Tangier (31 page)

I
went to Carthage, where I found myself in the midst of a hissing cauldron. I muddied the stream of friendship with the filth of lewdness and clouded its clear waters with hell's black river of lust. And yet, in spite of this rank depravity, I was vain enough to have ambitions of cutting a fine figure in the world.

I was caught up in the coils of trouble, for I was lashed with the cruel, fiery rods of jealousy, suspicion, anger, and quarrels. I enjoyed fables and fictions, which could only graze the skin, but where the fingers scratch, the skin becomes inflamed. It swells and festers with hideous pus. And the same happened to me. I exhausted myself in depravity, in the pursuit of an unholy curiosity. I sank to the bottom-most depths of skepticism and the mockery of devil worship.

I was at the top of the school of rhetoric. I was pleased with my superior status and swollen with my conceit. But I behaved far more quietly than the "wreckers," a title of ferocious devilry which the fashionable set chose for themselves. I kept company with them, and there were times when I found their friendship a pleasure, but I always had a horror of what they did when they lived up to their name. "Wreckers" was a fit name for them, for they were already adrift and total wrecks themselves. The mockery and trickery which they loved to practice on others was a secret snare of the devil, by which they were mocked and tricked themselves.

These were the companions with whom I studied the art of eloquence at that impressionable age. I fell in with a set of sensualists, men with glib tongues who ranted and raved. Yet the dishes they set before me were still loaded with dazzling fantasies, illusions with which the eye deceives the mind. I knew nothing of this at the time. I was quite unconscious of it, quite blind to it, although it stared me in the face.

For nearly nine years were yet to come during which I wallowed deep in the mire and the darkness of delusion. Often I tried to lift myself, only to plunge the deeper.

W
ell
, he thought,
this is heady stuff
. The connections to himself, Tangier, his column, the Socco, and the Mountain crowd did not escape him; in fact, he was fascinated. And thinking these
Confessions
might yield up some secret about his destiny, he opened the book at its beginning and read on and on. Not until hours later, when he'd finished the confessional part and had come to St. Augustine's conversion, did he droop his head, extinguish the bare bulb above his bed, close his eyes, and begin to dream of boys in woolen shorts.

The next morning he was surprised to find himself elated, even though it was Thursday and his column was due at noon. He bounded out of bed, attempted a set of vigorous calisthenics, then panting and wet stood by his window and breathed deeply the rank medina air. He didn't bother to dress but walked nude to his table to give his Olivetti its weekly blowing off. He choked on the dust but stood his ground, disgusted, for there were ants climbing all over the keys of the machine. He squashed them with his forefinger, one at a time, then wiped off their remains on the wall. Finally, when everything was clean, the table crumbed and cleared of chocolate bar tinfoil bits, odds and ends of unfinished poems, and rinds of cheese, he sat down, still naked, willed himself to work, scratched at his ankles, and with flashing fingers began to type:

ABOUT TANGIER

By Robin Scott

We find Tangier, this first week of July, standing on its head. Our city is a vortex of illusions. We are seedy actors playing out delirious roles.

THE BRITISH COMMUNITY in an uproar over the latest OUTRAGES at St. Thomas Church. Early Sunday morning, when Vicar Wick unlocked the doors, he found the great altar crucifix hacked to pieces on the floor. Deeply upset by this sacrilege, the Vicar sent out a plea for help. Jack Whyte, Tangier's "Mr. Fix It," quickly improvised another cross out of some two-by-fours lying around his shop. A new and better crucifix is now in the works, but the question remains: WHO DID THE DASTARDLY DEED? Perhaps it's a coincidence, but on Tuesday the Vicar found a black widow spider crawling across his desk. Lester Brown refused to speculate on whether there was some connection between these two events, but the wily colonel left no doubt in this reporter's mind that he thought there was. Ever since May, when an anonymous note turned up on the collection plate, and then a skewered sheep's eye the following week, Colonel Brown has made it his mission to find the perpetrator and bring him to account. Now, with the ruined crucifix and the black widow spider, the plot thickens and the hunt becomes more intense. Camilla Weltonwhist declares she will not enter the "devil's house." Dr. Radcliffe has been called to attend to Lady Pitt, who says she will not leave her bed until the culprit is caught and expelled. So, a pillar of our British society is now riddled with fury and fear. The work of a single madman, we may ask, or a symptom of our DISEASE?

DIPLOMATIC AND OTHER AFFAIRS: Much consternation now, in Tangier's diplomatic set, over the behavior of a senior representative of a major power. We're not naming any names, but if our readers care to learn more, we suggest they station themselves at odd hours by the overlook near the Rimilat Café . They might see an ODD COUPLE making whoopee in a BIG BLACK CAR.

Speaking of AFFAIRS, there's another one burning white hot. It's been going on in secrecy for months behind a certain prominent Mountain resident's back. A handsome young man, an older woman, and a much older husband who's often out of town. That's the triangle if you can figure it out. (Think of the tennis club if you need a hint.) Tread softly, passionate lovers, lest you inspire a
crime passionnel
.

HOW REFRESHING to take note of men loving women in Tangier! Recently Clive Whittle was heard to comment brusquely about our city's vice. As quoted to us (and we hasten to add we were not invited to the dinner where these statements were made) Her Majesty's Consul General is alleged to have said: "I don't give a fig what they do behind the blinds, but there'll be no mincing, no lisping, no limp wrists in this house!" Good luck, Clive! You may have to drop half your clientele, but in a STRANGE way, DEAR BOY, you've put your finger on the difference between "gay" and "queer."

"Gay," a matter of sexual preference, is something that's neither here nor there, while "queer" has nothing to do with bed, but with a set of mannerisms "gay people" sometimes display. Well, try to understand, OLD BOY. All that lisping bitchiness which you so contemptuously despise comes from years of self-hatred engendered by just such homophobic statements as you're alleged to have made. Understand, old FRUIT?

LITERARILY SPEAKING: We have another sad tale to add to the endless misfortunes of David Klein. You'll all remember the
unfortunate
accident when David was attacked by his gardener several years ago. All's mended and well, thank God, but now another mishap has occurred. David's new "Mohammed," after washing out his best Berber rug, placed it on the garden wall to dry. A great wind came and blew it to the other side, where a gang of Dradeb urchins snatched it away. No sign of the rug yet, though the police are working on the case. Thank the Lord, David, it was just a rug, and not your ratty old toupee!

AN INTERESTING FEUD is brewing up beneath the cloak of a friendship going sour. Two of Tangier's most prominent LITERATI are now talking viciously behind each other's backs. A sack of silverware, a case of "moral plagiarism"—the whole thing's too complex to lay out here. The strange thing about it, though, is that both parties still pretend they're friends. Isn't there enough hypocrisy in Tangier? What a shame it's spread to the artistic CAMP!

THEATER CLUB: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women in it merely players. . .." Our players' machinations continue at a heady pace. Laurence Luscombe informs us that
Emperor Jones
will be his first production in the fall. He has approached Mr. Fufu about playing the lead, but a certain AMERICAN ACTOR has sworn he'll play it in blackface himself. Meantime a copy of the TP bylaws has been surreptitiously acquired by a DISSIDENT group. There's a plot afoot to unseat the older guard by holding a meeting on a night when the voting patrons cannot attend. The undemocratic employment of democratic principles—that's the conspiracy here. Our theater club, like the church, has become a stage for vengeance, intrigue, and deceit.

CHIT-CHAT: Big party at Jimmy Sohario's Saturday night, the sixth such extravaganza in half as many weeks. Sumptuous platters overflowed; musicians beat drums till dawn.

FLASH FROM THE USA: Inigo's portrait of a certain Tangier hustler (his name will remind you of a
tart
of gourds!) has just been acquired by the Akron (Ohio) Museum for the stupendous price of sixty thousand smackeroos. Congratulations to the painter, and to his friend P.P. too. Seems some of our boys are worth a lot on canvas, a great deal more than they're worth live on sheets!

PIERRE ST. CARLTON flying in this weekend, with his usual mob of jet setters in tow. Sven Lundgren, who handles Pierre's AFFAIRS here, informs us the couturier will spend the first few days working on his tan.

HENDERSON PERRY due in August, off his Mediterranean-based yacht. Expect a big party in the usual lavish style, then a quick disappearance by our mysterious millionaire.

FAREWELL to Willard and Katie Manchester, moving to Fort Lauderdale at season's end. They'll be sorely missed in bridge-playing circles on the Mountain. Already there's talk of a "drink the dregs" party to see them off.

FINALLY A WORD OF REGRET about the closing of the Hotel Americain, unofficial landmark of Tangier's, uh, "gay set." Its proprietor, Hans Gottshalk, has been expelled on a morals charge, and, we're told, he will never return. Some of us who've been here a while were reminiscing the other night about the hotel's filthy corridors, its stinking toilets, its sagging mattresses, and its seedy owner, who so often tried to rob us blind. Tangier will be the richer for his loss, and yet . . . and yet . . . AN ERA ENDS.

R
obin didn't need to read his column over to know how mean it was. But having written it, he had no intention of changing a single word. He would hand it in exactly as he had written it, with the vague hope that by the authenticity of his malice he would find a way to propel himself out of the mire and delusion of Tangier.

L
ate one July afternoon when Tangier was just beginning to cool down, Jean Tassigny was driving to the Mountain from the Emsallah Tennis Club when he noticed Tessa and David Hawkins' Arabian geldings tied up in front of La Colombe. Vanessa Bolton's little Porsche was parked there too, and Hervé Beaumont's Fiat coupe. Jean stopped, pulled on his tennis sweater, and walked inside to buy a
Dépêche de Tanger
.

The little shop was jammed. Peter Zvegintzov was darting about, frantically trying to serve his customers. The Manchesters were browsing through horticultural magazines, and Skiddy de Bayonne was sniffing imported teas. Jean picked up his paper, then embraced Vanessa Bolton. David Hawkins, crop stuck into his boot, rushed over to give him a double kiss. Jean waved to David's sister, Tessa, who was deep in conversation with Hervé Beaumont. Jean knew Tessa was sleeping with Hervé 's sister Florence, but whether with her own brother too he wasn't sure. Still his suspicions made him feel sophisticated, a part of
tout Tanger
. Though he'd been living in the city less than a year, he'd already acquired a sense of its complexities and overlapping social circles.

Half an hour later, at home, reading on his bed, Jean felt his heart suddenly begin to pound. He read the offending lines again. There was no mistake. Robin Scott had found out about his affair with Claude and had printed it in his wretched column.

His abdomen grew weak. He felt as if he'd just been kicked. He had to tell Claude, tell her at once, but she was downstairs in the salon with her father sipping an aperitif. Had General Bresson seen it? Probably not. He was contemptuous of gossip and didn't read English very well. But Joop de Hoag could read English perfectly, and was due back in Tangier in two more days. Scott had mentioned the possibility of a crime
passionnel
. Was Monsieur de Hoag really capable of that?

Jean remained upstairs, waiting for the General to leave. But when it became apparent he was staying on for dinner, Jean dressed and descended to the salon. There he endured an hour of tedious small talk, gazing desperately at Claude all the while. But the more boldly he tried to attract her attention, the more coolly she pretended she didn't understand; finally, seeing she was annoyed, he submitted to an interminable wait.

At dinner the General reminisced about Algeria. "Morocco," he said, "was pleasant during the Protectorate, but in Algeria life was truly sweet. It was France, with all the virtues of the Republic and the additional luxury of slaves."

The man was insufferable, but Jean nodded all the same. No point in antagonizing him—Jean only wished he'd leave. Hours later Jean escorted him to his car, and after he'd driven off, he looked down upon Tangier. At night, from the Mountain, it was a distant field of flickering lamps, a thousand beacons beckoning lovers to romantic passageways and glowing minarets.

Jean sighed, walked back to the villa. Claude had already retired to her room. He helped himself to a cognac, waiting for the servants to finish clearing up. When they were done, he gulped the last of his drink and hurried up the stairs.