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.