‘God knows everything.’
‘It’s a bad lookout, Idris.’
Idris, too, was silent for a moment, reflecting.
‘On the other hand,’ he said, ‘there are things that will count for you. You have, after all, been observing Ramadan, and that surely must count for something.’
‘Well, that is true, Idris,’ said Mustapha, relieved.
‘And then, since our friend arrived and we have been looking after him, we have not actually been doing things that we ought not to have been doing.’
‘That also is true, Idris. And it is bound to come on the credit side.’
‘The credit side may even outweigh the debit side by now.’
‘God be praised!’ said Mustapha, relieved.
‘Besides, God sees all and knows all. He knows that we are frail.’
‘Bound to,’ agreed Mustapha.
‘And makes allowances.’
‘God be praised!’
Silence.
‘Idris?’
‘Yes, Mustapha?’
‘He’s going to have to make a lot of allowance in my case.’
When they got back to the hotel Seymour assured Mustapha and Idris that he could now safely be left to his own devices.
‘That’s what you think,’ said Mustapha.
‘Look, I’ll be all right. I’m used to handling things on my own. In England-’
‘Ah, in England!’ said Mustapha sceptically.
‘I am a policeman, after all!’
Mustapha said nothing, but exuded doubt.
‘Anyway, who is going to attack me? I won’t go anywhere daft, I promise you. And there isn’t anyone out looking for me.’
‘No?’ said Mustapha and Idris, together.
‘No. No one in Tangier has even heard of me.’
Mustapha and Idris said nothing.
‘Well, have they?’ he demanded.
‘Not heard of you exactly,’ said Mustapha.
‘But seen you,’ said Idris. ‘And once seen, not forgotten. They’ll want to pay you back.’
‘Pay me back? But I haven’t done anything to be paid back for!’
‘No?’
‘Look, stop being so mysterious and tell me what this is all about. To the best of my knowledge I’ve not offended anybody since I arrived in Tangier!’
‘Just think,’ said Idris.
‘The first night,’ said Mustapha.
‘The first night?’ said Seymour. ‘Nothing happened the first night.’
‘Was helping me nothing?’ asked Mustapha.
‘Helping — you don’t mean that bunch could have it in for me?’
‘Things like that are not forgotten.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘Maybe, but we’ll stick around. We know Ali Khadr and his boys.’
In the end he half persuaded them. Mustapha went home to his evening meal while Idris nobly accompanied Seymour to his.
He passed a little French restaurant and saw Monsieur L’Espinasse sitting inside at the window. He was dining alone and his face brightened when he saw Seymour.
‘No, no. Please. It will be a pleasure.’
So Seymour, another single man, joined him at the table and benefited from the Secretary’s deep knowledge of the dishes.
‘Some say it is the sauce,’ said L’Espinasse, ‘and some say the care with which Vincent chooses the raw materials.
It is all those things but as well he has a certain — touch. Yes? A flair. I have always found him very reliable.’
From one reliable French topic to another, and soon they turned to a different French passion, la chasse. There was, said the Secretary, a natural affinity between the French and hunting. So it was not surprising how the new people took to it when they came out here. Of course, wild boars had been hunted in France since the Middle Ages and the pursuit was still practised in many parts of the country. But not quite like this: the mad (the word which suggested itself most readily to Seymour) chase on horseback armed only with a lance. And the boars, like the Moroccans, were wilder. But this, concluded the Secretary, gave only the more opportunity for the expression of French elan.
‘Yes, indeed!’ said Seymour enthusiastically. It was wonderful to see the true French spirit carried across the sea in this way. And unfortunate that the Moroccans, with the exception of Sheikh Musa, did not appear to have taken it up with the zest of the French. But that was probably because they lacked that natural affinity the Secretary had spoken of.
From what he had seen, however, there was no shortage of devotees in Tangier. He asked what sort of backgrounds they came from.
“The members, you mean? Mostly settlers. People on the farms locally, although some come from quite a distance, fifty kilometres or more. The farms are all in the coastal strip. It’s not very deep, twenty kilometres at most, but, of course, it goes right along the coast. It includes what will be the Spanish Zone under the new treaty, and that is a source of worry to some of the settlers. I mean, they’re French, not Spanish. But will they still be eligible for the pig-sticking? That’s important because it gets them off the farm for a bit and they can forget for a while how much money they’re not making. I speak from experience. I’m a settler myself.
‘And then there are the soldiers, of course. There’s usually a big contingent of those. I would say they’re the keenest members. Goes with the job, I suppose. If you’re cavalry, and a lot of them are. And then, of course, they’ve the time to practise. Some of them are really rather good.’
‘Businessmen?’ asked Seymour.
‘A few. Like Bossu. But not many. They’re all too busy making money. More, people in professional jobs, doctors, lawyers, that sort of thing. Like Meunier and Millet. Though those two don’t actually hunt.’
‘ Fonctionnaires?’
Officials? There weren’t many of those at the moment, although doubtless that would change when the Protectorate was more established. At the moment most officials, in fact practically all of them, except when they were French army officers, were Moroccan and worked in the old Ministries under the Mahzen.
‘Under the shade of the Parasol,’ said L’Espinasse with a smile, ‘where they can doze in peace.’ No, they weren’t much interested.
‘Not even in Musa’s old Ministry?’
‘The Ministry of War? No, they’re either old soldiers like Musa but who believe in killing people not pigs; or young men who are interested only in the latest armaments and pooh-pooh the whole idea of pig-sticking. And, besides…’
‘Yes?’
The Secretary frowned.
‘There is a question about them; how far are they really committed to the Protectorate? Some of them are — well, a little difficult. A little too political, if you know what I mean. They have ideas — ideas which are not always ours. They keep their distance. Well, I can understand that. But it is unfortunate because we don’t develop a shared — well, I don’t know what it is we share, but it is something. Or could be. No, it’s rather sad that the young keep their distance. And, of course, that means that they don’t become members of the hunt.’
‘So all French, then?’
‘Nearly all. Except, of course, Musa and one or two of his friends.’
Most interesting. Seymour would not be here long but he would like to get to know people. The members of the hunt, for instance. They seemed a nice bunch. Monsieur L’Espinasse had spoken of affinity and he, Seymour, certainly felt…
He wondered if the Secretary could even let him have a list of members. Monsieur L’Espinasse certainly could. In fact, he had in his pocket at this very moment the membership booklet and if Monsieur would like…
Chapter Seven
The bank was a modern one, European in style, with glassed-in counters and besuited men all over the place. Not entirely European, though: the men were wearing fezzes and great fans were whirring overhead. The manager was Moroccan but you would have taken him for French. He spoke French naturally and fluently and looked French with his natty dark suit and carefully cut hair. He had Macfarlane’s letter of introduction on the desk in front of him.
‘Monsieur Seymour?’ They shook hands. ‘And what can I do for you?’