The Fury of Rachel Monette (18 page)

“How?”

Madame Ratelle came closer and lowered her voice. “Wait until tonight. Then call the guard and offer him a bribe. Give him enough to make it worth the beating he will get.” Her eyes became thoughtful. “Two hundred dirhams should be sufficient. Go to two hundred and fifty if you have to.”

“I'll pay whatever it takes,” Rachel said in an excited whisper. “Will he do it?”

“I think so,” Madame Ratelle said. “Have you got enough money?”

Rachel groped quickly through her handbag. Her passport was there and so was her notebook. The money and traveler's checks were gone.

“That proves I am right about the guard,” Madame Ratelle said.

“He took the money?”

“No. Someone who did not want you bribing him took it.” Madame Ratelle walked to the corner and flicked her cigarette into the hole in the floor. “Can you have money sent to you in Marrakech?” she asked Rachel.

“Of course,” Rachel said. “I could give you a telephone number in the United States and you could make the call from Marrakech. No one here would know.”

“No. They will find out if I help you.” Madame Ratelle's eyes moved to the corner of the cell where a thin plume of smoke rose out of the hole. “After you have gone I still have to live here. If you can call it living.” She lit another cigarette. “But you can have money sent to Marrakech when you get there?”

“Yes. But how do I get there?”

Madame Ratelle's thin lips curved in a little smile. “There is another way to bribe the guard.”

“That's out of the question,” Rachel said angrily.

“Is it? You may change your mind after a few days.” They both looked at the bowl on the floor. “I'll bring you something to eat,” Madame Ratelle said more gently. She turned toward the guard to be sure he was still asleep, and quickly took a small folded envelope from between her breasts.

“From Rashid,” she said, handing it to Rachel. Rachel saw jealous suspicion in her eyes. “He insisted I deliver it to you.” The envelope was sealed. Madame Ratelle waited for Rachel to open it, but she put it in her pocket instead.

Madame Ratelle shouted at the guard. Wearily he got up and unlocked the cell. Madame Ratelle took out her plastic lighter. “When you have read it use this. I don't want the boy beaten again.” She stepped outside.

“Where is my jeep?” Rachel asked before she went away.

Madame Ratelle gave her a knowing smile. “In front of the hotel. The keys are in the ignition and there is a full can of gasoline inside.”

The guard turned the key in the lock and stared through the bars at Rachel. The features of his face were little, except for the ears which were large and stuck out from the skull. His head was too small for his pear-shaped body. He turned away and walked across the courtyard. On the other side he blew his nostrils empty one at a time and lay down on the stones. When he was asleep Rachel opened the envelope. The note was hand-written in English.

Dear Madame (she read)

I am so very very sory. Do not eat the food they give you. It will make you sick. Jeanne will bring food. That place is
not
a bearial place. I have herd of an old man who nos.

I will pray that you are soon free.

Rashid

Rachel lit the corners of the letter and the envelope and dropped them burning to the floor. She lay on the pallet and slept. She dreamed of the well. It was the same as before except that she could hear Adam calling her from far below.

The turning of the key in the lock woke her. A short man wearing a white robe and a white skull cap was standing in the doorway. The guard went away without locking him in. He took a position in the middle of the courtyard and stood alertly.

Rachel sat up. The white-robed man watched her. He had large intelligent dark eyes and a neatly trimmed white beard. His skin was almost completely free of wrinkles. He could have been forty, or sixty. Under the robe his shoulders were muscular.

“I am the caid,” he said in French. “That is something like a mayor,” he explained, “but more like a chief. Madame Ratelle says that you wished to see me.” His tone was polite and slightly pedagogical, like a doctor's.

“I want some explanations.”

“Explanations?”

“Why am I here? Have I been charged with a crime? Which one of your men stole my money? Those will do for a start.” Rachel's voice rose and the guard stepped forward. The caid motioned him back.

“I am sure none of my men would take your money, madame. But the law prohibits prisoners from having any.” He spoke in a way that implied he would change it if he could.

“Then I should be given a receipt. That is how these things are done in civilized countries.”

The caid's head jerked back as if his hair had been yanked. His eyes narrowed. Without turning he spoke a curt command to the guard, who ran off immediately. Rachel and the caid watched each other until the guard returned. He held up a hand full of coins and bills and traveler's checks. The caid gestured toward Rachel. The guard entered the cell and handed it all to her. A coin fell to the floor. It landed on edge and rolled across the stones to the corner, where it disappeared into the little hole. The caid said something angrily to the guard. The guard walked to the corner, stooped and fished about with his hand for the coin. When he found it he wiped it on his trousers and brought it back to Rachel on his palm. She took it. The guard looked at her feet. The caid dismissed him and he resumed his post.

“Now, madame,” said the caid in a flat voice, “I, too, would like an explanation.”

“There is nothing to explain. I went to look at the desert. I did not know we were near Algeria. I wasn't even aware that there was trouble between the two countries.”

“Why did you dig a hole in the sand?”

Rachel suddenly felt the whole story begin to well up from her chest. But as she opened her mouth her eyes rested on the white beard and she realized that the man was probably old enough to have been caid in 1942. “To see if there was water,” she said.

“Were you thirsty?” the caid asked in a neutral voice.

“I was curious. My guide told me that the nomads often look for water near those dried riverbeds. I wanted to see if it was true.”

“Unfortunately, Lieutenant Moutassim reports that you have desecrated a burial ground.” He sighed. “Moroccans are a very religious people.” It could have been a statement of fact but she took it as a threat. He called to the guard, who brought a wooden office chair and placed it in the cell. The caid hitched up his robe and sat down. He wore leather sandals on his stubby feet.

“May I see your passport, madame?”

“Haven't you seen it already?” Rachel asked. He ignored her and held out his hand. She gave it to him. He took a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles from a pocket in the side of his robe, put them on and examined the passport. His face assumed a puzzled expression.

“Excuse me, madame, but what is the English word for religion?”

“It's the same.”

“Your passport does not include that category on the page devoted to personal description. Why is that?”

“Under American law, government and religion are kept separate.”

“How strange,” said the caid. “Is that, too, a mark of civilization?”

“Some people think so,” Rachel said. The caid's eyes told her that they weren't his kind of people. He handed her the passport.

“May I ask what is your religion, madame?”

“I am not a religious person.”

“That may be true,” he said, watching her face closely. “Here in Morocco there are many Muslims who say they are not religious. But if you ask them they will tell you that their religion is Islam. It is in that sense that I am asking you.”

“In America we don't see it that way,” Rachel replied.

“You are a Jew,” he said, bringing his hand down sharply on his thigh. “Why not admit it? It is nothing to be ashamed of. The Prophet said that the Jews are a special people.” The caid began to adopt his lecturing tone. “A quarter of a million Jews used to live in this country, side by side with us. In my own lifetime. Their lives and property were protected by law.” A brief smile passed across his face in memory of this golden age, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Now, of course, most of them have gone to Israel. And despite Zionist efforts to silence them we have heard that they are clamoring to return.”

“I don't think that's true,” Rachel said.

“Of course you don't.” He leaned forward. “Why would you? You are a paid agent of the Zionists.”

“You're crazy,” Rachel said. “I've never even set foot in Israel.”

He laughed sarcastically. “Do you take me for a fool?” he asked. She saw again the intelligence in his eyes. He was no fool, but if he believed what he was saying he was far more dangerous. “The Zionists have a gift for strategy and tactics,” he went on. “How clever to send a woman. If she is captured she will be dealt with less harshly.” He touched her knee with the tip of his forefinger. “They do not know Lieutenant Moutassim,” he said.

Rachel drew back. “I want to telephone the American ambassador. He is a friend of mine.”

“Very well. I will place the call. What name shall I ask for?”

Rachel glared at him.

“The American ambassador to Morocco is a woman,” the caid said.

Rachel felt herself blush at being caught in the lie, and at her stupidity. She couldn't afford to be stupid.

“I meant friend in the sense of countryman. I apologize for my bad French.”

“On the contrary, madame, it is excellent. You speak it far better than any American I have met. Far better.” The caid stood and smoothed his robe. “Thank you for this interview,” he said. The guard came to carry the chair away.

Rachel got up from the pallet. “But what is happening? Am I charged with a crime?”

The caid turned to her. “You will be in due course.”

“Then I want to see a lawyer.”

“One will be provided at the proper time.”

The caid stepped outside and the guard locked the cell. As the caid was walking away Rachel suddenly crossed the floor, poked her head through the bars and called to his back. “If I am tried as a spy where would the trial take place?”

He stopped walking, turned and stroked his beard. “Possibly Marrakech. Perhaps Rabat.”

“But not here?”

His eyes tried to probe hers. “No, not for something of that magnitude,” he said finally.

“Then I am a spy,” Rachel shouted at him. “Do you hear me? A spy.”

He left the courtyard but not before Rachel saw the worried look appear in the big brown eyes. The guard went to his favorite spot, lay down and made himself comfortable. Rachel sat on the pallet and waited for nightfall.

17

Evening. Hunger grew in her stomach. Thirst dried her tongue. But Madame Ratelle did not come. A crust of flies formed over the earthenware bowl. They were big brown flies that made no buzzing noise when they flew, moving around the cell in silent smears. In the shadows the guard smoked a cigarette, resting his back on the far wall of the courtyard. Rachel lay on the pallet.

She awoke with a start, and went to the bars of the cell. The sky was black, except for the strange moon, a reclining yellow crescent too lazy to get up, and the cold white stars as far away as far can be. In the darkness of the courtyard she saw the light of the guard's cigarette. She realized that the naked bulb in the ceiling had gone out.

Rachel listened carefully for sounds from the jail or the town beyond but she heard nothing. She felt through her handbag for the bank notes. By holding them close to her face and squinting she was able to count out two hundred and fifty dirhams.

“Guard,” she called in a hoarse whisper. There was no response. “Come here,” she said in a louder voice. The cigarette burned in the night. Rachel tapped her wedding band on the steel bar and called again. The little fire moved. It rose a foot or two and slowly approached the cell.

The guard stood a few feet from the bars of the cell. She could see the vague shape of his khaki uniform, but his face was lost in the night. He held the cigarette at his side. It coated his hand in red light. It was a very powerful hand for a man like him.

“I will give you two hundred and fifty dirhams to let me go,” Rachel whispered. He didn't answer. She mimed the act of unlocking the door, and held up the money. She hoped he could see her better than she could see him. “Two hundred and fifty dirhams,” she repeated, offering the money between the bars. “Please.”

Without haste the hand lifted the cigarette to his mouth. It spread red light across his face. The hard eyes shone with it, but the shine came from inner fires. They were the eyes of Lieutenant Moutassim.

With his free hand Moutassim took Rachel's wrist and pulled. Her face struck the steel with a force that made her dizzy. She tried to draw away but he held her tightly with enormous strength, her breasts crushed against the bars. He raised the little fire and touched the back of her hand with it. She dropped the bills. He released her wrist and she stepped back out of reach. He kicked the money onto the stone floor.

Lieutenant Moutassim withdrew into the night. He began pacing the courtyard, rapidly at first and then more slowly. Huddled on the pallet Rachel listened to him breathing and watched the glow of his cigarette. She did not take her eyes off it. After a while he walked across the courtyard and did not return. Rachel heard a door close, and then another, very faint.

She got off the pallet and gathered the money from the floor. As she replaced it in her handbag she thought she heard a footstep in the courtyard, very close. She whirled and was hit in the face by the narrow beam of a flashlight. It was shut off immediately, leaving Rachel blind in the darkness. Her hands found the heavy bowl. She picked it up and moved softly to the rear of the cell.