The elevator, a black cage, moved slowly with irregular jerks. When he entered the apartment he found it dark, except for a thin bar of light beneath the bedroom door.
"Hamid? Is that you, Hamid?" She was lying on their bed, her pipe in her hand. The thick, sweet smoke of hashish hung about her like a veil. "Soon I'll get you dinner, Hamid. But first sit down, tell me why you're late."
"There was an accident in Dradeb. Then I stopped to see Achar."
He sat beside her, and she began at once to caress his hands. Her dark Oriental eyes and ivory-colored skin, diffused by the smoke of her hashish, held the promise of mysterious ways of making love.
"I bought a nice fish for you today. And strawberries for dessert."
He picked up her pipe, put it on the little table beside their bed, then bent down to kiss her lips. She was Eurasian, half Russian, half Tonkinoise-his fragile, strange metisse.
"I'm hungry."
“Soon you will be fed."
"What did you do today?"
“I smoked all afternoon."
When she finally pulled herself up, he followed her to the kitchen, stood and watched while she heated oil in a pan.
"I saw Peter today," he said. Between themselves they always spoke French.
"Oh? Does he still look the same?"
"Exactly the same, of course."
"He was surprised to see you. I have the feeling he was surprised."
"Yes, he was surprised. But he pretended he wasn't and talked too much. He became impertinent toward the end."
"The same shabby suit?"
"What?"
"Was he wearing the same suit-the brown one, frayed at the cuffs?"
"He wants to see you."
She flung the fish into the pan. "I don't want to see him. Sometimes I feel him following me, but I never turn around."
"He follows you?"
"I don't know. I think he does. But since I never look back I can't be sure."
It was typical of her, this sort of dreamy remark that offended his sense of order, his restless need to observe everything and seek out its cause. But she was different, full of things half sensed, visions she could not be sure she'd seen, or only imagined while she smoked.
He left the kitchen, took the flowers, arranged them in a vase. When she brought out the food he waited for her to notice them, and when she didn't he pulled one out by its stem.
"A good bouquet, don't you think? These are the first agapanthus of the year."
"Yes," she said, staring closely. "I saw some at the market. I knew you liked them, so I brought them home."
"No, no, Kalinka. I bought these for you. I bought them from an old woman late this afternoon."
She looked across at him and smiled. "Oh! Then I forgot. I paid the flower lady, I remember that-but then I must have left them in a taxi, or maybe at the butcher's stall."
It was possible, he thought, and then again she might have been thinking of a purchase she'd made a year before. He would never know-her vagueness was endemic, a sort of poetry that maddened him yet gave him the sensation that in her presence he could always rest, enveloped in her soft cocoon of dreams.
For a long while he lay awake in bed, listening to the wind. It rattled the windows, loose in their old frames. Dogs barked like madmen in the night. He turned to Kalinka, who was breathing evenly by his side, her eyelids fluttering like the petals of a yellow rose. Who was she? He had never understood her, and supposed he never would. She was a cipher, and he a mad cryptographer fumbling for the key to her strange utterances, the pattern of her actions, so random, so obscure.
For years he'd seen her in Zvegintzov's shop, huddling in the back on the stool which Peter used to reach the upper shelves, or else on the yellow hassock he kept between the ice cream freezer and the counter of children's toys. For years Hamid had seen her, but not really well-she was like a fixture in the shop, a part of the decor, an Oriental girl who'd come with the Russian, a relic of his past life, his life before Tangier.
Then, for some reason, their paths began to cross. She'd be walking the streets aimlessly, wandering in her long Oriental dress, white silk trousers flashing through the slit, moving like a sparrow or a butterfly, sometimes with flowers in her arms. When he'd see her he'd pull over in his car, sit and watch her as she passed. Her face was oblivious and gay, as if she had no notion she was being watched.
One night the previous autumn he came upon her in the Casbah standing in the shadows of the wall, looking out across the Straits. He couldn't remember why he'd come, except that he was feeling lonely and wanted to gaze down upon the city lights. The Place de Casbah was deserted, except for the one-legged man who watched the cars. Hamid's footsteps rang on the old stones, but she did not turn when he came near. Then, when he greeted her, she nodded at him and smiled.
"It's a good evening," he said.
"Yes," she said, "thanks be to God."
They stood side by side in silence for a while, then she floated away across the vast, dark square, disappearing through a massive arch without a sound.
Suddenly, it seemed, they saw each other every day-in the market early in the morning, before a gas station, or in unexpected places, on narrow side streets, in odd corners of the town. It became a game with him: Where could he go, what obscure quarter of the city could he visit, without seeing her pass? Even in Beni Makada one day, where he'd gone after a man who'd stabbed a tourist with a knife, even there, amidst rotting garbage and dust, in the maddening, punishing heat, he caught a glimpse of her talking with a potter in his shed, their heads close together, her hand squeezing clay. He could not stop then, but afterward, when his quarry was safely handcuffed, he questioned the old man, who showed him a sketch she'd made, a design for a vase for flowers. He was amazed-it was so perfect. It must have taken her hours to draw. All the shadings were fine, and she'd even drawn in the shadows and made the high points glow as though they reflected light. The signature was tiny, fragile-KALINKA, the letters compressed to form a seal.
So, he thought, there is some purpose to her walks; she moves about on errands, fills her days with little things. But there was something odd too-a feeling he had that she was lost.
He became interested and wondered if she noticed how frequently they met. Why? Why did he, busy with police work, and she, on her little errands-why did their paths so often intersect? What was there in common about their lives? What drew them together in this teeming town?
He tried to study her when he visited La Colombe, tried to watch her as he and Peter talked. Sometimes he'd catch her eye and then she'd smile as if to say: "We have a secret-we see each other, have knowledge of each other's life." Did he imagine this?
Around Zvegintzov she was docile, never said a word. No wonder he'd never noticed her there-she came alive for him only when he saw her walking by herself.
One day, on a tip from an informant, he and Aziz Jaouhari raided a strange cafe in the medina. They raced up three flights of dark, stale-smelling stairs, then suddenly burst out onto a roof. The sunlight was blinding, the air sweet with the fumes of hashish. A dozen Chinese puffing on long cane pipes lay on reed mats beneath a panoply of freshly laundered sheets. No one turned as they stood watching from the door, panting from their climb.
"Who are these people?"
"Isn't that Zvegintzov's wife?"
Aziz pointed, and Hamid recognized her at once. Her head was covered by the hood of a black djellaba drawn about her dress. It was all so strange-he'd never noticed that there were Chinese in the city before, never imagined that there was a Chinese group. He stared and then withdrew, muttering to Aziz as they descended that they should start a Chinese file.