He opened his eyes, blinked at the sunlight that burst through the slats and striped the room. "Good morning, darling," he moaned, though there was no one else in the bed.
He didn't know why he said it. Out of habit, he supposed. And sometimes there would be someone beside him—some primitive, well-built fellow named Mohammed or Mustapha who would think the greeting was for him. It wasn't; it was something he said only to himself. He'd slept, dreamed, awakened unscathed, and for that a sensuous "Good morning" was the very least that he deserved.
He deserved a lot more, evidently. "A good thrashing" that horrid little note had said. Who could have written the foul thing? Who could have had the nerve?
He rang for his coffee and pondered the problem. Why did the note bother him so? He'd been called worse things in his life—"snob," "poseur"—but "hypocrite," never! The charge simply wasn't true. Others might go to church to see and be seen, but he went only to worship God. It was lonely being pasha of the Mountain, with the whole town scheming to be invited to his house. It amused him to see them jump, but he was human too, and church was one place he could leave the burden of his pashadom outside. God, fortunately, was not fooled like everybody else. When he prayed, Peter Barclay was sincere. In fact, he thought, that may be the only time I am.
Then there was the business about his sleeping with the boys—something the Philistines always brought out. They hated the vice, for it resided also in them; they reproached him for it because they feared it in themselves. Well—he didn't care, didn't give a damn. He wasn't going to slink around like some poor old Oscar Wilde type. Not for him "the love that dares not speak its name."
In Tangier he could be anything he liked, pasha of the Mountain, king of Tangier queens. But he didn't flaunt it, stayed clear of people's sons, didn't mince or lisp or bitch. The boys he slept with, from the Moroccan working class, were simple lads with tantalizing skins. Street whores mostly—he liked them the best, the darker the better, though it pleased him to make Eton boys out of them if he could. Yes, he could lust after a European boy but resist taking him to bed. He much preferred Moroccan trash, and everybody knew that too.
What was it, then, that had hurt? How had he generated so much rage? He couldn't understand it, was mystified. He'd never meant anybody harm. Of course he'd hurt people. One couldn't live without doing that. If he snubbed someone, or dropped him because he was a bore, it was not to give deliberate injury but to simplify his life. People had no idea how difficult his position was. Everyone was after him; he had no time to suffer fools. The point was to stick to quality—people who were beautiful or rich. The author of the note had proved the point by showing he had no quality at all.
It didn't matter. Nothing people said ever did. He was Tangier—everyone knew that; as far as society went he was the top. Others might have more money—people like Patrick Wax with his palace and unlimited stocks of foie gras and champagne—but when word went out that Peter Barclay was giving a party everyone prayed that he'd be asked. His was still the best table, the best house in Tangier. And he didn't go after people—they all came running to him.
His coffee came, he drank it, then washed and dressed and shaved. He walked downstairs, past mirror after mirror, nibbling a croissant as he went. People said that Patrick Wax had more mirrors, but Wax had more wall space and his things were mostly fakes. Peter's mirrors were genuine antiques salvaged from his family's ducal home.
Power! Ha! He had so little really—if people only knew. In London he'd be nothing; the place was filled with cousins to dukes. But here in Tangier it was a different world. Here he could be—a king.
He'd come down, settled in, built up his garden, made his myth, and now some poor beggar who felt abused was trying to evoke God to frighten him out. He'd have none of it. Life was much too sweet. He had an evening free on the following Tuesday, and he'd give a little dinner to fill it up. A circle of his confidants and closest friends, and a few powerful personalities as well. An intimate sixteen, seated around his big table, to whom he'd hold forth with such a barbed wit that his aphorisms would be repeated for days, even to the amusement of the ones they hurt.
He went to his desk to consult his address book, but there were so many names it was a bore to keep them straight. Better to ring up Camilla Weltonwhist and get her views—she was probably frantic now, waiting for his call.
"Camilla, darling," he crooned. "You must drop everything and help me out. I'm giving a dinner next Tuesday—you're invited, of course, but I need you to help me with the list."
"Tuesday? Tuesday?" Camilla seemed stunned. "Maybe another night would be better, Peter. I think Françoise is giving a party then."
"Well, she didn't invite me, darling."
"Or me either, yet. But I know she called Percy and Vanessa. A couple of days ago at least."
"If it was a couple of days ago, darling, then we're not going to be asked."
"I suppose not. Do you think she's offended? What could we possibly have done?"
"I'm sure I don't know—we'll have to see about that. Meantime I'll ring up Percy and Vanessa. I guarantee they'll cancel and dine with us."
"It'll ruin her evening."
"Of course, darling. That's the point. If she's snubbing us, it'll be just what she deserves. And if she isn't—well, that'll be too bad too."
"She'll find others, I suppose—"
"The Manchesters? Wax?"
Camilla chuckled nastily, though nastiness was not her style. She behaved like a chameleon, altering her moods to blend with his. "You're sure you want to do this Tuesday?" she asked.
"I wouldn't change the date now, not for anything in the world. Come—let's make a list. I'm foggy this morning. You've got to help."
"You could have all the usuals, I suppose. And maybe try out someone new."
"Such as whom, Camilla dear?"
"Maybe Kelly. They say he's a decent chap."
"Kelly! You can't be serious! Face all scarred up, and so underbred. Really, Camilla, whatever goes through your mind?"
"Oh, you're right, Peter. Of course. Now let me think. What about the Lakes?"
"You mean Mr. Null and Mrs. Void?"
A pause then while Camilla collected her thoughts. She meant well, poor thing—he was sure of that—though at times she was awfully dense. She'd make an almost ideal companion, he thought, if she just wasn't so stout and didn't gobble up so many scallions at lunch.
"Hmmm," she said. "There's always Kranker."
"Ugh! Such a toad."
"Sven Lundgren?"
"You mean the dentist? He'll be staring around, looking at all our teeth."
"Well, there're the de Hoags, though I find Joop a nasty man."
"He's only got one ball, you know. Claude told me—in confidence, of course."
"One ball! Oh, dear! Can't they fish the other one out?"
"No, darling. Evidently they can't." He raised his eyebrows at her naïveté. Sometimes she could be intelligent, but this morning she was not. She'd had a husband once, but she still didn't understand how the male body worked.
"Well," he said, "if Joop is out of town, I could invite Claude and ask her to bring Tassigny. He's Joop's assistant, a terrific-looking boy. He and Claude are having an affair. I watched them playing tennis the other day."
"Hmmm, interesting. But you need some Moroccans too. What about the Governor? You haven't had him in donkeys' years."
"Yes. All right. But that means two tables. His wife doesn't speak any French."
"There's Salah—"
"Good idea! I can put him with Madame Governor and Rachid El Fassi on her right. That way she's covered—she can speak Moroccan, or Hindi if she likes, and I can still use the big table the way I planned. Brilliant, darling. And Salah's such a dear. He gets my things through customs all the time. Now stop—let's take a count. There's you and me, Percy and Vanessa. I'll ask Lester too, plus the Governor, his madame, Rachid, his wife, and Salah make ten. Then there's Claude (if Joop is away), Tassigny, and maybe the Whittles. That's fourteen with six women and eight men. Not bad for Tangier. But we still have to even things up."
They talked on until they'd sketched out the party, balancing the sexes, ending with his maximum, sixteen. It was a wearisome process, and when they finished Peter set down the phone with relief.
He was fifty years old and beginning to feel his age. His hair was iron gray, he walked with a cane. The world was changing too, and he knew his power couldn't last. Nobodies with money had gotten the upper hand every place else, and now he could see the trend beginning in Tangier. It was still the last outpost of a certain style of life, but it was changing, with people like Wax and Henderson Perry, with his millions, challenging the order of aristocratic power.
If only he were Lord Barclay—that would indicate his station to all concerned. He considered listing himself that way in the next edition of the Tangier telephone book, but knew someone would tip off the London papers, and then everyone would make a stink. He shrugged. Titles were amusing. As far as Tangier went he might as well be a duke. He had, he thought, as much right as anyone else: Lord Pitt was only a life peer, and Françoise called herself "Countess" though the French monarchy had been dead a hundred years. Anyway, lord or not, he could still make the others jump. He would stop Vanessa Bolton and Percy Bainbridge from going to Françoise de Lauzon's.
Vanessa turned out to be difficult, refused to alter her plans. He was annoyed, put a little X beside her name—it would be a long time before he'd ask her again.
"What's kept you?" he demanded when he called up Percy and had to wait for him to be summoned to the phone.
"Matter of fact, Peter, I was in the garage finishing up the prototype of my new papoose."
"Papoose! What will you think of next? Never mind—don't tell me now; we can discuss it at dinner Tuesday night."
A pause then while Percy considered his dilemma: How was he going to extricate himself from his acceptance to dine with Françoise? Peter waited, delighted by the situation—the old inventor was too cowardly to refuse an English peer. Percy's inventiveness, of course, was nothing but a joke. The Australian had written a little book about his discoveries—ways to make soybeans taste like turkey, and lampshades out of old gloves. Poor Percy—he persisted, though his magnetic broom for ironmongers had failed to catch on, and after ten years of development his grapefruit juicer still ran too hot.
"Tuesday would be perfect, Peter. Just had to check my book."
A lie, of course, but touching in a way. Peter, relishing his power, decided to make Percy crawl. "You know, Percy, I've been thinking about you, and I've decided there's something in the house you simply have to change. That ghastly watercolor, the one hanging in the hall—it's time to stash it in the attic for good."
"Hmmm. Do you really think so? I never actually thought of that."
"Well do, dear, do. It'll give the hall a cleaner look. Do it this afternoon—you'll see instantly that I'm right."
Percy promised to give it thought, and Peter smiled as he rang off. The watercolor was one of Percy's best things—Peter would be pleased to own it himself. But it was always necessary to make these little tests, check around and see who still obeyed. If Percy did take the picture down, then that meant things hadn't changed: he was still pasha of the Mountain and the peasants still ran to kiss his feet.
"Oh, dear," he said suddenly, looking up at himself in a gilded mirror. "Peter Barclay: you are a nasty pouf!"
The phone rang just as he was staring at himself. It was Vicar Wick, calling about the note.
"I've spoken to Consul General Whittle," he said in his nervous voice. "As the police here refuse to help, we're going to send the note up to Scotland Yard. Not for fingerprints, mind you—they're probably all smudged out. Handwriting analysis—that's the thing. We'll catch the culprit yet."
"Yes," said Peter, somewhat dazzled by the thought. "Sounds perfectly reasonable to me."
"We've thought of everything, Whittle and I, and we've come up with a jolly good plan. At the Consulate they've got a file of old Christmas notes and B&Bs. We'll send the whole batch up to London too, so that hopefully they'll match some writings up."
"Good thinking, Vicar, I must say."
"Thank you. I thought so myself. Also, with your permission I want to bring in Colonel Brown. He's an avid reader of detective novels and would make an excellent sleuth. Plan is for him to give a series of luncheons, invite all the suspects, and try to smoke them out. Watch the eyelashes and all that. I think it's worth a try. Meanwhile next Sunday I shall preach a sermon that'll get our man where he hurts. Just look around church for a pair of burning ears—we may trap him right there."
It all sounded excellent, the Vicar's three-pronged plan, and set Peter to pondering the punishment he'd exact. Ostracism was one possibility. Let everyone know the anonymous author's name, then put him in Coventry until he was driven from Tangier. But the more he thought about it, the more he preferred the opposite course: seduce the villain by sweetness, treat him like his closest friend, and then, when he'd done that, confide how much the note had hurt. He'd offer his fair cheek to those sickening underbred lips, and then, he thought, we shall truly see just what the word "two-faced" means.
He laughed at the thought, then dismissed it from his mind. While the Vicar, the Colonel, and Scotland Yard worked to break the case, he'd forget about the note and have some fun. If his days as pasha were numbered, he'd do well to enjoy his power now. Eventually, some way, he'd find his enemy out and crush him like a fly.
He wandered into his garden, along its many paths, stroking his day lilies as he walked. The garden was nearly as he wanted it, after a quarter century of work, but still there were problems with the view. There was something wrong there that disturbed him more and more. And as much as he tried, he didn't know how to set it right.
It was Dradeb that bothered him—that damnable, horrid slum. It lay between the Mountain and the city and ruined the whole effect. It wasn't that Dradeb looked so terrible from the Mountain—from high up it appeared as a white cubistic maze. It was just knowing that it was there, knowing what it was and how it reeked, that spoiled his paradise.
But what to do? It would be splendid if he could just wave a wand and make it all go away. Or if, by some magic in the night, it could become transformed into a valley full of Moroccan shepherds playing flutes. That would be marvelous, and then the filthy Jew's River could become a babbling stream. Or else, he thought, curling his lip, those damn people down there could be taught to devour their young.
But then, suddenly, there came to him a solution, and he wanted to kick himself for not having thought of it before. All he needed were a few fast-growing eucalyptus. Then, in a couple of years, he could screen the Dradeb out.
He became excited and entered the garden again. He walked to the edge of his property, then sadly shook his head. There wasn't enough room, and his shrubs would be ruined by the eucalyptus' invasive roots. But the property just below his, vacant Moroccan-owned land, would make a perfect place for such a grove. He could plant down there and, when the trees reached the proper height, pollard their tops and create a verdant wall.
The problem was to get hold of that land. He couldn't afford to buy it himself. Perhaps Camilla would help—she had old Weltonwhist's fortune and could certainly spare some pounds. Yes—she might do it; it would be a good investment for her too. She'd probably jump at the chance if he handled her right. Yes, that was it, he'd get Camilla to buy the land, then plant the trees and abolish the excrescence from his sight.
He began to dream of how he'd make the Mountain reach Tangier, of the view he'd have: foliage, the city, and the sea.