In a way, Robin thought, it was a precious story, and he was annoyed when Barclay tried to eclipse it with one of his own. He told a boring anecdote about an English actor he'd once slept with who'd used his appendix scar as the centerpiece for a butterfly tattooed above his loins.
When he was finished Wax baited him by suggesting that Kalem and Mustapha fight.
"Won't allow it," Barclay said. "I know you sent your boy to karate school. I've been coaching Mustapha in something else."
"Oh? What's that?"
"To speak like an Eton boy. A hopeless cause, of course."
Inigo excused himself, gesturing for Pumpkin Pie to follow him into the sea. Doyle went off in another direction, Bainbridge and the poodle clipper went to sun themselves on the docks, and Lundgren and the Moroccan boys began to play soccer on the beach. This left Robin with Barclay, Kranker, and Wax, and a discussion of the "Mohammed problem" upon which they were all quite eloquent, he thought.
"Oh, they make us suffer," Barclay said. "They love to do that. Look at Inigo. The terrible things he has to take from that Pumpkin Pie. We teach them, introduce them around, show them how to use a knife and fork. And what do they do? Steal, chase after girls, and feel no gratitude for all the love we lavish so generously upon their wretched souls. They're in it for the money and the comfort. Certainly not the love. And we can do nothing to change them. We can only acquiesce."
"That," said Kranker, "is why I stick to the Socco. They're good for sex and nothing else. I wouldn't live with one if he paid me. I don't have time to suffer on their account."
"But it's marvelous to suffer," Wax put in. "Don't you think, Robin? Oh-but you're too poor! To really suffer you have to be rich like me, and offer them ways to become corrupt. Look at them over there." He pointed to the soccer game. "Look at them, preening around like little cock dandies. They're animals, that's all, and they don't care a hang about us. Except for what they can get-food, clothes, a warm bed. Thing to do is trick 'em. Make 'em think they'll be remembered in our wills. Kalem, like the rest of them, is in for a big surprise. I promise him things, tasty little objets d'art. 'This necklace will be yours someday, dear.' 'Someday you'll have my crucifixes, my furs, my robes.' Ha! He won't get a cent. I'm leaving everything to my sister in Sussex."
"Oh, come, Patrick," Robin said. "What you say is cruel-to corrupt them with all your stuff and then throw them back on the dungheap when you're done."
"Not cruel at all, my boy. The dungheap's precisely where they belong. It's good for them to be there. Builds their characters, you see. Anyway, they can study me, and when I'm done with them they can sink or swim on their bloody own. If they don't learn how to hustle from me, they certainly don't deserve to survive. Tangier's a cruel town, and I'm no exception. Let's face it-it's the boys who brought us here. And we pay a hell of a lot for that."
"One pays for everything," Barclay said.
"That's right. So why be sentimental? But you are, Peter. You have a nauseating sentimental streak. What's this I hear about Camilla Weltonwhist giving a birthday party for Mustapha?"
"She is, next week. Nice of her too."
"She's secretly in love with you, Barclay. It's her poor sad way of ingratiating herself."
Barclay shrugged. "Fine. Let her ingratiate. She's been a good deal more successful at it than you."
"Look at Sven there," said Wax, pretending he hadn't heard. "He's a terrible dentist. Probably the worst dentist in the world. Yet the poor idiot keeps at it, because he doesn't know how to hustle any other way. He's slept with St. Carlton on and off for years, and all he ever got out of it was a closet full of St. Carlton-designed ties."
"I don't get your point," Robin said.
"Well, I'm sorry about that, dear boy. Let me try to make it clear. My point is that the world's divided between those who hustle, those who squeeze the ripe fruit of life and suck out of it all the juices therein, and the rest of humanity, the poor working bastards who are hustled and squeezed to death. Now which is better-to be a squeezer or one of the squeezed? Do you see? That's the one thing I've learned in life, the one thing I have to pass on. You've been living in Tangier for ten years, you're getting a belly, and you're losing your looks. You live in a pigsty, sell dope, make shabby little deals, and write your delicious column. Well, what have you got to show for it? You should have done like me, latched onto a rich old man when you were eighteen or twenty, learned all his tricks, ingratiated yourself, gotten yourself into his will. Course you're redheaded, and redheads don't usually succeed.
"I was lucky. I found a prince. Not a temporal prince, mind you-a prince of the church. He was rich too, had vast inherited lands. We spent ten years together, and I got everything in the end. Most of it I lost in the war, but I'd learned to hustle and was able to make another pile on my own. How? Selling things, trading, hustling furniture and art. The point is that I had a metier. So here I am, in decadent Tangier, rich as Croesus, with a beautiful chicken who obeys me like a dog. I don't envy anyone. I wouldn't change places with blue-blooded Barclay here for anything in the world. I was born the son of a chimney sweep, but I squeezed the fruit of life and sucked out everything that was there. The trouble with you, Robin, is that you skip around too much. You've got good instincts, but you don't go for the kill."
"Thank you, Patrick," Robin solemnly replied. "I appreciate your analysis. Everything you say is true. Now I shall go into the tent and weep."
"Don't weep, boy," Wax called after him. "You're adorable. We love you, you know."
Robin turned, smiled, waved his hand, then retired to the tent to rest.
Inigo was the first to leave. There were still many hours left of light, and he wanted to go home and paint. Then Doyle left too, dragging his sack, to drive back with Kranker and Nordeen. Lundgren and his Mohammed hitched a ride with Wax and Kalem. Barclay took a dip, put his arm around Mustapha, and came to sit by Robin while he dried off.
"Now, Robin," he said, "we've had our differences. But I like you, so I must give you some good advice. Stay clear of Patrick Wax. He's a nasty piece of work."
"I think he's quite amusing, Peter-"
"Awful person. Phony. A thief. Everything out of his mouth is a lie. That absurd story about Bosie Douglas-and how he loves to say 'Lord Alfred Douglas'! I happen to know Bosie wasn't anywhere near Florence in thirty-eight. He was in London, sick with pneumonia. We were cousins, you see."
"Yes, yes, but what difference does it make? Everyone lies in Tangier."
"There are degrees, Robin. Degrees. People like Wax go in for homosexuality because of the social mobility involved. Wax would be a chimney sweep like his father if he hadn't gotten smart and become a pouf."