Zvegintzov, Zvegintzov! Who could understand a man like that?
Since he'd been a boy, Hamid had been enamored of the European colony of Tangier-its impoverished duchesses, vicious homosexuals, doctors without medical degrees, artists, hustlers, fools. He was fascinated by these expatriates, their endless danse macabre. He observed with wonder all their attempts to acquire stunning lovers, their intrigues, their bizarre affairs. For years they'd been his obsession, and now, facing the wind before the huge gates of Henderson Perry's estate, he saw them laid before him like a banquet, ready for him to taste, digest. He looked to his left across the water, toward the beckoning lights of the coastal towns of Spain. Europe was close-it seemed as if he could touch it if he wished. But the Straits of Gibraltar loomed in the night like an uncrossable abyss between. And that, he thought unhappily, is the way it is for me.
He knew these strange people, and yet he did not. Though he had spent years learning their languages, studying the women and boys they fought over and loved, hearing their confessions, observing the results of all manner of their crimes, still there was a wall that separated him from them, a wall he longed to breach.
It made him furious when he thought of it, but an instant later he was resigned. There was no point in considering the possibility that sometime when he was small and had gaped at everything foreign and longed to comprehend it, he'd taken upon himself a terrible burden, wandered by error into an inescapable maze. He had lavished too much of himself already to even consider the possibility of that. Rather, he knew, he must continue to strive until, in some night of insight, their mystery would be revealed. But if at times he was amazed by emotions he could not understand-Peter Zvegintzov's tears over Kalinka, as fresh as if five months had never passed-still he was driven to look deeper, uncover more, examine all the combinations until he discovered the secret of their unfathomable European game.
He drove back down the Mountain, then slowed as he passed La Colombe. Foster Knowles was still waiting in his car. Why? What was he doing? Now, too, he would have to think about that.
As he drove through Dradeb, a hundred yards or so before the mosque, his headlights caught the figure of a man standing in the middle of the road. He was waving his arms, motioning traffic to the side. A crowd of men and youths surrounded a large tourist bus ahead. Hamid rolled down his window, caught the sound of angry cries. But the wind was too loud and he could not make out the words. He pulled over, parked, then walked into the mob. Looking up, he could see the tourists, their frightened faces peering out. Angry men were pushing at the driver, who was babbling furiously to two uniformed police.
He strode quickly up Rue de Chypre, the lane that led to Achar's clinic. The moment he entered he could smell the disinfectant. It came upon him like a blow across his face. It was eight o'clock and still there were people waiting to be helped. They sat in rows of hard benches, some in casts, others holding their stomachs, a tall, thin girl with a soiled bandage wrapped about her head. He avoided a wet patch on the floor, something thick and yellow sprinkled with a layer of sawdust that had not yet soaked it up. From the cubicles where the doctors worked he could hear moans and a few kind words.
He ran into Achar at the operating room door. The doctor's white gown was spotted with dark red stains. His large hands, firm and covered with black curls of hair, grasped at Hamid's arm.
"What happened?"
"A little girl. Impossible to save her." Achar shook his head. "Come," he said, leading Hamid into his little office in the back. They sat down amidst the clutter. Achar smoothed his mustache, then yelled for someone to bring them tea.
"Did you see the accident?"
"No. I was driving through. It must have happened a few seconds before."
"Pointless, of course. The bus was going much too fast. They have no business taking tourists through these streets."
"It's the best way back from Cap Spartel-"
"Yes. Of course. Do you know what they say-the guides on the buses? They have to keep talking, you see. If there's nothing 'touristic' to point out then they have to make something up. When they come through here they say 'This is a typical Moroccan village, settled by people from the Rif who have left their farms to seek their fortunes in Tangier.' How absurd! I have no doubt the cameras click away."
Hamid nodded. He was used to Achar's rage. "What happened tonight?"
The doctor shrugged. "A typical incident. There's no water in Dradeb during the day, so when the public taps are turned on at night the children are all waiting with their jugs. Probably this little girl was late, and ran across the street to get a place in line."
Hamid began to think of his boyhood in Dradeb, fetching water for his mother, carrying bread to the ovens on a board on top of his head.
"Suicide Village."
"What's that?"
"That's what they call Dradeb."
"Who calls it that?"
"The foreigners, Mohammed. My friends on the Mountain."
The tea arrived and they both began to sip.
"My beautiful friends. They zoom through here in their cars, and always there are donkeys and sheep and little children running about. There are old women who are deaf, and old men who ignore their horns. So it seems to them that this is a place filled with animals and people who want to throw themselves beneath their wheels. Suicide Village-do you see?"
"Oh, I see," said Achar. "An amusing little name for a place which unfortunately they can't avoid. Well-I'm a surgeon. One of these days all your friends will have to leave. Or else we'll have to cut them out."
Hamid looked at him, neither nodding nor shaking his head. There were men at the Surete who would use such a statement as a pretext to start a black dossier.
"Aside from all that," Hamid said finally, "have you had a good day?"
"Terrible! This afternoon a woman was brought in. Literally she was bleeding to death. She'd tried to abort herself with an uncurled coat hanger. She punctured herself, of course, infected her entire womb. I gave her massive doses of sulfa drugs and tetanus, everything I had. Tomorrow I'll operate-if she's still alive, and if I can get sufficient blood."
His anger over all this misery showed brightly in his eyes.
"I envy you," said Hamid.
Achar began to laugh.
"No. I envy you. You're a scientist. You can be certain about the truth. The diagnosis may be right or wrong, but moral questions don't arise."
Achar gave him a curious look. "Really, Hamid, that's one of the silliest things you've ever said. Here in Dradeb all the questions are moral ones. This woman with the coat hanger-don't you see? She was pregnant and wanted to abort. That's a social issue. She committed a political act. No, don't envy me. Here we have far messier days than you in the police."
They finished off the tea, then Hamid rose to leave. He was at the door when Achar suddenly looked up.
"My love to Kalinka," he said.
The tourist bus had left, and now people were running back and forth across the street as if the accident had never occurred. Big cars blew their horns, but nobody turned. Foreigners were driving to dinner parties on the Mountain or in the town.
Hamid parked outside his apartment house on Ramon y Cahal, gathered up his flowers, and carefully locked his car. The wind, blowing even more furiously, seemed to have upset the neighborhood. Pausing at the front door of his building, he could hear the cries of children and insanely barking dogs.