They drank for a few moments in silence.
She said: ‘ He is a nice man. And very rich. I wonder if he is faithful to his wife.’
‘Hi, wait. None of that!’
‘I was only thinking.’
‘Teasing maybe.’
The servant came to refill their drinks, but both refused. Matthew rose.
‘It’s nearly one. I think we should go and dress.’
III
They lunched in another circular room with alcoved lamps and an oval dining table with a pink damask cloth shading to pale blue as it reached the floor. The curtains at the two high windows were of finest lace, outlined in yellow satin. They ate lamb and rice, and chicken breasts in pimento gravy, then the lightest of pastry pies containing minced pigeon with tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs. Pouligny Montrachet to drink. Silent servants, white-coated, glittering poignards at waist.
‘I have little liking for Agadir,’ said Pierre de Blaye. ‘Its name you know is Igoudar, meaning a hill fort. In that area there used to be warring tribes, each within its small enclave, Berbers mainly, who would often quarrel with another group, raid them with bitter enmity. Some of these groups still exist, and have become restive since the French left. But the town itself has a wonderful beach and little else. It will develop, but in doing so will become less and less like the rest of Morocco. Why did you both come there? I take it you came individually?’
They smiled and each gave an explanation, Nadine telling of the film she had been in and her decision, between parts, to revisit the town and find some winter sun; Matthew making up a story on the spur of the moment about his novels and coming away, seeking stimulus and inspiration.
‘So you have no commitments drawing you back this afternoon. Why do you not stay the night here?’
Some bird was screeching outside.
‘Well,’ Matthew said, ‘ it’s more than kind of you. For my part I’d be delighted.’
De Blaye said: ‘We have guest bungalows; I have built four. They are just down the path over there. My servants have too little to do, and I am alone here at present. It would give me pleasure.’
Nadine smiled. ‘I have no night things, and of course—’
‘My mistress, who is coming next week, is about your build, I would think. There are a number of her belongings which she has left here and I know would make available to you.’ Nadine hesitated and sipped her wine. ‘You are too kind,
monsieur.’
De Blaye laughed. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I shall be happy to stay.’
IV
In the afternoon, following a siesta, they walked around the grounds, among the red and yellow pomegranates, the bougainvillaea, the geraniums, the green lawns. Behind a hedge of climbing begonias they found a donkey, blindfold, turning round and round an old waterwheel, whose buckets of water were being routinely up-ended into a succession of trenches so that the garden was being irrigated.
‘It is a sort of oasis. We have three such wells. It was because of them that I built here.’
As darkness fell de Blaye drove them into Taroudant and they walked through the souks, buying a few trinkets here and there.
They stopped to watch a man marvellously carving chessmen with his chisel, and working a lathe with one bare foot. The Baron said: ‘It is a pity you have to return to Agadir at all. You have a car? Why do you not tomorrow drive over the High Atlas to Marrakech, spend a day there and then go on to Fez? The old town of Fez has not been touched for two hundred years. Not a European building of any sort. Lyautey built the new town outside. If you wish to see Morocco as it used to be, go to Fez.’
Matthew glanced at Nadine. He said: ‘It’s a tempting thought.’
They had been given two bungalows side by side, with a dividing rail on the balcony and a communicating door inside. De Blaye had made no attempt to assess their relationship: they were probably lovers – or why come together? – but the two entirely separate accommodations, individual entrance hall, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, left the choice open.
She had come in a sleeveless silk dress, he in a check shirt and flannel slacks. Pierre de Blaye had found a cream haik of fine wool for Nadine, silk-lined, beaded and caught at the waist. He offered Matthew a handsome jellaba, but Matthew refused it in favour of black trousers belonging to de Blaye’s brother, who was tall, and a silk shirt and a crimson smoking jacket.
As he settled the coat as comfortably as he could – it was made for someone with broader shoulders – he looked at himself in the full-length gilt-framed mirror and decided he would do. The bedroom was warm, for in an eccentric corner fireplace a wood fire burned, giving off odours of cedar and eucalyptus. He went through the passageway to the door dividing the two bungalows and tapped. The door, which was of studded leather, absorbed his summons, and it took three louder knocks before Nadine opened it.
‘By God,’ he said, ‘you look – ambrosial.’
The cream cloak with its glittering ornaments set off her beauty. He bent and kissed her. She responded coolly, with a smiling detachment that did not rebuff but promised no immediate intimacy.
‘What strange words you use sometimes,’ she said. ‘Ambrosial? Does that not mean …’
‘If you pressed me I’d say it meant food of the gods.’
‘Just now you were thinking in terms of saucers of milk.’
‘It was you mentioned milk. Anyway … my evening has begun.’
He took her hand and they went out of his front door and walked through the jasmine-scented darkness towards the main house.
‘Are you an impatient man?’ she asked.
‘Yes, in some things. Very.’
‘I was afraid so.’
‘And impulsive.’
‘Impulses,’ she said, ‘which you must sometimes regret.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. Impulses are meant to be followed.’ He laughed. As usual it was an infectious sound.
She said: ‘My father was a doctor. A specialist in liver complaints. If you have lived in France you will know how important the liver is to most of us! He made money. He had many mistresses. My mother had frequent lovers. They did not break up: they just went their own ways. For their only daughter you might think it would be natural, easy to live a – a – what do you call it in old England? – a profligate life. But that has not been so. There have been many flirtations but I have only had two men. Both were serious. Both affaires ended. It was not without distress. I don’t like what is now called casual sex.’
They were on the steps to the house. Discreet lights gleamed. He said: ‘When I married I was pretty much in love – at least I think I was – and so was she. We both put up a fair attempt to make a go of it. But when it came unstuck I don’t think either of us was desperately hurt. I still like her. She still likes me – though she doesn’t approve of my indolent life—’
‘Indolent!’
‘Well, to her it seemed so,’ he said, remembering that he had claimed three novels published. ‘ So we agreed to part. There’s no man on her side nor woman on mine. Perhaps we didn’t feel deeply enough for each other. Perhaps I have never felt deeply enough for anyone.’
‘Do you think that a good recommend?’
‘How can I recommend myself?’ Again that infectious laugh. ‘But I love beauty. I love your beauty.’
Nadine said: ‘But you have never been serious about a woman. Is that so?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t really—’
‘What do you feel deeply about? Anything? Your books? Writing? Literature?’
‘Oh, no. I like books but not enough. Music is what fascinates me.’
‘Music? Ah …’
‘I told you. That was why I went to Paris. I hoped to do something with it. I play the piano. I play the guitar. I sing. But none of them well enough. I’m doomed to be the eternal amateur.’
‘What sort of music? Jazz?’
‘Everything that comes out of a musical instrument. Bach,
Stockhausen, Haydn, Gershwin, Fats Waller, Puccini, Sullivan, Berlin …’
‘And you sing?’
‘More or less, yes. And you?’
‘Me? I don’t understand music like that. But yes, I can sing a little. And dance.’
‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘we’ll both try.’
V
The three French ladies had had a good morning. They had bathed and tramped along the beach in the heat and found a kiosk where they sat and drank Pernod and ate pastillas, which were fluffy pastries stuffed with crushed almonds and honey. They had all enjoyed a good breakfast, but the sea air had given them raging appetites which they saw no reason to resist. As the third Pernod was going down an Arab appeared leading a camel and offering them a ride.
They all saw the funny side of this. They thought the Arab, who was called Jusef, very funny because he had no top teeth at all except a solitary gold one right in the front, and when he smiled, which he did frequently, this gleamed through his beard and set them off into peals of laughter. Vicky said she had always wanted to ride on a camel, so after a good deal of haggling over price she mounted two steps, cocked her leg over and slumped into the saddle with a cry of triumph which turned into a squeal as the camel got up.
They proceeded along the beach, the older women laughing and shouting lewd advice to Vicky, who lurched and shrieked and hung on while the tall, elderly camel was led by its owner mooching on its bony, ramshackle legs and stopping now and then to champ its jaws and shake its head from side to side.
They described a circle, so that at the end of the ride the steps would be conveniently near. Eventually amid whoops and yells, Vicky lowered herself to safety. Françoise said her skirt had ridden up so high she thought Vicky usually got paid extra for showing that much.
They had two more drinks, a chocolate ice each and then began to weave their way back across the beach in search of lunch. The sun had come out from behind its clouds and the day was sweltering. The hotel seemed far away, and Vicky said she felt like she’d joined the Foreign Legion and was staggering over the desert towards an oasis, just like in a movie show.
The last quarter-mile was covered with many pauses for rest and argument. There was a stage at which Françoise’s laughter always turned to belligerence; but Laura slapped her down and led the way until, oh, bliss, hard ground was under their feet and they were home. They had been out so long that time had gone ahead of them and early lunchers were already eating round the pool.
‘Let’s leave our things and go right in,’ Laura said.
So they hobbled round through the palm trees and sat in the open door of their car, rubbing sand out of toes and combing sandy hair. Laura draped her swimming costume over the steering-wheel and the other two left theirs hanging from the windows and seat backs where they could dry in the sun. Then, glassily but hungrily, they stumbled back from the front drive and weaved a way among the tables for lunch.
M. and Mme Thibault were not at their table today. Nor were Mr Burford and Mrs Heinz. Nor Matthew Morris and Nadine Deschamps.
VI
The Thibaults were about to leave for lunch with the Governor, M. Bouamrani. Henri Thibault had made certain that his arrival in Agadir should not go unnoticed. Although convinced that his own eminence was not likely to be overlooked in France, there was just the risk that in the less civilized parts of the old empire there might be a slip-up. So his secretary had written to the Governor’s secretary. And the newly elected senator for the department of Nievre, a M. François Mitterrand, had been prevailed upon to drop an enlightened line, which would ensure he, Thibault, was accorded proper deference and hospitality. Indeed M. Mitterrand had suggested to Thibault that before he left Morocco he would do well to seek an audience of the King, who naturally would want to meet one of France’s leading bankers and philanthropists.
Thus it had been arranged, though Estrella did not know. Thibault had been saving it as a pleasant surprise; but this disagreeable contretemps with the egregious Laura had soured the situation. Estrella, herself the daughter of a banker, whose benevolent intervention had contributed to Henri’s rise, had once been a very pretty girl. As a rich man’s youngest daughter, she had been quite the catch of the season, vivacious, sexy and playful. Lucien Costals had not thought much of the young man she finally took up with – pompous little fellow with shifty eyes – but Henri had turned out fairly well, had fathered three girls, taken advantage of every business opportunity offered him; had known how to cultivate people in high places and altogether had carved a career for himself.
So far as one could tell, he had also made a good husband. The trouble at quite an early stage was that Estrella had not adjusted her attitude to her loss of looks. At fifty she still wore the clothes of a thirty-year-old. She continued to treat men coquettishly and to expect them to respond. In the best society in Paris much older women than she could still dominate their circle, but she had neither the personality nor the intellect.
She was showing, in her husband’s eyes, neither personality nor intellect in her attitude towards his encounter with Laura Legrand. She had blown the whole thing up into a great balloon of indignation and contempt. He was disgusted with his ill-luck and disgusted with his wife. Every woman knew that men sometimes had little affairs on the side: from the interchange she knew absolutely nothing of the details (fortunately).
Yet he had no wish to make this a serious quarrel between them: the old father, Lucien Costals, still existed at eighty-seven, and though no doubt he would have laughed aloud if told the whole truth, he still doted on his daughter. And with his banking holdings he still controlled some of the purse strings. There were two brothers-in-law.
They had been invited for one o’clock at the Governor’s House, and it was now after twelve thirty. Estrella, provokingly, was taking an age to make up her face. As always she was doing too much, laying on the mascara and the rouge. The very look of her over-curled and pinkish hair irritated him. He paced up and down, pausing now and then to glance out over the smiling scene. The sun had at last come out and the hot land breeze had strengthened. Flags and the frills on umbrellas fluttered. From here you could see a corner of the angular swimming-pool and a couple of empty tables. He looked at his watch. Estrella took no notice. She was now putting little points of rouge on her ear lobes.
‘Hrrhm!’ said Thibault. ‘It is now twelve thirty-eight. I should not wish to be late.’
Estrella did not reply. With the handle of a comb she was tidying her curls, twisting them more perfectly into place.
‘I have left the car near the front door,’ said Thibault. ‘ You have only a few steps to walk.’
‘You can go without me if you wish,’ Mme Thibault said.
Her husband greeted this remark with the contempt it deserved. As if she would make all these preparations for nothing!
Presently, with agonizing concern for every small detail, she made herself ready, picked up her Venetian bag, made sure her Ghent handkerchief and other items were safely stowed away, gave a hitch to the shoulder of her ivory lace dress and stood up. He went to the door and opened it for her. Without acknowledging this, she stalked out.
Of course the lift was engaged. It was only two floors to walk down, but she made no move to do so, while he pressed and pressed at the button. Eventually it came and they descended in slow motion until the lobby was reached.
Thibault made an effort. ‘Our car is just on the left. Shall I bring it round for you?’
‘Please.’
The sun struck him as he went out, putting on his panama. Most of the Renault Fours were out. Only one other stood a few paces away. Same colour, same hire company. They were scoundrels and rogues, Thibault thought. They had not even been to see him this morning with an upgraded car. They had never had any intention of attempting to satisfy him. He might, he thought, refuse to pay. Certainly he would make a strong complaint to the Directeur. (He might even mention the matter this afternoon. Perhaps the Governor would put a
car at their disposal.)
You could never trust the Arabs, he thought, as he opened the car door.
He stepped back. A vivid yellow bathing costume was draped over the steering-wheel. Another one – a two-piece suit of an eye-catching green – lay on the passenger’s seat. Shoes were in the back of the car, and a bunch of striped towels; and still one more costume hung out of the back window on the opposite side. There were dark patches in the car where things had dripped. And there was sand …
Estrella Thibault, standing stiffly beside an indoor palmetto palm, was surprised to see her husband stride angrily in and, taking no notice of her at all, march across to the reception desk.
‘Someone has been tampering with my car!’
‘Sir?’
‘Someone has been using it, utilizing it. This is outrageous!’
‘Sir?’ The concierge was coming out from behind the desk.
Thibault looked at his watch.
‘No.’
The concierge stopped.
‘Order me a taxi!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘At once. We shall be late! Our appointment is with the Governor!’
‘Very good, sir.’ The man picked up the telephone. ‘A petit taxi?’
‘No!’ shouted Thibault. ‘A car! A proper car! A limousine! At once!’
‘Very good, sir. Right away.’
Chapter Seven
I
Earlier in the day one of the little Renaults had been driven far south along the coast and had passed Tiznit before it was time for lunch.
Lee was accustoming himself to the gear change, which operated from the steering-wheel, and Letty was the map reader. Not that there was much chance of going astray; once you were out of Agadir it was a flat, featureless drive with few side roads or opportunities to take the wrong turning. Before they left Agadir Letty had bought a tin of cooked ham, a knife, some paper plates, two bottles of beer, two glasses, French bread, French mustard, butter and tomatoes, so when they stopped some miles short of Goulimine under the shade of a group of date palms, they were self-sufficient. They finished up with oranges.