A pause then as they stood side by side staring at the code machine. Lake could hear Z exhaling in heavy gasps. Suddenly he felt weak, overwhelmed by what he'd done.
The Labyrinth
Throughout the summer, but particularly in August, certain undesirable elements began to appear in Tangier. Hamid noticed them-pickpockets of uncanny skill and verve, and gangs of dark-browed adolescent thugs. The latter seemed to specialize in harassment, insults and jostles on the Boulevard and, sometimes, outright attacks on foreign residents of the town.
Among the first of their victims was the accident-prone writer David Klein, discovered nude and beaten bloody on a lonely stretch of beach beneath the Amar woods. He'd been sunning himself, he told Hamid, immersed in a biography of Oscar Wilde, when he was suddenly surrounded by a gang of grinning toughs. They closed in, then took turns kicking him, aroused by his squeals and pleas. Shortly after Dr. Radcliffe patched him up, Klein left Tangier for good.
Next was Philippa Whittle, wife of Clive Whittle, the British Consul General, an imperious lady much admired for her charitable good works. She was walking in broad daylight on Avenue Christophe Colombe, when a gang swarmed upon her, punched her to the ground, stole her purse, and robbed her shoes. Whittle made stern representations to the Prefect, and then, when Hamid failed to find his wife's attackers, he filed a diplomatic protest in Rabat. But as hard as Hamid tried, he could find no witnesses to the event. Either the woman was an hysteric or people in the neighborhood were covering up out of sympathy for the attacking gang.
It was Sven Lundgren, the little dentist, who suffered the worst abuse. He was standing one evening by the rail tracks, recruiting for Pierre St. Carlton, when suddenly he was jumped by a youth who lashed his face with a steel chain. For a while it looked as though Sven might lose an eye, but St. Carlton flew him up to Paris, where a doctor saved his sight.
There was no pattern to these assaults. They seemed to occur without provocation or plan, savage outbursts from unidentified persons who had somehow infiltrated Tangier. The European community was, naturally, upset, but, according to Robin Scott's column, equally determined that no herd of youths was going to ruin its summer fun. At night, safe in their villas, lulled by the gentle bleating of Arab flutes, the Europeans told each other that after Ramadan the city would resume its former calm.
Hamid was not so sure. These assaults on foreigners distressed him greatly, and he felt there was more to them than the stresses of the fast. Something was changing in the city-there was tension and anger now. For some time he'd sensed this change; now he tried to understand its cause.
The draft was one thing-it was so stupid, he felt, to draft people during the holy month, but the provincial administrators didn't seem to care. The recruiters, minor despots, were pitiless in their pursuit, rounding up young men, shipping them off to army camps, oblivious to the anger they aroused.
As the draft began to gain momentum and the water crisis worsened, Hamid observed flocks of petitioners mobbed outside City Hall. One time, when he was driving by, he saw some women fling themselves before a limousine. When the chauffeur stopped and the women pressed themselves against the car, Hamid had a glimpse of the tense and frightened Governor of Tangier nodding gravely at grievances being shouted at him through the glass. A few seconds later, after the limousine had pulled away, he overheard the women muttering among themselves. "Walu," they said, "we'll get nothing out of him."
It had been years since he'd heard such bitter words-not since his boyhood, the time of struggle against the Spanish and the French. And he heard other things too that gave him pause, mumblings from policemen, reported to him by Aziz, about Mohammed Achar and his protege Driss Bennani, things they were alleged to be saying to the people of Dradeb. There was no proof as yet, no evidence against them, but Aziz told him that certain officers were trying hard to build a case. Achar and Bennani were careful, avoided direct attacks upon the King, but according to Aziz they left little doubt that they were complaining of his regime.
Aziz hesitated after he told him this, as if he wanted to add something more.
Hamid met his eyes. "I understand," he said. "I'll speak to her tonight."
He tried. He put it to Kalinka as calmly as he could. "I'd appreciate it," he said, "if you'd stay away from the clinic for a while. I know you like your work there, but there's some trouble now. Achar and Bennani are stirring things up, and it would be better for me if you stayed away."
She surprised him then-she argued back. "It's my work," she said. "I can't do it if I stay away."
"Of course, Kalinka-I know that. But please don't go down there anymore."
"Why? Tell me why, Hamid."
"Well-" How could he explain? "I have some enemies in the police, and these men are watching Achar. By connecting Achar with you they could make it look as though I'm involved."
"But you're not, Hamid-"
"Of course I'm not. But you live with me, and you're working there." He looked at her.
She frowned. "I'm sorry," she said. "This is what I want to do."
Suddenly he was furious. Didn't she care about his career? He stood up, started to leave the room.
"I just can't give it up," she cried. He stopped, turned to look at her. Her hands were set upon her cheeks. "There's such excitement down there, people doing things, trying to set things right. There's so much more to Tangier than I ever thought, Hamid. So much more than the people who go to Peter's store."
"Are you saying I waste my time?"
"No, not that-"
"You're beginning to sound like Achar."
"Well, he has been an influence, I admit-"
"Oh, yes. An influence! And you've certainly caught his mood. You have, Kalinka. Yes, you have. I know him. He's persuasive. And very attractive too."
She stared at him. "What are you trying to say?"
"That I'm sick of hearing about how noble he is. 'Achar says this.' 'Bennani's doing that.' You're more interested in them than in your life with me."
"That's not true!"
"I hope not."
"Well, it isn't."
"Good. That's good. Now listen, Kalinka, I can't control you. You're a grown-up woman, and you're not my wife. But if we're going to be married, then that's something else. You can't go around and compromise my position. Perhaps you'd better think about that."
"I have thought about it."
"And?"
"Well, I'm not so sure we should be married, Hamid. At least not yet-not for a while."
He looked at her, saw that she was serious, nodded, and left the room. Standing out on the terrace, looking across the city, he had the sense that everything between them was suddenly different. What was happening to her? Why had she become so willful? And he-why was he so difficult, making an issue out of her work just because of a hint from Aziz? He wasn't really jealous of Achar, though there was always the possibility, he realized, that if he tried to dominate Kalinka too much he could drive her straight into the doctor's arms. No, it wasn't that-his real fear was of disorder, the disorder he believed she was helping to sow in Dradeb, and the disorder that now seemed to have entered their home.
He'd wanted to marry her, had only held back until he could clear up some questions about her past. But now that that was solved, her relationship with Peter finally understood, she informed him that she wasn't yet ready herself and that as far as she was concerned their wedding could wait. That was something he hadn't anticipated. She had caught him in his pride.