A Dead Man in Tangier Read online

  ‘Which of them, sir?'

  ‘Well . . .'

  ‘She assaulted me!’ cried the Frenchwoman.

  ‘She insulted me!’ cried Chantale.

  ‘Enough, enough! Madame Poiret, contain yourself! Chantale – really!'

  ‘And he molested me!’ said the Frenchwoman, pointing at the young Arab.

  ‘No, I didn’t!'

  ‘No, he didn’t!’ said Chantale.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ said the crowd.

  ‘He sat next to her,’ said Seymour quietly. ‘That appears to be all.'

  The man nodded. Seymour recognized him now. It was the French captain, de Grassac. He recognized Seymour at the same moment.

  ‘Monsieur Seymour!'

  ‘We’d better get them away,’ said Seymour.

  De Grassac nodded again.

  ‘Follow me,’ he ordered the policemen.

  He began to push a way through the crowd.

  The others followed him, the policemen with their prisoners, Seymour, and Mustapha and Idris.

  After they had gone a little way, de Grassac halted.

  ‘Is there really any need to go to the police station?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Seymour firmly.

  ‘She assaulted me,’ said Madame Poiret.

  ‘Perhaps not undeservedly, Madame,’ said Seymour.

  ‘She called Chantale a black,’ said the young Arab hotly. ‘If she had called her a Moroccan, that would have been all right. Chantale would be proud to be called a Moroccan. But to call her a black was an attempt to denigrate.'

  ‘He speaks like a lawyer,’ said Madame Poiret.

  ‘I am a lawyer,’ said the young Arab. ‘Or will be one soon.’

  ‘Did you do anything apart from sit next to her?’ de Grassac asked.

  ‘No. And I sat next to her because that was the only table free.'

  ‘Is this true, Madame?'

  ‘They should have directed him to another place.'

  ‘Why?’ demanded Chantale excitedly. ‘Why?'

  ‘Calm down, Chantale. You are not behaving in a seemly way. And nor are you, Madame.'

  ‘I don’t believe in letting people get above themselves.'

  ‘Who is this you’re talking about?’ demanded the young Arab fiercely.

  ‘You,’ said Madame Poiret. ‘And her,’ she said, pointing to Chantale.

  ‘Madame,’ said de Grassac, ‘Mademoiselle de Lissac is the daughter of a very gallant gentleman with whom I served and I will not allow any aspersion to be made against her honour. Tell your husband that, and tell him that it is Captain de Grassac who says so. If he would like to take it up with me, he knows where to find me.'

  ‘Come, come,’ said Seymour. ‘There is no need for things to get so far. Captain de Grassac is absolutely right. This is all best forgotten.'

  ‘I am not sure I can let it be forgotten,’ said the young Arab stiffly. ‘I have been insulted!'

  Seymour took him to one side.

  ‘Certainly you have been insulted,’ he said. ‘And deserve an apology. But I am not sure how much one from this lady would be worth. And there is a complication, which you as a lawyer will certainly appreciate: about the only hard breach of the law that has occurred is that Chantale has struck the lady. Now, do you want her to have to answer for that in a court of law? Or wouldn’t you prefer to forget the whole thing?'

  The young man hesitated.

  ‘Given the sort of justice we get here,’ he said reluctantly, ‘it might be best to forget the whole thing. Although when such things happen all the time, it is hard to forget them.'

  ‘Thank you.'

  He looked at de Grassac and nodded. De Grassac turned to the two policemen.

  ‘Okay!’ he said.

  They evidently agreed, for he nodded back.

  ‘Right,’ said Seymour, ‘off you go!'

  The young Arab walked away, with dignity.

  ‘You’re not going to let him go?’ said Madame Poiret.

  ‘Why not?’ said de Grassac. ‘He appears to have committed no offence.'

  ‘I shall complain to the Resident-General.'

  ‘Do. And perhaps I will have a word with him myself. I think, Madame, that it would be best if you went home and sat quietly for a while.'

  Madame Poiret paused rebelliously, then shrugged her shoulders and marched off.

  The two constables watched her go and then departed, with relief.

  ‘As for you, Chantale –’ said de Grassac.

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Chantale humbly. ‘I should have kept my mouth shut. But when I heard what she was saying to Awad, and saw that the police were going to take him away – it was so unjust!'

  ‘Yes, well, these things happen,’ said de Grassac. ‘It might be wiser if you didn’t get involved so readily.'

  ‘I’m just an unbalanced, emotional Moroccan,’ said Chantale, not altogether acquiescently.

  ‘You, Chantale,’ said de Grassac, ‘are sometimes just a pain in the ass.'

  Seymour recalled that he had left his tea abandoned and unpaid for and returned to the café. He invited de Grassac to join him. He also invited Chantale but she declined.

  ‘I have to get back to relieve my mother,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’ve caused enough trouble for one day.'

  De Grassac watched her go.

  ‘I’ve known her since she was a child,’ he said. ‘And sometimes I don’t think she’s changed a bit.'

  ‘You knew her father, I think you said?'

  ‘De Lissac. We came out to Africa in the same year. We served together. A good man to have beside you. We were very close.'

  ‘You obviously know the family well.'

  ‘Yes. I was the first person he told. When he got married. I warned him. I said, “There will be problems, Marcel! ” “So?” he said. “You will help me solve them.” And, of course, I said I would. We were comrades. I was the best man at the wedding. Actually, the only other man at the wedding.'

  He laughed.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘they tried to break it up. They posted him all over the place, usually to places she couldn’t come to. But, then, to be fair, we were all being posted all over the place, often to places no one had ever heard of, places deep in the Sahara without a name. And I was often posted with him.'

  He sipped his tea, and stroked his moustaches.

  ‘In those early years we were always fighting. You really get to know a man when you’re under fire together. Especially in tight situations. He saved my life, I saved his. Once we were out on patrol and my horse was hit. It went down and my leg was caught underneath. They were coming in on me and I thought I was done for. But then he came riding back, alone, and pulled me out and up on to his horse, and we rode away together. And once I did the same for him.

  ‘That’s when you really get to know a man. And not just then. There were times when we were together at some lonely outpost where nothing happened for weeks, months. You were thrown on each other. It is important then to have good comrades because otherwise you go mad. As some did. You talk, you talk – that is all you can do. And de Lissac and I talked. We put the world right together. For me especially it was an education. I came from a family which didn’t talk much, an old army family, you understand? His was like that, too, but he had a grandfather he talked with. About the great things, you know: life, death. And now he talked with me. I had never talked like that before. It was a revelation. So there were these things to life? I had never understood that before.

  ‘And then they had the baby, and we talked about that. Uncomprehending, on my part. I couldn’t see why he was so excited. A baby, just a baby, I thought. But now I come to see – I was the godfather. “You ought to get one for yourself,” he said, laughing. But I never did. We were always moving, you understand? At the places we were posted to there were never any women of the right sort. So, well, no wife, no baby. The only child I ever held in my arms was his.'

  He stroked his moustaches again.r />
  ‘And then we were posted to Morocco. We even spent some time in Tangier. He was very happy because he could spend time with his wife.'

  He looked at Seymour.

  ‘You know Marie? No? A remarkable woman. Stayed with him through thick and thin. And so – so aware of things! At first I was – well, you know, I had my doubts. About her being a Moroccan, you know. But I could see – see she made him happy. And in time I got to know her too. So easy to talk to, so understanding. I forgot she was Moroccan. What did I care about that sort of thing? What did it matter if she was brown, black, pink or whatever? She was the wife of a brother officer. That was enough.

  ’ He stopped.

  ‘And then we were sent to Casablanca.'

  He hesitated.

  ‘You know about Casablanca.'

  ‘A little.'

  ‘Yes. Well. There you are.'

  He studied his cup, and was silent for quite some time. Then he looked up.

  ‘It made a difference. Everything in Morocco today, you know, goes back to Casablanca. For good or bad. And I’m not saying it was all for the bad. But it changed everything. And it changed everything for him, too.

  ‘We were sent to Casablanca. It was just another place, one of the many we had been sent to. But for de Lissac it was not just another place. It was different because of what we had to do there.

  ‘And perhaps de Lissac himself had become different by this time. Perhaps it was the child, I don’t know. Or perhaps it was that we were now in Morocco and his wife was Moroccan. He began to think, and to think differently from the rest of us. He had always thought differently. I realize that now, but now his thinking was taking him apart from us.

  ‘After his first day in Casablanca he said, “This is not right.” And after his second he said, “I am not going to do this.”

  ‘Well, it was a bad time to make his stand. They had began to fight back and we ourselves were under fire. At such times, you understand, you stand together. So, many were angry with him. I was angry with him. Our Commandant pulled him out. “We’ll sort this out later,” he said. “This is not the time.”

  ‘But for de Lissac it was the time. If no one does anything now, he said, no one ever will! So he began to show himself and speak and people began to notice him. “You see?” said the Moroccans. “Even the army is beginning to question!”

  ‘And the townspeople, the interests, the big interests, yes? became angry. What are you doing? they said. Whose side are you on? He’s stirring up trouble. He’s making things worse.

  ‘Our Commandant didn’t know what to do. He told Marcel to shut up. But Marcel said it was a matter of principle and that he wouldn’t shut up. In that case, said the Commandant, you’d better resign. Very well, then, said Marcel. I will resign. And he did.

  ‘But then he still didn’t shut up. He went on protesting.

  “You’ve got to do something about this!” the townspeople said. “What can I do?” said the Commandant. “He’s not in the army now.” “That’s not stopping you doing things to everyone else,” they said. “Get rid of him!” And in the end he had to. We hustled him away. Locked him up. It was the sort of thing you could do then. No one was asking any questions. Certainly not in Casablanca. And not in Tangier, either.

  ‘Well, we afterwards lost touch. The regiment was posted. And then we heard that he had died. Well, of course, I wrote to Marie. But we were a long way away. I did wonder how they were getting on, but . . .

  ‘Then, one day, we were posted back to Tangier, and I went to see them. And what I found made me go straight to the General. “General,” I said, “we’ve got to do something! He was a good man, a good officer, too. And one of us. We can’t just leave them. And there’s his daughter, too. Damn it, she’s half French. You can’t just leave her in this sort of state.” I told the others, too, and in the mess things got quite heated. They sent a deputation in support of me. “You’ve got to do something,” they told the General. And, to be fair, he did.

  ‘But, you know, when things happen like what happened just now, I wonder if we got it right. But perhaps you can never get these things right . . .'

  ‘My thoughts,’ confessed Mustapha, behind him, ‘are not always godly.'

  ‘No?'

  ‘Sometimes I think about food.'

  ‘Well, Mustapha, that is understandable. Especially at Ramadan time.'

  ‘Ramadan will soon be over, God be praised. No, I don’t mean that! I mean, Ramadan will soon be over.'

  ‘That is so, Mustapha. And then we will be able to return to ungodly things.'

  ‘That will be needful, Idris. For by then the money will have run out.'

  Mustapha was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘Idris?’

  ‘Yes, Mustapha?'

  ‘Do you think God sees into the heart?'

  ‘He does, Mustapha.'

  ‘He will know, then, that instead of thinking holy thoughts, I think about food?'

  ‘I am afraid so, Mustapha.'

  ‘And that I said I was looking forward to the end of Ramadan?'

  ‘God knows everything.'

  ‘It’s a bad lookout, Idris.'

  Idris, too, was silent for a moment, reflecting.

  ‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘there are things that will count for you. You have, after all, been observing Ramadan, and that surely must count for something.'

  ‘Well, that is true, Idris,’ said Mustapha, relieved.

  ‘And then, since our friend arrived and we have been looking after him, we have not actually been doing things that we ought not to have been doing.'

  ‘That also is true, Idris. And it is bound to come on the credit side.'

  ‘The credit side may even outweigh the debit side by now.'

  ‘God be praised!’ said Mustapha, relieved.

  ‘Besides, God sees all and knows all. He knows that we are frail.'

  ‘Bound to,’ agreed Mustapha.

  ‘And makes allowances.'

  ‘God be praised!'

  Silence.

  ‘Idris?'

  ‘Yes, Mustapha?'

  ‘He’s going to have to make a lot of allowance in my case.'

  When they got back to the hotel Seymour assured Mustapha and Idris that he could now safely be left to his own devices.

  ‘That’s what you think,’ said Mustapha.

  ‘Look, I’ll be all right. I’m used to handling things on my own. In England –’

  ‘Ah, in England!’ said Mustapha sceptically.

  ‘I am a policeman, after all!'

  Mustapha said nothing, but exuded doubt.

  ‘Anyway, who is going to attack me? I won’t go anywhere daft, I promise you. And there isn’t anyone out looking for me.'

  ‘No?’ said Mustapha and Idris, together.

  ‘No. No one in Tangier has even heard of me.'

  Mustapha and Idris said nothing.

  ‘Well, have they?’ he demanded.

  ‘Not heard of you exactly,’ said Mustapha.

  ‘But seen you,’ said Idris. ‘And once seen, not forgotten. They’ll want to pay you back.'

  ‘Pay me back? But I haven’t done anything to be paid back for!'

  ‘No?'

  ‘Look, stop being so mysterious and tell me what this is all about. To the best of my knowledge I’ve not offended anybody since I arrived in Tangier!'

  ‘Just think,’ said Idris.

  ‘The first night,’ said Mustapha.

  ‘The first night?’ said Seymour. ‘Nothing happened the first night.'

  ‘Was helping me nothing?’ asked Mustapha.

  ‘Helping – you don’t mean that bunch could have it in for me?'

  ‘Things like that are not forgotten.'

  ‘That’s ridiculous!'

  ‘Maybe, but we’ll stick around. We know Ali Khadr and his boys.'

  In the end he half persuaded them. Mustapha went home to his evening meal while Idris nobly accompanied Seymour to his.

  H
e passed a little French restaurant and saw Monsieur L’Espinasse sitting inside at the window. He was dining alone and his face brightened when he saw Seymour.

  ‘No, no. Please. It will be a pleasure.'

  So Seymour, another single man, joined him at the table and benefited from the Secretary’s deep knowledge of the dishes.

  ‘Some say it is the sauce,’ said L’Espinasse, ‘and some say the care with which Vincent chooses the raw materials. It is all those things but as well he has a certain – touch. Yes? A flair. I have always found him very reliable.'

  From one reliable French topic to another, and soon they turned to a different French passion, la chasse. There was, said the Secretary, a natural affinity between the French and hunting. So it was not surprising how the new people took to it when they came out here. Of course, wild boars had been hunted in France since the Middle Ages and the pursuit was still practised in many parts of the country. But not quite like this: the mad (the word which suggested itself most readily to Seymour) chase on horseback armed only with a lance. And the boars, like the Moroccans, were wilder. But this, concluded the Secretary, gave only the more opportunity for the expression of French éelan.

  ‘Yes, indeed!’ said Seymour enthusiastically. It was wonderful to see the true French spirit carried across the sea in this way. And unfortunate that the Moroccans, with the exception of Sheikh Musa, did not appear to have taken it up with the zest of the French. But that was probably because they lacked that natural affinity the Secretary had spoken of.

  From what he had seen, however, there was no shortage of devotees in Tangier. He asked what sort of backgrounds they came from.

  ‘The members, you mean? Mostly settlers. People on the farms locally, although some come from quite a distance, fifty kilometres or more. The farms are all in the coastal strip. It’s not very deep, twenty kilometres at most, but, of course, it goes right along the coast. It includes what will be the Spanish Zone under the new treaty, and that is a source of worry to some of the settlers. I mean, they’re French, not Spanish. But will they still be eligible for the pig-sticking? That’s important because it gets them off the farm for a bit and they can forget for a while how much money they’re not making. I speak from experience. I’m a settler myself.

  ‘And then there are the soldiers, of course. There’s usually a big contingent of those. I would say they’re the keenest members. Goes with the job, I suppose. If you’re cavalry, and a lot of them are. And then, of course, they’ve the time to practise. Some of them are really rather good.’