‘You can wait too long, you know, Idris.’
‘Waiting to see if Khabradji’s got one on the way this time. And, of course, if she has, we’ll get married. Only I don’t want to marry her if she’s not — well, you need to be sure, don’t you? Sure she can have children.’
‘Well, there is that.’
‘I’ve wondered if I ought to wait a bit longer even then. Just to make sure it’s a boy.’
‘Well, Idris, these things are in the hand of God, and once you know she can bear one, I wouldn’t bother about the others. Even if the first is only a girl. I mean, she’ll be on the right lines, won’t she? And sooner or later it’s bound to come right and you’ll have a boy.’
There was a silence.
Then Idris said:
‘I think, as a matter of fact, Mustapha, that there could be one on the way right now.’
‘Well, that’s very good. That’s very good, Idris.’
‘But Khabradji is saying: now I’ve got to do my bit.’
‘But if one is on the way, haven’t you done-’
‘No, no, she means a house. And the things that go inside it. She’s already made a list. “That’s all very well,” I say, “but it’s all got to wait until I’ve made a hit.” “Go on and make a hit, then,” she says, “and don’t take too long about it.” So the fact is, the sooner we make a run, the better.’
‘Yes, well, you go ahead and line up a truck. And then we can get started.’
A pause. Then ‘Mustapha?’
‘Yes?’
‘What are we going to put in it? On the down run, I mean?’
‘Guns?’
‘If it’s going to be guns, we’ll have to set that up.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Mustapha decisively.
‘And ammunition,’ said Idris.
‘Of course.’
Another silence. Then ‘Mustapha?’
‘Yes, Idris?’
‘We’ll need to take someone with us. We’ll need a mechanic. Those pissing roads tear a truck apart.’
‘Well, they do, Idris, if it’s a truck like the last one you got.’
‘You can’t get better ones!’ protested Idris. ‘Not for our sort of money.’
‘Of course you can!’
‘No, you can’t. You haven’t been able to for some time now. First, because there are a lot of people running arms down now and they’ve got more money than we have. That Frenchman, for instance. The one our friend is interested in. Money no object! And then, besides, mechanics are not too keen these days. Not since that truck was blown up.’
‘That was years ago!’
‘I know. But it’s the sort of thing people remember. Especially if they’re a mechanic. Like the one who was killed.’
‘Pay them more.’
‘It’s easy to say that, Mustapha, but if we’re paying more for the truck as well…’
Another silence.
‘Idris?’
‘Yes, Mustapha?’
‘The truck that was blown up: that was a very long time ago.’
‘It was, Mustapha. But people remember it. Especially in times like the present.’
‘I remember it,’ said Mustapha, after a moment.
‘And so do I,’ said Idris. ‘Bloody terrifying, wasn’t it? We weren’t that far behind. In fact, I thought for a moment that it was we that were goners, not him.’
‘They must have put something in the road,’ said Mustapha. ‘Covered it over with sand.’
‘I saw the bastards,’ said Idris. ‘They were lying down beside the road. That doesn’t look right, I thought. They’re up to something. Only I reckon the bloke in front didn’t see it in time. Whoosh, it went!’
‘I jumped on the brakes,’ said Mustapha, ‘and turned the truck. “Let’s get to hell out of here,” I said.’
‘We don’t want anything like that happening this time,’ said Idris.
‘We certainly don’t!’ said Mustapha fervently.
When Seymour came down to go out for a meal Chantale was working at her desk. He lingered, half hoping he might persuade her to come out with him.
‘Can’t!’ she said. ‘I’ve got to finish this.’
‘More gossip?’
‘It’s something I’ve got to get to the printer’s tonight.’
‘Oh!’ said Seymour, disappointed.
‘It’s for the boys.’
‘The boys?’
‘Sadiq and his friends. I promised Awad. It’s a stunt they’re up to and they want some publicity for it. I’m going to try the main newspapers but if they don’t want it, I’ll put it in New Dawn.’
‘You write for New Dawn?’
‘I write for anybody who’ll print me.’
‘Even if they can’t pay you?’
‘I have a soft spot for New Dawn. Their heart is in the right place. Even if their head isn’t. There are not many papers these days who stand up for Morocco. Old Morocco, I mean, not French Morocco. New Dawn is one of the few.’
‘I’m surprised,’ said Seymour. He hesitated. ‘I would have thought New Dawn wasn’t quite your line.’
‘Why would you have thought that?’
‘Difficult for you, I know. But I would have thought that perhaps your sympathies were with the French.’
Chantale pushed her writing away.
‘I’m torn,’ she said. ‘On this as on everything. Half of me says Morocco is a backward place and the French will improve it. Particularly for women. The other half shrieks and says, “Don’t do this to us!” ’
‘I can understand that.’
She toyed with her pencil.
‘I gather you’ve met Benchennouf?’
‘Yes. Sadiq took me to see him.’
‘And what did you think of him?’
‘Well…’
Chantale laughed.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Well!’
‘I was really interested in what he might have to tell me about Casablanca. At the time of the trouble. And about the part that Bossu played.’
‘And what did he tell you?’ Chantale asked.
‘It was mostly about the part that New Dawn played.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Chantale. ‘It would be.’
‘Apparently New Dawn had got details of some contracts. Benchennouf said that it really enabled him to take the lid off.’
She seemed amused.
‘If it did,’ she said wryly, ‘they very soon put it on again!’
‘Yes. He said that New Dawn was suppressed and that he had to get out of Casablanca in a hurry. And so he was never quite able to make use of the information. That is, until recently.’
‘Yes,’ said Chantale. ‘That’s right.’
‘But that when Bossu was appointed clerk to Macfarlane’s committee he suddenly saw how he could make use of it.’
‘ “He” suddenly saw?’ said Chantale. ‘He wouldn’t have seen it in a million years! I suggested it.’
‘ You suggested it?’
Chapter Twelve
' Perhaps,’ said Chantale, ‘I should tell you something. It is about my family; and in particular about my father. You may have heard something of this, but I want to tell you myself.
‘My father was a soldier. He came from one of those military families in which for many generations the men have been soldiers. So it was natural for him to become one too. He went to military college, the best, and did very well. He won all sorts of honours and was chosen as the best cadet of his year. All sorts of things were predicted for him.
‘When he graduated he was posted to Algeria, which he liked. It was where the action was and where there were chances to excel. Shortly after he arrived in Algeria he met my mother. They fell in love. Whatever my father did, he did passionately. And so he fell passionately in love. But there was, of course, a complication. My mother wasn’t French. She was Moroccan. Not Algerian, you understand? She just happened to be visiting. She had relations in Algiers. There were three sisters and they were all beautiful and so there were always officers visiting the house. It wasn’t common, but the family was well to do and European in its ways. And one day my mother met my father.
‘I told you that my father was passionate. He wanted to marry her. My mother’s relations were aghast, and so was his family back in France. It wasn’t done, you understand? They wanted her to marry a decent young Muslim, Moroccan, preferably, but Algerian would do. But my father persuaded them. Or perhaps he didn’t persuade them, perhaps he just went ahead and did it. He was like that. It was the way he was.