Tangier

'Gay,' a matter of sexual preference, is something that's neither here nor there, while 'queer' has nothing to do with bed, but with a set of mannerisms 'gay people' sometimes display. Well, try to understand, OLD BOY. All that lisping bitchiness which you so contemptuously despise comes from years of self-hatred engendered by just such homophobic statements as you're alleged to have made. Understand, old FRUIT?

LITERARILY SPEAKING: We have another sad tale to add to the endless misfortunes of David Klein. You'll all remember the unfortunate accident when David was attacked by his gardener several years ago. All's mended and well, thank God, but now another mishap has occurred. David's new 'Mohammed,' after washing out his best Berber rug, placed it on the garden wall to dry. A great wind came and blew it to the other side, where a gang of Dradeb urchins snatched it away. No sign of the rug yet, though the police are working on the case. Thank the Lord, David, it was just a rug, and not your ratty old toupee!

AN INTERESTING FEUD is brewing up beneath the cloak of a friendship going sour. Two of Tangier's most prominent LITERATI are now talking viciously behind each other's backs. A sack of silverware, a case of 'moral plagiarism'-the whole thing's too complex to lay out here. The strange thing about it, though, is that both parties still pretend they're friends. Isn't there enough hypocrisy in Tangier? What a shame it's spread to the artistic CAMP!

THEATER CLUB: 'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women in it merely players. ..' Our players' machinations continue at a heady pace. Laurence Luscombe informs us that Emperor Jones will be his first production in the fall. He has approached Mr. Fufu about playing the lead, but a certain AMERICAN ACTOR has sworn he'll play it in blackface himself. Meantime a copy of the TP bylaws has been surreptitiously acquired by a DISSIDENT group. There's a plot afoot to unseat the older guard by holding a meeting on a night when the voting patrons cannot attend. The undemocratic employment of democratic principles-that's the conspiracy here. Our theater club, like the church, has become a stage for vengeance, intrigue, and deceit.

CHIT-CHAT: Big party at Jimmy Sohario's Saturday night, the sixth such extravaganza in half as many weeks. Sumptuous platters overflowed; musicians beat drums till dawn.

FLASH FROM THE USA: Inigo's portrait of a certain Tangier hustler (his name will remind you of a tart of gourds!) has just been acquired by the Akron (Ohio) Museum for the stupendous price of sixty thousand smackeroos. Congratulations to the painter, and to his friend P.P. too. Seems some of our boys are worth a lot on canvas, a great deal more than they're worth live on sheets!

PIERRE ST. CARLTON flying in this weekend, with his usual mob of jet setters in tow. Sven Lundgren, who handles Pierre's AFFAIRS here, informs us the couturier will spend the first few days working on his tan.

HENDERSON PERRY due in August, off his Mediterranean-based yacht. Expect a big party in the usual lavish style, then a quick disappearance by our mysterious millionaire.

FAREWELL to Willard and Katie Manchester, moving to Fort Lauderdale at season's end. They'll be sorely missed in bridge-playing circles on the Mountain. Already there's talk of a 'drink the dregs' party to see them off.

FINALLY A WORD OF REGRET about the closing of the Hotel Americain, unofficial landmark of Tangier's, uh, 'gay set.' Its proprietor, Hans Gottshalk, has been expelled on a morals charge, and, we're told, he will never return. Some of us who've been here a while were reminiscing the other night about the hotel's filthy corridors, its stinking toilets, its sagging mattresses, and its seedy owner, who so often tried to rob us blind. Tangier will be the richer for his loss, and yet. . and yet. . AN ERA ENDS.

Robin didn't need to read his column over to know how mean it was. But having written it, he had no intention of changing a single word. He would hand it in exactly as he had written it, with the vague hope that by the authenticity of his malice he would find a way to propel himself out of the mire and delusion of Tangier.

The Lovers

Late one July afternoon when Tangier was just beginning to cool down, Jean Tassigny was driving to the Mountain from the Emsallah Tennis Club when he noticed Tessa and David Hawkins' Arabian geldings tied up in front of La Colombe. Vanessa Bolton's little Porsche was parked there too, and Herve Beaumont's Fiat coupe. Jean stopped, pulled on his tennis sweater, and walked inside to buy a Depeche de Tanger.

The little shop was jammed. Peter Zvegintzov was darting about, frantically trying to serve his customers. The Manchesters were browsing through horticultural magazines, and Skiddy de Bayonne was sniffing imported teas. Jean picked up his paper, then embraced Vanessa Bolton. David Hawkins, crop stuck into his boot, rushed over to give him a double kiss. Jean waved to David's sister, Tessa, who was deep in conversation with Herve Beaumont. Jean knew Tessa was sleeping with Herve 's sister Florence, but whether with her own brother too he wasn't sure. Still his suspicions made him feel sophisticated, a part of tout Tanger. Though he'd been living in the city less than a year, he'd already acquired a sense of its complexities and overlapping social circles.

Half an hour later, at home, reading on his bed, Jean felt his heart suddenly begin to pound. He read the offending lines again. There was no mistake. Robin Scott had found out about his affair with Claude and had printed it in his wretched column.

His abdomen grew weak. He felt as if he'd just been kicked. He had to tell Claude, tell her at once, but she was downstairs in the salon with her father sipping an aperitif. Had General Bresson seen it? Probably not. He was contemptuous of gossip and didn't read English very well. But Joop de Hoag could read English perfectly, and was due back in Tangier in two more days. Scott had mentioned the possibility of a crime passionnel. Was Monsieur de Hoag really capable of that?

Jean remained upstairs, waiting for the General to leave. But when it became apparent he was staying on for dinner, Jean dressed and descended to the salon. There he endured an hour of tedious small talk, gazing desperately at Claude all the while. But the more boldly he tried to attract her attention, the more coolly she pretended she didn't understand; finally, seeing she was annoyed, he submitted to an interminable wait.

At dinner the General reminisced about Algeria. 'Morocco,' he said, 'was pleasant during the Protectorate, but in Algeria life was truly sweet. It was France, with all the virtues of the Republic and the additional luxury of slaves.'

The man was insufferable, but Jean nodded all the same. No point in antagonizing him-Jean only wished he'd leave. Hours later Jean escorted him to his car, and after he'd driven off, he looked down upon Tangier. At night, from the Mountain, it was a distant field of flickering lamps, a thousand beacons beckoning lovers to romantic passageways and glowing minarets.

Jean sighed, walked back to the villa. Claude had already retired to her room. He helped himself to a cognac, waiting for the servants to finish clearing up. When they were done, he gulped the last of his drink and hurried up the stairs.

'Fool!' She nearly spat at him. 'Do you want my father to find out?' Then, before he could answer, she smiled, threw her arms around him, and begged him to undress.

He pulled out Robin's column, passed it to her with a trembling hand.

'What's this? 'Burning white hot-an older woman-passionate lovers-crime passionnel.' ' She threw it on the floor. 'Trash!'

Jean flung himself on the bed, and after a while, after she'd paced the room, she sat beside him, lifted his head onto her lap, and ran her fingers through his hair.

'I could kill Robin for this! But don't worry-Joop won't see it. He doesn't read the Depeche. He'll be busy when he gets back.'

'What if someone tells him?'

'No one will.'

'Your father? Or one of the British? They love to write anonymous notes.'

'In that case I'll deny it. I'll say it isn't true. I've tipped a fortune to the servants. He'll have to accept my word.'