Moroccan Traffic: Send a Fax to the Kasbah

  Unmoving, Johnson said, ‘How shall I thank you?’ He spoke in English. The man who had killed Sullivan had spoken in English.

  The torch didn’t waver. The man who had killed Sullivan said, ‘I make my own choices, Jay. Stop holding. We’re here to catch you.’

  I knew the voice now. I hadn’t felt like weeping till then. I didn’t wonder, then, why they hadn’t intervened long before.

  Johnson turned his head slightly. Every facet below him was sheer except the way he had come. The traverse up had been shocking, but to attempt it downwards was nothing but suicide. Morgan, the mystic idiot, said suddenly, ‘There are rules about being a nuisance. It would stretch three good men to retrieve you, whereas I can bring you down in one pitch on my own. You!’ His eyes steady on Johnson, he was calling the torchbearer. ‘Are you who I think you are?’

  ‘Probably,’ said the man. He had been at Rita’s last night. I recognised his voice. One from Frances, and one from Joanna, he’d said. Sir Bernard Emerson, I remembered his name.

  ‘Then go on down,’ Morgan said. ‘Flash Gordon and I will come after you.’

  Sir Robert found me where I stood trembling, and another man with a torch gave me his coat, and helped me down to the cars, where we waited. Sir Bernard’s was a big Mercedes, and warm. There was a lot of efficient movement. They had Sullivan’s body to carry down. I wondered if Gerry was dead. I remembered Pymm, and thought I was the only one who had, and what a pity it was. Then Emerson came with some brandy and made me drink it.

  ‘They’re down safely,’ he said. ‘Sir Robert is coming with me. Would you like to stay with me, or go back with Johnson and Morgan?’

  Lumped together, they sounded like motor mechanics. He had used the intimate name, on the hill. I said, ‘I’d like to go back in the Land Rover.’

  ‘Good. I’ll see you at the Gazelle tomorrow. Here’s Sir Robert.’

  It was the formal bit of the parting that had already happened. We faced one another in the darkness and he said, ‘I don’t suppose we shall meet again. Have I made things frightfully difficult for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘That’s rotten old life, isn’t? Look after yourself, won’t you?’

  And that was all.

  The Land Rover was to leave first. I walked to it on my own, rather slowly, and found Morgan by himself at the wheel. His face in the car light was yellowish. Then he saw me, and gave me a wholehearted, open-pea smile that made my tears start again. He said, ‘Come in, girl. You’ve been swilling brandy. Oh, my God, didn’t you know what I wanted most in the world was a pretty girl stinking of alcohol?’

  He had flushed with relief. I realised no one had comforted him. I said, ‘Where. . . ?’

  ‘Flash Gordon? Flaked out in the back. They gave him one of the jags he doesn’t like. Another barracking tomorrow, no doubt.’

  I said, ‘You tried to save Sullivan.’ I failed to shut the door twice. Finally he leaned over and banged it.

  He started the engine. ‘Yeah: and Emerson promptly shot him. Ever feel you’ve made a silly mistake? Ever feel you don’t know what the hell is going on, and you wish all you had was a place of your own and a nice friendly girl snuggling up next to you?’

  I looked at him, and he was smiling again, at the windscreen. ‘It’s all right, sweetie,’ he said. ‘Any sandwiches left?’

  Chapter 25

  There were orange blossoms on my table at breakfast, which seemed a pernicious waste, since nothing that had happened that week had had anything to do with wedded or even unwedded love, unless you counted Val Dresden. I sat alone under their bony petals and brilliant yellow silk filaments. The scent of them was the first thing I remembered of my arrival at the Gazelle d’Or the previous night. A wall of perfume, hitting the Land Rover and making Morgan sneeze until the windscreen started to drip.

  We had travelled in silence, partly because Morgan was the only one wholly awake, and sometimes I had my doubts even of him. Now and then he glanced over his shoulder and once he drew off the road and went round to check, as he said, on his Mastermind. He returned with a nod, but without his anorak. Then, in due course, there came the odour of orange blossom.

  The Gazelle d’Or is the kind of hotel made up of a palatial nucleus, surrounded by garden pavilions. We arrived at a side door in darkness, and were met by a number of helpers who went immediately to the back of the Land Rover. By the time I got down it was empty, and Morgan was waiting to say goodnight to me. He looked exhausted; but wherever his charge had been lodged, he didn’t want me to help, though I offered. He gave me a hug and a kiss before going. He is, as Rita said, a really nice man. Then the hotel staff came, and I was taken through the gardens, and into a private pavilion.

  It was big enough to hold two apartments and furnished with everything, including a bedroom. They offered me supper, but I couldn’t have eaten. I remembered the brandy, and had another. I undressed while I drank it and fell into bed, huddling under the covers with my mascara all over the pillow. And slept like the dead, to waken to scent and sunlight and breakfast.

  There was no one else there. I drank a lot of coffee, and washed, and walked shakily round the apartment. My dirty clothes of last night had all gone, and my luggage was in Ouarzazate. I made a kanga out of my bath sheet, and barefoot, stepped into the gardens.

  The orange groves, in full and stifling blossom, were at the end. I turned my back on them and walked under trees, among dappled flowers. The silence was absolute. When I heard the ripple of water, I followed it. A channel led me up to the heart of the hotel. It looked like Designer Alhambra. Two ghosts in white headbands, slippers and robes appeared and vanished from a patio now empty and soundless. I felt like the person who survived the Black Death and took a homecoming trip to Pompeii. I climbed marble steps and began to search suites of reception rooms, as deserted as the Mary Celeste.

  I was not without expectations. Only one person would keep Ginkgo biloba and micronised marine algae in her bathroom, and a wet printed sheet headed ‘What To Do When Your Boss is a Career Barrier’. I knew who had taken my clothes.

  My mother wasn’t in the main lounge, with its marble floor and its silken peach curtains. She wasn’t in the rotunda, full of stucco and brass, with an inlaid zodiac floor, and a damascened bronze gazelle in an alcove. She wasn’t in the corridor hung with inlaid and unloaded rifles. If she’d been in the unoccupied card rooms I couldn’t smell her fags or see a trace of her socks, although I found a half-finished game of Monopoly. Someone had bought three hotels in Park Lane and the Waterworks. To Doris, that would have been both small beer and peanuts. I went the whole way back to the front porch, and emerged under a mat of bougainvillea. And I was alone in my towel no longer, but face to face with eight video cameras and five dozen fully dressed men and women, flushed with vintage champagne and exuberance. The cars had completed their rally.

  It was Matchbox Day in Morocco. The vintage cars were drawn up in a row, their engines washed, their silver done, their leather buffed, their paintwork burnished like jewellery. Beside them, posing with a good deal of ragging and laughter, were their owners in period rig-outs. In the centre was the big ‘33 Chrysler with a bouquet of flowers on its bonnet, along with the wife of the owner in a cloche hat and strap shoes and silk stockings. The service men stood at the back looking happy, and the hotel staff had crammed into the yard, and quite a lot of casuals who were either gardeners or guests. Phrases sprang into the air: ‘romped up the hill’, ‘cleaned the section’, ‘cranked her up that last bend’, ‘floor-boarded the bloody thing twice’.

  I tapped a man on the shoulder. He was wearing plus-fours and a cap, and his collar was sodden. I said, ‘The Frazer-Nash didn’t make it?’

  He turned, in high good humour, and was smitten by my sarong. He was one of the Bugattis. When his eyes got to my level he said, ‘Poor old Tom, no. And Rupert’s big end couldn’t take it. And Chester spewed out a valve and got total brain fade o
ver the tulips. CPSRP, poor old Chester.’

  I asked him what he meant. It was the nearest thing to a talk with my mother.

  ‘Couldn’t Pull the Skin off a Rice Pudding , angel: burns his thumb on a plug change. Hey, didn’t I see you at the Berber market? Not wearing that rig-out though, ha-ha-ha.’

  I wished I’d also worn the free plastic shower cap. I said, ‘Yes, I saw you there too. And what about the rest, then? The Lancia?’

  ‘Crazy Yanks? Couldn’t face the Wiggle-Woggle Shuffle-Shuffle and went off home early. We did that this morning. Did you see us this morning? Did you miss that goddamned landslide? Christ, those two boys in the Sunbeam.’

  Someone waved about another bottle of champagne and some of it went down my towel. I said, ‘What happened?’

  His face lengthened appropriately. I could see he really was sorry: I had just caught him in a moment of cheerfulness. He said, ‘You didn’t hear? Tried the Taroudant stretch in the dark, and copped a slide of those boulders. Nothing left. Not even the wreckage. At least that’s what they say. I’m going to look. Actually, Charles dashed back this morning to see it, but the bloody police held him off.’

  I said, ‘There wouldn’t be anything. Think of those houses.’

  ‘Well, not much,’ said the Bugatti. ‘But unless you know cars, you don’t realise. You know? Rudge-Whitworth Wire Detachables, even. Lovely single-plate clutch, those three-litres had.’

  I said, ‘It was a pity about Owen and Sullivan.’

  If he went any redder, it was undetectable. He said, ‘Bit of a fool, old Gerry Owen. That business at Asni. But Seb Sullivan was a bloody good sport. Game for any old prank. Got you out of a spot at Essaouria, yes? Yes,’ he said, slowing down his euphoria a little bit more, ‘you must be pretty upset about Sullivan.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said soberly. ‘But if he knew, he’d want you to finish the rally. What are you all going to do now?’

  They were going to a public luncheon inside the town. He brightened: they were going to buy carvings. Taroudant, of course, was forbidden to Christians when R. Bontine Cunninghame Graham tried a long time ago to get into it; I could rather see why. I knew, now, where Johnson had picked up his alias.

  The Bugatti man hadn’t seen or heard of Johnson or Pymm, or he’d surely have mentioned them. He’d seen someone, though. Just as they all started to go, he called across to me. ‘Hey, that little Scottie who swam with the boar? She’s by the pool: saw her this morning. D’you think she should be told about Gerry?’

  I knew where my mother was now. They must have driven in first thing this morning. ‘Leave it to me,’ I yelled after him. I knew he was hoping I’d wave.

  I stood for a minute watching all the cars rev up and draw slowly away, some of them pinking. I thought I could get to like vintage cars, if it hadn’t been for Gerry and Sullivan. Then I turned and ran back the way I had come, through the hotel, and out into the gardens, and along the shady way to the orange groves.

  The swimming pool lay in the sun, surrounded by a lounging area shaded by trees, and a mass of unshaded sunbeds for grilling. Before the chambers for changing and massage stood a line of long tables, upon which covered dishes were being carefully laid. The starving herds for which the buffet was being prepared seemed to be absent. Two of the scruffy dressers from the front had returned to sit in drill shorts under the trees, reading books and sipping drinks at small tables: the kind of money vacationing here was not the kind that gussied itself up in resort wear. The scent of hundreds of trees in full blossom filled the extremely warm air like a drug. I would have felt saner if I could have put the way I felt down to hallucigens. There was no one here, and I wanted somebody. I went and looked into the pool.

  A fully developed rhinoceros with a fag in its mouth was heaving its way from one end to the other, pulled forward by a brisk orange head in a sweatband. The mountainous form was my mother, and the retreating figure grasping her chins was the Chief Executive of the Marguerite Geddes Company, in a taut Lycra swimsuit and an air of amiable assurance. My mother saw me first. She looked up, began to cough, and swallowed water as the cigarette fell out of her mouth. Rita stood her on end and I saw the water only came up to her waist. They must have half emptied the pool. I said, ‘What are you doing?’ I could have cried.

  My mother spluttered, and Rita thumped her and then waited while I got her a handkerchief. As she blew her nose, Rita waded with her to the steps. Rita said, ‘We were just killing time until Mo came. Thought you’d be sleeping for ever. They’ve brought the cases in now.’ She chucked a towel at my mother, who seemed to be wearing pyjamas and shark oil. Her bruise had got almost tanned over. She sat down with a wheeze, and inspected me as if checking for typos. She said, ‘You want to know about Oliver? He’s a strong boy. He’ll do. Henry patched him up good with paperclips, and they’re flying him straight to a clinic.’

  I sat opposite. ‘Henry?’

  Rita, draped in a towel, was giving orders. She came back and sat down between us. ‘That’s our doctor. Hooker’s Green and all that, remember? Wendy, are you all right?’

  I remembered Hooker’s Green. I said, ‘Yes, I’m fine. Henry’s in Ouarzazate now?’

  ‘Was,’ said Rita. ‘Repairing Oliver, and giving out interviews on JJ’s recent concussion and subsequent ammonia.’

  She was wearing disco-ball earrings and a searching, if kindly expression. I didn’t correct her, or ask where he was recovering from his ammonia. I was afraid to ask anything. I sat looking at the drink someone brought me. It looked like either whisky or brandy. I wondered if I was a closet alcoholic. I took a gulp and said, ‘So Henry’s here, then?’

  ‘Dropped in. He’s gone,’ Rita said. ‘Probably in Agadir by now, stocking up Dolly. Lenny sailed her down the coast from Essaouira.’

  I took another drink. ‘To pick up Mr. Johnson?’ I said.

  ‘Eventually,’ Rita said. ‘I suppose. Nobody’s seen him yet. Go on. Drink up.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ I said for the second time. I sat up and looked at my mother. ‘You know what happened?’

  ‘Yes, Wendy. I know what happened,’ my mother said. ‘Short term planning, that was. Poorly conceptualised strategy. High risk quotient for zero results. If you don’t tell that fellow Johnson, I will.’

  ‘He’s been told,’ said Morgan’s voice. ‘In extremely certain terms. Hello, Doris. Hello, Rita.’ He touched my shoulder. ‘Wendy?’

  His T-shirt said Die, Yuppie Scum and had epaulettes on it, and his hair had been washed and thrust into a ponytail that made his face seem narrower than ever. He looked as if he had been up a long time. I hadn’t been up long enough to know the answer to what he was really asking. I said, ‘The Lancia’s gone.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. They know who the Americans are: they’ve got tabs on them. Exercise in debt reduction. They’re all working like mad.’

  ‘Who are?’ I said. Birds twittered. A gentle splashing came from the pool. A white-robed man began placing things on our table: a bread-basket with a woven spired lid like the ones in the market; a red clay camel which couldn’t run ahead of a Harley or it would have spilt the pepper and salt in its panniers. He went away to fetch silver and wine glasses. The scent of orange blossom was stifling.

  ‘Who do you think?’ Morgan said. ‘Johnson was responsible for the whole bleeding massacre, so the least he can do is help fix it. The telephone wires are red hot.’

  ‘What? How?’ I said.

  My mother tapped my hand. Hers had a freshly rolled bent cigarette in it. She said, ‘Now you think what has to be done? Sûreté coordination; legal advice, consular help; messages to and from London, Toronto, Washington, Marrakesh, Ouarzazate,

  Agadir, Rabat. Medical procedures; mortuaries; documents. A nice Sunbeam ‘26 to get rid of. And all on the qui vive.’

  I have heard apter phrases. I said, ‘I should have thought he did more damage at the kasbah. Doesn’t that need some fixing?’

  ?
??A landslide?’ said Morgan. ‘Act of Mohammed, dear. And the owners aren’t going to charge anyone. Folded their women and stole away, they all did, after attending to Mr. Daniel Oppenheim.’

  ‘He went in an ambulance,’ I said.

  ‘He didn’t get the chance,’ Morgan said. ‘Someone lifted him and chucked him back inside the kasbah. His friends or ours, I wouldn’t know. He didn’t survive.’

  I saw that perhaps he hadn’t been up so long after all. He just felt as awful as I did. I wondered when Johnson’s jag had worn off. I said, ‘He made a start on those arrangements this morning?’

  ‘Must have done,’ Morgan said. ‘I reckon he got through an hour of it before Emerson arrived with the patch-and-mend specialists. They’ve rented a secure office: it’s in a separate building. I’m to take you there.’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘Because we’ve got to agree on our story, for one thing. And they’ll need to talk to us, since we’re mixed up in it. In fact, they ought to bloody well pay us, after all we’ve been through this last week, ending with the rock-folly shoot-out with Sullivan. Christ!’ said Morgan; and his expression was one of awe. ‘He’ll never sodding well do that again.’

  He meant Johnson. Rita looked at him. She said, ‘The trouble is that he will. But next time, he’ll make sure we don’t know it.’

  The door to the conference room was shut. I sat outside, now tidily dressed as for the Hotel Golden Sahara while Mo paced up and down jerkily. Once, a girl went in with a Fax and, for a few minutes, left the door open. Inside, it was just an ordinary Boardroom with a green-topped table with papers and men sitting around in shirts and ties, talking in French. Sir Bernard Emerson sat at the top. Beside him, taking notes, was Roland Reed, the MCG accountant. On his other side sat Johnson, studying some sort of checklist. There were two telephones at his elbow.

  It was one of those days when his face consisted of nothing but bifocal spectacles. His shirt and tie looked as if they might be his own, but the linen jacket must have come from the Wardrobe. Although speaking only when spoken to, he didn’t appear especially ragged, but rather a model of unemphatic officialdom. The assignment was damage containment, and he was not, for the moment, a person.