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  Notwithstanding her outward coolness, Eunice was greatly disturbed when Hadija announced her projected outing. She lay back against the pillows watching the harbor as usual, saying to herself very firmly that action must be taken. It could not be against Hadija, so it must be against the American. (Since she loathed travel, and Mme. Papaconstante had so far given no sign that she was going to try and get Hadija back, she had renounced the idea of spiriting the girl away to Europe.) Going on from there, it was clear that one had to know what one was fighting. She thought of dwelling on the idea that the man had no money, but then she decided that there was no line of reasoning which would carry any weight with Hadija, and she had best keep still. And for all she knew, perhaps he did have money, although she had reconsidered the overheard conversation at the Bar Lucifer and decided that the man’s reluctance to part with his money had not been due to viciousness. And he had had to borrow the extra sum from his friend. It seemed reasonable to think that he was not too well off. She hoped that was the case; it could be strongly in her favor. Poverty in other people generally was.

  «I know your friend,» she said casually.

  «You know?» Hadija was surprised.

  «Oh, yes. I’ve met him».

  «Where?» asked Hadija skeptically.

  «Oh, various places. At the Taylors’ on the Marshan, at the Sphinx Club once, and I think at the Estradas’ house on the mountain. He’s very nice».

  Hadija was noncommittal. «O.K».

  «If you want, you can ask him back here when you’ve finished your picnic».

  «He no like come here».

  «Oh, I don’t know,» said Eunice meditatively. «He might easily. I imagine he’d like a drink. Americans do, you know. I thought you might like to invite him, that’s all».

  Hadija thought about it. The idea appealed to her because she considered the Hotel Metropole magnificent and luxurious, and she was tempted to let him see in what style she was living. She had set out for the Parque Espinel with that intention, but on the walk back with him it occurred to her (for the first time) that since the American seemed to be fully as possessive about her as Eunice Goode, he might not relish the discovery that he was sharing her with someone else. So she hastened to explain that Miss Goode was ill most of the time and that she often visited her. The possessiveness he manifested toward her had already prompted her to make the attempt to get him to buy her a certain wrist watch she greatly admired. Eunice had definitely refused to get it for her because it was a man’s watch — an oversize gold chronograph with calendar and phases of the moon thrown in. Eunice was eminently careful to see that the girl looked respectable and properly feminine. Hadija mentioned the watch twice on the way to the Metropole; the American merely smiled and said: «We’ll see. Keep your shirt on, will you?» She did not completely understand, but at least he had not said no.

  When Dyar came into the room Eunice Goode looked at him and said to herself that even as a girl she would not have found him attractive. She had liked imposing men, such as her father had been. This one was not at all distinguished in appearance. He did not look like an actor or a statesman or an artist, nor yet like a workman, a businessman or an athlete. For some reason she thought he looked rather like a wire-haired terrier — alert, eager, suggestible. The sort of male, she reflected with a stab of anger, who can lead girls around by the nose, without even being domineering, the sort whose maleness is unnoticeable and yet so thick it becomes cloying as honey, the sort that makes no effort and is thereby doubly dangerous. Except that being accustomed to an ambiance of feminine adulation makes them as vulnerable, as easily crushed, as spoiled children are. You let them think that you too are taken in by their charm, you entice them further and further out on that rotten limb. Then you jerk out the support and let them fall.

  Yet in her mad inner scramble to be exceptionally gracious, Eunice got off to rather a poor start. She had been away from most people for so long that she forgot there are many who actually listen to the words spoken, and for whom even mere polite conversation is a means of conveying specific ideas. She had planned the opening sentences with the purpose of keeping Hadija from discovering that this was her first meeting with the American gentleman. Wearing an old yellow satin neglige trimmed with mink (which Hadija had never seen before and which she immediately determined to have for herself), and being well covered by the bedclothes, she looked like any other stout lady sitting up in bed.

  «This is a belated but welcome meeting!» she cried.

  «How do you do, Miss Goode». Dyar stood in the doorway. Hadija pulled him gently forward and shut the door. He stepped to the bed and took the proffered hand.

  «I knew your mother in Taormina,» said Eunice. «She was a delightful woman. Hadija, would you call downstairs and ask for a large bowl of ice and half a dozen bottles of Perrier? The whiskey’s in the bathroom on the shelf. There are cigarettes in that big box there. Draw that chair a little nearer».

  Dyar looked puzzled. «Where?»

  «What?» she said pleasantly.

  «Where did you say you knew my mother?» It had not yet occurred to him that Eunice Goode did not know his name.

  «In Taormina,» she said, looking at him blandly. «Or was it Juan-les-Pins?»

  «It couldn’t have been,» Dyar said, sitting down. «My mother’s never been in Europe at all».

  «Really?» She meant it to sound casual, but it sounded acid. To her, such stubborn insistence on exactitude was sheer boorishness. But there was no time for showing him she disapproved of his behavior, even if she had wanted to. Hadija was telephoning. Quickly she said: «Wasn’t your mother Mrs. Hambleton Mills? I thought that was what Hadija said».

  «What?» cried Dyar, making a face indicating that he was all at sea. «Somebody’s all mixed up. My name is Dyar. D, Y, A, R. It doesn’t sound much like Mills to me». Then he laughed good-naturedly, and she joined in, just enough, she thought, to show that she bore him no ill-will for his rudeness.

  «Well, now we have that settled,» she said. She had his name; Hadija believed they had known each other before. She pressed on, to get as many essentials as possible while Hadija was still chattering in Spanish to the barman.

  «Passing through on a winter holiday, or are you staying a while?»

  «Holiday? Nothing like it. I’m staying a while. I’m working here».

  She had expected that. «Oh, really? Where?»

  He told her. «I can’t quite place it,» she said, shutting her eyes as if she were trying.

  Hadija put the receiver on the hook and brought a bottle of whiskey from the bathroom. Suddenly Dyar became conscious of the fact that preparations were being made for the serving of drinks. He half rose from his chair, and sat down again on its edge.

  «Look, I can’t stay. I didn’t realize — I’m sorry» —

  «Can’t stay?» echoed Eunice, faintly dismayed.

  «I have an appointment at my hotel. I’ve got to get back. Hadija told me you were sick so I just thought I’d stop by. She said you wanted me to come».

  «So I did. But I don’t call this a visit».

  The waiter had come in, set the tray on the table, and gone out.

  «I know». He was not sure which would be less impolite, — to accept one drink and then go, or to leave without taking anything.

  «One quick drink,» Eunice urged him. He accepted it.

  Hadija had ordered a Coca-Cola. She was rather pleased to see her two protectors in the same room talking together. She wondered if it were dangerous. After all, Eunice knew about the man and did not seem to mind. It was possible that he would not care too much if he knew about Eunice. But she would certainly prefer him not to know. She became conscious of their words.

  «Where you go?» she interrupted.

  «Home,» he said, without looking at her.

  «Where you live?»

  Eunice smiled to herself: Hadija was doing her work for her. But then she clicked her tongue with annoyance. The girl ha
d bungled it; he had been put off.

  «Too far,» he had answered drily.

  «Why you go there?» Hadija pursued.

  Now he turned to face her. «Curiosity killed a cat,» he said with mock sternness. «I’m going to a party, Nosey». He laughed. To Eunice he said: «What a girl, what a girl! But she’s nice in spite of it».

  «I don’t know about that,» Eunice replied, as if giving the matter thought. «I don’t think so, at all, as a matter of fact. I’ll talk to you about it some time. Did you say a party?» She remembered that the Beidaouis were at home on Sunday evenings. «Not at the Beidaoui Palace?» she hazarded.

  He looked surprised. «That’s right!» he exclaimed. «Do you know them?»

  She had never met any of the Beidaoui brothers; however, they had been pointed out to her on various occasions. «I know them very well,» she said. «They’re the people of Tangier». She had heard that their father had held a high official position of some sort. «The old Beidaoui who died a few years ago was the Grand Vizier to Sultan Moulay Hafid. It was he who entertained the Kaiser when he came here in 1906».

  «Is that right?» said Dyar, making his voice polite.

  Presendy he stood up and said good-bye. He hoped she would be better.

  «Oh, it’s a chronic condition,» she said cheerfully. «It comes and goes. I never think about it. But as my grandmother in Pittsburgh used to say: ‘It’ll be a lot worse before it’s any better.’»

  He was a little surprised to hear that she was American: he had not thought of her as having any nationality at all. And now he was worried about how to make another rendezvous with Hadija in the somewhat forbidding presence of Miss Goode. However, it had to be done if he was to see her again; he would never be able to get to the Bar Lucifer, where he supposed she was still to be found.

  «How about another picnic next Sunday?» he said to her. He might be free all during the week, and then again Wilcox might telephone him tomorrow. Sunday was the only safe day.

  «Sure,» said Hadija.

  «Same place? Same time?»

  «O.K».

  As soon as he had gone, Eunice sat up straight in the bed. «Hand me the telephone book,» she said.

  «What you sigh?»

  «The telephone book!»

  She skimmed through it, found the name. Jouvenon, Pierre, ing. Ingénieur, engineer. It sounded much more impressive in French, being connected with such words as genius, ingenuity. Engineer always made her think of a man in overalls standing in a locomotive. She gave the number and said peremptorily to Hadija: «Get dressed quickly. Put on the new black frock we bought yesterday. I’ll fix your hair when I’m dressed». She turned to the telephone. «Allô, allô? Qui est à l’appareil?» It was a Spanish maid: Eunice shrugged with impatience. «Quisiera hablar con la Señora Jouvenon. Sí! La señora!» While she waited she put her hand over the mouth-piece and turned again to Hadija. «Remember. Not a word of anything but English». Hadija had gone into the bathroom and was splashing water in the basin.

  «I know,» she called. «No spickin Arab. No spickin Espanish. I know». They both took it as a matter of course that if Eunice went out, she went with her. At the back of her mind Eunice vaguely imagined that she was training the girl for Paris, where eventually she would take her to live, so that their successful menage would excite the envy of all her friends.

  «Ah, chère Madame Jouvenon!» she cried, and went on to tell the person at the other end of the wire that she hoped she was unoccupied for the next few hours, as she had something she wanted to discuss with her. Madame Jouvenon did not seem at all surprised by the announcement or by the fact that the proposed discussion would take several hours. «Vous êtes tr-rès aimable,» she said, purring the «r» as no Frenchwoman would have done. It was agreed that they should meet in a half hour at La Sevillana, the small tearoom at the top of the Siaghines.

  Eunice hung up, got out of bed, and hurriedly put on an old, loosely-draped tea-gown. Then she turned her attention to clothing Hadija, applying her make-up for her, and arranging her hair. She was like a mother preparing her only daughter for her first dance. And indeed, as they walked carefully side by side through the narrow alleys which were a short cut to La Sevillana, sometimes briefly holding hands when the way was wide enough, they looked very much like doting mother and fond daughter, and were taken for such by the Jewish women watching the close of day from their doorways and balconies.

  Madame Jouvenon was already seated in La Sevillana eating a meringue. She was a bright-eyed little woman whose hair, having gone prematurely white, she had unwisely allowed to be dyed a bright silvery blue. To complete the monochromatic color scheme she had let Mlle. Sylvie dye her brows and lashes a much darker and more intense shade of blue. The final effect was not without impact.

  Evidently Madame Jouvenon had only just arrived in the tearoom, as heads were still discreetly turning to get a better view of her. Characteristically, Hadija immediately decided that this lady was suffering from some strange disease, and she shook her hand with some squeamishness.

  «We have very little time,» Eunice began in French, hoping that Madame Jouvenon would not order more pastry. «The little one here doesn’t speak French. Only Greek and some English. No pastry. Two coffees. Do you know the Beidaouis?»

  Madame Jouvenon did not. Eunice was only momentarily chagrined.

  «It doesn’t matter,» she continued. «I know them intimately, and you’re my guest. I want to take you there now because there’s someone I think you should meet. It’s possible that he could be very useful to you».

  Madame Jouvenon put down her fork. As Eunice continued talking, now in lower tones, the little woman’s shining eyes became fixed and intense. Her entire expression altered; her face grew clever and alert. Presently, without finishing her meringue, she reached for her handbag in a businesslike manner and laid some coins on the table. «Tr-rès bien,» she said tersely. «On va par-rtir».

  2

  Fresh Meat and Roses

  X

  The Beidaouis’ Sunday evenings were unique in that any member of one of the various European colonies could attend without thereby losing face, probably because the fact that the hosts were Moslems automatically created among the guests a feeling of solidarity which they welcomed without being conscious of its origin. The wife of the French minister could chat with the lowest American lady tourist and no one would see anything extraordinary about it. This certainly did not mean that if the tourist caught sight of Mme. D’Arcourt the next day and had the effrontery to recognize her, she in turn would be recognized. Still, it was pleasant and democratic while it lasted, which was generally until about nine. Very few Moslems were invited, but there were always three or four men of importance in the Arab world: perhaps the leader of the Nationalist Party in the Spanish Zone, or the editor of the Arabic daily in Casablanca, or a wealthy manufacturer from Algier, or the advisor to the Jalifa of Tetuan. In reality the gatherings were held in order to entertain these few Moslem guests, to whom the unaccountable behavior of Europeans never ceased to be a fascinating spectacle. Most of the Europeans, of course, thought the Moslem gentlemen were invited to add local color, and praised the Beidaoui brothers for their cleverness in knowing so well just what sort of Arab could mix properly with foreigners. These same people, who prided themselves upon the degree of intimacy to which they had managed to attain in their relationships with the Beidaoui, were nevertheless quite unaware that the two brothers were married, and led intense family lives with their Women and children in a part of the house where no European had ever entered. The Beidaoui would certainly not have hidden the fact had they been asked, but no one had ever thought to question them about such things. It was taken for granted that they were two debonair bachelors who loved to surround themselves with Europeans.

  That morning, on one of his frequent walks along the waterfront, where he was wont to go when he had a hangover or his home life had grown too oppressive for his taste, Thami had met with an
extraordinary piece of good luck. He had wandered out onto the breakwater of the inner port, where the fishermen came to unload, and was watching them shake out the black nets, stiff with salt. A small, old-fashioned motor-boat drew alongside the dock. The man in it, whom Thami recognized vaguely, threw a rope to a boy standing nearby. As the boatsman, who wore a turban marking him as a member of the Jilala cult, climbed up the steps to the pier, he greeted Thami briefly. Thami replied, asking if he had been fishing. The man looked at him a little more closely, as if to see exactly who it was he had spoken to so carelessly. Then he smiled sadly, and said that he never had used his little boat for fishing, and that he hoped the poor old craft would be spared such a fate until the day it fell to pieces. Thami laughed; he understood perfectly that the man meant it was a fast enough boat to be used for smuggling. He moved along the dock and looked down into the motor-boat. It must have been forty years old; the seats ran lengthwise and were covered with decaying canvas cushions. There was an ancient two-cylinder Fay and Bowen engine in the center. The man noticed his scrutiny, and inquired if he were interested in buying the boat. «No,» said Thami contemptuously, but he continued to look. The other remarked that he hated to sell it but had to, because his father in Azemmour was ill, and he was going back there to live. Thami listened with an outward show of patience, waiting for a figure to be mentioned. He had no intention of betraying his interest by suggesting one himself. Eventually, as he tossed his cigarette into the water and made as if to go, he heard the figure: ten thousand pesetas. «I don’t think you’ll get more than five,» he replied, turning to move off. «Five!» cried the man indignantly. «Look at it,» said Thami, pointing down at it. «Who’s going to give more?» He started to walk slowly away, kicking pieces of broken concrete into the water as he went. The man called after him. «Eight thousand!» He turned around, smiling, and explained that he was not interested himself, but that if the Jilali really wanted to sell the boat, he should put a sensible price on it, one that Thami could quote to his friends in case one of them might know a possible buyer. They argued a while, and Thami finally went away with six thousand as an asking price. He felt rather pleased with himself, because although it was by no means the beautiful speed boat he coveted, it was at least a tangible and immediate possibility whose realization would not involve either an import license or any very serious tampering with his heritage. He had thought of asking the American, whom he liked, and who he felt had a certain sympathy for him, to purchase the boat in his name. It would have been a way around the license. But he thought he did not know him well enough, and beyond a doubt it would have been a foolish move: he would have had to rely solely on the American’s honesty for proof of ownership. As to the price, it was negligible, even at six thousand, and he was positive he could get it down to five. There was even a faint possibility, although he doubted it, really, that he could get Abdelmalek to lend him the sum. In any case, among his bits of property there was a two-room house without lights or water at the bottom of a ravine behind the Marshan, which ought to bring just about five thousand pesetas in a quick sale.