freeze. Then he picked up a feather duster and began to move rapidly around the shop, flicking dust off the book racks and the counters covered with games and imported jams and cheese. Hamid stood in the center watching him, waiting for his reply.

'Well,' he said finally, 'have I embarrassed you? Are you going to answer my question or not?'

'I don't know what you're talking about. Your question doesn't make any sense.'

'All right, Peter. Forget I asked. But don't let me hear you've followed her again. I'm warning you. Every policeman in this country will stand beside a colleague when his honor is at stake.'

Peter was still waving his duster, even more frantically than before.

'Why did you lie, Peter?' Hamid asked. 'Why did you pretend Kalinka was your wife?'

Peter suddenly stood still. Then he lowered his head. 'Please,' he said, 'I so want your respect.'

He raised his head again, showed his face, so that Hamid could see the moisture glistening in his eyes. For a moment Hamid felt ashamed that he'd been so harsh, but then he wondered if these tears were only another one of Peter's tricks. Kalinka said he liked to play with people, keep secrets from them, then laugh at them and call them fools behind their backs.

'Who is Stephen Zhukovsky?' he asked, as gently as he could.

'Oh, my God! Don't ask me questions. You have her now. Isn't that enough?'

Hamid moved close, grasped his shoulders, forced him to look into his eyes. 'I'm not trying to hurt you, Peter. I don't wish you harm in any way. But I must know. I have to know what this is all about. These pretended marriages. These secrets. You must tell me everything now.'

Peter's eyes were squeezed shut, tight behind the lenses that magnified his tired lines. Hamid let go of him and stepped back. Just then he heard the bell that rang whenever a person entered the shop. He turned. The American Consul, Daniel Lake, was there, staring at them from the door.

'Excuse me,' said Lake. 'I didn't mean to-'

Peter rushed to him, shook his hand, then took hold of his arm and faced Hamid. 'You know Inspector Ouazzani, Dan.'

'Yes. Of course.'