Let it come down Read online

  XIII

  The next morning was cloudy and dark; the inescapable wind was blowing, a gale from the east. Out in the harbor the few freighters moored there rocked crazily above the whitecaps, and the violent waves rolled across the wide beach in a chaos of noise and foam. Dyar got up early and showered. As he dressed he stood in the window, looking out at the agitated bay and the gray hills beyond it, and he realized with a slight shock that not once since he had arrived had he gone to inquire for his mail. It was hard to believe, but the idea simply had not occurred to him. In his mind the break with the past had been that complete and definitive.

  At the desk downstairs he inquired the way to the American Legation, and set out along the waterfront on foot, stopping, after ten minutes or so of battling against the wind, at a small café for breakfast. As he sat down at the teetering little table he noticed that his garments were sticky and wet with the salt spray in the air.

  He found the Legation without difficulty; it was just inside the native town, through an archway cut in the old ramparts. In the waiting room he was asked by an earnest young man with glasses to sign the visitors’ register, whereupon he was handed one letter. It was from his mother. He wandered a while in the twisting streets, pushing through crowds of small screaming children, and looking vaguely for a place where he could sit down and read his letter. From a maze of inner streets he came out upon the principal thoroughfare for pedestrians, and followed it downhill. Presently he arrived at a large flat terrace edged with concrete seats, overlooking the docks. He sat down, oblivious of the Arabs who looked at him with their eternal insolent curiosity, and, already in that peculiarly unreal state of mind which can be induced in the traveler by the advent of a letter from home, tore open the envelope and pulled out the small, closely written sheets.

  Dear Nelson:

  I have neglected you shamefully. Since Tuesday for one

  reason or another I have put off writing, and here it is

  Saturday. Somehow after you left I didn’t have much

  «gumption» for a few days! Just sat around and read and

  sewed, and did what light housework I could without tiring

  myself too much. Also had one of my rip-roaring sick-

  headaches which knocked me out for 24 hours. However, I

  am fine now, and have been for several days. Let me tell

  you it was a terrible moment when they pulled up that

  gangplank! Do hope you had no unpleasant experiences

  with your cabin mates on the way over. They didn’t

  look too good to me. Your father and I both thought

  you were in for something, from the looks of them.

  We are planning on driving down to Wilmington for Aunt

  Ida’s birthday. Your father is quite busy these days and

  comes home tired, so I guess one trip will be enough for

  this winter. Don’t want him to get sick again.

  Tho’t you might be interested in the enclosed clipping.

  That Williams girl certainly didn’t lose any time finding a

  new fiance, did she? Well, it seems as though practically all

  your old friends were married and settled down now.

  We were over at the Mott’s (Dr.) last evening after an

  early movie. He is in bed with a bad kidney and we have been

  several times to see them. Your father had a short visit

  upstairs with him, has two male nurses & is a very sick man.

  Louise, whom I don’t think you have seen in twenty years,

  had come down unexpectedly to see how things were going.

  She is a very attractive young woman, two children now.

  She is most interested in your doings. Says she once stopped

  at Tangier for an afternoon on a Mediterranean Cruise when

  she was in college. Didn’t think much of it. She was

  reminiscing about the good times you all used to have,

  and wondered if I still made the cocoanut macaroons I used

  to make. Says she never forgot them and the cookies.

  Naturally I had forgotten.

  Well, I am getting this in the mail today.

  Please take care of your health, just for my sake.

  Remember, if you lose that you lose everything. I have been

  reading up on Morocco in the Encyclopaedia and I must say it

  doesn’t sound so good to me. They seem to have practically

  every sort of disease there. If you let yourself get run

  down in any way you’re asking for trouble. I don’t imagine

  the doctors over there are any too good, either, and the

  hospital conditions must be very primitive.

  I shall be on tenterhooks until I hear from you. Please

  give Jack Wilcox my best. I hope he is able to make a go of

  his business. What with all the difficulties placed in the

  way of travel nowadays, both your father and I are very

  dubious about it. However, he must know whether he is making

  money or not. I don’t see how he can.

  May and Wesley Godfrey were in the other evening, told

  them all about your venture. They said to wish you good luck,

  as you’d probably need it. Your father and I join with them

  in the hope that everything goes off as you expect it to.

  Well, here is the end of my paper so I will quit.

  Love to you from

  Mother

  P.S. It seems it was Algiers that Louise Mott was in, not

  Tangier. Has never been in the latter. Your father told me

  just now when he came home for lunch. He is disgusted with

  me. Says I always get everything mixed up!

  Love again.

  When he had finished reading he folded the letter slowly and put it back into the envelope. He raised his head and looked around him. A little Arab boy, his face ravaged by a virulent skin disease, stood near him, studying him silently — his shoes, his raincoat, his face. A man wearing a tattered outmoded woman’s coat, high-waisted, with peaked shoulders and puffed sleeves, walked up and stopped near the boy, also to stare. In one hand he carried a live hen by its wings; the hen was protesting noisily. Annoyed by its squawks, Dyar rose and went back into the street. Reading the letter had left him in an emotional no-man’s land. The street looked insane with its cheap bazaar architecture, its Coca-Cola signs in Arabic script, its anarchic assortment of people in damp garments straggling up and down. It had begun to rain slightly. He put his hands into the pockets of his raincoat and walked ahead looking down at the pavement, slowly climbing the hill. An idea had been in his mind, he had intended to do something this morning, but now since reading his mother’s letter he did not have the energy to stop and try to recall what it had been. Nor was he certain whether or not he would keep the luncheon appointment with the unpleasant woman he had met last night. He felt under no particular obligation to put in an appearance; she had given him no chance to accept or refuse, had merely ordered him to be at the Empire at two o’clock. He would either go or not go when the time came. He did not really believe Daisy’s fantastic story about her being a Russian agent — as a matter of fact, he rather hoped she would turn out to be something of the sort, something a little more serious than the rest of the disparate characters he had met here so far, and a spy for the Soviet Government would certainly be that.

  Under the trees of the Zoco de Fuera the chestnut vendors’ fires made a fog of heavy, rich smoke. From time to time a rough gust of wind reached down and scooped the top layer out into the air above the trees, where it dissolved. He looked suspiciously at the objects offered for sale, spread out in patterns and mounds on the stone slabs of the market. There were little truncated bamboo tubes filled with kohl, an infinite variety of roots, resins and powders; rams’ horns and porcupine skins, heavy with quills, and an impressive assortment of claws, bones, beaks and
feathers. As the rain fell with more determination, those women whose wares were not protected by umbrellas began to gather them up preparatory to moving off toward more sheltered places. He still felt coreless — he was no one, and he was standing here in the middle of no country. The place was counterfeit, a waiting room between connections, a transition from one way of being to another, which for the moment was neither way, no way. The Arabs loped by in their rehabilitated European footgear which made it impossible for them to walk in a natural fashion, jostled him, stared at him, and tried to speak with him, but he paid them no attention. The new municipal buses moved into the square, unloaded, loaded, moved out, on their way to the edges of the city. A little way beyond the edges of the city was the border of the International Zone, and beyond that were the mountains. He said to himself that he was like a prisoner who had broken through the first bar of his cell, but was still inside. And freedom was not on sale for $390.

  He decided it would do no harm to stop in and see Wilcox. A week or so, he had said, and this was the seventh day. He approached the entrance of the building with a rapidly increasing sensation of dread, although a moment ago he had not been conscious of any at all. Suddenly he found himself inside the pastry shop, sitting down at a table, ordering coffee. Then he asked himself what was worrying him. It was not so much that he realized Wilcox would be annoyed to see him come around without waiting to be telephoned, but that he knew the time had come to bring up the subject of money. And he knew that Wilcox knew it, would be expecting it, and so he was worried. He lit a cigarette to accompany his coffee; the hot liquid reinforced the savor of the smoke. When he had finished the coffee he slapped his knee and rose with determination. «We’ve got to have a showdown,» he thought. But the Europe-Africa Tourist Service might as well have been a dentist’s office for the reluctance with which he climbed the stairs and drew near its door.

  He knocked. «Sí!» cried Wilcox. He turned the knob; the door was locked. «Quién?» Wilcox called, with an edge of vexation or nervousness to his voice. Dyar hesitated, and was about to say: «Jack?» when the door was flung open.

  As Dyar looked into Wilcox’s face, he saw the expression in his eyes change swiftly to one of annoyance. But the first emotion he had caught there had been one of unalloyed fear. Involuntarily Wilcox made a loud clicking sound of exasperation. Then he stepped back a little.

  «Come in».

  They remained standing in the ante-room, one on each side of the low table.

  «What can I do for you?»

  «I’ve got all that stuff you gave me down pat, pretty much. I thought I’d drop around and say hello».

  «Yeah». Wilcox paused. «I thought we said I’d call you. I thought you understood that».

  «I did, but you didn’t call».

  «Any objection to waiting a few days? I’ve still got a lot of stuff here I’ve got to clear up. There’s no room for you here now».

  Dyar laughed; Wilcox broke in on his laughter, his voice a bit higher in pitch. «I don’t want you here. Can’t you get that through your head? I’ve got special reasons for that».

  Dyar took a deep breath. «I’ve got special reasons for coming here. I need some cash».

  Wilcox narrowed his eyes. «What happened to all those express checks you had last week? Damn it, I told you you were Working for me. Do I have to sign a contract? I owe you a week’s wages, right? Well, I’d planned to pay you by the month, but if you want, I can make it twice a month. I know you’re short. It’s a nuisance to me, but I can do it that way if you like».

  «But Jesus Christ, I need it now».

  «Yeah, but I can’t give it to you now. I haven’t got it».

  «What do you mean, you haven’t got it? It’s not that much». Dyar leered a bit as he said this.

  «Listen, Nelson,» began Wilcox, his face taking on a long-suffering look — («Fake,» thought Dyar) — «I’m telling you the truth. I haven’t got it to give you. I’ve got a back bill at the Atlantide that would sink a ship. Whatever comes in goes to them now. If it didn’t I’d be in the street. You can see for yourself how much business I’m doing in here».

  There were footsteps in the corridor. Wilcox stepped to the door and tried it; it was locked, but a vestige of alarm flickered again across his face. Dyar said nothing.

  «Look,» he went on, «I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m stalling or anything. You’re working for me. It may just be a crazy idea of mine, but I think things are going to open up very soon, and I want you to be broken in and ready for the big day when it comes».

  «I didn’t say you were stalling. I just said I needed money. But if you haven’t got one week’s pay now, how the hell do you expect to have twice as much next week?»

  «That’s a chance we both have to take».

  «Both!» He looked derisively at Wilcox.

  «Unless you’re a bigger God-damned fool than I think you are you’ve still got a few express checks left that’ll last you at least till next week».

  «That’s got nothing to do with it. I’m trying to save those for an emergency».

  «Well, this is your emergency».

  «That’s what you think». Dyar moved toward the door, opened it and stepped out into the corridor.

  «Come here,» said Wilcox, following him quickly. He stood in the doorway and held out a five-hundred peseta note. «You’ve got me all wrong. Jesus! They don’t make ’em stubborner! You really think I’m trying to gyp you, don’t you?» He glanced nervously up and down the corridor.

  «I don’t think anything,» Dyar said. He was trying to decide whether or not to take the money; his first impulse had been to refuse it, but then that seemed like a gesture of childish petulance. He reached for it, and said: «Thanks». Immediately afterward he was furious with himself. This anger was not assuaged by Wilcox’s next words.

  «And now, for God’s sake, keep out of here until I call you, will you? Please!» The last word was more a shout of relief than of entreaty.

  Again he cast a worried glance along the hall, and stepping inside the office, shut the door.

  Slowly Dyar went down the stairs, still raging against himself for his blundering behavior. The money had been handed him as though he were a blackmailer come to exact more than the usual figure. Now it would be more difficult than ever to put the affair on a normal business basis.

  As he stepped out into the street he realized that the rain was pouring down now. The sidewalks were empty; everyone had taken shelter under awnings, in doorways and arcades. Only an occasional Arab splashed along, seemingly oblivious of the storm. The pastry shop was crowded with people peering out into the street, most of them standing near the door so that if they were approached by a waitress they could move outside. He pushed through their ranks, sat down again and ordered another coffee. It was only then that he began to consider the aspect of Wilcox’s behavior which was not concerned with him — the much more interesting fact that he seemed to be expecting an imminent unwelcome arrival. «Daisy’s probably right,» he thought. Jack had incurred the displeasure of some local hooligan and was awaiting reprisal. Either that or he was trying to avoid a creditor or two. Yet neither supposition quite explained his reluctance to have Dyar visit the office.

  «No money!» he thought savagely. «Then why does he stay at the Atlantide?» But he knew the answer. Even if it were true that Wilcox was broke, which seemed unlikely, he would have felt obliged, and would have managed, to go on staying at the best hotel, because the town had agreed with his decision that he was one of the big shots, one of those who automatically get the best whether or not they can pay for it. But why? Every day in Tangier several new companies were formed, most of them with the intention of evading the laws of one country or another, and every day approximately the same number failed. And the reasons for their failure or success had very little to do with the business acumen of those connected with them. If you were really a winner you found ways of intercepting your competitors’ corresponden
ce, even his telegrams; you persuaded the employees at the French Post Office to let you have the first look at letters you were interested in seeing, which was how you got your mailing lists; you hired Arabs to break into other companies’ offices and steal their stationery and examples of their directors’ signatures for you; and when you sent your forged replies regretting your inability to supply the merchandise you prudently went all the way to Tetuan in the Spanish Zone to post them — only no customs official at the frontier got them away from you because somehow you were not stripped naked like the others, and the seams of your clothing were not ripped open. Not that you paid bribes in order to escape being molested — but everyone knew a winner on sight; he was the respected citizen of the International Zone. If one was not a winner one was a victim, and there seemed to be no way to change that. No pretense was of any avail. It was not a question of looking or acting like a winner — that could always be managed, although no one was taken in by it — it was a matter of conviction, of feeling like one, of knowing you belonged to the caste, of recognizing and being sure of your genius. For a long time he reflected confusedly upon these things; then he paid, got up, and went out into the rain, which now fell less heavily.

  «I knew you would come,» said Mme. Jouvenon. This was her way of saying that she had not been at all sure of it.

  Dyar was more truthful. «I didn’t,» he said with a wry smile. And as he said it, he wondered why indeed he had come. Partly out of courtesy, perhaps, although he would not have wanted to admit that. He had found himself outside the restaurant three times during the late morning, but it had been too early for the rendezvous. However, he had seen the bright displays of hors d’oeuvre through the window, and probably it was they more than anything else that had induced him finally to keep the appointment. It was the sort of place he never would have thought of eating in alone.

  Mme. Jouvenon was much calmer today — even rather pleasant, he thought — and certainly she was nobody’s fool. She held the reins of the conversation firmly, but directed it with gentleness so that there was no feeling of strain. When they had reached the salad course, with all the naturalness in the world she began to discuss the subject that interested her, and he found it difficult to see anything offensive in what she said or in the way she said it. He understood, she supposed, that most people in Tangier had to live as best they could, doing one thing and another, and precisely because there were so many governments represented in the Administration, there was a great need for a practical system of checking and counter-checking between each power and the others. This ought to have been worked out beforehand officially, but it had not been, and the old formula of private tallying had still to be adhered to. He nodded gravely, smiling to himself, wondering just how long it would take her to make her offer, and under what guise it would come.