Eunice left the American Legation about four o’clock. They had been most civil, she reflected. (She was always expecting to intercept looks of derision.) They had listened to her, made a few notes, and thanked her gravely. She on her side thought she had done rather welclass="underline" she had not told them too much, — just enough to whet their interest. «Of course, I’m passing on this information to you for what it may be worth,» she had said modestly. «I have no idea how much truth there is in it. But I have a distinct feeling that you’ll find it worth your while to follow it up». (When she had gone Mr. Doan, the Vice-Consul, had heaved an exaggerated sigh, remarked in a flat voice: «Oh, Death, where is thy sting?» and his secretary had smirked at him appreciatively.)
At the Metropole desk the manager handed Eunice an envelope which she opened on her way upstairs. It was a very short note written in French on the hotel stationery, suggesting that she meet the sender alone in the reading-room of the hotel at seven o’clock that evening. It added the hope that she would agree to receive the most distinguished sentiments of the signer, whose name when she saw it gave her an agreeable start. «Thami Beidaoui,» she read aloud, with satisfaction. At the moment she recalled only the two brothers who lived in the palace; the entrance of the third brother had been effected too late in her evening to make any lasting impression on her. Indeed, at the moment she did not so much as suspect his existence. If she had not been so completely preoccupied with worry about Hadija she would have been delighted with the message.
When she opened the door of her room the first thing she noticed was that the note she had left was gone and the bowl of chrysanthemums had been moved back to the center of the table. Then she heard splashing in the bathtub, and the familiar wabbling vocal line of the chant that habitually accompanied Hadija’s ablutions. «Thank God,» she breathed. That stage of the ordeal was over, at least. There remained the extraction of the admission of guilt, and the scene. Because there was going to be a scene, of course — Eunice would see to that. Only it was rather difficult to make a scene with Hadija; she was inclined to sit back like a spectator and watch it, rather than participate in it.
Eunice sat down to wait, to calm herself, and to try to prepare a method of operations. But when Hadija emerged in a small cloud of steam, clad in the satin and mink neglige, it was she who led the attack. Shrilling in Spanish, she accused Eunice of thinking only of herself, of taking her to the Bei-daoui Palace and embarrassing her in front of a score of people by passing out, leaving her not only to extricate herself from the unbelievably humiliating situation, but to see to the removal of Eunice’s prostrate body as best she could. Eunice did not attempt to reply. It was all perfectly true, only she had not thought of it until now. However, to admit such a thing would be adding grist to Hadija’s mill. She was curious to know how Hadija had managed to get her out of the place and back to the hotel, but she did not ask her.
«What a disgrace for us!» cried Hadija. «What shame you have brought on us! How can we face the Beidaoui señores after this?»
In spite of the balm brought to her soul by this use of the plural pronoun, Eunice was suddenly visited by the terrible thought that perhaps the note she had just received had something to do with her behavior at the Beidaoui Palace; one of the brothers was coming to inform her discreetly that the hospitality of his home would henceforth not be extended to her and her friend Miss Kumari.
In a very thin voice she finally said: «Where did you spend the night?»
«I am lucky enough to have a few friends left,» said Hadija. «I went and slept with a friend. I would not have anything to do with that mess». She called it ese lio with supreme disgust. So it had not been she who had seen to getting her back to the hotel. But Eunice was too upset to go into that; she was having a vision of herself in the act of misbehaving in some spectacular manner — breaking the furniture, throwing up in the middle of the dance floor, insulting the guests with obscenities.
«But what did I do?» she cried piteously.
«Bastante!» said the other, glancing at her significantly.
The conversation dragged on through the waning light, until Hadija, feeling that she now definitely had the upper hand, lit the candles on the mantel and went to stand in front of the mirror where she remained a while, admiring herself in the negligee.
«I look beautiful in this?» she hazarded.
«Yes, yes,» Eunice answered wearily, adding: «Hand me that bottle and the little glass beside it».
But before Hadija complied she was determined to pursue further the subject which preoccupied her. «Then I keep it?»
«Hadija! I couldn’t care less what you do with it. Why do you bother asking me? You know what I told you about my things».
Hadija did, indeed, but she had wanted to hear it repeated with reference to this particular garment, just in case of a possible misunderstanding later.
«Aha!» She pulled it tighter around her, and still watching her reflection over her shoulder, took Eunice the bottle of Gordon’s Dry and the tumbler.
«I very happy,» Hadija confided, going into English because it was the language of their intimacy.
«Yes, I daresay,» said Eunice drily. She decided to remain as she was, to receive M. Beidaoui. Seven o’clock was early; there was no need to dress more formally.
In order to obviate any possibility of Hadija’s seeing him at the Metropole, Thami had made her promise to meet him at seven o’clock in the lobby of the Cine Mauretania, which was a good half-hour’s walk from the hotel. She had demurred at first, but he still held the whip hand.
«She will want to come too,» she complained. «She won’t let me come alone».
«It’s very important,» he warned her. «If you try hard you’ll find a way».
Now she had to break the news to Eunice, and she dreaded it. But strangely enough, when she announced that she was going out for a walk before dinner and would return about eight, Eunice merely looked surprised for an instant and said: «I’ll expect you at eight, then. Don’t be late». Eunice’s acquiescence at this point had a twofold origin: she felt chastened by the idea of her behavior the preceding night, and she already had been vaguely wondering how she could keep Hadija away from the impending interview with M. Beidaoui. It seemed unwise to give him an opportunity to scrutinize her too closely.
Hidden among the kif-smokers, tea-drinkers and card-players in a small Arab café opposite the Metropole’s entrance, Thami watched Hadija step out the door and pass along the street in the direction of the Zoco Chico. A quarter of an hour later Eunice’s telephone rang. A M. Beidaoui wished to see Mile. Goode; he would wait in the reading room.
«Je déscends tout de suite,» said Eunice nervously. She gulped one more small glass of gin and with misgiving went down to meet M. Beidaoui.
When she went into the dim room with its bastard Moorish decorations she saw no one but a young Spaniard sitting in a far corner smoking a cigarette. She was about to turn and go out to the desk, when he rose and came toward her, saying in English: «Good evening».
Before anything else crossed her mind she had a fleeting but unsavory intuition that she knew the young man and that she did not want to speak with him. However, here he was, taking her hand, saying: «How are you?» And because she was looking increasingly confused, he said: «I am Thami Beidaoui. You know» —