Tangier

But she was indifferent, as she still was to so many things, and if it had pleased Peter to introduce her as his wife, then she'd played out that role without complaint. Peter had fed her, protected her, made her the focus of his life. And all that time they'd slept in separate beds in the back room of his shop.

'I admire you, Peter,' he said. 'That was brilliant the way you calculated things. Not calling the French; seeing through the Russian trap. Yes, I admire you for that.'

Peter beamed.

'You know,' Hamid said, 'I've known you for many years, but I've never been in your back room.'

Peter laughed. 'Nothing there,' he said. 'No secrets, Hamid. Just my papers and accounts. But come in, if you like.'

They stood-up, and Hamid followed Peter to the door. It was a shabby room, and Peter looked shabby standing in the middle of it, talking, gesturing, scratching at his head.

'Here's the curtain, pulled back now, but in the old days we used it to separate the room at night. This was her bed, bigger than mine, you see-Marguerite and Kalinka shared a big bed like that. I've set things up pretty much the same in here. Their bed was always on the right, and mine was near the window, just as now-'

He mumbled on, lost in his memories, while Hamid stared at him and gaped. Suddenly he understood: it was nostalgia for the life Peter had led with Marguerite that had caused him to force Kalinka to take her mother's place. So pitiful, this fantasy, and so cruel the way he'd made her play it out. Just the thought of Kalinka sleeping here and wandering around Tangier so many years playing his preposterous game-Hamid shook his head in grief. The hashish probably saved her, he thought. Only in its fog could she escape Peter's twisted, terrifying love.

'Oh, I know you love her, Hamid. You're strong, you treat her well. But still I need her too, if only to talk with her in the old language we used to use. All this time, you see, I've been afraid you'd find out I was a spy. Then you'd throw me out, and I wouldn't see her anymore.'

A spy-he was afraid I'd find out that! It was so pathetic, his fear, all his illusions about himself. He'd been nothing, an inaccurate spotter of ships, a clerk, and once a messenger to Algiers.

'Don't worry, Peter. Nothing will happen to you now. And of course you may speak with Kalinka sometimes. I won't feel compromised.'

Peter beamed again.

'One more question, though, before I leave. I know the Japanese killed Kalinka's father. I've wondered why they didn't kill you too.'

'Ah-well, you see, Hamid, Stephen was a real Communist. He held his tongue. But I–I talked a lot.'

As Peter hung his head then, out of shame, Hamid felt all his anger melt away. He knew now for sure that Peter was harmless, a broken man, a burned-out case.

They shook hands, and then Hamid left, pausing a moment outside the shop. He thought of Peter inside, so deluded, so obsequious, somehow managing to function in Tangier. He's found his niche, he thought, and he'll survive, so long as Kalinka remains nearby. He'll operate this shop, this little museum, listen to gossip, perhaps steam open a letter or two a week, endure insults from his customers, flick his feather duster to hide his scars, and go to bed each night haunted by memories and ghosts.

Thinking about that, driving through Dradeb, through the wedding throngs which jammed the narrow street, Hamid felt a wave of sympathy break from the reservoir he'd thought was dry. It washed over Peter, so battered, so wounded, by the forces that had shaped his life.

At last, he thought, I understand.

He wept then in his car, driving through the slum, wept with pity for Peter Zvegintzov, the fussy little shopkeeper, and for Kalinka wandering the city trying to escape her nightmare in hashish and dreams. He wept too for the pain of Stephen Zhukovsky, screaming in a Hanoi jail, and for Marguerite Pham Thi Nha, loading artillery at Dien Bien Phu, smiling beneath the brim of her conical straw hat.

Emerging from Dradeb, honking his way through the last of the revelers that summer night, he still had tears in his eyes. He was in a rush to get home, hold Kalinka, ask her to marry him. He wanted to shield her from the savage storms of life.

III

RAMADAN. It settled upon our town with the August haze and a dry, hot Saharan wind. At dawn a cannon roared out from the port to tell the faithful to begin the daily fast. At dusk it roared again, arousing a clamor from all the mosques. Then the spicy smell of harira soup perfumed the air, and we were bewitched by the sounds of Arab flutes.

But then, as the fast progressed, anger engulfed Tangier: dogs became vicious, babies shrieked, quarrels broke out in all the quarters-the wells were running dry.

The holy month divided Tangier into two cities: a city of foreigners exalting in our season, and an Arab city of brooding multitudes who regarded us with an unflinching gaze. Their Tangier became the backdrop before which we pranced and played, living sweetly in the interstices of their rage…

A Visit to the Mountain

Early one broiling August afternoon Laurence Luscombe left Dradeb. The sun nearly blinded him as he stepped outside his house, then paused by the overflowing septic that oozed beside his door. All the houses on his alley fed into it, and the stench was terrible, human wastes marinating in the heat. The fumes, strong as sulfur, burned his nostrils. He staggered for a moment and held his breath.

It was all so foul, a reminder of his decline, but on twelve hundred pounds a year there was nowhere else for him to live. As it was, he hardly got by in Tangier, eating fruit and small quantities of the cheapest fish, walking everywhere, no matter how fierce the heat, even depriving himself of coffee and beer. He'd kept his pride, he thought; so far no one had tried to steal that. He still showered fastidiously at Derik Law's, though it was an agony to walk there every day.

And yet-he was shabby. He knew it, could feel very clearly that he was. Sometimes, when he approached people, they smiled and turned away. When he spoke to them about his troubles they winced and hurried off. Why? What was it about him that inspired such distaste? Perhaps, he thought, he smelled of failure, or showed too clearly the ravages of age.

He was pale and gaunt, with brown spots on his face. His hair was nothing but a few dry white wisps, and his clothes, unironed, hung loose upon his frame. A memento mori-perhaps that was now his role, staggering about, stalking Tangier, reminding people of death.

He set off down the main street of Dradeb, empty except for some ragged children playing cheerlessly in the dust. Men and women were sleeping through the midday heat, weakened by thirst and hunger-their abominable, pointless fast. Luscombe hated Ramadan, had hated it since he'd come to Tangier. Mail was misdelivered. The Arabs were all on edge. At dusk the city abounded in accidents caused by distracted drivers hurrying home for soup.

He crossed the Jew's River, paused on the narrow bridge, then looked up at the Mountain, so high, so far away, so steep. Today he would climb it, despite the raging sun. He spent a few moments working up his will, then set off on the trek.

'It's a conspiracy-don't you see? Everyone says it is now.'

Luscombe looked straight at Peter Barclay, beside Camilla Weltonwhist on the couch. His iron-gray hair caught the sun, his cane lay across his lap. Her diamond collar gleamed against her throat. Her torso looked like a vase.

Clearly they were irritated with him, but still they were trying to be polite. He'd done the unpardonable, intruded unannounced. He'd interrupted their backgammon game. He should have phoned them first.

'But I don't understand,' said Camilla, blinking at him confused. 'Why did they pick that particular date? I