‘In general, then. Tell me about him as a man.’
She laughed.
‘As a man? Well, there I could tell you a lot!’
‘I have no wish to pry, Madame, but it would help me if I could get a picture of him. As a person. I know nothing about him, you see.’
‘Where to begin!’ She thought. ‘Well, why not! Everyone else knows, so why shouldn’t you? I will begin with me. Let me tell you the story of my life. It is a very ordinary story, the old story of a rich man and a poor girl.
‘My parents were settlers. They came out here to farm. And, like most settlers, they struggled. We were poor. We came out here to make our fortune but instead we lost it. So you can understand that my parents did not dissuade a rich neighbour when he began to pay attention to me. I was beautiful then.
‘No, don’t say I am beautiful still. That is the sort of thing all men say. And it is not true. This country is hard on women. But I was beautiful then and I caught Bossu’s eye. He had bought some property nearby. He began to pay attention to me and I was flattered. No, more; I was bowled over. I was, after all, only fifteen.
‘And my parents did not dissuade him. Even when they learned that he was already married. They were poor, you understand? Desperate. And he was a rich man. Very rich, for Tangier. So they did not dissuade him. And they didn’t say anything after he bought me an apartment in Tangier and I moved into it.
‘Well, that’s it. You asked me about Bossu, Bossu, the man. Does that tell you something about Bossu, the man?’
‘Yes, it does.’
‘Since he died, I have had time to think things over. And I realize that to him I was never more than a possession. Like the farm he bought next to my parents’ farm. He liked possessions. But he never did anything with them. He never built on them. I had hoped, when he put me in that flat, that one day we might build something together. But we never did. He wasn’t that kind of man. He never built anything. Not even in business.’
‘Not even in business?’
‘He wasn’t that kind of businessman. What he did was to bring people together. He knew everybody, not just in Tangier but all over the country. If you were a business which wanted to develop the interior, build railways, say, or roads, he knew who to put you in touch with. The local Caid, local contractors, local sheikhs. Bossu would always know someone who could help you. That is important in a country like this where everything is personal. If you wanted to do something, Bossu could make it possible. He became also indispensable.
‘But, of course, things could go wrong. He worked with a lot of people, and some of them weren’t very nice people. There were people in the interior who were little better than bandits. And there were developers from the city who were ruthless. He put them together and that could lead to — as in Casablanca. You know about Casablanca?’
‘No.’
‘There was trouble there. Big trouble. About five or six years ago. It was to do with a quarry and a railway. Bossu had put the two together in some project. Things went wrong and there were riots. It was very bad. The army was sent in and they killed a lot of people.
‘But some say that that was the idea. To get the city to explode, so that the army would have to step in, and then France could take over the whole country I don’t know if that is true, but that is what people say. And the Moroccans believe it.
‘So Casablanca and what happened there is very big to Moroccans. And Bossu was right in the middle of it. I don’t know exactly how he was involved but I know that he was involved. This was six years ago and I was still young. I did not understand these things. But I remember him coming home and saying, “This will either make me or break me.” Afterwards, he thought it had made him.’
She laughed.
‘They all trusted him, you see, after that. Trust! Bossu!’
She laughed again.
‘They used him more and more. All over the country. Whenever there was something big. Because they thought they could rely on him to look after their interests.’
‘Was that why he was put on the committee?’
‘Of course! The big businessmen all knew him and they wanted someone like him in a big position on the committee so that he could look after their interests. And the settlers, too. They thought: he is one of us, he will see that things don’t go wrong.
‘But perhaps — perhaps something did go wrong. And perhaps… Perhaps he was right. On both counts. It did make him, yes; but in the end it broke him. I don’t know. I don’t know about these things.’
She looked at him over the top of her glass, weighing it, considering.
‘But, shall I tell you something? I liked being possessed. Women do. And now that I am no longer possessed, I feel… disoriented. Not bereft. He never loved me and I never loved him. Just disoriented. But free.’
Chantale was over on the other side of the Tent talking to Sheikh Musa. Seymour was a little surprised. He didn’t know how it was in Morocco, or how Sheikh Musa was, but you wouldn’t have seen this in Istanbul, nor, he suspected, in many other Muslim countries. A woman talking so familiarly to a man. But, of course, she was half French, too. Perhaps it was the French half that Musa was addressing. And yet… and yet they were both drinking lemonade. That was a Muslim thing to do. Curious. Not just curious: intriguing.
She saw him looking at her and waved a hand. Shortly afterwards she detached herself from Sheikh Musa and came across to him.
‘I see you’ve caught up with Monique?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you find her?’
‘Interesting. And rather nice.’
‘She is.’ She seemed pleased. ‘She should never have got hooked up with Bossu.’
‘It was Bossu we were talking about.’
‘Of course. And what did she tell you?’
‘A bit about herself. And a lot about Bossu.’
‘What did she tell you about Bossu?’
‘We talked generally,’ he said guardedly.
Chantale laughed.
‘Well, if you find out something particular, come and tell me. I, too, am interested in Bossu. Perhaps we could do a trade? You tell me what you find out and I’ll tell you what I know.’
‘I might take you up on that.’
‘Please do. What you tell me doesn’t have to appear in the newspaper. My interest in Bossu is a private one.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
She smiled and moved away. Afterwards he found himself wondering about her. She had hazel eyes. Or would you call them green?
The heat in the Tent, and the noise, was almost unbearable. He made his way to the back and then out into the enclosure. Millet and Meunier were standing there with drinks in their hands: not lemonade.
‘What’s it been like for you today?’ he asked. ‘Busy?’
‘Quiet. A fall or two, but nothing serious.’
The riders were returning now. De Grassac went past, leading a horse.
‘How is Sybille?’ asked Millet.
‘Oh, fine. Fine.’
‘She always goes very well,’ said Millet.
He had taken them to be referring to de Grassac’s wife, or girlfriend, perhaps; but maybe not.
‘How many did you get?’ asked Meunier.
‘Two. Better than the last time. I got nowhere last time. By the time I got there, there was always someone ahead of me.’
‘How many were killed altogether today?’ asked Seymour.
‘Ten, I think. Including one shot one.’
‘Shot one?’ said de Grassac, puzzled. ‘That can’t be right!’
Meunier’s eyes met Seymour’s neutrally.
‘So two is pretty good,’ said Millet. ‘De Grassac’s an expert.’
‘Boileau is better than me,’ said de Grassac modestly, ‘and Levret is coming along, don’t you think?’
‘He got two today.’
‘That’s good for someone with so little experience. He’s only been out here six months.’
‘I thought he spent all his time hunting women?’
‘Most of it. But he hunts pigs as well.’
Mustapha and Idris arrived at this point, limping.