Tremor (17 page)

‘By God,' he said, ‘you look – ambrosial.'

The cream cloak with its glittering ornaments set off her beauty. He bent and kissed her. She responded coolly, with a smiling detachment that did not rebuff but promised no immediate intimacy.

‘What strange words you use sometimes,' she said. ‘Ambrosial? Does that not mean …'

‘If you pressed me I'd say it meant food of the gods.'

‘Just now you were thinking in terms of saucers of milk.'

‘It was you mentioned milk. Anyway … my evening has begun.'

He took her hand and they went out of his front door and walked through the jasmine-scented darkness towards the main house.

‘Are you an impatient man?' she asked.

‘Yes, in some things. Very.'

‘I was afraid so.'

‘And impulsive.'

‘Impulses,' she said, ‘which you must sometimes regret.'

‘Oh, I don't think so. Impulses are meant to be followed.' He laughed. As usual it was an infectious sound.

She said: ‘My father was a doctor. A specialist in liver complaints. If you have lived in France you will know how important the liver is to most of us! He made money. He had many mistresses. My mother had frequent lovers. They did not break up: they just went their own ways. For their only daughter you might think it would be natural, easy to live a – a – what do you call it in old England? – a profligate life. But that has not been so. There have been many flirtations but I have only had two men. Both were serious. Both affaires ended. It was not without distress. I don't like what is now called casual sex.'

They were on the steps to the house. Discreet lights gleamed. He said: ‘When I married I was pretty much in love – at least I think I was – and so was she. We both put up a fair attempt to make a go of it. But when it came unstuck I don't think either of us was desperately hurt. I still like her. She still likes me – though she doesn't approve of my indolent life—'

‘Indolent!'

‘Well, to her it seemed so,' he said, remembering that he had claimed three novels published. ‘ So we agreed to part. There's no man on her side nor woman on mine. Perhaps we didn't feel deeply enough for each other. Perhaps I have never felt deeply enough for anyone.'

‘Do you think that a good recommend?'

‘How can I recommend myself?' Again that infectious laugh. ‘But I love beauty. I love your beauty.'

Nadine said: ‘But you have never been serious about a woman. Is that so?'

‘Well, I wouldn't really—'

‘What
do
you feel deeply about? Anything? Your books? Writing? Literature?'

‘Oh, no. I like books but not enough. Music is what fascinates me.'

‘Music? Ah …'

‘I told you. That was why I went to Paris. I hoped to do something with it. I play the piano. I play the guitar. I sing. But none of them well enough. I'm doomed to be the eternal amateur.'

‘What sort of music? Jazz?'

‘Everything that comes out of a musical instrument. Bach, Stockhausen, Haydn, Gershwin, Fats Waller, Puccini, Sullivan, Berlin …'

‘And you sing?'

‘More or less, yes. And you?'

‘Me? I don't understand music like that. But yes, I can sing a little. And dance.'

‘Tonight,' he said, ‘we'll both try.'

The three French ladies had had a good morning. They had bathed and tramped along the beach in the heat and found a kiosk where they sat and drank Pernod and ate
pastillas
, which were fluffy pastries stuffed with crushed almonds and honey. They had all enjoyed a good breakfast, but the sea air had given them raging appetites which they saw no reason to resist. As the third Pernod was going down an Arab appeared leading a camel and offering them a ride.

They all saw the funny side of this. They thought the Arab, who was called Jusef, very funny because he had no top teeth at all except a solitary gold one right in the front, and when he smiled, which he did frequently, this gleamed through his beard and set them off into peals of laughter. Vicky said she had always wanted to ride on a camel, so after a good deal of haggling over price she mounted two steps, cocked her leg over and slumped into the saddle with a cry of triumph which turned into a squeal as the camel got up.

They proceeded along the beach, the older women laughing and shouting lewd advice to Vicky, who lurched and shrieked and hung on while the tall, elderly camel was led by its owner mooching on its bony, ramshackle legs and stopping now and then to champ its jaws and shake its head from side to side.

They described a circle, so that at the end of the ride the steps would be conveniently near. Eventually amid whoops and yells, Vicky lowered herself to safety. Françoise said her skirt had ridden up so high she thought Vicky usually got paid extra for showing that much.

They had two more drinks, a chocolate ice each and then began to weave their way back across the beach in search of lunch. The sun had come out from behind its clouds and the day was sweltering. The hotel seemed far away, and Vicky said she felt like she'd joined the Foreign Legion and was staggering over the desert towards an oasis, just like in a movie show.

The last quarter-mile was covered with many pauses for rest and argument. There was a stage at which Françoise's laughter always turned to belligerence; but Laura slapped her down and led the way until, oh, bliss, hard ground was under their feet and they were home. They had been out so long that time had gone ahead of them and early lunchers were already eating round the pool.

‘Let's leave our things and go right in,' Laura said.

So they hobbled round through the palm trees and sat in the open door of their car, rubbing sand out of toes and combing sandy hair. Laura draped her swimming costume over the steering-wheel and the other two left theirs hanging from the windows and seat backs where they could dry in the sun. Then, glassily but hungrily, they stumbled back from the front drive and weaved a way among the tables for lunch.

M. and Mme Thibault were not at their table today. Nor were Mr Burford and Mrs Heinz. Nor Matthew Morris and Nadine Deschamps.

The Thibaults were about to leave for lunch with the Governor, M. Bouamrani. Henri Thibault had made certain that his arrival in Agadir should not go unnoticed. Although convinced that his own eminence was not likely to be overlooked in France, there was just the risk that in the less civilized parts of the old empire there might be a slip-up. So his secretary had written to the Governor's secretary. And the newly elected senator for the department of Nievre, a M. François Mitterrand, had been prevailed upon to drop an enlightened line, which would ensure he, Thibault, was accorded proper deference and hospitality. Indeed M. Mitterrand had suggested to Thibault that before he left Morocco he would do well to seek an audience of the King, who naturally would want to meet one of France's leading bankers and philanthropists.

Thus it had been arranged, though Estrella did not know. Thibault had been saving it as a pleasant surprise; but this disagreeable contretemps with the egregious Laura had soured the situation. Estrella, herself the daughter of a banker, whose benevolent intervention had contributed to Henri's rise, had once been a very pretty girl. As a rich man's youngest daughter, she had been quite the catch of the season, vivacious, sexy and playful. Lucien Costals had not thought much of the young man she finally took up with – pompous little fellow with shifty eyes – but Henri had turned out fairly well, had fathered three girls, taken advantage of every business opportunity offered him; had known how to cultivate people in high places and altogether had carved a career for himself.

So far as one could tell, he had also made a good husband. The trouble at quite an early stage was that Estrella had not adjusted her attitude to her loss of looks. At fifty she still wore the clothes of a thirty-year-old. She continued to treat men coquettishly and to expect them to respond. In the best society in Paris much older women than she could still dominate their circle, but she had neither the personality nor the intellect.

She was showing, in her husband's eyes, neither personality nor intellect in her attitude towards his encounter with Laura Legrand. She had blown the whole thing up into a great balloon of indignation and contempt. He was disgusted with his ill-luck and disgusted with his wife. Every woman knew that men sometimes had little affairs on the side: from the interchange she knew absolutely nothing of the details (fortunately).

Yet he had no wish to make this a serious quarrel between them: the old father, Lucien Costals, still existed at eighty-seven, and though no doubt he would have laughed aloud if told the whole truth, he still doted on his daughter. And with his banking holdings he still controlled some of the purse strings. There were two brothers-in-law.

They had been invited for one o'clock at the Governor's House, and it was now after twelve thirty. Estrella, provokingly, was taking an age to make up her face. As always she was doing too much, laying on the mascara and the rouge. The very look of her over-curled and pinkish hair irritated him. He paced up and down, pausing now and then to glance out over the smiling scene. The sun had at last come out and the hot land breeze had strengthened. Flags and the frills on umbrellas fluttered. From here you could see a corner of the angular swimming-pool and a couple of empty tables. He looked at his watch. Estrella took no notice. She was now putting little points of rouge on her ear lobes.

‘Hrrhm!' said Thibault. ‘It is now twelve thirty-eight. I should not wish to be late.'

Estrella did not reply. With the handle of a comb she was tidying her curls, twisting them more perfectly into place.

‘I have left the car near the front door,' said Thibault. ‘ You have only a few steps to walk.'

‘You can go without me if you wish,' Mme Thibault said.

Her husband greeted this remark with the contempt it deserved. As if she would make all these preparations for nothing!

Presently, with agonizing concern for every small detail, she made herself ready, picked up her Venetian bag, made sure her Ghent handkerchief and other items were safely stowed away, gave a hitch to the shoulder of her ivory lace dress and stood up. He went to the door and opened it for her. Without acknowledging this, she stalked out.

Of course the lift was engaged. It was only two floors to walk down, but she made no move to do so, while he pressed and pressed at the button. Eventually it came and they descended in slow motion until the lobby was reached.

Thibault made an effort. ‘Our car is just on the left. Shall I bring it round for you?'

‘Please.'

The sun struck him as he went out, putting on his panama. Most of the Renault Fours were out. Only one other stood a few paces away. Same colour, same hire company. They were scoundrels and rogues, Thibault thought. They had not even been to see him this morning with an upgraded car. They had never had any intention of attempting to satisfy him. He might, he thought, refuse to pay. Certainly he would make a strong complaint to the Directeur. (He might even mention the matter this afternoon. Perhaps the Governor would put a car at their disposal.)

You could never trust the Arabs, he thought, as he opened the car door.

He stepped back. A vivid yellow bathing costume was draped over the steering-wheel. Another one – a two-piece suit of an eye-catching green – lay on the passenger's seat. Shoes were in the back of the car, and a bunch of striped towels; and still one more costume hung out of the back window on the opposite side. There were dark patches in the car where things had
dripped
. And there was
sand
…

Estrella Thibault, standing stiffly beside an indoor palmetto palm, was surprised to see her husband stride angrily in and, taking no notice of her at all, march across to the reception desk.

‘Someone has been tampering with my car!'

‘Sir?'

‘Someone has been using it, utilizing it. This is outrageous!'

‘Sir?' The concierge was coming out from behind the desk.

Thibault looked at his watch.

‘No.'

The concierge stopped.

‘Order me a taxi!'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘At once. We shall be late! Our appointment is with the Governor!'

‘Very good, sir.' The man picked up the telephone. ‘A
petit taxi
?'

‘No!' shouted Thibault. ‘A car! A proper car! A limousine! At
once
!'

‘Very good, sir. Right away.'

Earlier in the day one of the little Renaults had been driven far south along the coast and had passed Tiznit before it was time for lunch.

Lee was accustoming himself to the gear change, which operated from the steering-wheel, and Letty was the map reader. Not that there was much chance of going astray; once you were out of Agadir it was a flat, featureless drive with few side roads or opportunities to take the wrong turning. Before they left Agadir Letty had bought a tin of cooked ham, a knife, some paper plates, two bottles of beer, two glasses, French bread, French mustard, butter and tomatoes, so when they stopped some miles short of Goulimine under the shade of a group of date palms, they were self-sufficient. They finished up with oranges.

‘I don't think,' Lee said, ‘there's
anything
more enjoyable than a picnic. Not the most original thought in the world, but I'm prepared to stand by it.'

‘And without beggar boys,' said Letty. ‘I do not think they are ever as hungry as they look, but I do not enjoy eating and being watched.'

There was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks. She liked Morocco, its strangeness, its remoteness from anything she had ever known before.

After lunch they drove through Goulimine until the metalled road ended and there was only a camel trail. Lee said they could now claim to have eaten at least one orange in the Sahara, but Letty was nervous lest the car should get stuck in the sand, so they drove back to the little fortified town and wandered round among the camels and the donkeys and the mules, amid a smell of spices and dung and leather and rancid oil. Men of all ages were squatting against the ochre walls in their white, brown and blue robes, and there were stalls selling honey and molasses and almonds and fried fish and sheep's kidneys. Black-capped Jews strolled by, and a student or two carrying books and prayer mats. Overhead the storks were making a great noise as they nested in the ruined walls of the fort.