Tremor (16 page)

Johnny explains that he is in Agadir only for a few days, that he is staying at the Saada, that he came to his father's house yesterday, anxious to discuss some urgent business with him, only to learn the sad news of his illness …

As he is speaking he fancies he detects a renewed interest in his father's black eyes; even severe illness cannot destroy the acquisitive instincts. Eventually Johnny says: ‘Nurse, could I maybe have a word in private, like, with my father?'

She looks ungracious. ‘You have been here already four minutes. Dr Eyme said you should not stay more than five.'

‘Give us a minute or two longer, eh? It's very urgent.'

She transfers her weight from one heavy leg to the other. Then she shrugs and says: ‘Do not excite him.'

Johnny watches her waddle off down the length of the ward. Then, speaking in a half whisper, he tells his father something of what has happened, muttering half truths, part in his haste, part from habit.

He does not notice, but the heartbeat on the screen slightly quickens. His father says: ‘ How long can you stay?'

‘Not long. It wouldn't be safe.'

‘It depends who wants you.'

‘I'd best go soon. What I need most is a new passport.'

His father sighs. It is his body rather than himself that is making an admission of fatigue and distress. ‘I cannot move as yet. I shall be lucky – out in a week. It is more likely to be two. Can you wait that long?'

‘No.'

There is a long silence. The eyes close. Johnny has a fearful apprehension that his father has gone to sleep. A quick anxious glance at the dials, in case … Then Tournelle utters one word.

‘Ardrossi.'

‘What?'

‘Ardrossi. Benjamin Ardrossi.'

‘Who's he?'

‘Someone who – might help you. I have known him – thirty years.'

‘Can you trust him?'

‘No.'

‘… Then …'

‘He will do what I ask – if he is well paid. He will do what you ask – if I ask him.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I know – about him – what he would not wish – to be publicly known.'

‘Time is up,' says the nurse, flexing her broad nostrils. She has marched up and down the ward three times, and is now back.

‘How can I find him?' Johnny asks, ignoring her.

But she squeezes past him and puts a hand on his father's forehead, dabs at his face. ‘ It is time.'

Tournelle waves her away with a tired hand, as if she is a troublesome fly. ‘Casino. He is a
tailleur
. Say I sent you …' His eyes flicker.

‘Could you trust him right down the line?' Johnny demands.

‘No, not everything. But see him for yourself. Judge. Get what is most urgent. Then see.'

There is nothing more to do, nothing more to say. Johnny stands up. ‘I'll come again.'

‘Yes.'

‘Tomorrow. I may stay three or four days. It depends how things turn out.'

‘Yes,' says his father, and closes his eyes again.

Johnny goes out on tiptoe, out of the hospital to his boiling hot car.

The road from Agadir to Taroudant is not picturesque. It runs through the outskirts of the port, where encampments of gypsies and Berbers exist and shanty towns half grown mask the spread of the new settlers; then across a desolate plain dotted with argan trees which yield an oil from their seeds and so induce goats to climb them in search of food. When Nadine first saw a group of them up what looked like a desiccated olive tree, ten and twenty feet from the ground, she refused to believe they were goats, and presently she persuaded Matthew to stop and got out with a camera to photograph them. But the goats were camera-shy, and as she came near them they slipped and slithered down the tree as if pretending they had never been up in the first place. Laughing, Matthew drove on a bit further and they stopped again some distance away. Nadine's tele-photo lens did the rest.

Matthew said: ‘They call the goats here black grasshoppers.'

‘I do not believe it! You are teasing again.'

‘And those little trees provide all sorts of things: wood, coal, fruit. You see them nowhere except Morocco.'

‘How do you know all this?'

‘I've been reading it up. I'm telling you this while it is fresh in my mind. I'll have forgotten it tomorrow.'

‘You have a poor memory, then?'

‘Not for faces. Some faces.'

‘You'll still remember me after a week?'

‘Ten years hence I shall be saying: “That was the day I first met her.' ”

‘Second. You've already forgotten yesterday.' She glanced at him. ‘You do not look like a Baedeker reader. I always picture Baedeker readers as people with little round spectacles and pebble lenses, stooping and rather stout and very intense.'

‘That's what I am,' he agreed. ‘Very intense.'

As they neared Taroudant, bumping along in their boxlike car, the countryside softened and they came upon olive groves and fields of maize and orange trees in verdant elegant ranks.

Matthew had been instructed to fork left before they reached the town, but he missed the turning and they found themselves facing the great ochre walls of the city. They did not go in through the big wooden gates but asked a policeman who had decided to spend a happy hour directing the non-existent traffic, and he sent them back on their tracks to a turning which was hardly observable for mimosa and lilac trees. They drove along a three-mile track until the smallest of signs pointed left.

Iron gates, which were closed. A tall servant came out in a white jellaba with a ceremonial dagger at his hip, and was told their business. The gates were opened and they went on.

A sandy drive between hibiscus and jasmine bushes. A low-lying pillared house flanked by palms and oleanders. All the land around was green.

A white-jacketed footman, dark-skinned but with the light eyes and high cheek-bones of a Berber, let them into a circular hall and through into a spacious ornate room in which stood a stocky middle-aged man who came towards them with outstretched hand.

The Baron de Blaye was in his fifties, brown hair greying and worn long at the back in a succession of handsome coiffured curls. Not a good-looking man, but his expression was ironical, sophisticated and pleasantly welcoming. He was wearing white Moroccan slippers, beige linen trousers and a white silk shirt open at the neck. A cream cravat tied at his throat did not hide the crucifix nor the string of crystal beads round his neck. His skin was fair, his eyes blue, and Matthew remembered that the family came from Normandy.

By now it was nearly twelve; de Blaye said they must have a drink at once and then, if they cared to, could swim before lunch. He seemed to take to both of them instantly and there was no lack of conversation, about Edouard with Matthew, and about the Paris stage with Nadine.

The house was designed like a Moorish palace. High-domed ceilings, arched windows with leaded lights, tall bronze lamps, mantelpieces and doors decorated with intricate arabesques, antique carpets on marble floors.

All swam in the pool, which was surrounded by orange and lemon trees. Pierre de Blaye said the oranges grown in Taroudant were the finest in Morocco.

After they had swum de Blaye excused himself and the other two were left in deck-chairs drying off in the brilliant sun.

Driving the car he had had little opportunity to look at her; now as they sipped at a vodka and orange a waiter had brought he stared at her candidly and decided she was the best thing he had ever seen. His blood ran thickly. She turned and met his gaze, did not lower her eyes but looked as candidly back at him.

‘What are you thinking?' she asked.

He let out a breath. ‘ Oh, just how lucky I am.'

‘Yes,' she agreed. ‘You have lovely friends.'

‘I meant lucky to have found you.'

‘
Found
me,' she said. ‘Am I a stray cat to be picked up and fed a saucer of milk?'

‘Picked up, gladly. We can leave the milk till later.'

She studied him, decided to put into words what she was thinking.

‘I know very little about you, Matthew. Some small,
small
amount of your history – oh yes, whatever you think suitable for a press release, but not more. You think me good-looking?'

‘Wonderful!'

‘Ah yes. Well, I think you good-looking. We are much of an age; we have no ties – except that you have a wife you have just left. But there must be more than that before …'

‘Before?'

She shrugged. ‘From your look, that was what you were thinking.'

‘That was what I was thinking.'

‘A little holiday affaire? A trifle sordid, isn't it?'

‘Not if we don't make it so.'

‘How can it be lifted out of the rut?'

‘With passion,' he said.

She took in a slow breath, looked across the pool. ‘The air is light here, hot and yet fresh. That is the way I remember it in Agadir.'

‘Perhaps we shouldn't go back.'

‘Now you're being romantic.'

‘Is there anything wrong with that?'

‘You must always be practical with a Frenchwoman. Didn't you know?'

They drank for a few moments in silence.

She said: ‘ He is a nice man. And very rich. I wonder if he is faithful to his wife.'

‘Hi, wait. None of that!'

‘I was only thinking.'

‘Teasing maybe.'

The servant came to refill their drinks, but both refused. Matthew rose.

‘It's nearly one. I think we should go and dress.'

They lunched in another circular room with alcoved lamps and an oval dining table with a pink damask cloth shading to pale blue as it reached the floor. The curtains at the two high windows were of finest lace, outlined in yellow satin. They ate lamb and rice, and chicken breasts in pimento gravy, then the lightest of pastry pies containing minced pigeon with tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs. Pouligny Montrachet to drink. Silent servants, white-coated, glittering poignards at waist.

‘I have little liking for Agadir,' said Pierre de Blaye. ‘Its name you know is Igoudar, meaning a hill fort. In that area there used to be warring tribes, each within its small enclave, Berbers mainly, who would often quarrel with another group, raid them with bitter enmity. Some of these groups still exist, and have become restive since the French left. But the town itself has a wonderful beach and little else. It will develop, but in doing so will become less and less like the rest of Morocco. Why did you both come there? I take it you came individually?'

They smiled and each gave an explanation, Nadine telling of the film she had been in and her decision, between parts, to revisit the town and find some winter sun; Matthew making up a story on the spur of the moment about his novels and coming away, seeking stimulus and inspiration.

‘So you have no commitments drawing you back this afternoon. Why do you not stay the night here?'

Some bird was screeching outside.

‘Well,' Matthew said, ‘ it's more than kind of you. For my part I'd be delighted.'

De Blaye said: ‘We have guest bungalows; I have built four. They are just down the path over there. My servants have too little to do, and I am alone here at present. It would give me pleasure.'

Nadine smiled. ‘I have no night things, and of course—'

‘My mistress, who is coming next week, is about your build, I would think. There are a number of her belongings which she has left here and I know would make available to you.' Nadine hesitated and sipped her wine. ‘You are too kind,

monsieur.'
De Blaye laughed. ‘What does that mean?'
‘It means I shall be happy to stay.'

In the afternoon, following a siesta, they walked around the grounds, among the red and yellow pomegranates, the bougainvillaea, the geraniums, the green lawns. Behind a hedge of climbing begonias they found a donkey, blindfold, turning round and round an old waterwheel, whose buckets of water were being routinely up-ended into a succession of trenches so that the garden was being irrigated.

‘It is a sort of oasis. We have three such wells. It was because of them that I built here.'

As darkness fell de Blaye drove them into Taroudant and they walked through the souks, buying a few trinkets here and there.

They stopped to watch a man marvellously carving chessmen with his chisel, and working a lathe with one bare foot. The Baron said: ‘It is a pity you have to return to Agadir at all. You have a car? Why do you not tomorrow drive over the High Atlas to Marrakech, spend a day there and then go on to Fez? The old town of Fez has not been touched for two hundred years. Not a European building of any sort. Lyautey built the new town outside. If you wish to see Morocco as it used to be, go to Fez.'

Matthew glanced at Nadine. He said: ‘It's a tempting thought.'

They had been given two bungalows side by side, with a dividing rail on the balcony and a communicating door inside. De Blaye had made no attempt to assess their relationship: they were probably lovers – or why come together? – but the two entirely separate accommodations, individual entrance hall, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, left the choice open.

She had come in a sleeveless silk dress, he in a check shirt and flannel slacks. Pierre de Blaye had found a cream haik of fine wool for Nadine, silk-lined, beaded and caught at the waist. He offered Matthew a handsome jellaba, but Matthew refused it in favour of black trousers belonging to de Blaye's brother, who was tall, and a silk shirt and a crimson smoking jacket.

As he settled the coat as comfortably as he could – it was made for someone with broader shoulders – he looked at himself in the full-length gilt-framed mirror and decided he would do. The bedroom was warm, for in an eccentric corner fireplace a wood fire burned, giving off odours of cedar and eucalyptus. He went through the passageway to the door dividing the two bungalows and tapped. The door, which was of studded leather, absorbed his summons, and it took three louder knocks before Nadine opened it.