From there she had followed the coastline to the west, along the foot of the Casbah’s lower buildings, past the stretch where all the sewers emptied and the stink was like a solid object in the air, to a further rocky beach which was more or less deserted. And here an old Arab fisherman had stopped her, holding forth a small piece of paper, and asked her with great seriousness in his halting Spanish to read him what was written on it.
It said: «Will the finder kindly communicate with C. J. Burnett, Esq., 52, Ashurst Road, North Finchley, London, England. April 12, 1949». She translated the request, indicating the address, and could not restrain herself from asking him where he had got the paper.
«Bottle in water,» he replied, pointing to the small waves that broke near their feet. Then he asked her what he should do. «Write the man, if you like,» she said, about to go on.
Yes, mused the old man, stroking his beard, he must write him, of course. But how, since he couldn’t write? «A friend,» she said. He looked at her searchingly and in a hesitant voice asked her if she would do it. She laughed. «I’m going for a walk,» she said, pointing up the beach away from the town. «Perhaps when I come back». And she started walking again, leaving the old man standing there, holding his bit of paper, staring after her.
She had forgotten the incident by the time she arrived back at the same spot, but there was the fisherman sitting on a rock in his rags, looking anxiously toward her as she approached. «Now you write it?» he said. «But I have no paper,» she objected. This was the beginning of a long episode in which he followed her at a distance of a few paces, all the way back along the shore, up the side hill and through the Casbah from one bacal to another in quest of an envelope and a sheet of paper.
When they had finally found a shopkeeper able to provide them with the two objects, she tried to pay for them, but the old man proudly laid his own coins on the counter and handed hers back to her. By then she thought the whole incident rather fun; it would make an amusing story to tell her friends. But she also felt in need of an immediate drink, and so she refused his invitation to go into a neighboring Arab café for tea, explaining that she must sit in a European café in order to write the letter for him properly. «Do you know one near here?» she asked him; she hoped they would not need to resort to one of the cafés in the Zoco Chico, to reach which they would have to go down steep streets and innumerable steps. He led her along several extremely narrow alleys where the shade was a blessing after the midday sun, to a small dingy place called Bar Lucifer. An extremely fat woman sat behind the counter reading a French movie magazine. Eunice ordered a gin and the old man had a gaseosa. She wrote the letter quickly, in the first person, saying she had found the bottle off Ras el Ihud, near Tangier, and was writing as requested, signing herself Abdelkader ben Saïd ben Mokhtar and giving his address. The fisherman thanked her profusely and went off to post the letter, first having insisted on paying for his gaseosa; she however stayed on and had several more gins.
The fat woman began to take an interest in her. Apparently she was not used to having women come into the bar, and this large foreigner who wore trousers and drank like a man aroused her curiosity. In French she asked Eunice a few questions about herself. Not being of a confiding nature, Eunice answered by improvising falsehoods, as she always did in similar circumstances. Then she countered with her own queries. The woman was only too eager to reply: she was Greek, her name was Madame Papaconstante, she had been eleven years in Tangier, the bar was a recent acquisition and had a few rooms in the back which were at the disposal of clients who required them. Presently Eunice thanked her and paid, promising to return that evening. She considered the place a discovery, because she was sure none of her friends knew about it.
At night the Bar Lucifer was quite a different matter. There were two bright gasoline lamps burning, so that the posters announcing bulls in San Roque and Melilla were visible, the little radio was going, and three Spaniards in overalls sat at the bar drinking beer. Madame Papaconstante, heavily made up and wearing an orange chiffon dress, walked to welcome her, her gold teeth glowing as she smiled. Behind the bar stood two Spanish girls with cheap permanent waves. Pretending to be following the men’s conversation, they simpered when the men laughed.
«Are they your daughters?» asked Eunice. Madame Papaconstante said with some force that they were not. Then she explained that they served at the bar and acted as hostesses in the private rooms. A third girl stuck her head through the beaded curtain in the doorway that led into the back; she was very young and extraordinarily pretty. She stared at Eunice for a moment in some surprise before she came out and walked across to the entrance door.
«Who’s that?» said Eunice.
A fills indigène, said Madame Papaconstante — an Arab girl who worked for her. «Very intelligent. She speaks English,» she added. The girl turned and smiled at them, an unexpected smile, warming as a sudden ray of strong sunlight on a cloudy day.
«She’s a delightful creature,» said Eunice. She stepped to the bar and ordered a gin. Madame Papaconstante followed with difficulty and stood at the end beaming, her fleshy hands spread out flat on the bar so that her numerous rings flashed.
«Won’t you have something?» suggested Eunice.
Madame Papaconstante looked astonished. It was an unusual evening in the Bar Lucifer when someone offered her a drink. «Je prendrais bien un machaquito,» she said, closing her eyes slowly and opening them again. They took their drinks to a small rickety table against the wall and sat down. The Arab girl stood in the doorway looking out into the dark, occasionally exchanging a word with a passerby.
«Hadija, ven acá,» called Madame Papaconstante. The girl turned and walked lightly to their table, smiling. Madame Papaconstante took her hand and told her to speak some English to the lady.
«You spickin English?» said the girl.
«Yes, of course. Would you like a drink?»
«I spickin. What you drink?»
«Gin». Eunice held up her glass, already nearly empty. The girl made a grimace of disgust.
«Ah no good. I like wan Coca-Cola».
«Of course». She caught the eye of one of the girls at the bar, and shouted to her: «Una, Coca-Cola, un machaquito y un gin!» Hadija went to the bar to fetch the drinks.
«She’s exquisite,» said Eunice quickly to Madame Papaconstante. «Where did you find her?»
«Oh, for many years she has been playing in the street here with the other children. It’s a poor family».
When she returned to the table with the glasses Eunice suggested she sit with them, but she pretended not to hear, and backed against the wall to remain there looking calmly down at them. There was a desultory conversation for twenty minutes or a half hour, during which Eunice ordered several more gins. She was beginning to feel very well; she turned to Madame Papaconstante. «Would you think me rude if I sat with her alone for a bit? I should like to talk with her».
«Ça va,» said Madame Papaconstante. It was unusual, but she saw no reason to object.