On Sundays Peter Zvegintzov opened La Colombe at twelve to catch the Mountain crowd as they made their way home from church. Lake knew this (he'd become a regular customer and close observer of the shop), and also knew that Peter kept irregular hours on Sunday afternoon, closing sometimes at two, sometimes as late as four, depending on his sense of the needs of his clientele. In the few weeks that Lake had been frequenting the shop he'd tried, as often as he could, to come in just as Peter was closing up. He felt there was some advantage in being the last customer-opportunities to ask Peter how his business day had gone and to project himself as a sympathetic friend.
Thus on the last Sunday in May he waited nervously in his office in the deserted Consulate, anxiously calculating the best time to arrive. These planned intersections with Z had become a game. Lake had never willed himself into a friendship before, but he found the process exhilarating, a distraction from the frustrations of his work.
On his way over to La Colombe, driving through Dradeb, he asked himself why he was doing this, what goal he was hoping to achieve. He wasn't clear about it, had only the vaguest sort of idea. It had something to do with the forging of a link, creating a relationship with a man who seemed very different from himself, and yet with whom he felt a bond.
He was delighted to find the shop still open and only Colonel Brown's dusty Plymouth parked outside. He walked in, nodded to Peter, then inspected a rack of spy novels while observing the transaction taking place in front.
"Bunch of damn baboons," the Colonel was saying, "that's what these Moroccans are. Still swinging from the trees as far as I'm concerned."
He purchased an oversized bottle of soy sauce and a pair of gardening gloves. "It's not just Barclay," he muttered as he paid. "It's all of us now-the whole British community under attack."
He rushed off then, the door slamming behind him. Lake emerged from behind the book rack and approached Peter with a smile.
"I know," he said, "Katie Manchester called Janet the minute she got home from church. Guess you've got some ideas about that, Peter. Who do you think it is?"
Zvegintzov squinted through his spectacles. "If I've learned one thing," he said, "it's not to speculate about the British."
"Very good," Lake laughed. "Well put, Peter. So-have you had a good business day?"
"So so," said Zvegintzov. "I sold a chess set and an Arabic-Spanish dictionary, along with the usual decks of cards. Lots of blueberry jam too. There's been a run on that. I have to order another case." He wrote something on a pad he kept on the counter, a reminder to himself about the jam, Lake guessed, though he wasn't sure, because Peter wrote it in Cyrillic script.
"You know, Peter," he said. "You've got a terrific little business here. Wonderful location. You catch them both ways I bet."
"Catch them? Oh-I see. You mean the Mountain people. Yes, I do."
"Sure. Mountain crowd's your clientele. You got a real sweet setup here."
Peter sat down on a hassock, his thick glasses perched upon his nose. One of the reasons Lake liked to come in at the end of the day was that he could count on finding Peter weary and, he thought, less on guard.
"Yes," said Peter, "but they come from all over the city too. I'm still the only one in Tangier who imports real Stilton cheese."
Lake nodded. "Quite the capitalist."
They both laughed then, a little awkwardly, Lake thought. "You know, Peter," he said, "maybe you ought to give a harder sell."
"Hmmm. What do you mean?"
"Well, for instance-" Lake moved to the center. "You could move the freezer over here against the wall. That way when someone comes in with a bunch of kids they go straight for the ice cream before the parents have time to object."
"Yes. I see. But I keep the records over there."
"Well-move them. Make a little display. Keep the hot stuff in front, the rock and roll, and the ones that don't sell too fast, the classical ones-stack them behind on the shelves. "
"Hmmm-"
"You've got to start thinking in terms of packaging. Catch the eye. Grab the public. Give people the feeling they're in an attractive environment, and put them in the mood to buy."
"Yes-"
"That's the problem with Russia, you see. Those drab state-owned stores. Rude clerks. People waiting in line. Everything out of stock. Three thousand size-twelve shoes, but they only fit your left foot. If you started thinking in business terms, you could make some real dough." Lake bit into his lower lip. "Yeah-a gold mine. You could have a real gold mine here."
"I don't do so badly now," said Peter. "My clients seem pleased enough."
"Of course. Of course they are. I didn't mean that. You're doing a hell of a job. But what happens when they put in this new road? Then the Mountain people won't be coming by here every day. Course you could move the shop, but you'd probably lose momentum if you did. I personally think you should stay here, brighten the place up, regulate the inventory, and make it worth a special trip." He paused. "Listen, I got to get going. Janet'll kill me if I'm late. Reason I came by was to invite you to dinner. We're having some Moroccans, official types, over Wednesday night. Wondered if you'd be free."
"Yes, yes. Thank you. Thank you very much."
"Good. Wednesday then. Eight-fifteen. So long, Peter. And think about what I said."
It had been a curious exchange, Lake realized, as he paused outside the shop, watching Peter struggle with his iron security grill. There was an awkward moment then as Peter locked the door, and they grinned at each other through the glass. Lake waved, Peter waved back, then turned off the fluorescent lights.
Lake waited until he'd disappeared into his little bedroom in the back. Was Peter intrigued, he wondered, about why the ranking American official in Tangier was taking such an interest in his shop? Impossible to know. His face was opaque. He revealed nothing, nothing at all.
Hamid Ouazzani was thinking of the summer as he stood on his balcony late that Sunday afternoon. The sun was above the Mountain, just about to set, and to the east he could see Djebel Ben Moussa shrouded in a darkening mist. Soon, he knew, mobs of tourists would descend upon Tangier, and with them all sorts of petty crimes. He could look forward to three months of hard work, new assistants in his office, foreigners haranguing him in European tongues, kif arrests, pickpocketings, fights in bars, rapes, cat burglaries, and trouble on the beach. He could count too, he knew, on one murder at least.
Kalinka was sitting on the banquette in their salon bent over her sketchbook, intent, working with her crayons. Hamid was pleased as he watched her draw. He'd been encouraging her the entire day. "Draw your memories," he'd said. "Draw your mother, your childhood home." And she'd surprised him-she'd agreed.
Perhaps, he thought, it was language that was the barrier, that made it impossible for her to answer his verbal probes. He didn't know, but now, watching her, he congratulated himself for suggesting that she draw. She was so talented, her sketches were always so fine, so beautifully crafted, executed with such delicate, patient strokes, and now it seemed that through them she might be able to tell him things which she could not or would not reveal to him in words.
He left the balcony, walked over to her side, peered down at her work.
She looked up at him and smiled. "Just as you said, Hamid. Pictures of the past."
She flipped through the pages, showed him what she'd done. He was fascinated, sat down beside her, looked carefully at every sketch.