Mrs. Pollifax and the Whirling Dervish Page 4

  "His mother will be very sad?"

  "Yes she will be very sad," said Mrs. Pollifax, but she herself would not be. She might be traveling with a boor but at least she would not be traveling with a murderer.

  She watched Dasran vanish down the hall and closed the door, feeling that she could now extract from Cyrus' money-belt the photograph and address for the next day.

  4

  Mrs. Pollifax slept, woke, slept and was awakened at 4:15 by the room service breakfast that she'd ordered. As she ate without appetite she remembered the dispiriting evening behind her when not even television—a James Bond film dubbed in French—had calmed her ruffled nerves. She had considered sending Carstairs a cable to personally report Hamid ou Azu's death, no matter what an affront to Janko this might prove to be; the idea was aborted, however, when a call to the front desk informed her that all post offices had closed for the day. This frustration had revived her stormy feelings about Janko, whose indifference to the murder appalled her, and for a fleeting moment she had experienced a very real panic at accompanying him for seven days. To be such an object of hostility was not something to which she was accustomed, and for that one moment she had longed to flee. Only a rush of anger at his insolence had dissipated the panic. She had bravely told herself that the hostility was his problem, not hers, and that she would not—must not—allow it to reach her and intimidate her or, worse, diminish her sense of self.

  Nevertheless she had not slept well; her dreams had been haunted by a man lying across a brass table with a knife protruding from his back.

  Promptly at five o'clock she was in the lobby with her bill paid and her bags beside her. In her purse she carried the photo and address of the informant in Er-Rachidia, which Janko had told her they would reach by early afternoon, and if they succeeded in finding him, and if he matched his photo there would, by nightfall, be another informant to check out in Erfoud. She was taking no chances, however, and the Erfoud photograph remained securely in her money-belt. Reaching Er-Rachidia was enough for now—and by itself was a long drive —but in Er-Rachidia at the Gharbee Espresso cafe there would be—or so she hoped—a waiter named Ibrahim, a hearty-looking cheerful man, stocky and clean-shaven. In his photo he had stood with his hands on his hips, smiling, a line of outdoor cafe tables behind him, a green apron tied around his waist.

  Janko emerged from the elevator a minute later to join her, gave her a curt nod and she followed him outside to the small blue Renault waiting for them. His first words were spoken in distaste. "What," he said, "is that?"

  "This?" she said, handing him the package wrapped in newspaper. "Two djellabahs, bought yesterday in the medina." Before the trip to the souks turned into nightmare, she added silently.

  He dropped the package into the trunk of the car as if she'd presented him with a day's supply of garbage, and she wished longingly that Cyrus was present: Cyrus would have dealt with Janko's rudeness with dispatch, as eventually she would have to, but then Cyrus' years as lawyer and judge had inured him to the less pleasant personalities of the world and he would probably only be amused.

  / must try to be amused, she thought as she slid into the front seat of the Renault, and then a new thought struck her: would he act like this at all with Cyrus? was Janko's attitude due entirely to her being a woman?

  It's possible that he feels humiliated, she thought in surprise, and this realization shook her, but she clung to it as a means of understanding him better.

  "The photo now?" he asked with his usual sarcasm, holding out a hand.

  She gave him the Er-Rachidia photograph. "We look for the Cafe Gharbee, on the main street."

  With exaggerated politeness he said, "Thank you so much."

  Starting the car they set off in the milky dusk that precedes sunrise, the sky steadily brightening until by the time they left Fez its buildings could be clearly seen and a golden light was slanting across rooftops and gilding the windows of whitewashed houses. Janko drove in silence, keeping a wall between them as inpenetrable as Plexiglás. He simply did not want her with him and she felt that she could almost touch his antagonism, that it was becoming tangible, acquiring shape and substance, and both were oppressive. It had been suggested to her that he was arrogant but she'd not expected such a willful and lasting rejection of her presence and she found herself trying to remember why she was here at all. Certainly he was making it clear to her that she was of no use to him and that only a driver and seven photographs were needed for the job; he was refusing to discuss the tragedy yesterday in the medina and he was refusing even to discuss the weather, which was misty and cool. On this first morning in a strange country, with the man beside her such a determined stranger, the effect was palpable: she felt exiled and lonely.

  What was she contributing, why was she here, she wondered, and struggled to remember Bishop's reasons for her assignment. A leavening influence, he'd said . . . Carstairs is concerned . . , and then something about smoothing over difficulties should Janko be rude or lose his temper. This struck her as rather hilarious now yet it comforted her as well, because so far Janko's rudeness had been directed only at her and at Dasran, but as they left Fez behind and headed into rural Morocco there would undoubtedly be other Dasrans at whom he could vent his contempt and then she would be of some use after all. Rather like sweeping up litter behind someone who scatters it across the countryside, she thought crossly.

  To assert her presence she said boldly, "I understand that Morocco, being a Moslem country, considers women inferior to men, Mr. Janko. I wonder if it's possible, considering your attitude, that you also feel women are inferior?"

  He gave her a quick glance. "Don't be tiresome."

  "Would it be tiresome to comment on Hamid ou Azu's murder yesterday, too? It seems a coincidence that should concern us."

  He shrugged. "That is entirely a matter for the police."

  "Yes, but if we—do you think it possible we're being followed, and that perhaps we led the murderer to him?"

  He pointedly adjusted the rear mirror and looked into it. "There is no one following us, and why should they? You imagine too much."

  She too glanced back but the road was empty and she sighed, wishing him more approachable. "What about the weather then, which begins to be colder than I expected?"

  "I despise small talk," he said.

  And that was that .., it seemed useless to continue but she thought one more day like this and she would no longer be able to contain her anger, and she would scream at him, and she had not screamed in years.

  Their route out of Fez had taken them past the King's palace—one of seven, her guidebook told her—its gates well guarded by men in dark olive uniforms and bright green berets decorated with scarlet insignia. Once they left the city behind, however, they entered a countryside almost empty of people. They drove between lush green fields under a great pale sky, the terrain flat to the horizon and the only signs of habitation a few ancient crumbling walls and suddenly a tiny country store in the middle of nowhere, with bricks placed on its corrugated tin roof to defend it against the winds that swept across the valley.

  Presently stands of sharply pointed cypress trees appeared, softening the flat green landscape, and a smudge of mountains could be seen far, far away to interrupt and promise change. Mrs. Pollifax felt a stab of longing for Cyrus with whom she could compare notes: a drive of three hundred and fifty miles with Cyrus could never be dull, his comments were always pithy and frequently humorous, and being captive with him in a car was pure delight.

  She thought, Until now I've met such wonderful people— such interesting people—on these trips for Carstairs, and I mustn't complain because the law of averages has caught up with me, I've simply been very fortunate in the past. She found herself remembering John Sebastian Farrell with whom she had shared her first adventure in Albania, and then another in Zambia, and she smiled as she thought of that dear, swashbuckling man. There had been so many others, too, like Robin Burke-Jones whom she'd firs
t met as a cat burglar in Switzerland. The notes and cards that arrived each Christmas bore such exotic stamps that she'd had to deflect the postman's curiosity by giving him the stamps for his son's collection, but it had proven very difficult to explain the envelopes with the royal crest of Zabya.

  They were passing the first village she'd seen in an hour, a small compound of flat-roofed adobe houses. Men in shabby djellabahs and boots stood around a huge steaming pile of manure while two men shoveled it into donkey-drawn carts. The gate in the wall behind them was a faded blue, it was half-open and a barefooted child stood watching the men, and then they were leaving the village behind, the earth was turning chocolate-brown and power lines began to appear along the road. Small hills rose ahead of them to block the horizon and then—abruptly—the road curved and a mountain of stone lay ahead, combed with caves, its southern slope green with lichen and grass.

  They were climbing now, and with their ascent into a higher altitude the landscape changed to one of rocks and grass against a backdrop of mountains and a sky filled with great drifting horizontal clouds. To her surprise Janko cleared his throat and spoke. "Middle Atlas," he said with a gesture toward the mountains ahead.

  "Thank you," she said politely, and to encourage conversation added, "Have you visited Morocco before, then?"

  He said deflatingly, "No—I simply brought a very good map."

  "I see." Trying again she said, "If we've several hundred miles to drive, have you decided where we'll find a place to lunch?"

  He said stiffly, "The next town of any size is Midelt, we'll stop there."

  "Good," she said, and they returned to silence, but she could not help wondering what he thought about as he drove; at times she saw his brows draw together in a frown and once the corners of his heavily moustached lips had deepened in an actual smile. His thoughts, she decided peevishly, must be very entertaining indeed; it was a pity that he refused to share them.

  They lunched in Midelt in a cafe with round tables and red chairs and grimy windows, sharing a tajine that was brought to them steaming, its large clay pot heaped with couscous, stewed pumpkin, cabbage, lentils and shreds of chicken. If they lunched in total silence there were at least people whom Mrs. Pollifax could watch: there was a young European girl seated at a small table with a packet of Kiri cigarettes in front of her, and a pot of mint tea; she stared calmly into space with the smoke of her cigarette curling around her. In one corner there huddled a group of sullen-looking workers and near them a small party of tourists who seemed to be speaking German. The clock on the wall advertising a famous cola had long since stopped, its hands fixed at nine. She carefully read the advertisements pasted on the walls for Stork Beer and NIDO ("instant full cream powdered milk from Nestlé") and for Sidi Harazem Eau Minérale Naturelle.

  She was almost sorry to leave but her interest was quickening now in the remaining miles, because by mid-afternoon they would be reconnoitering informant number two, followed by number three in the evening. If they continued at such a rapid pace, she thought with relief, her assignment would be completed earlier than anticipated and her dreary companion relegated to the attic of her memory, like the new variety of geraniums that had defeated her best efforts three summers ago, and were only distantly recalled.

  Ahead of them, leaving Midelt, lay a brown and rocky landscape with strange volcanic-shaped mesas silhouetted against distant snowcapped mountains. They passed a few houses built of round stones with tin roofs, then a village of adobe that boasted a minaret and a Moroccan flag blowing in the wind, its scarlet the only note of vivid color in the somber countryside. Always she was aware of their climbing higher into the Mid-Atlas; there were actually patches of snow on the barren ground now to prove it. The rocks—of every possible shade of copper—turned next into towering hills pockmarked with caves; they skirted a deep gorge, passed through a tunnel carved out of the rocks and emerged into a welcoming sunshine.

  To Mrs. Pollifax the town of Er-Rachidia looked an oasis of civilization after their long trip through such empty brown landscapes. They drove down a wide main street lined with doorways bearing the signs Dentiste, Bureau de Poste, Docteur, Tabac, Tailleur; there was even a canopied wagon at an intersection with a man selling sweets. The sun shone, and in every direction she looked there were mountains rising level after level toward the faraway snowcapped peaks of the High Atlas, so that the town seemed to be cradled among hills. Her spirits revived at once. The worst was over, they had reached Er-Rachidia, and their next and last stop, Erfoud, lay only eighty or ninety miles beyond.

  To further nourish her enthusiasm she saw the Cafe Gharbee almost at once, halfway down the main street and facing the intersection that was the center of town. "There it is!" she told Janko eagerly. "The outdoor cafe on the right, and doesn't it look charming!"

  He said testily, "I'm quite capable of finding it without help."

  "I didn't doubt that for a moment," she said, refusing to allow him to squash this rebirth of spirit. There were actually cars here, too, the street was lined with them but where had they all come from, she wondered, after their seeing so few on the roads? Parking looked difficult until a tiny car with a sign Petit Taxi pulled out from a space close to the cafe. Janko slid the Renault into it and turned off the engine.

  "I'll treat," she said magnanimously. "Mint tea or espresso.5" Without waiting for his reply or even for him to join her she opened the door and hurried ahead, delighted to be away from him for a few seconds, to be free, to breathe in the crisp mountain air and to walk again before her legs became immutably frozen into a sitting position. She chose a table near the door the cafe where she could look into the interior as well as watch people passing on the street, and a moment later she was joined by Janko.

  "Not as many djellabahs here, quite a few slacks and Western T-shirts," she murmured.

  "Provincial capital," he said shortly.

  "Oh."

  From her chair she could see no one resembling Ibrahim, or any waiter at all, and she decided it was an appropriate time to find a ladies' room. Janko was yawning and she realized that he was human after all: a drive of nearly three hundred miles, with a stop only for lunch, was having its effect upon him.

  Inside the cafe a few men were seated at the counter where tea and espresso and beer were dispensed. Tending this bar was a heavily moustached older man but he was not Ibrahim Atubi. It occurred to her that if they discovered the imposter here in Er-Rachidia she could not imagine Janko being anything but a liability: would his antagonism toward her, for instance, interfere with their orders to cable Baltimore at once, would his obsessive refusal to share the assignment with her outweigh the purpose of their assignment? This thought was new to her and it troubled her.

  She emerged from the ladies' room, nearly colliding with a man rushing down the hall with a tray. He wore a green apron tied around his middle and he stepped back with a hasty, "Pardon, madame!"

  She looked at him and smiled: she had nearly run into Ibrahim. "It's perfectly all right," she told him.

  "Ah, you speak English! Has your order been accepted?"

  "We're outside," she said.

  He nodded vigorously. "One minute and I shall be there, madame. Excuse me, there was need for more—how you say— buns?"

  "Buns, yes," she told him, and retraced her steps to join her companion at their table outside. Janko had lit a cigarette and returned to whatever thoughts had been diverting him all day, his heavy brows knit together in a frown.

  Ibrahim followed, and with a bow and a smile that precisely matched his photo he inquired what they would like.

  Janko, giving him a long and thoughtful glance, said, "Du thé à la menthe."

  "Espresso," said Mrs. Pollifax, and as he left she smiled at Janko. "We have met Ibrahim."

  He nodded. "Yes, we have met Ibrahim."

  "Very pleasant man."

  He shrugged. "No doubt."

  Their drinks were brought to them: for Janko a tray holding a glass of te
a filled with sprigs of mint on a plate ringed with cubes of sugar, and for her a tiny cup of espresso. Her cup was quickly emptied and since there was to be no conversation she glanced at Janko, who sat without expression, taking occasional sips of his tea. Two solitudes side by side but never touching, she thought—such waste—and with a glance at her watch she said, "I've finished my espresso, I'm going to walk up that street over there and see a little of Er-Rachidia. I won't be long."

  "Don't be," he said curtly.

  She rose and crossed the road to the opposite street, passing under a sign Dentiste that displayed a menacing picture of teeth. She paused beside a kiosk of magazines and newspapers and smiled at a Mickey Mouse book entitled Mickey Jeux, discovered no English newspapers and continued on to the next shop, which was hung with gaudy paper garlands of red and yellow and turquoise. Its sign read Tabac, a smaller one read Souvenirs.

  She entered, nodding to the owner behind the counter, and began a happy browsing among its merchandise. There were small polished boxes of cedarwood, packages of incense and candles for the mosque, primitive carvings of stone and several unusual brass-and-silver cases, one of which she picked up to examine and admire.

  A voice behind her said in English, "What you hold is a box to contain the Koran—as you see, it has a cord attached to wear it around the neck."

  The English was flawless. She turned to find the owner still behind the counter but a new customer beside her, a man in a gray-and-white-striped djellabah, his dark head-scarf loosened to show an amiable and attractive dark face with a thin moustache and—surprisingly—a pair of blue eyes.

  "Thank you, I didn't know," she said, smiling at him.

  He called something to the owner in Arabic and was answered. In a low amused voice he said, "He tells me the price is forty-five dirhams but—if I may advise—if you find it charming and care to buy it, try bargaining."

  Her relief at talking with someone, and being talked to, was profound; she was being regarded as a human being at last, and she was moved by his friendliness. "I think it's very charming," she said, beaming at him. "Do you care to take this one step further and suggest what I offer him?"