I went to a French restaurant and had some food and after that I walked down to the station and joined the queue waiting in the booking hall to go through the passport check. I wondered whether Kostos would have somebody follow me on the train and I looked about for the Arab who had kept watch outside the hotel. But I couldn’t see him. I wasn’t really surprised, for Kostos was essentially a Tangerois.
The minutes ticked slowly by on the station clock and the queue moved forward only a pace at a time. As always, it was a strangely mixed crowd — tourists and Spaniards and native tribesmen all jam-packed together. There were several Americans in gaily-coloured shirts and lumber-jackets — construction men from the big new Moroccan air bases. There were two Jews with grey beards and little black skull caps on their heads. And close beside me was a Berber chieftain with fierce, swarthy features and a black beard. The curved sheath of his knife was beautifully worked in silver.
The queue shuffled forward and one of the Americans said, ‘Jesus, these Goddamned Spaniards! The way they behave, you’d think we were on Ellis Island.’ He had a hard, braying laugh. Beyond his wide-brimmed hat, I could see the face of one of the passport officials framed in the oval of the hatch. And then a hand plucked at my arm and I turned, startled, thinking it was Kostos or perhaps the police to say that Kavan had been stopped at Casa.
Instead, I found Karen Kavan’s grey eyes looking up at me. ‘I’m so glad I found you.’ Her voice was breathless with relief. ‘I was afraid I might miss you in all this crowd, or else that you would have arrived early and be on the train.’ She was nervous and her face was as pale and strained as it had been the previous night.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ I asked.
‘I telephoned to your hotel. Then I try Cook’s, just in case. I wanted to know — ‘ She stopped there, uncertain how to go on.
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I know who he is. And you needn’t worry. Your husband left for Casablanca by plane this afternoon.’
‘Oh.’ She closed her eyes momentarily. ‘Oh, thank God. I was so afraid. You see, when I telephoned to the hotel, they said he had gone to the Pension de la Montagne. It’s not far from where I work, so I walked there. But no guests had arrived there this afternoon and I was if raid the police …’ The rush of words stopped abruptly and her eyes stared at me uncertainly. ‘Where has he gone please? Last night, you said something about him working for you, but I don’t remember — I am too distrait.’
I gave her my address and explained that her would be working as a doctor at the Mission. ‘You’ll always be welcome there,’ I added. ‘When you’re ready to come to him, you’ve only to write and let me know.’
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’ She breathed a little sigh. ‘I was so afraid I shouldn’t find you, that I shouldn’t know where he had gone. I felt so alone.’
I glanced quickly at my watch. It was already nine thirty,
‘How long have you been in Tangier?’ I asked her.
‘Just two weeks now. I am working as governess for an American family — Mr and Mrs Schulborg.’
Just two weeks! It was an odd coincidence. ‘Straight from Czechoslovakia?’
“No. From the American Zone of Austria.’ And then her eyes widened as she understood the drift of my questions. ‘Surely Jan doesn’t think I am here because they — ‘ She stopped there and then added quickly, “Please. You must explain to him that I received his message and that is why I am here.’ Her voice was desperately urgent. ‘His message arrived the 15th November. A week later, on the night of the 23rd, I escape across the border into Upper Austria on skis. That is in the American Zone. It was the Americans who find me this job here in Tangier. Please explain to him.’
‘Of course I will,’ I said. And then I added, ‘You must love your husband very much.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’ The shadow of a smile suddenly touched her lips. ‘But I hardly know him any more, you know.’
‘Well, that’s something that can be altered now. But it was a brave thing to do.’
She shook her head. ‘No, not brave. It was dangerous, yes, but… You see, I was desperate. They had already arrested Pan Rudolph Kavan — that is his father. Fortunately I am away from Prague, staying with friends. When I returned, I was warned that our house was being watched and that I should be arrested also. That is what made me try to cross the border. I had no alternative. Explain to him, will you, please?’
I nodded. I was thinking of what Jan Kavan had told me in the taxi going up to the British Consulate. So it was all true. ‘I’ll tell him,’ I said. ‘Come to Enfida and join him as soon as you can.’ And I added, ‘You’d better write to me, not to him — just in case.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I will write to you.’
‘And your address?’
‘The Villa da Vinci on La Montagne.’
‘Senor! Deprisa, deprisa, senor!’ It was the passport officer telling me to hurry. I handed him my passport and went through the barrier to the next hatch where I got the necessary forms. I turned to speak to Karen again. A whistle shrilled. A voice called, ‘En voiture! En voiture!’ There was the sound of running feet. ‘Give Jan my love,’ she called to me.
‘I will. He will be expecting you. Come when you…’ A blast of steam cut short my words and I saw the train begin to move. I waved to her and dashed on to the platform and scrambled on board.
My last memory of Tangier was Karen’s small, pale face staring after me, her hand fluttering as she waved farewell to the only link she had with her husband. I round my sleeper and slumped into my seat, thinking about how she must feel, having come so far, still to be separated from him by two frontiers.
At El Ksar el Kebir there is a long wait. It’s the frontier station between Spanish and French Morocco. I hung about in the cool night air until the frontier police returned my passport and then I went to bed. I was tired and I remember little except the usual vague noises of night travel by train — the rattle of the wheels on the rail is and the sudden, deathly silence of the stations where isolated noises become magnified.
When I woke it was daylight. The country was flat and there were glimpses of the sea through the ragged ribbon of factory buildings that lined the coast. We were approaching Casablanca. The buildings became taller, springing up all round the tracks — white concrete gleaming in the sunshine — and then the train was slowing down and we were running in to the station.
I rubbed the condensation from the window and peered at the people standing on the half-deserted platform, suddenly fearful that Kavan might not be there. But as the train jerked to a halt, I saw him a little farther down, standing alone beside some crates of oranges. He was smoking a cigarette and his face looked hard and set as he scanned the length of the train, watching the doors open and the passengers begin to alight.
He saw me as soon as I got off the train, and he rushed over to me and seized hold of my hand, pumping it up and down.
‘You got through the immigration officials all right then?’ I said.
‘Of course, of course. There was no difficulty at all. They asked me whether I’d come straight from England and I nodded and talked to them in Czech and they stamped my papers and that was that. They’re like little lambs.’ He grinned and put his hand on my shoulder, patting me as though I were a dog. ‘First you save my life. Then you get me out of Tangier. You are a wonderful man! Wonderful!’ He was bubbling over with excitement. ‘And now, here I am in Morocco. My new country! My new life!’ His hand gripped my shoulder. ‘I shall always be grateful. Always.’
‘Wait till you’ve walked twenty miles in the mountains,’ I said, ‘and attended dozens of children half blind with trachoma.’