He was the only Englishman to live in Dradeb, though he felt no shame about that. Over the years he'd learned Arabic, enough to get him by, and now he had friendships with his neighbors and Moroccans all over town. That was more than anyone on the Mountain could claim-those people didn't know they were in Morocco half the time. He, at least, had some contact with the world, knew Moroccans, shared their struggle to survive.
Better that, he thought, than the easy life, though now he wished he owned more than TP. Why? Why had they turned on him? How could they have been so cruel? They had stood there, supposedly his friends, simply stood there, nodded at Kelly, and acquiesced. He'd been insulted to his face, and not one of them had come to his defense. Were they all so false-Jack Whyte, Jill Packwood, the Drears? Was it true, as Derik had told him, that the Calloways made fun of him behind his back? He couldn't bear the thought-it hurt too much-that his decade in Tangier had added finally up to that.
He was in the middle of Dradeb, lost in the odor of the slum, when suddenly something hit him in the back. The pain was sharp, quick, and instinctively he cried out. Some men sitting in a cafe looked up. He heard laughter and obscene Arabic words. He turned to see a gang of boys, stones in their hands, poised to throw at him again. One of the men said something, there was some shouting back and forth, and then the boys threw down their stones and ran up an alley out of sight.
They had hit him in the shoulder; he could feel the bruise. The man who'd stopped them came over and shook his head. He was old, bearded, a gold tooth in the center of his mouth. Did the foreign gentleman need assistance? Did he need help in getting home?
Laurence thanked him, shook his head, and continued on his way. At least, he thought, the older generation still is decent, though not the Moroccan young. What had just happened would have been unthinkable a year or so before, but now for some strange reason all the young Moroccans were turning mean. It was all those Kung Fu films, he was sure-in Dradeb, often, he saw boys practicing chops and kicks. What did it mean, this anger? Why this hostility toward foreigners when tourism was the bread and butter of the town? Now, lately, more and more he felt this violence in the poorer sections, a vague and generalized rage.
He turned up an alley and entered his house, past the smell of the septic that oozed always near the door. The building wasn't so bad, on the edge of the slum, away from the worst sections, in a quarter that was vaguely middle class. He had two small rooms on the first floor, separated by an archway, ventilated by a window on the street. No hot water, of course, but a clean well around the back; no central heating, not even a fireplace, but he had a butane heater and in winter piled blankets on his bed. There was a toilet, Moroccan style-two cement footprints set into the floor. He didn't mind. And there was electricity, at least, which was a blessing since he liked to read.
He went to his bedroom, hung up his jacket, took off his shirt, inspected his wound. He wasn't cut, though the bruise was tender to the touch. He lay down on the bed that had been a gift from Musica Codd, thought over the evening, and wished that he could sob. But there were no tears left-too many parts lost, too many lovers gone, too many failures, too many disappointments had used them up. Well, it was done, the play was ruined. He would have to discipline Kelly, of course, ban him from the club. But he couldn't do that without a vote, and then the issue would become himself.
What would become of him if he lost TP? Surely his health would begin to fail. It was keeping him alive, the excitement of the club; without it he would hardly have a life. He imagined himself falling with a stroke. How many hours would he lie writhing on the cold cement? They'd find him eventually-people would notice he hadn't been around-and then they'd carry him up to Achar's clinic, or maybe to Dr. Radcliffe's in town. Would the ones who'd turned on him feel sorry then? Would they take up a collection, buy his medicines, bring him books? Or would he die alone, a ruined old actor, come to grief in a slum in Tangier?
It was all too depressing and, he knew, unwise to fall into the self-pity trap. After a few minutes of concentrated misery he made a firm resolve: he would fight Kelly and all he stood for with everything he had, would fight him to save TP, would fight him to save his life.
Peter Barclay Rethinks His Garden
He opened his eyes, blinked at the sunlight that burst through the slats and striped the room. "Good morning, darling," he moaned, though there was no one else in the bed.
He didn't know why he said it. Out of habit, he supposed. And sometimes there would be someone beside him-some primitive, well-built fellow named Mohammed or Mustapha who would think the greeting was for him. It wasn't; it was something he said only to himself. He'd slept, dreamed, awakened unscathed, and for that a sensuous "Good morning" was the very least that he deserved.
He deserved a lot more, evidently. "A good thrashing" that horrid little note had said. Who could have written the foul thing? Who could have had the nerve?
He rang for his coffee and pondered the problem. Why did the note bother him so? He'd been called worse things in his life-"snob," "poseur"-but "hypocrite," never! The charge simply wasn't true. Others might go to church to see and be seen, but he went only to worship God. It was lonely being pasha of the Mountain, with the whole town scheming to be invited to his house. It amused him to see them jump, but he was human too, and church was one place he could leave the burden of his pashadom outside. God, fortunately, was not fooled like everybody else. When he prayed, Peter Barclay was sincere. In fact, he thought, that may be the only time I am.
Then there was the business about his sleeping with the boys-something the Philistines always brought out. They hated the vice, for it resided also in them; they reproached him for it because they feared it in themselves. Well-he didn't care, didn't give a damn. He wasn't going to slink around like some poor old Oscar Wilde type. Not for him "the love that dares not speak its name."
In Tangier he could be anything he liked, pasha of the Mountain, king of Tangier queens. But he didn't flaunt it, stayed clear of people's sons, didn't mince or lisp or bitch. The boys he slept with, from the Moroccan working class, were simple lads with tantalizing skins. Street whores mostly-he liked them the best, the darker the better, though it pleased him to make Eton boys out of them if he could. Yes, he could lust after a European boy but resist taking him to bed. He much preferred Moroccan trash, and everybody knew that too.
What was it, then, that had hurt? How had he generated so much rage? He couldn't understand it, was mystified. He'd never meant anybody harm. Of course he'd hurt people. One couldn't live without doing that. If he snubbed someone, or dropped him because he was a bore, it was not to give deliberate injury but to simplify his life. People had no idea how difficult his position was. Everyone was after him; he had no time to suffer fools. The point was to stick to quality-people who were beautiful or rich. The author of the note had proved the point by showing he had no quality at all.
It didn't matter. Nothing people said ever did. He was Tangier-everyone knew that; as far as society went he was the top. Others might have more money-people like Patrick Wax with his palace and unlimited stocks of foie gras and champagne-but when word went out that Peter Barclay was giving a party everyone prayed that he'd be asked. His was still the best table, the best house in Tangier. And he didn't go after people-they all came running to him.
His coffee came, he drank it, then washed and dressed and shaved. He walked downstairs, past mirror after mirror, nibbling a croissant as he went. People said that Patrick Wax had more mirrors, but Wax had more wall space and his things were mostly fakes. Peter's mirrors were genuine antiques salvaged from his family's ducal home.