She brought the car to a stop at the curb behind a string of others already parked there. As she took out the keys and put them into her purse she said: «Things like friendship and love. I’ve lived in America a good deal. My mother was from Boston, you know, so I’m part American. I know what it’s like. Oh, God, only too well!»
They got out. «I guess there’s as much friendship there as anywhere else,» he said. He was annoyed, and he hoped his voice did not show it. «Or love».
«Love!» she cried derisively.
An elderly Arab swung the grilled gate. They went into a dark room where several other bearded men were stretched out on mats in a niche that ran the length of the wall. These greeted Daisy solemnly, without moving. The old Arab opened a door, and they stepped out into a vast dim garden in which the only things Dyar could identify with certainty were the very black, tall cypresses, their points sharp against the evening sky, and the very white marble fountains in which water splashed with an uneven sound. They went along the gravel walk in silence between the sweet and acid floral smells. There were thin strains of music ahead. «I expect they’re dancing to the gramophone,» said Daisy. «This way». She led him up a walk toward the right, to a wide flight of marble stairs. «Evenings they entertain in the European wing. And in European style. Except that they themselves don’t touch liquor, of course». Above the music of the tango came the chatter of voices. As they arrived at the top of the stairway a grave-faced man in a white silk gown stepped forward to welcome them.
«Dear Abdelmalek!» Daisy cried delightedly, seizing his two hands. «What a lovely party! This is Mr. Dyar of New York». He shook Dyar’s hand warmly. «It is very kind of the Marquesa to bring you to my home,» he said. Daisy was already greeting other friends; M. Beidaoui, still grasping Dyar’s hand, led him to a nearby corner where he presented him to his brother Hassan, a tall chocolate-colored gentleman also clothed in white robes. They spoke a minute about America, and Dyar was handed a whiskey-soda by a servant. As his hosts turned away to give their attention to a new arrival, he began to look about him. The room was large, comfortable and dark, being lighted only by candles that rested in massive candelabra placed here and there on the floor. It was irregularly shaped, and the music and dancing were going on in a part hidden from his vision. Along the walls nearby were wide, low divans occupied exclusively by women, all of whom looked over forty, he noted, and certain of whom were surely at least seventy. Apart from the Beidaoui brothers there were only two other Arabs in view. One was talking to Daisy by an open window and the other was joking with a fat Frenchman in a corner. In spite of the Beidaouis, whom he rather liked, he felt smothered and out of place, and he wished he had not come.
As Dyar was about to move off and see who was taking part in the dancing, Hassan tapped him on the arm. «This is Madame Werth,» he said. «You speak French?» The dark-eyed woman in black to whom he was being presented smiled. «No,» said Dyar, confused. «It does not matter,» she said. «I speak a little English». «You speak very well,» said Dyar, offering her a cigarette. He had the feeling that someone had spoken to him about her, but he could not remember who, or what it was that had been said. They conversed a while, standing there with their drinks, in the same spot where they had been introduced, and the idea persisted that he knew something about her which he was unable to call to mind. He had no desire to be stuck with her all evening, but for the moment he saw no way out. And she had just told him that she was in mourning for her husband; she looked rather forlorn, and he felt sorry for her. Suddenly he saw Eunice Goode’s flushed face appear in the doorway. «How do you do?» she said to Hassan Beidaoui. Behind her was Hadija, looking very smart indeed. «How do you do?» said Hadija, with the identical inflection of Eunice Goode. A third woman entered with them, small and grim-faced, who scarcely acknowledged the greeting extended to her, but immediately began to inspect the guests with care, one by one, as if taking a rapid inventory of the qualities and importance of each. There was not enough light for the color of her hair to be noticeable, so, since no one seemed to know her, no one paid her any attention for the moment. Dyar was too much astonished at seeing Hadija to continue his conversation; he stood staring at her. Eunice Goode held her by the hand and was talking very fast to Hassan.
«You’ll be interested to know that one of my dearest friends was Crown Prince Rupprecht. We were often at Karlsbad together. I believe he knew your father». As the rush of words went on, Hassan’s face showed increasing lack of comprehension; he moved backward a step after each few sentences, saying: «Yes, yes,» but she followed along, pulling Hadija with her, until she had backed him against the wall and Dyar could no longer hear what she was saying. Somewhat embarrassed, he again became conscious of Madame Werth’s presence beside him.
«— and I hope you will come to make a visit to me when I am returning from Marrakech,» she was saying.
«Thank you, I’d like very much to». It was then that he recalled where he had heard her name. The canceled reservation at the hotel there which he had been going to give to Daisy had originally been Madame Werth’s.
«Do you know Marrakech?» she asked him. He said he did not. «Ah, you must go. In the winter it is beautiful. You must have a room at the Mamounia, but the room must have a view on the mountains, the snow, you know, and a terrace above the garden. I would love to go tomorrow, but the Mamounia is always full now and my reservation is not before the twenty of the month».
Dyar looked at her very hard. She noticed the difference in his expression, and was slightly startled.
«You’re going to the Hotel Mamounia in Marrakech on the twentieth?» he said. Then, seeing the suggestion of bewilderment on her face he looked down at her drink. «Yours is nearly finished,» he remarked. «Let me get you another». She was pleased; he excused himself and went across the room with a glass in each hand.
It all made perfectly good sense. Now at last he understood Daisy’s request of him and the secrecy with which she had surrounded it. Madame Werth would simply have been told that there had been a most regrettable misunderstanding, and Wilcox’s office would have been blamed, but the Marquise de Valverde would already have been installed in the room and there would have been no dislodging her. As he realized how close he had come to doing her the favor he felt a rush of fury against her. «The bitch!» he said between his teeth. The little revelation was unpleasant, and it somehow extended itself to the whole room and everyone in it.
He saw Daisy out of the corner of his eye as he passed the divan where she sat; she was talking to a pale young man with spectacles and a girl with a wild head of red hair. As he was on his way back she caught sight of him and called out: «Mr. Dyar! When you’ve made your delivery I want you to come over here». He held the glasses up higher and grinned. «Just a second,» he said. He was wondering if Madame Werth would be capable of the same sort of throat-slitting behavior as Daisy, and decided against the likelihood of it. She looked too helpless, which was doubtless precisely why Daisy had singled her out as a likely prospective victim.
Back, standing again beside Madame Werth, he said as she sipped her new drink: «Do you know the Marquesa de Valverde?»
Madame Werth seemed enthusiastic. «Ah, what a delightful woman! Such vivacity! And very kind. I have seen her pick out from the street young dogs, poor thin ones with bones, and take them to her home and care for them. The entire world is her charity».