Tremor

  ‘That’s where I’m going now,’ said Johnny, withdrawing it from her touch and tucking it under his arm. ‘Didn’t know I was a tax collector, did you? I’m here on business. Catching dodgers. And young women who take other people’s cars for their drying rooms!’

  Shrill laughter followed him as he made for the cash desk. Ardrossi was leaning against a pillar, with a freshly lighted cigarette in his hand. Standing up, he was a much shorter man than the impression given in the croupier’s chair.

  He made a movement of his head, and Johnny followed him into a darker corner of the room. Ardrossi went off, and came back with coffee.

  ‘Tournelle is still sick? I heard it was his heart.’

  Johnny nodded. He was summing the other man up, deciding how far he could trust him. It had been left to him to decide.

  ‘He’s better. But it’ll be days before he can be moved, maybe a week.’

  ‘Your name is Tournelle?’

  ‘Well … it was. I’m half-English. When the marriage broke up my mother took me to England and I took her name.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Carpenter.’

  ‘Ah.’ The croupier put brown sugar in his coffee. ‘And …?’

  ‘I came from England on Friday. I wanted something from the old man. I saw him this morning, and …’

  ‘Yes. I understand. And what do you want from me?’

  Johnny said: ‘Another passport.’

  It looked from a distance as if Françoise had fallen out of the chair he had recently vacated. There was quite a noise and a commotion, but other people blocked the view.

  ‘Friends of yours?’ asked Ardrossi.

  ‘What? No. Women staying at my hotel.’

  ‘Are you wanted by the police?’ Ardrossi asked suddenly.

  ‘Nothing like that,’ said Johnny. ‘But would it matter?’

  ‘It might add to the urgency.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to wait long.’

  ‘Speed always costs more.’

  ‘Of course. But by that do you mean you can fix this?’

  Ardrossi tapped at his cigarette, and some fine ash drifted onto the parquet floor. A small twisted smile.

  ‘Most things can be arranged, with adequate time and adequate funds.’

  Something in Ardrossi’s smile decided Johnny not to trust him with the contents of the suitcase.

  ‘I’d want to have it at the earliest.’

  ‘And therefore the most expensive.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  There was a pause. The commotion round the roulette table had died down.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When can you do it?’

  ‘Do you have spare passport photographs?’

  ‘No.’ Johnny had thought of this but decided against it, thinking he would probably grow a beard. But, he had realized too late, beards take a long time to grow.

  Ardrossi was pained by this lack of foresight. He pinched the bridge of his narrow nose between thumb and forefinger.

  ‘It can be done, of course, but … Tomorrow morning first thing, I would suggest for the photographs. Seven o’clock. Then it will have to go to Casa. There are no facilities here. This will cost you a thousand dollars.’

  ‘Too much,’ said Johnny automatically. One bargained for everything in Morocco. ‘Five hundred.’

  ‘You can have it complete by Tuesday morning. But it will be not less than a thousand.’

  The essence of bargaining is that the buyer must pretend he is not keen to buy. No such leeway here. One could only approach it another way.

  ‘A thousand if you have it ready tomorrow night.’

  Ardrossi lit a cigarette from the butt of the old, then stubbed the old one out. His glance strayed to the case Johnny carried. ‘I will have to telephone my friends in Casa. It will be necessary to fly the photographs – and your present passport, please – as soon as they have been taken. Whether it can all be done in time to catch the evening plane back I do not know. But in that case it would be another two hundred dollars. I assure you, that is very cheap. Your father, I am certain, could not arrange it for less.’

  Johnny was suddenly angry. This little Jew had him over a barrel. Bargaining be damned. He could do nothing but agree. That glance at the suitcase. People did. If you carried a suitcase on a beach or into dinner or at a casino people stared. And speculated.

  ‘I’ll pay a thousand,’ he said.

  Ardrossi put down his cup. ‘I must go in a moment. Twelve hundred it has to be, if you want it tomorrow night. I come off duty at eleven tonight. Think about it until then.’

  Johnny realized that twelve hundred dollars would hardly disturb the packages in the case under his arm.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘ If you can guarantee.’

  ‘Six hundred now. Six hundred on completion.’

  ‘Can you guarantee it?’

  ‘If the plane runs. It usually does. But it will be late when it arrives.’

  ‘Do we meet here?’

  ‘No, better at your hotel. I must go.’

  ‘Where tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Rue Moulay Ismail. A shop on the corner. A photographer’s shop. It is near the port.’

  ‘I’ll find it. Seven a.m.?’

  ‘Seven a. m. The shop will be closed but will open if you knock.’ Ardrossi stubbed out his second cigarette. ‘And the money. Six hundred tonight.’

  It was all there. But not to be taken out publicly. ‘ I’ll meet you at eleven.’

  ‘Very good.’ Benjamin Ardrossi bowed courteously to the other man and walked back to the roulette table.

  Johnny followed him and rejoined the three women; he set about losing the nine hundred dirhams he had won.

  II

  Lee and Letty ate early, then strolled along the boulevard in the direction of the Casino. But they did not go in. He linked her arm. The movement was his but she made no attempt to withdraw.

  Suddenly aware that things were not going to work out on this trip as when he left America he had subconsciously hoped, knowing now that his life was washed up and this vacation was a mess, and Ann’s desertion was just as dire now as he had hoped it never would be again, he began to talk about Ann to this other woman who cared nothing for him at all. He told her of the vacations they had had together while they were still young, of their honeymoon in Mussolini’s Venice, when the mosquitoes were still rampant, of rain in St Mark’s Square and duckboards needed to cross it, lovemaking and eating grapes on a wet afternoon. Of Ann, ever adventurous, during the early fifties on a visit to Vienna, getting caught up in a political march, unaware and uncaring of the issues involved – this on the fringe of the Russian sector – and of her being arrested and Lee having to take along an attaché from the US Embassy to apologize and explain.

  The First World War, he told Letty, had ended just in time not to interfere with his Law School; but he had seen a year of the Second as an ambulance driver in Italy before being blown up and invalided out. Ann, too, by flagrantly lying about her age and pulling strings not unconnected with her father’s position in Congress, had contrived to enlist, and had traded on her knowledge of French (she had been at school in Paris) to be taken on as an interpreter with the First Army, where she had caught the eye of General Bradley and become his platonic friend.

  He went on and on, telling Letty details of his married life that he had almost forgotten. Sometimes a trace of emotion came into his voice in spite of himself; but on the whole he took care not to seem to be evoking sympathy, not to be asking even for understanding. Sometimes the lightness of the stories lifted him so that they could both smile at the misadventures and the misunderstandings.

  When they got back the night was still hot and overcast, so they had a drink on the terrace, and went up to bed soon after ten. They kissed outside the bedroom doors. There was a glint in her eyes as she smiled at him and slid out of his arms.

  When she had gone he stared bleakly at the closed door. He knocked.

/>   She opened it immediately, looking startled.

  ‘Your cape,’ he said. ‘You forgot it.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ She took it from him. It was the cape he had bought her in Paris. She looked down at it. She fingered the cape as if she had not seen it before.

  He said: ‘Goodbye, Letty.’

  She said: ‘I wish I could make you happy.’

  He said: ‘You can.’

  ‘Yes, but only in a way. It is the most unimportant part of love.’

  ‘For me,’ he said, ‘it is the most important right now.’

  ‘Yes, but in the morning …’ ‘I would be glad to let the morning take care of itself.’

  III

  So it happened. In a half light, not so tastefully arranged as in the bedroom in Taroudant, they lay quietly on the bed together, and when they were naked he stroked her gently for quite a while. Presently he parted her thighs and entered her – not like a commanding hero but like a snake in the grass. He then did absolutely nothing more, propping himself up on his elbows, partly to take his weight off her and partly to look at her face.

  She said: ‘Lee, I …’

  ‘Ssh. Say nothing, Letty.’

  He did no more while the seconds ticked away. Silence in the room except for their breathing. There was music tinkling outside.

  Her eyes were half-closed, her expression strained. And a long minute went by, and another minute began.

  Then he leaned forward and began to kiss her mouth, using each of her lips individually like new senses to be explored. And he began to grow again within her. The second minute was near its end before he began to move his loins, and then very gently. Her eyes had been open for some little while now, clear and hurt and staring; then they slowly glazed over and tears started on the bottom lids and as quickly dried. She gave the deepest sigh: he watched her breasts rise and fall.

  He was losing himself, and he knew she was. And with a rising sense of elation he arrived at the certain belief that she had not experienced this before.

  He edged and manoeuvred and gently moved her whole body, timing his own senses, holding them back until he knew she was coming. Then together they climbed to the peak.

  Chapter Nine

  I

  Monday, the 29th of February, 1960. Leap Year. The third day of the Fast of Ramadan.

  The day broke heavy and sunless. Gulls were noisy, circling and screaming over the sullen sea. Dogs had howled again in the night, and animals were generally restless. In the early morning there was what many people took for a heavy rumble of thunder but others recognized as an earth tremor. When it was over pictures were here and there aslant on walls. Cups had rattled. Cutlery had tittered together on newly laid breakfast tables.

  But nobody took alarm. The occasional tremor was something one was used to, living here. It was part of the general order of things, part of the climate. There had been something rather bad once upon a time, but that was over two centuries ago …

  On the Saturday and the Sunday Johnny Frazier had occupied some of his time in the little travel shop, which had its main office in Casablanca. In there he had examined the options open to him to leave Morocco by sea, and had whittled these down to two vessels, one to leave on the Tuesday forenoon, the other on Friday evening. The first was an American tramp steamer called the Merrimac, out of Baltimore, and loading a cargo of canned sardines for Rio de Janeiro. She was licensed to carry six passengers, and a berth was available. The second was a Norwegian cruise ship, the Vesteraaven, which would put in for two nights before leaving for the Canary Isles and thence to Cape Town. Again there were cabins available.

  Johnny preferred the Merrimac, whose destination was a better one for him, but he could not book a cabin, except provisionally, without an available passport, and the Vesteraaven gave him an extra day’s grace if the passport was delayed.

  He had chosen the name Henri Delaware. He had decided to become a French Canadian, a vague nationality which, so long as he wasn’t in Canada, would give him a wider scope for invention. When this was known to Ardrossi he demanded an extra five hundred dollars, but in this at least he had resorted to bargaining and they had settled on an overall total of 1,450 dollars.

  It was worth it to Johnny because of the speed promised. After the Vesteraaven there was no really suitable ship leaving Casablanca for nearly three weeks.

  Johnny was up at six on the Monday. He looked at the case. His whole life centred on that case. Everything he had done, all the risks he had taken, was still taking, all the plans … What the hell if people stared? They would not knock him down, run off with it.

  He took it with him.

  A stout elderly photographer in a blue skull cap let him in and the job was done in no time. Ardrossi hovered in the background. Handing over his own passport was worrying to Johnny, but they insisted it was necessary in order to make an exact copy. Anyway he had another with him, though it was too hot for safe use. He returned to the hotel for breakfast. He would go and see his father later in the day but not tell him he was leaving on the Tuesday morning. He would just pay his bill early that day and slip away to join the ship. Her approximate departure time was ten a.m. It was going to be tight for time, but if he caught the eight thirty plane it would give him just long enough in Casablanca to confirm the booking and pay for the voyage. Then away.

  He had had no nightmares last night. He had stayed gambling until the Casino closed at two, had lost money but not heavily, and had drunk much more than usual. He had helped Mme Legrand and Mlle Reynard to hoist the somnolent figure of Mlle Grasset out of her chair at the roulette table, and resuscitate her with playful slaps into a state at which she could stagger out of the Casino and be squeezed into the Renault. He might have gone back with them to the hotel to help them in, for Françoise in her cups became as lumpy and cumbersome as a flock mattress, but it was just nearing eleven, and it had been necessary to catch Ardrossi.

  He spent the morning lying sweating on a chaise-longue by the swimming-pool, counting the minutes as they crawled past. Laura, Vicky and Françoise appeared about eleven and crowded round him, full of last night and the fact that Vicky at least had come out a winner. Françoise was no worse for the drink she had had yesterday. Hangover did not exist in her vocabulary; and it seemed fairly clear that all three of them intended to spend today in an alcoholic haze. They insisted on buying Johnny a large Pernod, and he raised no objection; he found their conversation amusing and their company helped the time to pass.

  By now they had confirmed his suspicions of what their profession was, and he listened cynically to reminiscences and anecdotes about their more peculiar clients.

  During the morning M. and Mme Thibault put in a brief appearance at the corner of the swimming-pool but, seeing who was there, as quickly left.

  At twelve Matthew and Nadine returned from Taroudant. Nadine was content but thoughtful, Matthew exuberant. This association had started quite casually for him, almost in a superficial way; she was very pretty and elegant, with a rare quality of personality which captivated him. A fillip for his holiday. But it had grown into something more than that, reaching down into the unplumbed depths of his being. For the first time in his life he knew himself to be really in love.

  For the first time he knew what head over heels meant. The day had new and more brilliant colours. Sitting in the car beside him she was beyond compare. The scent of her silky skin had got itself into his bloodstream so that she was within him, a part of him, to be remembered, savoured, cherished and soon, soon, very soon to be renewed in all its fullness and passion.

  Pierre had again suggested either that they should go on to Marrakech or stay here while he was away, swimming, sunbathing, eating and drinking and being waited on by his incomparable staff until he returned. But Nadine had tactfully said no. They had agreed to return on Thursday.

  This also really suited Matthew. He had come with just enough money in Agadir to get by, but in this company he needed more: he was
anxious not to allow Mlle Deschamps out of his sight. As long as money could be found to allow him to be with her, whether in Agadir or back in Paris, there he wanted to be. Time today to cable his mother and get her response before Thursday. Borrowing from your mother was not a practice he approved of; he had done it only twice before when in dire emergency; but this he felt was an emergency, if sublime rather than dire.

  Nadine’s thoughtfulness was not because she had not been stirred by the events of the night – rather the contrary. Only once before in her life had she been affected to this degree by a man. She liked it. She liked it very much. But that time had led to disaster. She did not want the sort of trauma that had been hers when Jean-Paul had moved out of her life. Going along with the natural sexual instincts of a woman charmed by the passion of this good-looking young Englishman went a very French practicality and intuition; and she was not yet sure about Matthew.

  She told herself it was perhaps just the burnt-child syndrome: I have been this way once before and how wonderful it was and then how unbearably awful; watch your step before you go and burn yourself again. Here was a young man of great personal quality. His knowledge of music and art – his obsession with them – his standing as an author with two or three novels to his name. Individual brilliance. But how stable was he emotionally? Capable of being carried away by the feelings of the moment. Capable of great charm – and sexual vitality – and the ability to convince that this was what he really meant and always would mean.

  Twice she had picked out contradictions in his presentation of himself. Once it had been three novels he had written, once it had been two. How many, if any, had really been published? Was it unkind to care? Nadine cared. Not on the level of his personal achievement but on the level of his inner honesty and commitment.

  In the meantime she was content enough to let his attentions wash over her like a warm sea. Nothing like this had been in her thoughts when she came to Agadir. It had happened within two days, like a flash of lightning, like an earth tremor.