"Well, Aziz, what have we got this morning?" Hamid hung up his leather jacket and sat down at his desk.
Aziz was looking at his list. "Six tourists in the jug, Inspector-five of them members of a British ballet. They played Rabat, then came up here for fun. We caught them with little boys on Saturday night having an orgy at the Oriental Hotel."
"Robin, of course."
Aziz nodded. "He turned them in. They demanded to see the British Consul, but Mrs. Whittle told me he was out of town. Actually I think he was here but didn't want to be disturbed."
"Doesn't surprise me. He hates the queers." Hamid lit a cigarette.
"Then there's an American, brought in late last night. He picked up a whore at Heidi's Bar. They were walking back to her place when she began to scream. That's his version, of course. She says he was going to break her arm. Anyway, a cop named Mustapha Barrada came along and found a kilo of hash in his jeans. There was a scuffle, and Mustapha beat him up. Doctor saw him early this morning, and I've been in touch with Knowles."
"Good, Aziz. Very good."
"There's more. The hustler they call 'Pumpkin Pie' wracked up Inigo's Mercedes on the Tetuan Road. In the process he hit an old man and crushed his legs. What concerns us is that Inigo reported the car stolen a couple of hours before, so we're holding the boy, whose name is Mohammed Seraj, until he comes in here and swears out a complaint."
"How's the old man?"
Aziz shrugged. "In pain. This Seraj is a wild one. Maybe he didn't even blow the horn."
"Right. Anything else?" Hamid felt weary already and wished he was back home in bed.
"The Prefect wants to see you this afternoon. And Vicar Wick, the one who runs St. Thomas Church, has an urgent matter that he will only discuss with you."
"Tell him to come in."
"You want the Vicar to come in here?"
"He's not a diplomat. I don't have to call on him."
Aziz beamed. "You interested in the ballet dancers?"
"Depends on who they are. If they're nobody special we'll expel them all tonight."
When Aziz finally left, Hamid turned to the window and groaned. It was like this on a Monday-people in jail, incidents from the weekend, trivial details that took up his time. Now he was concerned about Kalinka and found it difficult to concentrate on work. She'd always been strange-that was the secret of her attractiveness-but lately, it seemed to him, her strangeness had increased. She'd smoked the whole weekend, disappearing into a haze of incomplete sentences, utterances in Vietnamese he couldn't understand. It was as if she was trying to tell him something. So many times he had asked her, "Who are you, Kalinka?", and now, it seemed, she wanted to answer but couldn't find the words. She was such a puzzle. Often Hamid would pause to wrestle with her mystery. So far with no result, but still he hoped to find the key.
Aziz came back into the office. "Vicar Wick's on his way over now. The Prefect will see you at six. Inigo is here to make his complaint, and Knowles is with the American downstairs."
"Good. I'll start with Inigo. Then Knowles. Keep the Vicar waiting-half an hour at least."
Aziz gave him an admiring glance, then showed Inigo in. The Paraguayan painter was an extremely handsome young man, with the face of a Mexican saint.
"So, Inspector, you've got my little Pumpkin Pie. He's been a naughty boy. Good thing you locked him up."
Hamid smiled. He liked the artist, was a great admirer of his work. His paintings, all highly realistic, glowed with a translucent sheen. There'd been a time, when Hamid was a boy, when he'd thought a painter was someone who whitewashed a house.
"Yes, we have him, and since you're the owner of the car, the responsibility would normally fall on you. You reported it stolen so you seem to be absolved, but since Pumpkin Pie is your houseboy, it puts the affair in a curious light."
"Ha!" said Inigo, smoothing his long black hair. "I don't know where you get your information. Pumpkin Pie is my lover and does absolutely nothing around the house."
Hamid smiled again. "Yes. Of course. But to us, you see, houseboy and lover come to the same thing. What happened? Did you have a quarrel? How did he get hold of the keys?"
"Stole them, of course. As he's stolen nearly everything else. The boy's a kleptomaniac. There was a time when you would have cut off his hand."
"Yes. The old Koranic justice. Harsh, merciless, and irrevocable punishments. Sometimes we wish we could still mete them out. But we're trying to be civilized now."
"A big mistake, if you don't mind my saying so. When this country becomes civilized, it'll be time for me to leave. I came here for the barbarism. I like the feeling of being in a violent land. And the faces-gaunt, strong, primitive-they're the faces I dreamed of in Paraguay. Like yours, Inspector-a classic. Perhaps someday you'll be kind and model for me."
"I'm flattered, but I don't have the time-"
"A minute! Let me look closely!" Inigo stood up, leaned over the desk, and carefully inspected Hamid's face. "I swear I've seen this physiognomy before. Perhaps in one of the drawings by Delacroix." He sat down again. "It constantly amazes me-this sense I have that Morocco is still the same. Did you know that when Delacroix came here he spent days in the Socco sketching everyone who passed by? Hundreds of faces. Sometimes fifteen or twenty on a page. I'd swear yours was one of them. Has your family always lived in Tangier?"
"We're from Ouazzane. But enough about my face. The keys-did Mohammed have access to them? Was he normally allowed to drive your car?"
Inigo brought his fist up hard against his forehead, then squeezed shut his eyes. "Ah, Inspector, if you only knew-if you only knew the trouble I've had with that boy. He's a sadist, positively a sadist. Every day he tortures me to death. He steals my drawings, takes them to Madrid, and sells them on the street. Then he comes back penniless, makes sweet apologies, and I take him in again. He's not only a thief; he's a liar too. Constantly he lies about where he's been. With friends, he says, at some obscure cafe, and I nod, though I know perfectly well nothing he says is true. He's been in some shabby hotel with some disgusting British queer, acting the part of the rough street whore, probably beating the faggot up. I've bought him beautiful shirts, silk scarves, a motorcycle, the best perfume. My God, he was dressed in rags when I found him guarding cars in Asilah after a certain countess dismissed him from her staff. But the more I give him the more he takes. We've fought, actually come to blows. He once threw one of my paintings, still wet and unvarnished-threw it down a stairs! I bought a swan for my swimming pool. He captured it, strangled it with his bare hands! The boy's completely schizophrenic, but I need him, so what am I to do? Suffer, I suppose. Suffer! As people say an artist should. But why? Why should I suffer? My paintings have made me rich. I have the finest, absolutely the finest house in Tangier. I live on the Mountain. Museums collect my work. Everything I paint gets snapped up. My prices climb. I get richer. And still my suffering goes on."
He removed his fist, settled back exhausted in his chair. "I must accept it, I suppose. My destiny. God's will, as you people say. It's written. Mektoub. But why? Why? Here I am, a great painter, perhaps the greatest technician since Velasquez, living with a nasty little street whore who uses me terribly and is way beneath my style."
Hamid listened, amused at Inigo's antics and the melodrama of his life. The artist, he knew, was fond of monologues, whose effects he always tried to gauge as he went along.
"I gather," he said finally, "that you're not particularly impressed."
"Oh," said Hamid. "I am. But forgive me if I keep my feelings to myself. In this office I've heard every sort of confession. I listen, I observe, but I refuse to judge."