The Rebellion of Yale Marratt (42 page)

 

 

Yale poured a drink from Bronson's bottle, carefully, wondering as he
did it, if he should have another. He lifted it in a mock toast. "I
consider it an honor to discuss philosophy at four in the morning in
a dive in Casablanca with a German named Max Bronson." He swallowed
the whiskey. "Number one, Maxie, if I manage to convert the francs at
the official rate, Uncle Sam isn't hurt. He has the exact number of
francs that some of his monetary advisors have agreed is the official
rate. Number two. Whoever is selling francs has previously bought
them with marks or lire which are no damned good to him or to me. He
expects that the franc will depreciate further, so he'd rather have
dollars. Number three, my friend Max, what the hell business is it
of yours?"

 

 

Max leaned on his elbows and fixed Yale with an intent stare. It was
a long time before he answered. "None really. I'm just interested in
human nature." He smiled, "You see, my principal is a well known German
industrialist. This man backed Hitler from the beginning. One of those
indefatigable men who would build a new factory to make bread, or an
extermination camp to cook Jews so long as it proved profitable. There
are men like him in every country. The leaders think they lead, but it is
really these men, relatively unkown, who are responsible for the economic
strength and direction of a country. I have studied this kind of man
carefully. No narrow nationalism binds them. They are truly citizens of
the world . . . guided by its financial tides. While your bombers are
destroying this man's factories, and those of others like him, he is
guided not by moral considerations, or worry over the immediate damage,
but by the larger ebb and flow in the affairs of men. Having stolen with
Hitler's help at least a billion francs, he now finds it expedient to
sell Hitler short. When Hitler has disappeared, my principal will take
your dollars and the millions of them he will have accumulated by devious
means and help rebuild the new Germany to his own ultimate profit. Don't
you find this repugnant, somehow?" Max hissed the words across the table
at Yale.

 

 

"No, I don't," Yale said, amused. "I'm not so naive as to believe in
the holy aspects of this war, or any war. Of necessity we must wipe out
Hitler, or any concept that denies the uniqueness of the individual. In
this process, which must be done coldly and judiciously, your 'principal'
will disappear because he tends to deny anything that interferes with
his own individuality."

 

 

Bronson spat vigorously and looked at Yale with ill-concealed disgust.
"And you, too, will disappear, my friend. You, too! Your friend the
Major and me . . . we are the little people who will swallow up the cold
bastards like you."

 

 

Yale wanted to protest that he didn't understand Bronson's sudden
turnabout, or what had made him so angry, but Max stood up. "Would you
like to see something of Casablanca, before we talk business? Come with
me. I have an old Austin, and a good American gas ration."

 

 

Yale followed him into the streets, thinking as he did that he had
little choice. It was obvious that tonight he wasn't going to sleep;
particularly in the company of Bronson.

 

 

The car was parked in a narrow alley. Yale got in, feeling odd to be
sitting on the right hand side of the wheel. Bronson drove rapidly out
of the city. "You are not worried about your friend the Major, I see.
I thought Americans were so very thick . . buddies . . . is not that
the word?" Max sneered. "This is no city to wander around in. But why
should you worry about the Major?"

 

 

"What the hell is eating you?" Yale demanded. "For a moment I thought
we understood each other."

 

 

"I thought so, too," Max said. "I don't know why it should disturb me
. . . when I first sat down and you were mumbling Wordsworth to yourself,
I felt a momentary kindred feeling for you. But now I think you are
simply an opportunist."

 

 

Yale noticed they were driving along a shore road. He felt immensely
tired and irked with Max Bronson. The man had unerringly touched a
feeling of guilt. He awakened Yale to a resentment with his own shallow
maneuverings. Why was he bothering so much with this money? Could he
explain to anyone, even a stranger like this German, the importance,
not of the money itself, but the sense of purpose and identity that
it gave him to play his speculative hunches . . . to create a purpose
for living where no purpose seemed to exist? Or was Max correct in his
estimate? Had he come so far in the years since Midhaven College that
he existed in the same vacuum as Max Bronson's "principal"?

 

 

"The moonlit water you are staring at is the Mediterranean," Bronson
said. He turned off the road into a concrete driveway. In the moonlight
Yale could see they were at the back door of a modern pink coral-and-cement
home that overlooked the sea. "This is my home, temporarily. Like your
American businessmen, I commute between my leather factory and this
estate . . . which incidentally I do not support selling souvenirs to the
Americans." He laughed and showed Yale into the house which was furnished
with modern Swedish style furniture, and bright splashes of cubist water
colors. Through a huge window they watched the pounding of the surf on the
beach below them. Whatever Bronson's thoughts might be, he had lost all
interest in conversation. Fighting a desire to fall asleep sitting up,
Yale wondered uneasily about Trafford. An Arab servant finally appeared
and placed coffee, tiny cakes, and tangerines on a table near them.

 

 

Yale drank his coffee. He noticed suddenly that Bronson was calmly
holding a gun in his hand. "It's your Major's forty-five. I had him
relieved of it. He appears to be a nervous type." Bronson tossed it at
Yale, who was forced to catch it. "It occurred to me that it would be
poetic justice to take your money by using the Major's revolver." Bronson
sighed. "Unfortunately an Arthurian sense of chivalry interferes with
my German practicality."

 

 

"What makes you so sure I'm carrying the money?" Yale asked.

 

 

"I'm no superman," Bronson said, getting up from his chair. "But it seems
like a good hunch that you've got it in a money belt strapped around your
stomach. The question is do you want to do business or not? I won't go
along with better than fifty for a dollar."

 

 

Yale unbuttoned his shirt, and unstrapped his money belt. He tossed it
on the table. "Twenty thousand in hundreds. Match it with one thousand,
thousand franc notes." He watched Bronson open the doors on what appeared
to be a liquor cabinet, but actually turned out to be a substantial safe
encased in blonde mahogany. Bronson tossed bundles of francs on the table.
"Mint," he said, "right from the Banque de France. You don't have to count
them," he said as Yale spot counted five of the one hundred banded piles
of thousand franc notes. Bronson carefully counted every one of the
hundred dollar bills.

 

 

He finally looked at Yale with a satisfied smile. "You seem to be very
trusting. How do you know these franc notes aren't counterfeit?"

 

 

"If they were counterfeit, why would you waste the time counting my
money. You wouldn't give a damn if a few were missing if yours were
valueless. For that matter how do you know the dollars you've bought
aren't phony?" Yale picked up Trafford's revolver.

 

 

Bronson looked at him gloomily. "I hope there is some honor among thieves.
Anyway the clip is empty. You are a remarkably cool young man; considering
you are a good ten miles out of the city and no one knows where you are.
In essence, you are not back yet. For a million francs, I could make you
disappear as easily as the dust on this table." Bronson blew on the
dustless table dramatically.

 

 

"I've been gambling on several things," Yale said, looking carefully
at Bronson's hard jaw line. "One, you have a sentimental streak.
We have sat here for nearly an hour without conversation . . . that's
not only unusual, but it's un-Germanic. Two, you were probably thinking
about Wordsworth's poem; surprised at yourself that you could remember
it. Three, I don't think you represent anyone except yourself . . . that
your name probably isn't Bronson, and that you may well be the German
industrialist you characterized so well." Yale stood up, wondering from
the expression on Bronson's face whether he was going to get away with
it. He picked up the money. "If you have a sample briefcase from your
leather factory I could use it to carry this stuff."

 

 

Driving back to the city, Bronson told him that he would leave him
where Trafford had probably gone with the two whores. Bronson's car
rattled through the deserted streets. They passed the newer section of
the city into the alleys of Arab quarters. Yale noticed the Atlantic
Hotel as they passed and decided that no matter what Trafford planned,
he would spend the rest of the night in the lobby. It was quarter past
two. Bronson had made several turns, driving deeper into narrow alleys
that in the daytime would have been filled with Arabs. He stopped his
car in front of what seemed to be a black sandstone wall.

 

 

"This is Rue du Pini," Bronson said. "Your Major should be on the third
floor. Room nine. Do you want me to wait?"

 

 

Yale shook his head. Bronson had been silent all the way into the
city. Yale wondered if he were regretting his decision. Yale didn't
doubt that it would be so very simple for Bronson to take back the
million francs.

 

 

"It's been a pleasant evening, Lieutenant. Personally, I think Wordsworth
stinks."

 

 

Yale watched the taillight of the Austin disappear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

5

 

 

The only light in the narrow street came from a flickering bulb screwed
into a socket just above the doorway marked number eleven. Yale shivered,
suddenly aware that he was in more danger walking around the Arab section
of the city with a million francs in his possession than he had been with
Bronson. He cursed himself for feeling any responsibility to find Trafford.

 

 

Opening the door he was forced to light a match to see. He was in a
narrow corridor! A door with a painted number three was directly in
front. To the right, stone stairs led into the building. The match
burned out. Yale stood still, listening to the silence, and smelling
the heavy dung smell that permeated the place. He tried to adjust his
eyes to the blackness. Was Trafford really in the building or was this
some kind of trap that Bronson had prepared? He fingered his way along
the damp stone wall. On the next landing he lighted another match. There
was a number six on this door. He walked cautiously up the next flight
of stairs. His bladder was full and he could feel the pressure in his
scrotum. He shivered, and continued to shiver, wondering if he dared go
right on up the stairway. Lighting another match, he crept toward the
top floor, until he finally found a door with the number nine.

 

 

He stood in front of it, debating what to do. He was going to have to
leak or die of agony, and yet the fear of being suddenly jumped on while
he was in such a helpless position restrained him. Get the hell out of
here, he kept telling himself. Get the hell out of here.

 

 

He knocked on the door, hearing his pounding reverberate eerily on the
stairwell. There was no response. He tried the latch, then pushed the
door open. A candle flickered; monstrous shadows danced on the walls of
the room.

 

 

"Qu'est-ce cela?" It was a feminine voice.

 

 

Unable to see clearly, Yale felt his way into the room. He heard the creak
of a bed. The girl who had come to their table in the cellar-dive stood
beside him. She was naked.

 

 

"Where's Trafford?" Yale looked into her black eyes. She laughed and
shook her head uncomprehendingly. "Où est le majeur?" Yale asked.

 

 

"Oh," she grinned at him, "le majeur, il est malade." She pointed across
the room, and Yale saw Trafford on his back hanging drunkenly over the
edge of a low iron cot. Another naked girl sat near him, stroking him.

 

 

"Trop d'accoupler. Comme dites-vous? Forking!" The girl laughed raucously.
"Ma copine le suce! Vous le veuillez? Très bonne." She opened her mouth
in a wide O. Yale shoved her aside.

 

 

"Vous n'avez pas fichu de faire ce travail." She screamed at him.

 

 

Yale pulled Trafford onto the bed and shook him angrily. "Come on,
let's get out of here, you crazy bastard!"

 

 

"Beat it, Marratt," Trafford said. His voice was thick. He grabbed the
girl standing near him by her crotch. "Here, this is Marie Louise. Sink
yourself into that." Trafford flopped back onto the bed and started
to snore.

 

 

"C'est ton blot," the girl who had met them in the cellar said disgustedly.
"Vous boucanez."

 

 

Yale slumped into a chair, wondering what to do. Every foul name he
could think of to call Trafford went through his mind. He suddenly
doubled over in pain and knew he must urinate immediately.

 

 

"Où est le pistolet?" he demanded, hoping that was the right word.

 

 

The girl sitting on the bed with Trafford got up and placed a white
chamber pot in front of him. Yale opened his pants hurriedly. Both girls
watched him, excitedly commenting in French on the size of him. The girl
called Marie Louise suddenly grabbed him, and held him in a hard grasp.
Yelling at her to let go, Yale tried to pull away. The other girl tripped
him and he fell to the floor. "C'est un saloperie," one of the girls
hissed at him, and tried to hold him down. Marie Louise picked up Yale's
trench knife and slashed in the direction of his penis. Yale lurched
away. She missed. He could feel the tip of the knife sink into the side
of his belly and he yelled with pain.