Tremor

  While she had been helping her cousin Étienne in Marseilles – where she had gone after being driven out of Paris – it really had been that: open from eleven in the morning till two the following morning. A lot of housework thrown in, cooking and cleaning; no proper wages, only so much a customer and relying on tips. And in Marseilles particularly there had been the business of ‘foreigners’. Sometimes Algerians would flood in, and some of the girls, not fancying them, would lock themselves in the lavatory. Then the men would turn nasty and threaten to break the place up. It was best not to call the police, even in Marseilles, because that way you drew attention to your calling. Not that the police were above dropping in for a quick one when they felt like it.

  Anyway, good riddance to all that. It was a sunny morning and they were on their holidays – real holidays this time – staying in a posh hotel; none of them had had anything like it before. Laura eased herself out of bed, stared disgustedly at her bloated face in the mirror; mon Dieu, that needed attention before any other inhabitant of the hotel saw it. Particularly that tall thin man whose knee joints cracked, the one she had sat next to on the plane. He’d looked a bit oncoming, that fellow. Not that she wanted any action of that sort, but vanity told her that she preferred to reject him, not be rejected by his indifference.

  She went to the telephone and ordered breakfast for three. What luxury! This really was a smart hotel, and a white-coated waiter would come in with an overflowing tray. Then they could all sit out on the latticed balcony on canvas chairs and sip coffee and bite croissants and chatter together and view the scene and make plans for the day.

  She waddled over to the bed and pulled the thin sheet back, exposing the fact that Françoise had been sleeping naked. Laura gave the big round bottom a hearty smack, and went across to wake Vicky. Then she pulled up the blinds with a vigorous rattle.

  The sun streamed out of a cloudless but hot and sultry sky, the swimming-pool glimmered among the palms and the ferns; beyond was the sea, well out at the moment, glassy and colourless like a giant jellyfish with a white lip. A few people already sat by the pool under striped umbrellas. The beach was dotted too, and near the sea a football match was in progress.

  III

  The hotel Saada was six storeys high, square but elegant, with white stone balconies and red-striped sunblinds to every window. It was the design of one of the new young architects who were springing up in Morocco and putting up fine, elegant buildings, as aesthetically pleasing as any in the world. It had been open only five years and at this stage was full.

  Matthew Morris was among the first up. Always an early, optimistic riser, even though his industry had never quite matched his enterprise.

  In a blue linen shirt and white shorts he breakfasted off orange juice and apricot jam with croissants and lovely strong coffee. Then he strolled out into the sun. It was pretty hot – hotter than he had ever expected in February. The temperature on the thermometer by the pool registered 30 C in the shade. That must be about 86 F by his reckoning. One would have to look out for sunburn on the first day.

  But the sun was hazy and the sea looked only moderately inviting. A howling dog had disturbed him in the night.

  He wasn’t fond of pools so he strolled down to the beach with bathing trunks and a towel. Here a few umbrellas sprouted, centred round a kiosk that served drinks and snacks. He chose an umbrella as far away from the rest as possible, and threw his book down. While he was changing he stared back the way he had come, looked out at the growing ring of hotels, realized the potential of such a scene. The beach was enormous, not only in breadth but in depth. Two full-size football games were being played, yet they were dwarfed in the expanse of fine sand. With the aeroplane opening up every likely sunspot, Agadir was set for a blossoming future. There were great areas of land adjoining the beach as yet undeveloped. With a little money to invest, who knew what the profit might be?

  Unfortunately he had no money. (Couldn’t really afford this holiday.) The idea of making a big profit by investing in something at the right moment and selling at the right moment strongly appealed to him. Writing novels, whatever the ignorant might think, was grinding hard work. If it paid off, maybe that was an acceptable position. When it didn’t pay off, or paid so poorly relative to the amount of work put in, it was hardly a tolerable way of life.

  He walked and walked, first over soft sand, then over firm sand, and stepped through the little lip of white into the sea. It was not as warm as he had expected. This after all was the Atlantic. But it was the contrast with the exceptional temperature of the air. He swam along towards some rocks, then lay floating for a time just enjoying himself. It was worth coming, just for this.

  He wondered when he should ring Edouard de Blaye. Without any particular effort on his part, he had come to know a number of influential people. A Wykehamist, single, in his twenties, good-mannered, with a keen sense of humour and enjoyment, able to play the piano and the guitar, fluent in three languages, fond of the arts, he was a natural for the invitation to dinner or a weekend. This had been even more so in Paris than in London; and among his acquaintances, or friends, was a slim blond Norman Frenchman whose father was the very rich Baron de Blaye.

  They hadn’t seen each other for more than a year, but Edouard had told Matthew that his father had built a luxury winter house in Morocco – at Taroudant, only fifty miles from Agadir – and Edouard had issued a vague but warmly meant invitation to come and see them if he were in the vicinity and would like to spend a few days there. It had been one of the reasons why Matthew had chosen Agadir over other possibilities; it would be agreeable to accept the invitation at the end of his holiday, or earlier if it suited. He had only booked for one week at the Saada. It would be agreeable to spend a few days in luxury – and free luxury – before returning to England and life entirely on his own again, in genteel poverty.

  Matthew had never been one of these angry young men – he was too easygoing – but once, when a schoolboy of fifteen, he had run away from home. He got on quite well with his stepfather, who was a successful stockbroker, but he felt he had nothing much in common with him – nor really with his mother either – and did not want to go to Scotland with them. When he was eventually found and brought back he was decidedly unpopular as his disappearance had wrecked their holiday.

  He had called himself Matthew Arkell, which was a name he picked out of the obituaries in The Times, and had wandered cheerfully with his guitar almost as far west as he could go. Working a day here and there, playing in a pub at nights, he had finished up at a farm at St Just in Penwith, where they had eventually found him. He had good-temperedly explained his case, his reasons for going, his experiences on the road, clearly and without rancour or regret. All very simple, yet all very complex. John Morris had taken him to a psychiatrist, who had told them not to worry, the boy was passing through an identity crisis. ‘What rot,’ Matthew said when his mother incautiously told him the verdict. ‘It isn’t that at all. I know damn well who I am, but I also know that who I am is not who I want to be!’

  In the end he had written it up in a humorous way after his return to school; and putting it on paper had helped him to sort out his feelings. He won a prize for this effort and it was printed in the school magazine – presumably being thought acceptable because it was home he had run away from, not school.

  It was time to go inshore, but his body had grown accustomed to the water, and it no longer felt cold. Rona, he knew, would have loved this, and he felt briefly a heel for not having told her where he was going and invited her to come, possibly, just possibly, with the idea …

  But it couldn’t ever be. She had made her feelings explicit, and she wasn’t one to change her mind like a weathercock. There had been a girl like that once in Venice, but not Rona. Her mind was too logical; too cool; it had command of her feelings. And to tell the truth, if he could make enough to live on without her, he would be quite content.

  If he faced up to the facts, looke
d at himself in the mirror, weighed life up, he was quite relieved to be out of the married state for a while. He was gregarious, didn’t like to be alone, but it was good to have no ties. After all he was not leaving a little wife who depended upon him for support – the very reverse! Rona might miss his lively company, but she would enjoy not having to spend half her salary on him.

  He wondered what sort of a temperament Mlle Deschamps possessed. (A glance at the register had told him her name. Nadine Deschamps – some address in Paris.) She was very beautiful. He thought it likely she was connected with the stage or high-class modelling. But alone? She surely had no need to be. Between engagements? Between lovers? Would she have any feelings to spare for him? Perhaps today or tomorrow some dark-chinned young Frenchman would turn up and claim her.

  His feet touched sand, and he ploughed out of the water, shaking his head like a dog to rid himself of surplus moisture.

  The current and his own energy had taken him well north towards the port. Some Moroccan boys were heading and dribbling a ball. It came towards him and he dribbled it back, tricking a couple of the boys before falling in a heap just short of their improvised goalposts. They giggled and he had another go, forcing it past the grinning lad in goal. Dusting sand as he got up, he waved to them and went on. Some older lads, fishing, eyed him speculatively but clearly concluded that in his bathing trunks he would not have a cigarette to give them. The old town clustered in the shelter of the hill with the Kasbah like a fort on the summit. A dark cloud haze obscured the sky behind; it might have been smog except that there was no industry to create it.

  A yellow dog was rolling in the sand, perhaps to rid itself of fleas. When it saw Matthew it stood up and came towards him, tail wagging. He had seen two other dogs of similar size and colour playing around in the sand. They seemed to have no owners but they looked neither ill-fed nor ill-treated. Being welcomed and patted, this one decided to follow Matthew for about half a mile before finding some other interest and trotting off towards the sea.

  Then Matthew saw the girl. She had just come onto the beach and was spreading her towel under an umbrella. She also had chosen an umbrella as far away from the rest as possible, but in a different direction from his own. She was wearing a white bikini, and her slender limbs were already lightly tanned as if not unaccustomed to the sun. He picked up his own towel and, since there were still umbrellas to spare, walked over and chose one about twenty yards from her. His intention had been to go in and ring Edouard de Blaye, but that could wait.

  The heat was so considerable that his body had dried completely on the way back; his hair was only just damp at the base of the neck. He clasped his knees and watched the French girl go in to swim. What a walk! One supposed she had been taught, but it simply looked elegant and wonderfully assured. His mind drifted off to imagine some emergency in which he could be of incalculable service to her and so begin a friendship in which she was eagerly grateful to him and anxious to be his friend. But could you, dare you try something on with a woman with a walk like that?

  A shadow moved across his sunbed. ‘Hi, Matt, enjoying the view? Nice bit of stuff over there, isn’t she. Gor, makes you feel you’ve been wasting your life!’

  Jack Frazier. In white slacks which looked as if they’d never been on before, short-sleeved scarlet shirt, floppy sunhat. Matthew had noticed earlier that they were in adjoining bedrooms on the second floor. Frazier’s thin brown aquiline face looked darker under the hat: he would have passed for a Moroccan. The inevitable damp cigarette end smouldered at the corner of his mouth, and the small suitcase was tucked under his arm.

  ‘Never known it like this before. Least, not in February. I reckon it’s the Chergui.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The Chergui. Usually we get sea breezes here, but this is the hot wind from the Sahara. Phew! What time is it?’

  ‘Ten thirty.’

  Frazier fiddled with his watch. ‘Always forget to change it.’

  ‘You not swimming?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘Maybe. Not yet, though. Waiting for my car. I ordered it while I was in Casablanca. Said nine thirty. But everything’s late now, since the French left. Slack, y’know. You mark my words. All these wonderful roads the French built: they’re all going to pot. Give ’em a few years to slip back. The Arabs are all the same.’

  ‘Are you French?’ Matthew asked.

  Frazier looked at him sharply. ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘I just thought you might be. I know enough French to know that you speak it without an English accent.’

  ‘Ah, hum, yes, well.’ Frazier kicked at the sand. ‘Haven’t lived in France for donkey’s years.’ He looked at his watch to make sure he had got it right. ‘Wonder if those bastards have brought the car yet.’

  Frazier was off. As he moved away he said: ‘ I got some business this morning. Maybe I’ll swim this afternoon. See you.’

  After he had gone Matthew closed his eyes. The sultry day had given him a headache. He must have dozed off, because he opened his eyes and the sea was empty. He screwed up his eyes to look for a bobbing head: none there. He half started up in alarm, then saw the French girl had returned to her sunbed. She was just lying down and rubbing her legs with a sun cream.

  Being olive-skinned, Matthew browned easily without burning, and usually he didn’t bother with cream – it messed up one’s clothes – but this sun, though a bit hazy, might be fairly lethal.

  He dozed again – very strange to be so sleepy and lethargic. Must ring Edouard. Elevenish was a suitable time. He woke to see the stray yellow dog inching its way into the shadow of Mlle Deschamps’s umbrella. In spite of indolent attempts on her part to wave it away it crept, belly on sand, a little bit closer.

  Matthew got up, walked across to the other umbrella and tried to pick up the dog and carry it away. Not a success; the dog weighed a ton and soon wriggled away from him and squatted down a few yards off.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said in English.

  ‘Not a success, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You should not have tried to pick him up. They seem gentle animals, but it is better to be careful.’

  He dusted his hands and made to scare the dog away. It shrank back another six feet, hesitated, looked at him with a bloodshot eye and loped off.

  ‘It is not so much that I mind his company,’ she said, ‘ but I do not fancy the possibility of – of the morsure de puce.’

  Matthew smiled at her. She was sitting up clasping her knees.

  ‘You knew I was English?’

  She nodded. ‘I supposed so. Though I heard you speak fluent French last night.’

  ‘I spent two years in Paris.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You are from Paris, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a pause.

  He said: ‘I am grateful to the dog.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was trying to think of some excuse to come over and speak to you.’ He laughed infectiously.

  He could not see her eyes for the dark glasses, but the frank approach didn’t seem to have offended her.

  She said: ‘It is so hot. Usually there is a breeze from the sea.’

  ‘My friend Frazier tells me this is from the Sahara. I’ve forgotten the name he gave it. He says it’s very unusual for this time of year … You have been here before, mademoiselle?’

  ‘Once, yes.’

  She had not invited him to sit down.

  ‘This is my first visit to Morocco,’ he said. ‘I hope to hire a car. Do you have one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have a friend in Taroudant. I intend to see him. You have friends here?’

  ‘I am simply taking a break. And looking for the sun.’

  ‘I hope there’s not going to be a storm.’

  ‘If there is it will soon be over.’

  They watched the three Frenchwomen who had wended their way through the gardens and were now ploughing through the soft sand o
f the beach towards the sea. Their beach attire was no smarter than their travel costumes last night. The youngest wore a bikini, the others were in one-piece suits, but they all looked as if the swimgear had been borrowed from someone else. They bulged in the expected places and some unexpected places besides. Breasts were reluctant to remain covered, thighs wobbled, hair escaped from under fussy caps. But any thoughts that they might be regarded as amusing or even ludicrous never occurred to them. They talked in loud voices and laughed and puffed out cheeks at the heat, and the youngest one tripped on ahead while they called comic remarks to her. Presently they were in the sea with squeals and squawks and waving arms. Only one, the oldest one, it seemed, could swim, and they stayed bobbing about and splashing the water at shoulder level.

  Matthew looked at Nadine, and they exchanged smiles.

  ‘I don’t see any life-saving equipment,’ he said.

  ‘There’s a belt and rope by the pool … At least these ladies are enjoying themselves.’

  ‘Are you not?’

  She shrugged. ‘ I did not mean that.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t mean that.’

  There was another silence, then he excused himself, saying he had a telephone call to make.

  III

  ‘This is the Baron de Blaye’s residence.’