Two-thirds of the way through Ramadan the foreign community of Tangier became possessed. The social madness, the effort to transform a disastrous summer into a glittering fête, reached a peak when five parties of varying elegance and size were scheduled for a single August night.
Everyone's appetite had been whetted, prior to that sweltering evening, by the presence in Tangier harbor of Henderson Perry's enormous yacht. That magnificent boat, The Houston Gusher, anchored in plain sight, seemed to advertise the festivities to come.
Those fortunate enough to be invited to Perry's "Castlemaine" would have a chance to devour his Beluga caviar and God only knew how many bottles of his fine champagne. The American Ambassador and half the Moroccan royal family were coming up from Rabat. There was even a rumor (incorrect, as it turned out) that the Shah of Iran would secretly fly in.
In the event that one were not invited to Perry's, the situation was still not bleak. Countess de Lauzon was throwing a rival affair—"an evening of fantasy," she said—at which her guests, the sons of Sodom and the daughters of Gomorrah, were encouraged to appear in outrageous dress.
Then there were the Manchesters, who'd invited their friends to "drink the dregs" on the eve of their departure for Fort Lauderdale. Willard and Katie weren't aware of the other parties when they sent their invitations out, and later, on account of pride, they couldn't change the date. It didn't matter anyway, according to Robin Scott, since their circle barely touched the higher orbits. Peter Zvegintzov, Dan Lake, the Foster Knowles', and the Clive Whittles had accepted, the Fufus were probables, and the Ashton Codds had promised to "try."
The gathering of Tangier Players club members at Jill and David Packwood's Shepherd's Pie was the lowest of the parties in social terms, but held the promise of high drama nonetheless. The Packwoods' little restaurant on the beach would be closed to tourists for the night. Once a nasty bit of TP business was concluded, there would be a beer-and-sausages party to celebrate the end of Laurence Luscombe's reign.
Finally there was a soirée at Jimmy Sohario's, "a party to unwind from parties," as it was billed. Everyone was invited: duchesses, diplomats, hustlers off the streets. The idea was to slip away from the Manchesters', the Packwoods', Henderson Perry's, or Françoise de Lauzon's just after midnight when things were cooling down, then hurry over to Jimmy's "Excalibur," where the revelries would last till dawn.
Tangier was ready, poised for all of this, when the unexpected news of Vicar Wick's suicide broke like a summer storm. A cloud of confusion hung above the Mountain. Lightning bolts of sorrow pierced British breasts.
But then, as the contents of the Vicar's diaries became known, the shock and grief began to lift. The sorrowful image of him dangling from a rafter in the nave of St. Thomas in a noose of his own contriving, gave way to a sense, generally shared, that the old boy had got what he deserved.
Word of his scandalous diaries traveled fast. His expressions of hatred, his detestation of his loyal flock, were greeted with stunned outrage. He held them all responsible, it seemed, for the evils that had descended upon the church: the anonymous notes, the pierced sheep's eye, even the hacking of the altar crucifix. People were prepared to forgive the curse of madness, to say "There but for the grace of God go I," but the Vicar's accusations against them, his hatred so monstrously misplaced, eroded any sympathy they might have felt.
Lester Brown certainly felt that way. "My God," he said, wiping the sweat from his gleaming pate, "how that awful man led me on. He had me spying on people, making lists of suspects whom he knew were innocent all the time. Kept talking about the future of St. Thomas, the hypocrite, as if he ever really gave a good goddamn."
Lester might have had good cause to feel betrayed, but there were others who, though less intimately involved, expressed great fury too. How can this be? they asked, bitter and confused. How could this man whom we honored, made curator of our faith, have stabbed us so cruelly in the back? Other, less pretty phrases were bandied about the Mountain. "A kick in the ass," said Percy Bainbridge. "A knee to the balls," said Patrick Wax. The furor, which raged like a tornado, brought many Englishmen to tears, not in memory of their late vicar, to be sure, but for what his actions told them about themselves.
The Mountain recovered after a while, making a conscious effort to dismiss the matter from its collective mind. "We're not accountable," Peter Barclay told his friends, "not accountable in any way. Besides, we must try to occupy ourselves. The parties, for instance—it'll do us good to let off steam. In the autumn there'll be plenty of time to find someone new to lead the church."
So the storm passed, nearly as quickly as it had come. Spiritually regrouped, the Europeans marched on with their lives. There was much to think about those torrid August days; Tangier was restless, and a night of five parties loomed.
Hamid longed for an air conditioner, anything to relieve the heat. The churning fan that hung from the ceiling of his office made a sirocco of the stifling air. There was a water cooler out in the corridor and a machine that dispensed paper cups. He brushed by it many times each day. He hated it. It mocked his thirst.
Such a clutter on his desk, such a jumble of cases he could never solve. He hurt from Ramadan, suffered from the fast. One was not supposed even to swallow one's own saliva, or insult Allah by smoking a cigarette. It was mad, he knew, to abide by these rigid rules, especially since he did not think of himself as a particularly religious man. The President of Tunisia had told his people that the Koranic laws no longer applied, but Morocco was different, a theocratic state. The pressure to conform was enormous. Only combat battalions were exempt.
Truly, he thought, it had been an awful summer, miserably hot, filled with crimes. Then there'd been the suicide, less astounding as an isolated act than for the hatred and bitterness it aroused. The original note addressed to Barclay, which had triggered the Vicar's loss of faith, had never harmed its intended target, and its author, whoever he was, was still unpunished and unknown. But the Vicar, who'd taken on the burden of that author's guilt, was now despised in death.
Ah, he thought, the infinite complexities of the foreigners, the inscrutable workings of their minds. But really the whole business bored him now—the Mountain seemed alien in the face of the agonies of the fast.
Still there were things to do, distractions from his thirst. He'd just received orders to put aside his outstanding cases. Members of the royal family were due in Tangier at eight o'clock, and their security had to be arranged. Aziz had made up a special duty roster and was out now fetching a map of the Mountain Road. Soon the two of them would sit down, mark it up, decide where to post the men. The problem, as always, would be to protect the corridor through Dradeb.
Laurence Luscombe made his way down Rue Marco Polo, tilting back his body as he walked. The narrow little street was steep and treacherous; he was careful not to trip. The bright lights of Avenue d'Espagne lay ahead. It wasn't night yet, but it was Ramadan and someone had forgotten to turn them off.
He whistled "Mad Dogs and Englishmen" to keep his courage up. Across the tracks, lining the beach, were the little bathing clubs, the bars and restaurants, and the Shepherd's Pie. It was a few minutes past seven. The others, he knew, were already there. They were prompt at least—that was one thing he could say. God knew he'd trained them long enough, taught them how important it was to be on stage on time.
It was a deliberate choice on his part to show up five minutes late. He'd planned things, practiced his speech before his mirror, refined every gesture, timed each gulp and pause. He was going to give a performance tonight, perhaps the greatest of his career. He was confident, well rehearsed, but a little nervous too. There was, as always, the dread of rejection, the thought that the audience might hiss or boo.
Ah—there was Derik Law's little Humber by the curb, the Calloways' cream-colored Buick, Joe Kelly's Renault 16. Yes, they were there all right, probably wondering where he was. The Drears, and Jack Whyte, Jill and David Packwood, of course. Well—let them wait a minute longer. Let them just simmer in there. Let them stew.
He started to cross Avenue d'Espagne but leaped back to avoid a bus. Lord, it was terrible the way these famished Moroccans drove. They aimed right at you, as if they wanted to run you down. Well, maybe they did, he thought.
He walked a few more paces down the sidewalk, then attempted to cross again. This time he made it, over to the railroad side. He crossed the tracks, stepped onto the beach, trudged his way across the sand to the door of the Shepherd's Pie.
What a dump it was, the Packwoods' place. "English Spoken Here" a big sign said. There was another one below: "Private Party. Closed Tonight." He recognized David Packwood's sloppy lettering, the same dribbling style he used on TP sets. It was a dump. Imagine calling a restaurant the Shepherd's Pie. So coarse. So non-U. It could be worse, he thought. They could have called it the Fish and Chips.
What could one expect anyway? The Packwoods were trash, like the Drears and the Calloways. They had their little summer business, their little bar and restaurant on the beach. Four thousand, five thousand quid—they claimed they cleared that much catering to Cockney British tourists, the aftershave perfumed set, the Piccadilly queers. Well, they made a living at it, enough to see them through the winter months, though Jill always looked a fright when the summer was over—David kept her cooped up in that closet of a kitchen turning out those disgusting greasy pies.
He checked his watch. Too late to turn back now. He made his way to the door, paused a moment, screwed up his courage, pushed it open, and stepped inside.
There they were, the lot of them, looking at him just the way he knew they would. Guilt! Shame! It was written all over them. The shame of it, to call a meeting when they knew perfectly well his supporters couldn't come. Well, let them stare, damn them. It didn't make any difference now. He took them in, one by one, met each set of eyes straight on. They lowered theirs, of course—except for Kelly. That scarred-up little bastard had no shame.
To hell with them! To hell with Kelly too! They'd beaten him; the game was over now. Derik would have stood by him if he'd decided to fight it out. Barclay had said the Vicar would too, but then the Vicar had killed himself.
"Evening," he said in a gentle, fatherly voice which had nothing to do with the way he felt. "Sorry to be late. Don't want to delay the routine. Sunset years, you know. Can hardly keep up with you youngsters anymore."
He smiled then, as broad and charming as he could. They were staring at him quite curiously now. They'd been expecting something else. He knew what that was: a broken man, whining, pathetic, enraged. They'd come for blood, to see the old bull slain. Torment him, kill him, haul him away. Well, he'd not give them the pleasure of seeing that; he'd give them a lesson in class.
"Listen," he said, stepping to the center of the room, using the space between the tables as if it were a stage, "there're a few words I want to say before we get on with business." They were all ears then, craned forward in their seats. He smiled at them kindly and looked around again. His timing had been good—he'd thrown them off their guard.
"I was seventy-five this year, you know." A little grin then, just as he'd rehearsed. "There comes a time when a man has to face the fact that he's, well, past his prime. Then it's time to step aside, for someone younger, with a steadier hand. I've been giving that a lot of thought of late, and I've decided it's time now to retire."
He heard a murmur, looked around, saw that Jessica Drear had raised her brows.
"I know this comes unexpectedly. We're meeting here to decide about next year's plays. But I thought I owed it to you to say this first, so that the new man, whoever he may be, will have a chance to put his stamp on the season that lies ahead. Now I don't want to be sentimental, lay on the syrup and all that. I just want to say how much I love you and how much working with you these last years has meant. Jill and David. Rick and Anne. Derik. Jack. Jessica and Jessamyn. Joe. We've failed at times—all of us have made mistakes. But, by Jove, we've tried, tried hard to put on good plays. They can't take that away from us. No one can. So—I just want to thank you for your loyalty to me, and for just being the great people that you are."
He paused, choked with rehearsed emotion, looked around, sensed his speech was having its effect. That line about loyalty—that had hit them where they hurt. He could feel them softening, knew he had them won—an actor's power, and he savored it a while before he continued on.
"Finally, a personal note. It isn't easy for an old actor to leave the stage, make his final bow. For almost sixty years I've trooped the boards—that seems now a long, long time. They say old soldiers never die, that they just fade away. Old actors—well, I don't know what they say about them. But this old actor will always be there in the hall to clap for all of you.”
Another pause, this time a long one. He knew his final words must sound most deeply felt.
"We've had our quarrels. We've shouted and screamed. We've laughed a lot, and wept a little too. But that's the theater. That's what it's about. A clash of intellects. Temperaments aflame. Before I open our meeting to business—and the business tonight will be to select a new leader for our club—let me just quote a few lines from the Tempest, old Prospero's farewell. It says what's in my heart:
But this rough magic
I here abjure; and when I have required
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.
He sat down then, to their utterly stupefied silence. All of them were pulsing with sentiment—except for Kelly, who glared at him and scowled. Luscombe couldn't blame him; his evening had been stolen by design. But Jill Packwood was weeping, and she was hard as nails. Jack Whyte's eyes were glistening. Jessica Drear held her face in sweating palms.
Derik Law stood up then, just as the two of them had planned. He began the song, and of course the others followed, eyes upon him, big and red, weeping and smiling and nodding all at the same time:
For he's a jolly good fellow!
For he's a jolly good fellow!
For he's a jolly good fellow!
That nobody can deny!
Lake had been circulating at the Manchesters' for an hour, waiting for Z to show up.
"Oh, he'll come. He promised," said Willard, snapping the shutter of his Instamatic, filling the room with a blinding flash.
"He'll be here eventually, Dan," Katie said. "Now go try some of my tuna spread."
Her tuna spread! It was sickening, tasted as though it were made of fur. The whole damn party was an outrage. Lake couldn't believe he was really there. He'd come only because Z was supposed to come, and he had to confront the Russian face to face. Otherwise he would have stayed home. It was a humiliation to be at the Manchesters' while the Ambassador was up at Henderson Perry's, mixing with the royals and tout Tanger.
The Manchesters! Christ! They'd invited him to "drink the dregs"! They'd served up the dregs, all right—Spanish "scotch," Argentine "vodka," all those undrinkable blended whiskeys they'd gotten for Christmas through the years. The potato chips were soggy. The canapés were a disgrace. The hall was filled with packing cases. The servants were sullen, worried about their tips.
"Great to meet you," he heard Willard say to a bunch of newcomers to Tangier. "Come visit us in Florida. We're moving there, you know." This was supposed to be a going-away party for the Manchesters' closest friends, but those friends were out on the terrace, talking among themselves, while the Manchesters stood alone in the living room saying tearful farewells to people they didn't know, snapping their pictures, even inviting them to visit them in the States.
It was insane. Madness. And still Z hadn't come. Lake was worried about that, that ever since he'd shown him the code machine the Russian had avoided seeing him alone. When he came into the shop Peter behaved as if nothing had happened, as if they'd never had that conversation in his office the Sunday past. Lake couldn't figure it out. He thought everything had been arranged. Z had as much as said he'd be willing to defect. What the hell had happened? Tonight he was going to find out.
The Manchesters were such boobs. How could he ever have thought of them as friends? They'd brought out every bit of junk they didn't want as offerings to their guests. There was a pile of stuff on the dining room table which Katie kept loading into people's arms. Wrinkled old maps of Morocco from the glove compartment of their car. A swollen can without a label (botulism for sure, he thought). A bottle of home-pickled watermelon rinds. Coat hangers and bent curtain rods. A fondue pot with an enormous crack. They must be nuts, he thought, trying to flog off stuff like that. Why didn't they just heave it in the trash? As it was they'd tried to sell everything they didn't want: potted plants, an ironing board, some inner tubes, a rusted lawn mower. But this other stuff—they had to be kidding, though there was Katie trying to stick Rick Calloway with a dozen lifeless tennis balls.
He stared around the room for a while, then tried to attract the attention of Jackie Knowles. But she and Foster were snuggling in the dining room like a couple of dodo birds in heat. Ever since Foster had come back from the north, all the gas seemed to have gone out of their affair. Why? He still wasn't sure, except that Foster had returned weathered and tanned, sporting a little Vandyke beard. It made him look all the more ridiculous, what with his blond hair curling down his neck. But that little beard seemed to be working wonders on Jackie. She called it "neat," said it felt good when Foster gave her head.
That was enough for Lake. He wasn't about to share Jackie with her husband or be satisfied with sloppy seconds. If the Knowles' had solved their sexual problems, that was fine with him. He and Jackie had had their fling. He told her to cool it for a while.
Suddenly he turned around—there was something buzzing in his ear. It was Anne Calloway talking away. Evidently she'd been speaking to him for quite a time.
"—There we were," she said, "sitting there at the Shepherd's Pie, all set to give Larry the old heave-ho from the club. You won't believe what happened an hour or so ago. God almighty, what a scene!"
"What did happen, Anne?" he asked, watching the door in case Zvegintzov came in.
"Like I said, Dan, we were waiting there when Larry showed up and flat resigned. Gave a brilliant farewell speech too. Broke us up, I'll tell you. Absolutely broke our hearts. Anyway, next thing you know we've all forgotten we called the meeting to bounce him out. Reelected him president of TP for life. Then created a new job, managing director, so Kelly wouldn't feel put down. You should have seen Kelly's face! He was furious. Stormed right out. But what could we do? Couldn't throw out Larry after all he'd said. They're still down there, the rest of them, eating sausage and guzzling beer—"
Anne Calloway was still chattering, though he'd nearly turned his back. He could see Fufu out on the terrace, spittle shooting from his mouth, holding forth on his favorite scenario, the one that ended with South Africa in a sheet of flames.
"Things are smelling bad here, Dan." It was Willard who'd sidled up. "We've loved Tangier, really have. We've had some terrific years. But now we're glad to be getting out. Whole country's rotten to the core."
Jesus Christ!
Lake couldn't believe his eyes. Old Ashton Codd was swiping the hors d'oeuvres, stuffing a great batch of those foul tuna canapés into his pockets, then looking around to be sure he wasn't seen. Lake turned away, sick to his stomach. It was horrible, just imagining all that furry tunafish sticking to the insides of Ashton's pants. What a nuthouse! Baldeschi was feeling up the new secretary at the British Consulate. Philippa Whittle, making her first appearance since she'd been attacked, glared around with the crisp and wary look of a woman who'd suffered an awful fright.
Z! Where was the little bastard anyway? Pinning him down was like trying to nail a glob of jello to the floor. Ah there he was, the Commie punk. He'd finally shown up, was standing by the door. Now was the time to move in, trap him against the wall.
"Who you supposed to be, lad?" asked Patrick Wax, crossing the crowded salon at Françoise de Lauzon's. He looked sharply at Robin, up and down.
"Robin Hood, of course," Robin replied. "Who the hell did you think?"
"Yes," said Wax, stepping back a pace, squinting at Robin again. "I see that now. You're all dressed in green. I presume that silly little stick is supposed to be your bow. Well, Robin, very nice indeed. Just think of the rest of us as your very merry men." He laughed, then smacked Robin on the back. "Good try, lad. We're all aware of your impecunious state. Françoise will forgive you. At least I think she will."
Wax crossed the room to embrace someone else. He'd come as "Jack and the Beanstalk," dressed as a swishy yokel, carrying a huge green phallus in his hand.
Robin didn't know if Françoise would forgive him, and he didn't give a good goddamn. He'd done the best he could with his costume, taking a metaphorical approach. He'd improvised a hood out of an old scarf he'd found beneath his bed, then scratched up a bent piece of driftwood from the beach and strung it with a bit of string.
He loathed costume parties, refused to take them seriously. It was particularly awful, he felt, to be at Françoise's "fantasy evening" tonight. Nothing was worse than to be at the second best. Far better, he thought, to be at the bottom, at the Manchesters' thing, or with the TP scum at the Shepherd's Pie. He knew that Henderson Perry's party would almost certainly be a bore, but to be seen tonight at Françoise de Lauzon's was to have it proclaimed that one hadn't made the grade.
Still there were a lot of people there, seventy or eighty at least. The room was a sea of costumes, and there were people skinny-dipping in the pool. Robin pulled out a wad of paper and began to jot down notes. He'd get back at Perry when he wrote his column—he'd stretch the truth, make Françoise's party sound like better fun.
Florence Beaumont, he noted, made a nice Cinderella; Inigo was her Prince Charming in tow. Percy Bainbridge played an aging Mary Poppins. (Barclay had helped him with the nanny's outfit, Percy'd claimed.) Darryl Kranker was a lisping Sinbad the Sailor, and Hervé Beaumont looked cute as the Lone Ranger, with a couple of silver-painted water pistols and an effeminate horn-rimmed mask.
Some people were so elaborately made up that Robin had difficulty discovering who they were. Heidi Steigmüller, the proprietress of Heidi's Bar, wore a rubber mask modeled on the features of Charles De Gaulle. Countess de Lauzon, the quintessential faghag, was Count Dracula, her appearance rivaling Bela Lugosi, while Inge Frey had come as Little Red Riding Hood and Kurt Frey as the Big Bad Wolf. There was, Robin realized, an air of savagery in the room, and all sorts of wicked things going on around the pool. Everyone knew the better party was up at "Castlemaine," but they were all trying to ignore that fact.
Patrick Wax, he thought, put it best when, at one point during the evening, he came up and shook his head. "For a bash like this," he said to Robin, "it's even too much trouble to bathe."
Monsieur de Hoag was driving. Claude, very quiet, sat in the back of the Mercedes with General Bresson. Jean Tassigny, beside Monsieur de Hoag, peered ahead into the night. He watched the Mountain Road narrow and steepen as they climbed through darkness toward the crest.
They were stopped at one point by security police, who swept the car with flashlights, then politely waved them on. Jean turned to look at Claude as the beam passed across her face. She sat still, like a sculpture, staring straight ahead, as cold and pale as marble, he thought, except for her turquoise eyes and the diamond necklace that glowed against her throat.
A little later he looked back again, saw the lights of Tangier glittering far below. Then they were stopped at great iron gates. They gave their names and were waved through to the grounds. They followed a road that ran parallel to the cliffs, past terraces, gardens, pools cut into rock. Finally the road curved and "Castlemaine" came into sight. Jean gasped as they approached it, a huge Moorish palace lit from within by thousands of flickering candles, its great tower looming in the night.
In the front hall they were searched by royal bodyguards, patted lightly through their clothes. Jean thought this frisking was performed with skill, but General Bresson was indignant all the same. "I don't know why they're afraid of us," he muttered. "We don't want to kill them. We're not Moroccan, after all."
They were escorted into a huge reception room where scores of people milled about. Jean recognized the American Ambassador right away; the man had once run for vice-president of the United States.
The Hawkins' were there—the last time Jean had seen them they'd been posing nude for the erotic double portrait by Inigo. Pierre St. Carlton, in a gray velvet suit, chatted with Vanessa Bolton against a wall. Jean was introduced to a number of Brazilians, a grandee of Spain, some confident businessmen from Iran. There was a famous Greek actress who wore fabulous jewels, and an Italian leading man invited up from Marrakech, where an historical film was being shot. Omar Salah came up to them, kissed Claude's hand. Then he put his arm across the shoulders of Monsieur de Hoag and guided him away.
They were waiting, Jean understood, for members of the Moroccan royal family, off somewhere with Henderson Perry in another part of the house. Jean brushed close to Claude, tried clandestinely to take her hand. She showed her annoyance by turning away: she was like that sometimes, ready one minute to risk exposure, furious the next because he'd dared to look at her and smile. He shrugged and started toward the Hawkins', passing near Peter Barclay and Camilla Weltonwhist on his way.
"The trouble with Henderson," he overheard Barclay explain, "is that he has no taste at all. Look at these third-rate paintings. He lives like a very rich dentist, don't you think?"
Jean nodded to himself. The interior of "Castlemaine" was disappointing, especially after the fabulous entrance through the grounds. The walls were covered with dark pictures in heavy frames. There were a few Moroccan antiques, candelabra from Farid Quazzani's shop, but most of the furniture was contemporary and expensive, the sort one might find in the waiting room of a society physician on Boulevard Malesherbes.
Jean tried to talk to the Hawkins', who were uncommunicative and wrapped up in themselves. When he looked back at Claude, he saw her speaking with Salah. The chief of customs was making forceful gestures with his hands. Claude, he was happy to see, was staring back at him unimpressed.
Vanessa Bolton caught his eye, motioned him to her side. "We must stick together," she said, kissing both his cheeks. "We're the only young people except the Hawkins', who of course are stoned."
She brought him into her conversation with St. Carlton. The couturier was holding forth on the phenomenon of American millionaires. "Perry's from Texas," he said, "the only place in the world besides Tangier where people still think titles count. The man's phenomenal. Absolutely ruthless and filthy rich. You've seen the yacht, of course."
"Speaking of toys," said Vanessa.
"Yes, my dear." St. Carlton raised his eyebrows. "All the talk is true. Perry adores them. There's a room here someplace filled with electric trains. And perpetual motion machines—my God! There're all sorts of them around the halls."
"We must look around later, Jean," Vanessa said. "There're such lovely gadgets—"
"Yes," said St. Carlton. "And then there's his cryonics stuff."
"Cryonics?"
"Oh, yes, my dears. He's got equipment that accompanies him everywhere—cylinders of liquid oxygen, a preservation box. If he contracts cancer or falls ill of an incurable disease, his people have been instructed to freeze him in a flash. The idea, you see, is that eventually medical science will find a cure. Then he can be defrosted and treated, even a hundred years from now. Mad? Maybe. The poor man wants to live forever. But who doesn't? Just tell me that."
St. Carlton paused, gazed across the room. "Look at that viper," he said, pointing toward Barclay. Then suddenly he brought his hand up to his mouth. "Oh, dear—here they come, I think. We must all remember to curtsy and bow. I always get goose pimples around royalty. Then, damn it, I forget—"
Henderson Perry, a neat little man, led the six Moroccan royals into the room. There was something impersonal about his style, more of the tycoon giving foreign dignitaries a tour of a factory than of a man hosting a party in his house.
There was a hush as they appeared. All the guests fell back. Perry led the royals to the center of the room, then introduced them one by one.
There were three princesses, sisters of the King; two princes, brothers; and the adolescent Prince Heritier, which explained the elaborate security around the house. Jean found them a curiously unimpressive group, rather short, darker than most Moroccans he knew, slightly awkward, he thought, with quite ordinary Moroccan features, the sort he'd expect to see in the Socco on a market day.
He watched as they moved about, greeting Perry's dazzled guests. When they reached the de Hoags he was moved by the sight of Claude bowing with elegance, never lowering her turquoise eyes.
Now that's a real princess, he thought, suffused suddenly by waves of love. He wanted to go to her, take her hand, lead her away from this stuffy party out to Cap Spartel, where they could lie together on the sand and make love to the rhythm of the surf.
At dinner Perry, Barclay, the royals, the movie stars, and the Ambassador were seated at a big table on the terrace protected from the wind by a screen of glass. Jean sat with Vanessa Bolton, Pierre St. Carlton, and one of the Iranian wives. St. Carlton did most of the talking, gossiping away and complaining of the "sparseness" of Camilla Weltonwhist's bouquets.
Jean barely touched his food. He was too preoccupied with Claude. She was sitting with Salah, Lady Pitt, and Skiddy de Bayonne. He stole furtive glances at her all through dinner, but she never once returned his gaze.
After the meal the guests were led away for coffee to a huge room where musicians beat on drums. Soon belly-dancers appeared and began to roll their stomachs. There was nothing erotic about them, Jean thought, and he slid, after a while, into a state of soft malaise. He'd drunk too much champagne and now dreamed of Claude, all the things they'd done, the wonder of her eyes, the mystery of her smile.
He was in the midst of this when Vanessa Bolton grabbed his hand. "Now's our chance," she whispered. "Perry's about to take the royals on a tour."
Jean nodded, stood up. Together they edged their way outside. Perry was already in the hall explaining the principles of perpetual motion. Jean, glancing back just as they were leaving, saw Monsieur de Hoag, but not a trace of Claude.
The tour was delightful. Perry liked showing off, and the Moroccans, all connoisseurs of Western gadgetry, were most responsive to the charms of his machines. They looked in at his kitchen and his communications center in the tower, full of transmitters and a telex by which he kept track of his business interests around the world.
Perry guided them into his room of electric trains, then sat down at a console and started them by remote control. Soon the Crown Prince was busy lowering barriers, flashing signals, while Perry explained that the network was "fail safe"— if a collision were imminent, the power automatically cut off.
A good thing, Jean thought, since the Prince seemed reckless. He pitied Morocco when this young man became the King.
The tour continued. They mounted stairs, wound through corridors, looked out at different views. When they came at last to Perry's personal suite, Vanessa excused herself, but a few minutes later she sneaked up behind Jean and whispered in his ear. "Pretend you have to pee," she said. "Then use the bathroom on the right."
Jean, obedient, did as he was told, and for his trouble was vastly entertained. There was a sunken tub in the middle of the bathroom floor with little piers built along its sides, and a great fleet of miniature boats floating there, neatly tied. There were tiny warships, toy yachts, meticulous reproductions of famous craft—a whole flotilla, perfect in every detail, all with wind-up motors to make them sail.
He laughed then, finally touched by Henderson Perry, his magic world, his secret vice. This legendary tycoon, reputed to be so ruthless, liked to play in his tub with tiny boats, like any toy-struck American boy.
When he left he found the others by a window. Perry was demonstrating a telescope. It was an infrared model, based on devices developed during the Vietnam war. One could see people in the dark with it, Perry explained: the human body gave off waves of heat.
Perry offered the scope to the Crown Prince, who stepped up to it and scanned the grounds. Jean and the others were standing behind him waiting their turns to look, when suddenly the Prince let out with a giggle and pulled at the gown of his youngest aunt.
She took hold of the instrument, gazed through it, then she too began to laugh. Soon all the royals were pushing and shoving. There was much chattering in Arabic and wild gesturing with hands.
Henderson Perry, a little confused, watched them with a smile. "I don't know what they see out there that's so damn funny," he said. "Whatever it is, it must be pretty good."
After a while, when the royals had tired of their game, Jean, who was nearest, stepped up to the telescope to look through it for himself. Being careful not to move the instrument, he brought his eye down slowly to the lens. He was bewildered at first—the infrared effect made things look strange. But a moment later he felt a rush of pain. It was Claude, he was sure, not inches from his eye, somewhere out there in the gardens of "Castlemaine," naked, he could see, and with a man. Jean stared, felt sick, then turned away. She was making love with the customs' chief, Omar Salah.
Lake knew he'd had it. Everything had backfired. He felt crazy, about to run amuck.
He was driving down the Mountain at a furious speed, like a kamikaze pilot daring death. His tires squealed as he took the curves. The American flag on his fender snapped crazily in the wind. His lights caught someone standing in the road, a policeman maybe—he wasn't sure. He stabbed about with his toe, searching for the high-beam switch. By mistake he activated the windshield wipers. He nearly hit the cop, swerved away just in time.
Better slow down, he thought, trying to turn the wipers off. At the bottom of the hill, just before the Jew's River bridge, he brought the car to a screeching halt, then lay his head against the wheel.
That noise!
The awful sound stopped as he jolted back. He'd been pressing his forehead against the horn.
If I just don't lose my head, then maybe things will be all right. But he knew they wouldn't, that there wasn't any way he could obliterate the past, not just the last fifteen minutes, but the whole time he'd been in Tangier, his whole damn sorrowful life. He leaned forward, peered out at the street. No one there; Dradeb was quiet. He turned, fastening his eyes on La Colombe.
That bastard! That stinking Russian bastard! That goddamn son of a bitch!
Feeling himself beginning to go mad again, he fought to regain control. He had to keep cool, not allow himself to crack. He had to figure out what to do.
Z had been blunt when he'd made his proposition a quarter of an hour before, out on the terrace at the Manchesters, with thirty people milling around, and that asshole Willard standing there, snapping pictures for his memory book.
Proposition! Ha! Blackmail was a better word. Zvegintzov said that if he heard another word about defection he'd tell the American Embassy about everything Lake had done. "Everything"—that was the word he'd used, drawing out the syllables in his obnoxious Slavic whine.
"Such as what?" Lake had asked, feeling an awful burning in his chest.
"Such as how you broke security," Z'd replied. "Such as how you invited me into the communications room at the Consulate, then offered to defect to me with an American code machine in hand."
"Don't be stupid, Peter. No one's going to believe that."
"They will," he said, "when they see my evidence, the photographs I took inside the vault."
Photographs! What photographs? His palms were sweating then. Zvegintzov pulled the little Minox out of his pocket, waved it around, nearly stuck it in his nose.
Christ! It could be true. Z could have done it without his noticing anything, without his even hearing the shutter click. He'd been so wrapped up in himself then, so flushed with feelings of power and success. Now the bastard was threatening him. Blackmail—it was nothing less.
"What do you want from me, Peter?" he'd asked. "How much money do you want?"
"I don't want money," Peter replied, "I just want you to leave me alone. Stop harassing me, Lake, and tell your people to lay off too. Or I'll give my pictures to the Russians and ruin your career."
That was it, the blow that had done him in. He went blind with fury, could have strangled the bastard then and there. But he hadn't—had been too scared. Instead he'd run out of the house, knocking a fondue pot out of Katie's arms. He'd heard it crash to smithereens just as he'd slammed the door, heard someone calling after him ("Dan, Dan"—it sounded like Jackie) as he'd started the car and begun the wild drive down toward Tangier.
Well, now he'd had it. He'd done so many stupid things, playing the spy, underrating Zvegintzov, vastly overrating himself, compromising his country besides. Impossible to let Z hold those photographs over his head, which left him, he realized, with little choice. The Ambassador was in town.
Lake knew what he had to do. He'd have to drive up to Henderson Perry's, call the Ambassador out, confess everything, and resign, right there, tonight.
A little after midnight Robin was driving up the Mountain in Hervé Beaumont's car when he noticed a light in the glass studio on the top of Martin Townes' house.
"Slow a little, Hervé ," he said, squinting at the tower and smiling to himself. Everyone else in Tangier was at a party, he and Hervé were on their way to Jimmy Sohario's, but there sat Townes, scribbling away, working into the night.
He was glad when they finally reached "Excalibur," such a change from the atmosphere at Françoise de Lauzon's. Jimmy, a diminutive and affable Indonesian, was always an excellent host. His food was the best on the Mountain, and his villa one of the most fabulous in Tangier. Robin thought of its interior as a bestiary since so many parts of animals were displayed. The chairs were made of entwined antlers, the wastebaskets were hollowed-out elephants' feet, the floors were covered with zebra skin rugs, and the walls were adorned with polished giant tortoise shells.
It was only half past twelve, but already the house was jammed. Everyone in Tangier was there, it seemed, except the hosts of the four earlier parties, brooding alone in their homes now that their guests had fled to better things.
Robin was struck by how easy it was to recognize where everyone had been—they were all distinguishable by their modes of dress: formal evening attire on those who'd been at "Castlemaine," absurd costumes on Françoise's bunch, business suits on the Manchesters' friends, garish resort clothing on the scummy TP crowd.
He plunged in, anxious to accomplish a self-appointed task, to fix up Hervé Beaumont with the hustler Pumpkin Pie. He finally found the "tart of gourds" brooding in a window seat, bare arms poking through the sleeves of his tank top, muscles gleaming in the night.
"Hi, Pie," he said, sitting beside him. "What's the matter? You're looking sad."
"That bitch Françoise," Pie replied. "She didn't invite me to her thing."
Robin saw the boy was hurt and felt sympathy, since he understood the cause. Pie had been the Countess's gardener, and her lover after that. She was the person who'd introduced him to society and had given him his extraordinary name.
"It's that fuckin' Inigo. Everyone's against me now."
"Not so," said Robin, patting him on the arm. "Inigo was in love with you, so he can't bear to see you anymore. Françoise is his friend, and doesn't like to see him sad. She didn't invite you tonight, despite the fact that she adores you, so Inigo could have a little fun."
"Hey, man—you really think so? Well, Okay. Everything's cool now."
Robin was pleased to have so easily cheered him up. Also he was amazed by Pie's mastery of jive talk. Moroccan boys were like that, he knew, instant mimics of Europeans, but what astounded Robin was how quickly Pie had abandoned the refined Latin American mannerisms he'd acquired from Inigo. It was as if that relationship had never existed. How little we really leave these boys, he thought.
"Remember my picnic, Pie?"
"Yeah, man. That was a bitch."
"There was a French boy with me. Hervé Beaumont."
"Yeah. Lives on the Mountain. I know the cat you mean."
"Well, he's with me tonight, Pie, and very interested in meeting you. I think you'd like him. He's quite rich, by the way."
Pie, who'd been staring out at the room, on the lookout for some queen he could hustle for the night, suddenly turned his attention back to Robin, who congratulated himself for knowing the secret word that opened all Moroccan hearts.
"Rich, huh?"
Robin nodded.
"Sounds nice, man."
"I'll bring him over."
"He's not cherry, is he?"
"No, but he doesn't know the Moroccan scene. We know how special that is. Yes, we do—don't we, Pie?"
"Yeah." Pie grinned, held his palm out straight, and made little cutting motions at it with the edge of his other hand. It was the first reference he'd ever made to the time he'd held a knife against Robin's balls. Robin raised both his hands in mock submission, backed off a little, smiled, then both of them began to nod their heads. They were acknowledging, Robin supposed, the curious relationship that they had.
How marvelous, he thought, as he hunted Hervé down, how marvelous these transactions of the flesh.
After he made the introductions, watched Pie and Hervé share a pipe of hash, he wandered off to explore the party, search out material for his column. People had become wary of him ever since Townes had convinced him to write with a harder edge, but his stock had risen after a biting column on Vicar Wick, and now his sources were speaking to him again.
He circulated for a while, picking up tidbits—nothing of substance, however, nothing to rival the scandal at the church. The big story was the TP party, and Laurence Luscombe's unexpected finesse. Robin finally found Joe Kelly, drinking heavily, holding forth to Madame Fufu and the Drears.
"Know what Aunt Jemima said to Uncle Ben?"
The question was directed at Madame Fufu, who didn't understand it and shook her head.
"'You're a credit to your rice,' " said Kelly. "Ha! Ha! Ha!" He yowled, pounding at the sides of his chair, nearly unloosing the antler arms.
Robin winced. It was such an awful joke. Madame Fufu didn't get it and shook her head.
"That's a Yank joke," said Jessamyn Drear as Madame Fufu excused herself and wandered off.
"Better be careful," whispered Jessica to Kelly. "We might need her husband for Emperor Jones in the fall."
"Oh, fuck that burr head," Kelly said, "and fuck O'Neill too." He took a long sip from his drink. Robin sat beside him in Madame Fufu's place.
"So, Joe, I hear Luscombe won the game."
"Yeah," said Kelly, "him and that lousy Derik Law. I had a great plan going till those two screwed it up."
"What happened?"
"I don't know. He gave some sugary speech and turned the thing around. But I'll fix that little proud nose, wait and see. Makes me sick with all his crap about 'The Theater' and his phony arty airs. I know his type, knew 'em in New York. British character actors, phonies all of 'em, holed up in the Great Northern spewing out their Shakespeare by the hour. Want a quote? Something you can print? Just say Tangier's not big enough for the two of us, and that I'll get that old hack yet."
"Now calm yourself, Joe," said Jessamyn while Robin wrote Kelly's statement down. "You're managing director—that's the real power. Larry's just a straw man now."
Robin listened a while, then withdrew, remembering a line of Friedrich Nietzsche that Martin Townes liked to quote. How did it go? He stopped in a doorway, trying to recall the words: "It's a relatively simple matter for a weathered charlatan like myself to keep up interest in so small a carnival as this."
He gazed around. Hervé and Pie were still together, still sharing a pipe. Well, he thought, at least I've done one good deed. Then he noticed Jean Tassigny, sitting by himself. He walked over to him, sat down, and listened to his tale of woe.
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Jean said after telling Robin about the telescope. "There's a ferry for Algeciras in the morning. I'll catch the train for Paris there."
"Don't be ridiculous. Why the hell are you so upset? She was cheating on Joop. How can you be surprised she's cheating on you?"
"Oh, God! That's why I have to leave. A perfectly intelligent person like yourself saying a thing like that—that's the whole damn trouble with Tangier!"
"Oh, come, Jean," said Robin, feeling a sudden need to defend the town. "You're not going to give me that old in-Tangier-they-know-everything-about-sex-and-nothing-about-love routine. You're too sophisticated to spout that crap, the swan song of every poor beggar who ever left this city hurt. Really, I'm surprised. You take things much too seriously. Your situation is so classic, you ought to be able to see the humor in it instead of feeling sorry for yourself. The handsome boy, lover to the older woman, married in turn to the ugly wealthy man. You mistook her lust for affection, Jean, and your own misguided passion for love. You participated in something that held a certain drama, considering the fact that the three of you were living in the same house, and now that it's over you want to flee the scene, if only to further dramatize your hurt. Stop it, Jean, and don't stare at me with those bedeviled eyes, as if to show me how Tangier has corrupted your otherwise pure and unblemished soul. You've traveled a mere inch down the highway of sin. What you need is a new lover. May I be so bold as to suggest—a boy?"
Jean looked up at him with astonishment, then began to laugh. "Really, Robin, you're very funny."
"And you're very handsome—no offense."
They shook hands and Robin wandered off, fairly certain that Jean Tassigny was not going to leave Tangier.
He headed toward the terrace, where Jimmy Sohario had installed a Moroccan band. Passing through the doors, he came upon an amazing sight. It was Foster Knowles dancing crazily while everyone else stood back and watched. The Moroccans were drumming away, clearly entranced with this American who shot out his feet, one after the other, and whipped around his right arm like a cowboy making ready to lasso a calf. "Whoopee," he yelled, "whoopee," as if celebrating the end of a drive down the Chisholm Trail.
Robin had never before seen Knowles behave like that. The Vice-Consul had always seemed to him a terrible stuffed shirt. His wife, Jackie, was standing facing him on the fringes of the crowd, bent over slightly, clapping in tune to the drums, letting out with little squeals from time to time. "Yippee!" and "O-yippee-hi-ho!"
Robin, fascinated, wondered what had brought this behavior on. When Foster grabbed Old Musica Codd out of the crowd and whirled her into a jig, he moved over to Jackie and shouted in her ear.
"Is he stoned?"
"Oh, Mr. Scott," she said, batting her sky-blue eyes. "I'd have thought you'd have heard our news by now, you being a gossip columnist and all."
"What news? Don't hold out on me, Jackie. I've always been sweet to you in my column."
"No, you haven't," she said smartly, showing him a petulant smile. "You could have got me into a lot of trouble if Foster wasn't so—"
"Dense?"
"Oh, you are nasty, Mr. Robin Gossip Scott."
"Yes, I am," he said. "Now tell me what's going on."
"Well, my 'dense' husband, as you call him, has just been named Acting Consul General of the United States. That makes me equal to Mrs. Whittle, so you can start by showing me some respect."
"Acting Consul? What happened to Lake?"
"Oh—Dan. Well, I think he's on his way out of the country, to Frankfurt or someplace, some hospital, I guess. Poor Dan. Anyway, it's really exciting for us. Happened just a couple hours ago. We were down at the Manchesters' when suddenly the Ambassador's limousine pulled up. He took us up to this fantastic house where we met Mr. Perry and the Crown Prince!"
"But why? What happened?"
"Gee, I don't know exactly. Seems Dan resigned over some fracas or other, so the Ambassador's put Foster in charge. We're really excited. They're going to change all the locks on the Consulate doors, and as soon as the Lakes' stuff is moved out we get to live in the residence too."
Their conversation was broken off then by a mob of people who'd heard the news and had come around to congratulate the Knowles' on their precipitous rise to power. Rick and Anne Calloway, from Voice of America, were dutifully kissing ass, and Peter Barclay was already busy organizing a congratulatory lunch. So incredible, thought Robin, these rapid changes due to fate. The last time he'd seen the Knowles', Jackie was Dan Lake's mistress. Now her husband had Lake's job, and she couldn't wait to take possession of his house.
He spent the next hour shuttling back and forth between the rooms, watching the party turn rowdy. He saw Hervé sneak off with Pumpkin Pie and congratulated himself again for that. He had a little conversation with Kranker, then watched Fufu try to put the make on Florence Beaumont and Baldeschi work on the hopelessly cool Tessa Hawkins. Heidi Steigmüller was still wearing her De Gaulle mask. It was amusing to watch her talking to General Bresson, no doubt about military "maneuvers and affairs." Percy Bainbridge in his Mary Poppins costume was chatting away with Jack Whyte. Perhaps, Robin speculated, he was retaining Jack to build a prototype of his "three-cornered kiss."
Between the elevation of the Knowles' and the collapse of the Kelly coup, Robin felt he had enough material for a column. What he needed now were some details about the Perry party, things he could use to put it down. He was in the process of extracting information from Vanessa Bolton, who was happily telling him all about the little boats in Perry's tub, when Kranker rushed over out of breath and grasped Robin by the arm.
"Come quick," he said. "It's finally happening. Wax and Barclay are having it out."
Robin grabbed hold of Vanessa, dragged her with him as he followed Kranker to another room. When they arrived they found a quiet little crowd in a circle around Barclay and Wax, who were standing apart facing each other like gunslingers in a Western town.
Wax was still in his costume, holding his "beanstalk" like a staff. Barclay, legs apart, arms folded confidently across his chest, wore a somewhat frayed and dated smoking jacket and clutched a silver-headed cane.
"What's going on?" someone whispered.
"Shush," said Robin, craning forward so as not to miss a precious word.
"Just the sort of comment we'd expect," he heard Barclay say, "from the son of a chimney sweep."
"Ha!" said Wax. "Everyone in Tangier knows about you, how you tried to force Camilla Weltonwhist to buy that worthless property below your house so you could plant trees on it and pretty up your view."
"That's a damn lie," said Barclay, beginning, Robin thought, to look unnerved. "But then we all know your history, that you're nothing but a liar and a thief."
"You're right. I've never pretended to be anything else. The trouble with you, Mother Barclay, is that you don't know what you are. But I do. I see right through you. For all your fancy lineage you're just like an Arab boy who spreads his ass for half a crown."
It was a terrible insult, terribly unfair, Robin thought, and Barclay didn't take it well. Ho grew red in the face, and the veins in his forehead began to throb. Suddenly he pursed his lips and let fly with a glob of spit. It landed on the carpet, a little short of Wax.
"Oh, you are angry, dear," said Wax, regarding Barclay with utter scorn. He raised his "beanstalk" and started toward him, would have bashed him on the head with it, Robin thought, if Barclay hadn't managed to deflect it with his cane.
Immediately their friends dragged them apart, and into separate rooms. There were huddles then, cliques and factions formed, while the whole party turned into a debate about which one had bested the other and what had started the argument off. Robin, uninterested in either of these things, was busy writing their dialogue down. He'd have to ask his editor for double his usual amount of space. He had enough now for a delicious column.
Hamid was relieved. He'd done his duty well, protected the princes and princesses who were finally all safely bedded down. He was relaxing with his men in the kitchen of "Castlemaine," dining on leftover food which Henderson Perry had graciously offered, when Aziz Jaouhari suddenly burst in.
"Something terrible, Hamid," he said. "There's been a murder at Villa Chapultepec."
Hamid jumped up from the table, and together they ran out to his jeep. As they drove down the Mountain toward the Beaumonts' house, he shot questions at Aziz.
"The victim?"
"All I have is that it's a European. The body's been disfigured. Supposedly it's a mess."
"Who reported it?"
"The resident caretaker down there. He heard some noises, then saw someone running across the grounds. He couldn't make out who it was, but decided to check the villa. He found the body in the salon."
"How could this happen, Aziz? We've had patrols on the Mountain all night."
Aziz shrugged. "There're no lights on the road. If someone knows the estates up here, he can cross the walls at will."
When they arrived at Chapultepec a truckload of police were already there. Hamid nodded to the cringing caretaker and walked straight through the house. It was a gruesome sight he found, the walls of the salon covered with blood, the nude body of a young European male lying on the marble floor. He'd been castrated, his stomach, chest, and face punctured numerous times. There was a trail of bloody footprints leading out through the glass French doors.
Aziz raised his hand to cover his mouth. "Do you know who he is, Hamid?"