Hotel Mirador (17 page)

“Don’t move,” she said, and sat down opposite him.

“Never asked you to play chess with me, have I?” he said. “Care for a game?”

“Yes, some time. Is this a problem you read somewhere?”

He nodded. “It was in a paper from England. Mate the king in three moves.”

Sally rested an elbow on the table and stared at the pieces. Novice’s luck was with her, she made the correct first move and followed it up with the inevitable second and third.

Mike gazed at her. “Good lord,” he said soberly. “Did you know what you were doing?”

“No, it just happened. I don’t suppose I’ll ever do it again in my life.”

“For me, once was enough. I’ve been at this for half an hour.” He shoved (he pieces into their box and closed the lid. “Do we exercise first, or talk?”

“Talk, if you’re in the mood.”

“Feel better this morning?”

“Yes, thank you. Sorry I couldn’t make it last night
.
You did get Dane’s message, I suppose?”

His mouth turned down at the
corner
s.
“
Dane came himself, at about eight. He had that' friend of yours with him.”

“Oh.” Sally ignored the sudden dryness of her lips. “Did she come in to see you?”

“I was having dinner on the veranda. She didn’t get out of the car, but I received a benign smile and a nod of the head. She didn’t have to look away from me, you see—my leg was out of sight.”

“Don’t be silly, Mike. Lucette’s a bit childish in that direction, but you’re making too much of it. She hasn’t been trained, as I have.”

“I’ll bet you were never disgusted by a man’s lameness even before you trained.”

“Well, of course not, because my inclination was to help such people.” She traced the squares on the chess board. “I know why you dislike Lucette—she’s the kind you used to fall for rather heavily, and you now imagine you’re not in the least attractive to any woman.”

“It’s true.”

“I don’t believe it, but you’ll have to discover things for yourself.”

“That’s life, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.” She paused. “Dane was taking Lucette to see the sights by moonlight. Did he tell you that?”

Mike shrugged, disagreeably. “Not he. He didn’t explain her being with him at all. Why should be, anyway? Isn’t he Dane Ryland, who can have any woman he wants and leave the last one flat?”

She lifted a blue gaze to his face. “What’s the matter with you, Mike? Since I’ve known you, you’ve always been casual towards Dane, and in a way I thought it understandable. You’ve had to accept a great deal from him, and he’s whole and strong. But suddenly it’s not just coolness—you hate him. Why?”

The thin face went a little blank and he turned away his head. She could see the lock of reddish hair sliding forward into its customary position over his brow, the slender throat taut and brown against the soft white collar of his shirt. He was losing some of the premature lines at the corners of his eyes, but making new ones near his mouth.

“I don’t hate Dane as a man—I never have. I've never even disliked his being successful in business—not really. “It’s
...
well, you wouldn’t understand.”

“I might,” she said quietly.

There was a silence during which Sally decided he felt he had said enough. Then, surprisingly, he turned back towards her and leaned across the table. The expression in his hazel eyes was dark and brooding.

“
Cécile
is heartbroken—did you know that?”

Sally’s fingers tightened under the edge of the table. “Heartbroken? That isn’t a condition I’d ever imagine could be associated with
Cécile
Vaugard. Does she come to see you often?”

“She’s been once or twice. Apart from you, she’s the only woman I’ve been able to speak to since I crocked up. When you first came, she told me you might make a play for Dane. I laughed her out of it and she admitted it was foolish. Then Lucette 'Millar turned up—and she was an entirely different dish.” He drew in his lip, then let it go and added, “Your friend has really gone overboard about Dane. Last night she was twenty feet from me, but it came over like waves of electric current. She’s besotted about him.”

Sally swallowed, but contrived a smile. “That’s Lucette’s way. She’ll recover, and anyway, no one’s really hurt.
”

“
Except
Cécile
.”

“I c
a
n’t believe she’d take it seriously. Dane likes Lucette, but he’s not in love with her.”

“In my opinion he’s not in love with
Cécile
, either.
”

“
You
...
you really think that?”

“I’m pretty sure of it. Dane couldn’t love anyone. But
Cécile
was the woman he meant to marry, till your vivacious comrade appeared. I like
Cécile
, and I loathed seeing her cry.”

“She
...
cried?”

He threw out his hands impatiently. “She was upset and she upset me. There’s Dane, sitting back and letting the women fall over themselves for his attentions, and
Cécile
pushed out by a brainless little piece of sex-appeal who hasn’t as much feeling in her whole body as
Cécile
has in her fingertips. Do us all a favor, Sally, and send Lucette back to Tangier!”

“I can’t send her back before she’s willing to go,” Sally said helplessly, “and you’re wrong about her. She’s not vicious and brainless. She has sudden passions for people and things, but they wear off and no one’s the worse.
Cécile
hasn’t the least reason to worry about Lucette’s effect on Dane.”

“You don’t see the whole of it.
Cécile
’s tour has been altered and she has to leave Shiran in about nine days for Casablanca. She’s quite desperate to get Lucette out of the way before she leaves.”

“If
Cécile
is so fond of Dane,” said Sally warmly, “let her give up the tour and stay.”

“But singing is part of her life.”

“As much a part as her marriage would be?” Sally asked shortly.

“I don’t know. I only know that I like
Cécile
and detest that curvaceous spoiled creature who can’t bear to look facts in the face!”

Sally was silent. She realized how he felt far more plainly than he knew. He was influenced less by
Cécile
’s unhappiness than by his own remembered humiliation at the hands of Lucette. His intensified dislike of Dane had been automatic, because Dane derived a degree of pleasure and amusement out of Lucette.

“Do you think
Cécile
will do anything drastic?” she asked.

He blinked, and his eyes seemed to go pale and distant. “I don’t know,” he said offhandedly. “Le
t’
s get the exercises over, shall we?”

An hour later, when he was back in his veranda chair and they had drunk mint tea together, Sally got up to leave.

“You’re looking better every day, Mike,” she said. “The swimming agrees with you and it’s making you brown,”

“There’s not to be any for you this afternoon, so I understand.”

“No? Was that Dane’s decision?”

“He says you’re doing too much and must rest. He’s asked a young chap who’s staying at the hotel to go with me this afternoon. Big of him, isn’t it?”

“You musn’t mind, for a day or two. I did get a bad head yesterday.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.” He stared at the table, then raised his glance so that' it met and held hers. “You know, Sally, I’m coming to the point where I’d go over to England if you’d guarantee to stick with me over there
—
get a job wherever I might be admitted.”

Her heart seemed to drop to the bottom of a cavity. “Are you? Are you really?”

“I’m coming to it,” he said cautiously. “I’m not there yet, but I do think about it.”

“That’s good, Mike.” But she felt raw as she spoke. “Have you told anyone else?”

“Hell, no. When I decide I can face it, you’ll be the first one to know.”

“Fine. Go on thinking that way.”

He was about to say more, but Sally had had enough. She touched his shoulder lightly, and said goodbye and went down to the car. She sat behind the driver, and they were gliding down the road towards the esplanade when she began to think over Mike’s final piece of news.

The terrible thing had been her own sudden and shattering reaction to it. She was a physiotherapist, engaged for the purpose of persuading an obstinate young man to enter an orthopaedic hospital or rehabilitation centre, yet at the first sign of capitulation she had thought,
“Oh, no, not yet! I can’t leave this place
...
not yet!”
She had put her own emotions before professional integrity, had hastily decided that Mike need not be hurried to make his decision. And why? Because the very thought of leaving Dane was a sword at her heart. Here in Shiran she felt insecure and tormented, but at least she was near him. When she left it would be like going into oblivion, or worse.

Lord, what a pass she had come to!

She took a deep breath, bracing herself to meet the
Mirador. As the car stopped, Dane came down the steps and leaned forward to open the door. He was smiling, an arrogant watchful smile, and when she stood beside him he said, “You’re looking more yourself. How’s the bump?
”

“
Not so bad, if I avoid touching it. You did a good job of trimming the hair. It doesn’t show at all.”

“Good. Did Mike tell you about my arrangements?”

She nodded. “He’ll be all right with a stranger at the lagoon. I’ll see him tonight.”

“Haven’t forgotten we’re visiting the Caid, have you?
”

“
Is it certain? I ought to have told Mike.”

“I’ll let him know. Have a good rest this afternoon
—
the evening is likely to be tiring. We’ll leave at about five.” A pause, and then with a hint' of satire, “Like me to put you to bed again? I do it well, don’t I?”

But Sally was in no mood for his stringent sort of banter. She answered, “With practice, one can do anything well, Mr. Ryland,” and walked into the hotel.

Her every nerve was aware that he had followed her only for a pace or two. Then, too angry to trust himself entirely, he had gone through to the manager’s office, to work it off.

Sally went up to Suite Seven, weighed down by an intolerable sense of failure.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE approach to the ka
s
bah was a green corridor between low blue mountains; a valley filled with
fields of com and mandarin groves, cork-oak forest's, and expanses of cedar and juniper. There were a few vineyards, extensive pasture
-
lands covered closely with cattle and sheep, and a river bubbling shallowly over stones and disappearing among the cultivation. The kabash itself became visible as they rounded a dry craggy mountain: an ornamental stone wall, within which were a collection of closely-built dwellings and the beautifully sculptured residence of the Caid.

Sally leaned forward to obtain her first close look at the true heart of Morocco—a small, self-contained village in mountain country, ruled over by a Moor of education and breeding.

She was sitting in the back of the blue and silver car with Pierre de Chalain. Lucette had the front seat and therefore the best view, which was a pity; her only interest in this evening visit to the kabash had been the fact that Dane was in charge. To Sally, the jaunt was part relaxation and part anguish. All day she had been aware of a sense of approaching climax, but this evening, as sunset flamed over the pale yellow wall they were nearing, she felt differently. She would rather have been in the other car, which held five impersonal hotel residents, but even here, within a foot of Dane and inescapably a witness to Lucette’s adoring glances at him, Sally knew it was good to be exploring Morocco and on the verge of discovery.

The road surface changed from the sandy gravel to huge symmetrical stones that led up to the great ornamental archway by which one entered the kasbah. Round the outside of the confining wall a few men in woollen skullcaps and dark blue djellabahs stood, presumably policing the donkey and camel traffic which meandered through the archway, laden with baskets of produce from the irrigated fields which climbed the mountainsides. In the shade of an abutment camel drivers and laborers were huddled, counting their money and arguing, or merely chewing some never-ending sweetmeat. They watched the two big cars incuriously; no doubt the Caid had a large car of his own.

Within the walls there was a sense of peace and even beauty. The baked earth-and-stone roadway which wound round the flat-roofed houses was fringed on one side by tall hairy palms, grey-green agaves and old, rich-looking olive trees. A network of narrow cobbled lanes divided the dwellings, and along these young donkeys wandered, babies too immature for work in the fields or on the roads.

Most of the inhabitants of the kasbah wore striped robes, but here and there a very old, bearded man would be seated against the wall of his house, in flawless white. Little girls wore a long loose belted frock in almost any color, and the boys were surprisingly Western, in shorts and striped shirts.

“They’re fond of stripes, aren’t they?” Sally commented. “I wish we could see more women, though; they must exist somewhere.”

Pierre laughed. “They exist, certainly! The Caid has been heard to boast that the women of his kasbah are the most lovely in Morocco. There is no doubt that they wear the best materials.”

“Does this place have a name?”

Pierre lifted a brow. “Did you not know we were coming to Nezam?”

Dane threw a comment and question over his shoulder. “The name wouldn’t mean anything to Sally. What do you think of the place, little one?”

“It’s amazing. I always thought kasbahs were primitive.
”

“
Lots of them are, but Caid here is an enlightened man and he has a prosperous community. The Douar of Nezam is
s
o fertile that they’re able to send large quantities of produce to Shiran and Marrakesh.”

Sally repeated the name to herself. Nezam? Wasn’t it the Caid of Nezam who had a small son suffering from the after-effects of polio?
Cécile
Vaugard had said the man would be willing to offer a fabulous salary to anyone who could improve the child’s physique even a little. Understandably, because the child was so young and the Caid did not quite trust foreign countries, he refused to send his son away for treatment. Sally found herself wondering how many people there were in wild and out
-
of-the-way places who went on suffering because they would not travel to find help.

Oddly, she heard herself asking, “Why isn’t Mademoiselle Vaugard with us? Doesn’t she care for this kind of outing?”

Lucette shot a rapier glance across the car at Sally. Dane shrugged and said, “She’s been here before, and in any case she’s unwilling to disappoint' the customers at Le Perroquet. She promised to keep Mike company for an hour this evening.”

Petulantly, Lucette put in, “Are they hatching something, those two?”

“What sort of something?” from Dane.

“I don’t know.
Cécile
Vaugard never speaks to me, but just before we came out I saw her going from the lift to her suite. She stopped and said something about Mike knowing a lot about me. It was one of those cryptic remarks that seem pointless when you hear them and make you feel uneasy when you can’t quite remember the words.”

Dane laughed. “Perhaps your conscience is a little misty. Didn’t wipe our your parents before you escaped from Tangier, did you?”

She tapped his hand on the wheel. “Don’t be horrid. Anyway, Mike only knows my father’s name in business; he’s never met him.”

“Mike wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“No, of course not.” Lucette was comfortably willing to be convinced.

By now, they had skirted the houses and were entering the formal gardens in front of the Caid’s house, which was a typically Moorish mansion. There were the horseshoe arches to form an arcaded terrace, mosaics halfway up the wall, and a vast carved wooden door surrounded by more highly colored and beautifully patterned mosaics. The door was opened by a white-clad servant, and the whole party entered a spacious tiled reception hall whose chandelier winked in the dim light. There were mosaic
-
covered pillars, a fluted ceiling, a few exquisite handmade stools covered in pale tooled leather. And in the centre of the tiled floor a star-shaped pool held goldfish; they darted among the water vines surrounding the base of a stone flower holder which spilled a profusion of golden trumpet-flowers. The quiet mystery and beauty of the place was enchanting.

Within a minute the Caid himself appeared, a slender figure in fine white linen which left only his brown hands and face bare. He was in his forties, a scholarly man who, during the next hour or so, asked polite questions while his servants poured mint tea and handed sweet cakes, and himself told a few anecdotes. Perhaps responsibility for the kasbah—handed down from father to son for several centuries—made him speak as if he were an old man; certainly he had acquired all the wisdom that was necessary for his task. But his humor was automatic. He was not a particularly happy man, Sally thought, and being a woman she decided that he would have been happier had he permitted the women of his household to share his duties as host.

The correct number of glasses of tea having been consumed, Dane rose and begged the Caid to permit his guests to wash their hands. Sally and Lucette were taken in tow by a shy-looking young woman, who wore a pale pink robe and a yashmak which she dropped as soon as they had left the men. With a smile on painted pink lips and her eyes downcast, she led the way into a chamber as bare as the hall, except for a long stone wash basin above which a couple of chromium taps supplied hot and cold water. The girl, her coffee-colored skin showing a silvery sheen under the
modern
electric candelabra, stood about a yard behind them with a towel over each extended arm. Even when Sally thanked her in a polite French sentence, the Moorish girl made no reply. Possibly she knew only the Berber of the district.

As Dane had said, on the way to Nezam, “Where women are concerned the Moors are the most sensible people I know. They take care of them, keep them beautiful, and make darned sure that no one else steals them. No divorce, you see, because another man just can’t get close enough even to say ‘Hi’.”

Sally had thought of several replies to that, but Lucette’s presence had deterred her. Lucette herself had gurgled a retort. She had contended that it was all very well for Dan to talk—he was magnetic and masterful and harem
-
minded. What about the poor Western girls who simply had to live in the world with men?

Dane had said suavely, “But you yourself are a cross between Morocco and the West, aren’t you? Just think how lucky you are!”

Now Lucette went to the wide pink-tinted wall mirror and carefully made up her face. Sally finished first, and tried a little more of her French on the Moorish girl. The dark face lowered again; smilingly, the girl shook her head. And that was the only communication Sally had with the female population of Nezam.

It seemed that these parties for Europeans were conducted to a pattern. There were visits to the main souk, when everything from raw wool to finely worked metal and semi-precious stones were displayed for sale, to the little carpet workshop, to the one open-air cafe, which was shaded by a single palm of gigantic dimensions, to the stone dyeing vats, where a late worker stirred the contents by the light of a flare, and through the gardens of the Caid’s mansion. Their guide was a well-spoken young man, who was half French, half Arab, and when at last he left them in another tiled room scattered with stools and cushions, he pleasantly stated that the educational part of the evening was over. They could now enjoy themselves.

Indeed, food began to appear in immense quantities; mint tea and coffee were served from highly-ornamented silver urns, and a cabaret show, unannounced and apparently unapplauded, got under way on a small dais at one end of the room.

Rather overwhelmed by the excessive seasoning of the savories and treacliness of the fruits and cakes, Sally drank black coffee and lay back among her cushions feeling like someone out of the Arabian Nights. Dane came and sat next to her, took her cup and placed it on a stool.

“Don’t fall into a coma,” he said, “I want to talk to you.”

“Here?” she said blankly.

He smiled coolly. “There’s a connection between the place and what I have to say. One day, before I went down to the phosphate mine,
Cécile
mentioned that it might do the Caid a kindness if we told him we had a physiotherapist in Shiran. He has a young son
...”

“Yes, I know. She spoke about it to me.” Sally remembered the circumstances and looked at him quickly. To Dane, apparently, it had meant little at the time. “I told Mademoiselle Vaugard that I was committed to doing my best for Mike and couldn’t take on anything more.”

“Did you? She didn’t say.” He thought it over for a moment, then decided to postpone or give up conjecture. “Well, this evening I spoke for a moment' about it to the Caid and he said he would like you to see the boy. He hasn’t much faith in women’s brains, by the way. He’s had two male masseurs, who might have been quacks out to make money.”

“He doesn’t look the sort of man to be deceived.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Dane added, in rather deeper tones, “The parents of an ailing child are always gullible, however educated they may be; their love makes them that way. The little boy’s mother begged for a masseur, and the Caid decided it could do no harm and might do good. He told me, in confidence, that he has even called in wizards and sorcerers.”

“Good lord! Do they still exist?”

“They sure do,” he said laconically. “In Europe they work through radio and newspapers—advertising.”

“Now you’re being cynical. What do the doctors say about the child?”

“The only doctor here in Nezam is a retired Moor. Everyone swears by him, and the Caid wouldn’t dream of offending him by calling in a younger man, or a Frenchman. The old doctor can only be replaced after his death.” An exasperated shrug. “That’s how they are, and you have to accept it.”

“But the Caid seems so clever and
modern
.”

“In many ways, yes. In the things close to his heart
—
his women and children, and his way of living, he’s still with his ancestors of two hundred years ago. I don’t suppose for a moment that anything you may say will alter his ideas about the boy, but as you’re here, you may as well see the youngster.”

“But I’m not competent to diagnose!”

“No need for that,” he said. “You’ve been trained to know the difference between the feel of a normal limb and an abnormal on, and I’m sure you could give a guess at what’s wrong with the child.”

“Is it his leg?”

“His arm, I think.”

“And the legs are sound?”

“I believe so. All I really know is that the child had polio.”

“Then on my own there’s nothing I can do.”

“You can put in a word for orthopaedic hospitals. You’ve had plenty of practice with Mike.”

“All right.” She hesitated. “Dane, it’s unfair to expect me to know everything.”

His look at her was cool. “Lately, I’ve told myself that you know so little about men and life that you ought to be well up in your profession. That’s the only direction in which you seem to have used your brains.”

She looked away from the unpleasant glint in his eyes. “From the start we were wrong—you and I. You should have acted the cool and unprejudiced employer, and instead you provoked me into arguments—even about my background in England, which wasn’t your business. You wanted what I could do for Mike, but you didn’t take to me as a person. I can’t grumble about that—you antagonized me, too. But it was wrong to allow any sort of relationship to develop. I’d have been perfectly happy just working on Mike and
...”

“Oh, sure,” he broke in roughly. “But I don’t like fences between myself and those I employ, and particularly there couldn’t be the barrier you wanted between me and you. You’re too young and vulnerable to be allowed to go it alone in a strange country. From the very first I felt responsible for you.”

“That wasn’t necessary. If I hadn’t been capable of looking after myself I wouldn’t have come to Morocco.
”

“
Stop it,” he said softly but abruptly. “This isn’t the time or the place. I’ll take you to see the little boy. Give me your hand.”

She did, and felt herself pulled strongly but without a jerk to her feet. The Caid, who was talking politely with a man and wife from the hotel, bowed to them ceremoniously, nodded very slightly to Dane and quietly stood back, as Dane led Sally towards
him
. Without a word, the man opened the door to disclose a tiled corridor strewn with hand-made rugs of distinctive design. He went ahead, opened a door into another passage which smelled of patchouli and geranium. The women’s quarters, guessed Sally swiftly. But there was no sign of a woman. Even in the fair-sized room they entered there was only a man of about thirty and the child, who was small for his five years. The man rose from behind a desk, and the small boy sat up in a silk-covered bed. Either the child had not slept this evening or he had been roused some time before, so that he would be wide awake for this interview.

The Caid spoke very gently, in French. “Safia, my son, we do not come to worry you. But come from the bed and greet the guests.”

The little boy with sallow skin and large dark eyes did it gracefully; slipped out on to the carpet, took a couple of paces and touched his brow and lips in welcome. Sally smiled at him, a little tremulously. He looked so small and valiant as he stood there, naked from the waist up, holding his left arm close to his body as if to support it. She knew, suddenly, that he had pain he never talked about; it was uncanny.

To the Caid, Sally said, “Is it the left shoulder, monsieur?”

He looked at her quickly, in some surprise. “Someone has told you it is the shoulder, mademoiselle?”

“No, but Mr. Ryland mentioned that the limb affected was an arm. I can see by the way he holds it that there’s pain in the shoulder.” She knelt in front of the child, smiled and gently pushed back a few dark hairs from his brow. In the best French she could muster she said, “You will let me touch your arm,
ch
é
ri
?
”

Though it must have hurt him, he immediately turned his left shoulder towards her and dropped the arm to his side. Watching his face, Sally felt over the shoulder, saw
him
wince as she touched soft little lumps that shouldn’t have been there. Then, turning her head so that s
he
could not see his stoic suffering, she let her fingers probe more deeply till they felt the head of the humerus. She had forgotten the Caid and Dane.

She spoke softly, in English, with a word of French here and there. The child must have understood her tone, if not her words, for he smiled shakily, and turned so that she could feel the other shoulder. She stopped probing and held him gently, whispered that he was brave. And finally she stood up.

Dane’s expression was dark and inexplicable; if anything, he looked irritated. The Caid was obviously bewildered, but his demeanor remained utterly polite.

Sally took the child’s hand and led him to the bed; he climbed in and she covered him and wished him goodnight. “Sleep well,” she told him. To which he nodded gravely, even though he hadn’t a notion what she had said.