‘They do serve alcohol,’ she said, ‘but perhaps that had better wait until the meat.’
Instead, they drank fruit juice, freshly made and deliciously cool.
‘It’s what most Moroccans stick to,’ she said. ‘But the French — and a lot of French come here — can’t get through a whole evening without wine.’
‘This is a Moroccan evening, is it?’ he said.
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. I find it…’ He searched for the word and found that only the French one would do. ‘… sympathique.’
She seemed pleased.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is the right thing to feel.’
Everything was relaxed, soft, gentle. The voices were low and courteous. There was no loud laughter as there probably would have been in England. The people smiled and touched each other affectionately, intimate but without any sexual connotations, simply enjoying the social contact. This was Arab, he thought, at its best.
Yes, sympathique was the word. But it was an odd one to use after the way he had been spending his time. It wasn’t his preoccupation with Bossu but everywhere he had had the sense of strain, of tension barely contained. It had been there on the street that first night when he had intervened on behalf of Mustapha, there in the pig-sticking and in the presence of the soldiers, everywhere. There, too, in people’s conversations: in the conversation with Sadiq and Mr Bahnini, and with the Resident-General and Mr Suleiman, with Juliette and with Monique, running all the time like an undercurrent.
He said this to Chantale and she nodded.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘ that is Morocco, too.’
She was the only woman on the balcony. He wondered if that, too, was Morocco.
It didn’t seem to bother Chantale. But was there a hint of defiance in her assurance? A deliberate, un-Moroccan assertiveness? He wouldn’t put it past her. But if there was, it co-existed with the lack of assertiveness that he had found before in Arab women. Or was that just a question of manners, something shared with the men, a quintessential difference from Western culture?
Later, they went up another flight of stairs to another balcony, where again people were sitting at low tables and where the ripple of the fountain was even more gentle, but where they had the compensation of being more exposed to the moon so that the whole balcony was bathed in its soft light.
Some of the people up there were clearly French, and there were women among them. So far as he could see there was no sense of strain.
Waiters brought silver bowls, towels and kettles of cold water so that they could rinse their hands before eating. That, said Chantale, was absolutely required because the food was eaten with the fingers only and also because the polite thing to do was pluck out tasty morsels from the dish in front of you and offer them to your neighbour.
She reached out a hand, took up some couscous, moulded it with her fingers into a little ball and placed it on Seymour’s plate.
‘ Bismillah,’ she said. ‘That means: In the name of God. But it is not just religious, it is part of the caida. It makes the food more than just food. Not exactly holy, but special.’
Later when the main dish came, a kind of pastrilla, with layers of different meats underneath a crust of delicious flaky pastry, he reached into the dish, took out some pigeon, and put it on her plate.
‘ Bismillah,’ he said.
Sitting at the receptionist’s desk when they returned to the hotel was a middle-aged Moroccan lady.
‘My mother,’ said Chantale.
She smiled at Seymour and there was something in her smile that reminded him of her daughter. She was still a beautiful woman but the face was thin and drawn, as if it had seen harsh times, and the large, dark eyes were wary. They appraised Seymour in much the same way, he thought, as his own mother’s eyes appraised any woman he brought home for the evening. He thought he would say this to Chantale later. It might comfort her.
‘One of the pleasures of Tangier, Madame,’ he said, ‘has been meeting your daughter.’
‘Tangier has many pleasures,’ she said neutrally.
Just at that moment the front door of the hotel opened and Mustapha came in.
He stopped when he saw Chantale’s mother.
‘Madame!’ he said.
‘Why, Mustapha!’ said Chantale’s mother, with unaffected pleasure. ‘How are you keeping? And your wife?’
‘Well, Madame.’
‘And the child?’
‘Well, too, Madame. He has had chickenpox.’
‘But better now, I hope?’
‘Oh, yes, he has put it behind him. Another one is on the way.’
‘Another child? Oh, how nice for you both! Congratulations, Mustapha! And to your wife as well.’
She suddenly looked anxious.
‘Mustapha…’
‘Madame?’
‘Which midwife are you going to use?’
‘Maryam, we thought.’
Chantale’s mother pursed her lips.
‘Maryam is getting old now, Mustapha. And your wife had difficulties the last time.’
‘I know, but-’
‘Why not try Aisha?’
‘Well…’
‘If it’s money, Mustapha, we can help.’
‘It’s not money, Madame. Though thank you very much. It’s…’ He twisted awkwardly. ‘Well, the fact is, we had a little to-do with her husband a few weeks ago and he got hurt. Not badly, not badly,’ he hastened to add. ‘But things have not been the same between the families since, and I don’t like to ask her.’
‘But this is ridiculous! She’s very fond of you all, and, you know, these days, Mustapha, she would be a much better bet. You want the child to be all right, don’t you?’
‘Oh, Madame!’
‘Of course, you do. And you want your wife to be all right, too. You mustn’t let these foolish quarrels get in your way. Aisha would be much the safest choice.’
‘Yes, Madame. I know. But…’
‘But what, Mustapha?’
Mustapha hesitated.
‘I–I don’t like to go, Madame.’
‘Mustapha!’
‘Madame?’
‘Mustapha, you’re not scared, are you?’
‘Scared? Me?’
‘No, no, of course you’re not scared. I didn’t mean that. I meant that — it’s not easy for you to climb down, is it?’
‘Well, no, Madame. Not with Hussein.’
‘Would you like me to have a word with Aisha?’
Mustapha crossed the foyer and then, with unexpected grace, kissed her hand.
‘I will speak to her tomorrow.’
‘Mustapha,’ said Chantale, ‘did you come in for something?’
‘Well, yes, Chantale, as a matter of fact I did. It’s like this. We’ve heard that Ali Khadr and some of his boys are coming over tomorrow night and, knowing how you feel about these things, we wanted to tell you ahead. Knowing how you feel about these things.’
‘There is to be no fighting,’ said Chantale peremptorily.
‘No, no, there won’t be. It’s just a case of getting a few of our lads together to defend ourselves.’
‘No fighting!’
‘Yes, but they’re coming over. And we can’t just stand there, can we? I mean, it would look bad, wouldn’t it?’
‘Where does Ali Khadr come from, Mustapha?’ asked Chantale’s mother.
‘The Sukhariya.’
‘Oh, I know that part. Why don’t I go over and talk to him?’
‘Oh, no, no!’ said Mustapha, appalled. ‘You can’t do that!’
‘Oh, yes, I can. I know that part. I used to go to the mosque there. I know, why don’t I go to the mosque? They’ll soon put a stop to it.’
‘No, no, really. Madame! Really! It’s just a bit of harmless fun. We don’t want to get the mosque mixed up in this. I don’t think religion and — well, not religion — ought to mix.’
‘I’ll go this evening,’ said Chantale’s mother with decision. ‘After seeing Aisha.’
Mustapha left, unhappy. In the moment before the door closed Seymour heard Idris’s voice.
‘Well, you really mucked that up, didn’t you?’
Chapter Eight
The next morning Seymour went to see Mr Bahnini. He showed him the membership list of the hunt that Monsieur L’Espinasse had given him.