The memory of his first minute on Tunisian soil returned to him. At the airport. The sudden, shocking warmth of the air. Half a dozen Arab grease monkeys staring at the passengers, at him, under brows that Ingham had felt to be lowering and hostile, though later he had realized that that was how many Arabs’ brows looked normally. Ingham had felt conspicuously, disgustingly pale, and for a few unpleasant seconds had thought, ‘They must hate us, these darker people. It’s their continent, and what are we doing here? They know us, and not in a nice way, because the white man has been to Africa before.’ For a second or two, he had actually experienced physical fear, almost like terror. Tunisia, that tiny country, on the map not too far below Marseilles (and yet how different!), which Bourguiba had described as a mere postage stamp on the vast package of Africa.
Ingham realized he was in a curiously delicate condition.
Suddenly, he had a thought: speak to Mokta before he spoke to Ina. He couldn’t ask Jensen to do it. It might be useless, and yet Mokta might by this time tell him the truth, the fact-if it was a fact-that Abdullah had been killed that night. Why, Ingham thought, should he tell Ina he’d killed him if he hadn’t?
23
IT was Saturday. Ingham had no appointment with Ina. He intended to call at the hotel before noon, possibly see her, or leave a message in regard to meeting her for dinner. Ingham felt she might well want to spend a day without him. But he didn’t know if he was correct in assuming this. He felt no longer sure of himself about anything. He blamed part of it on a bad night’s sleep, and a couple of disquieting dreams. In one dream, he had been helping to clear the colossal fa9ade of a formerly buried Greek temple. He was with a group that was supposed to remove mud deposits from the Corinthian columns. Ingham had been upside down at the top of a column, clinging only by his knees which were soon to give out and let him drop a vast distance on to stone. He had gone on, ineffectually scraping at the wet mud with a shell-like instrument, and the dream had mercifully ended before he fell, but it lingered in his mind and was very teal.
Even as he walked along the narrow alleys towards his car, he felt a clutch of fear, as if the ground might suddenly give way and drop him to a fatal depth.
It was just after 10 a.m. Ingham thought Mokta should be through with his breakfast work. He hoped he would not see Ina. It was more likely he would see OWL, whose bungalow was near.
The terrace of the bungalow headquarters had one occupied table. A man and woman in shorts lingered over the remains of breakfast. Ingham went round to the side door, which was always open. A boy was washing dishes at the sink. Another was fiddling with the big kettle on the stove.
They both looked at him in the doorway and seemed to freeze, as’ if waiting for their photograph to be taken.
‘Sabahkum bil’kheir? Ingham said, meaning ‘Good morning.’ one of the few phrases he’d memorized. ‘Is Mokta here?’
‘Ah-h.’ The boys looked at each other.
One said, ‘He is looking for the plumber. There is a W.C. broken. Lots of water.’
‘What bungalow, do you know?’
‘That way.’ The boy pointed towards the hotel.
Ingham walked past OWL’s Cadillac and his own car, keeping an eye out through the citrus trees for Mokta’s slim, quick figure. Then Ingham heard Mokta’s voice from a bungalow on his left.
Mokta appeared at the bungalow’s back door, talking in Arabic to someone in the kitchen. Ingham hailed him.
‘Ah, M’sieur Eengham!’ Mokta grinned. ‘Comment allez-vous?’
Et cetera. Ingham assured him his apartment was still very agreeable. ‘You have a moment?’
‘But certainly, m’sieur!’
Ingham did not know where they should go. He did not want to take Mokta away in his car, because that would put too much emphasis on the conversation. Almost anywhere else, they would be overheard. ‘Let’s walk down here for a minute.’ Ingham said, pointing to a space between two bungalows.
Beyond, the sand dipped down towards the beach. Ingham wore his white dungarees (already too hot) and his old white sneakers into which the sand trickled unpleasantly.
‘I had a question to ask you.’ Ingham said.
‘Oui, m’sieur.’ Mokta said attentively, his expression neutral yet braced.
‘It is about that night—the night the Arab was hit on the head. The Arab they think was Abdullah.’ The French ‘on croit’ attachedno definite persons to ‘they’. Was it Abdullah?’
‘M’sieur, I—I don’t know anything about it.’ Mokta crossed his lean hands on his shirtfront.
‘Ah, Mokta! You know one of the boys—Hassim—told M’sieur Adams there was a man that night. The boys took him away. What I would like to know is, was the man dead?’
Mokta’s eyes widened a bit more, so that he appeared slightly frightened. ‘M’sieur, but if I do not even know who it was? I did not see the body, m’sieur.’
‘Then there was a body?’
‘Ah, non, m’sieur! I do not know if there was a body. Nobody talked to me. The boys told me nothing. Nothing !’
It damned well wasn’t true, Ingham thought. He looked impatiently up the sand towards the awning-bedecked bungalow headquarters. ‘I am not trying to get anyone into trouble, Mokta, Ingham said, and realized he would have felt silly saying this if it hadn’t been Tunisia, if he hadn’t been a tourist. ‘Do you know Abdullah?’
‘No, m’sieur.—I do not know many around here. I am from Tunis, you know.’
Mokta had told him that before. But Ingham knew the boys had discussed whoever it was, Abdullah or just possibly someone else, whose name they would certainly have found out. ‘Mokta, it is important to me. Just me. No one else. I will give you ten dinars if you tell me the truth. If there was a corpse.’ He thought ten dinars was a sum Mokta could understand. It was roughly half a month’s wages.
Mokta’s wide-eyed expression did not change, and Ingham hoped he was debating. But then came the shake of the head. ‘M’sieur, I could say something just to gain the money. But I do not know.’
He’s a decent boy, Ingham thought. He knew, but he had given some kind of word to his chums, and he was keeping it. ‘All right, Mokta. We won’t talk any more about it.’ The sun was a golden weight on Ingham’s head.
As Ingham walked towards the bungalow headquarters, he saw one of the boys pause in his clearing of a terrace table and stare at the two of them.
Mokta must think that it was quite important for him to have offered ten dinars, Ingham thought. He supposed Mokta would tell that to his friends, maybe increase it to twenty. It would, Ingham realized, lay him open for blackmail, because why should he have offered money? It did not bother Ingham. Was that because he intended to leave so soon, or because he didn’t believe any of the boys would be clever enough to effect blackmailing? It didn’t seem to be worth it to ponder this.
‘You still work very hard, m’sieur?’ Mokta asked as they reached level sand near the bungalow headquarters’ terrace.
Ingham did not answer, because at that moment, he saw Ina coming from the direction of OWL’s bungalow, Ina in a short belted robe and sandals. She looked at his car, then looked around and saw him. Ingham waved.
‘Your American friend!’ said Mokta. ‘Au revoir, m’sieur I’ He darted for the kitchen door.
Ingham walked towards Ina. ‘Visiting Francis?’
‘He asked me to breakfast,’ Ina said, smiling. Were you taking a walk?’
‘No. Came to see if there was any mail they hadn’t sent on. Then I was going to call on you—or leave you a note.’ He stood near her now, near enough to see on her cheeks a few freckles that had come out since she had been here. But he sensed the distance between them that he had last evening. Her expression looked politely pleasant, as if she were gazing at a stranger. Ingham felt wretched.
“That’s your Arab friend—that boy, isn’t he?’ she asked. ‘The one who helped me with my luggage at first?’
‘Yes, Mokta. He’s the one I
know best. I’d very much like to talk to you. Could we possibly go to your room?’
‘What’s the matter, darling? You look pink around the eyes.’ She moved towards his car.
‘I was reading late.’
In the car, they said nothing. It was a very short way to the main building.
‘How’s Francis ?’ Ingham asked as he stopped the car. ‘His old cheery self?’ Ingham wondered suddenly if OWL had shown Ina his suitcase with the tapes and made her swear to tell no one, not even him, about them. That would be funny.
Tilled to the brim with OWL-ish glee, yes.’ Ina said, smiling. ‘I wish I knew his secret.’
Fantasy, Ingham thought. Illusions. He followed Ina into the hotel. She had a letter.
‘From Joey.’ she said.
In her room, she said, ‘Excuse me while I get out of this suit.’ and went into the bathroom, taking shorts and a shirt.
Ingham stood by the closed terrace shutters, wondering how he should begin. But he never got anywhere planning the beginnings of things he had to say.
Ina came’ back, wearing the pale blue shirt outside her shorts. She took a cigarette. ‘You wanted to talk to me?’
‘It’s about that night. I wasn’t telling you the whole story. I saw someone coming in the door, and I threw my typewriter and hit him in the head. It was very dark. I’m not sure it was Abdullah—but I think so.’
‘Oh. And then?’
‘Then—I shut the door and locked it. The door hadn’t been locked because I forgot that night. I waited to find out if there was anyone else with him. But all I heard was—some of the hotel boys coming to drag whoever it was off the terrace.’ Ingham went into the bathroom and drank some water from the cold tap. He was suddenly dry in the mouth.
‘You mean he was dead.’ Ina said.
‘That’s what I don’t know. The boys here won’t tell me anything, believe it or not. I was just asking Mokta, offered him ten dinars to tell me if the man was dead. Mokta says he didn’t see anything and the boys didn’t tell him anything.’
‘That’s very strange.’
‘It isn’t. Mokta knows. He wants to deny there was anyone around that night.’ Ingham sighed, baffled and tired of the subject. ‘They want to hush up anything about thieving. In Tunisia, I mean. And that old Arab, let’s face it, nobody’s going to make a stink about his life—if he was killed. You see, I don’t know, Ina. I know it was a hard blow. It bent the typewriter.’
She said nothing. Her face looked a little paler.
‘The police didn’t come into it.—There’s one thing I’d like to ask, darling.’ He came closer to where she was standing. ‘Don’t tell OWL this, would you? It’s not his business, and he’d only gloat because he suspects something like this happened. He’d keep telling me it’s on my conscience, I ought to tell the police or something, when as a matter of fact it’s not on my conscience.’
‘Are you sure? You seem to be taking it pretty seriously.’
Ingham put his hands in the pockets of his dungarees. ‘I may take it a bit seriously—if I killed him. It’s not the same thing as its being on my conscience. The guy was coming into my bungalow, maybe not for the first time. I’ve got a right to throw something at somebody who’s coming into my place at night in a stealthy manner, intending no good. It wasn’t a hotel guest who’d made a mistake and walked into the wrong bungalow!’
‘You could see it was an Arab?’
1 think he had a turban. He was like a black silhouette in the doorway, sort of stooped. God, I’m sick of it,’ Ingham said.
1 think you could do with a Scotch.’ Ina went to her closet. She fixed his drink in the bathroom, with a splash of water.
‘Don’t you want to read your letter from Joey?’
‘I can tell by his handwriting he’s all right.—You told Anders about this?’
‘Yes. Only because he knows more about Tunisia than I do. I asked him what I should do, what I should expect. He told me not to do anything.’
‘And that the Arab’s life was worthless.—It’s a funny country.’
‘It isn’t funny. They just have their ways about things.’
‘I can understand another Arab throwing something, but it seems a little violent from you. A typewriter!’
The Scotch was a comfort. ‘Maybe. I was scared.—You know, a couple of months ago, I was walking back from Anders’s place in the dark, and I stumbled over a man lying in the street. I struck a match—and I saw that his throat had been cut. He was dead. An Arab.’
‘How awful P She sat down on the edge of her bed.
‘I wasn’t going to mention it. It’s just a horrible story. I suppose these things happen more often here than they do in the States. Though maybe that’s debatable!’ Ingham laughed.
‘So what did you?’
‘That night? Nothing, I’m afraid. The street was dark, nobody around. If I’d seen a policeman, I’d have told him, but I didn’t see a policeman. And—yes. That was the night Abdullah was hovering around my car, or rather he’d just fished my canvas jacket out of the back window which was open a little. Anyway, I yelled at him and he scutded away. He could scuttle like a crab I’
‘You seem to think he’s dead.’
‘I think it more than likely.—But if I can’t get it out of Mokta for money, even promising him I won’t tell the police, do you think the police are going to get anything out of anybody?’
‘Or out of you?’
‘The police haven’t asked me anything.’
She hesitated. ‘I think, Howard dear, you’d go to the police in the States just by way of protecting your property. I think you don’t want to here because you probably killed the man. It’s no doubt awkward here if—’
‘Less awkward, probably.’
‘Wouldn’t you talk to the police in the States if you thought you’d killed someone?’
‘Yes. I think so. But—you’d have to imagine chums of the thief—or maybe chums of mine—dragging the body away. I suppose it could happen in the States. But in the States it’s a little hard to get rid of a body. The real point is, why should I go and announce that I’ve killed someone when it’s not necessarily true? The point is —’
‘But you said you think he’s dead.’
‘The point is, my house was broken into. Or entered. That’s worth reporting in the States, yes. But here, why bother? It happens all the time.’ Ingham saw that his argument irritated her. ‘And any corpses are just buried in the sand somewhere.’
‘The point is,’ she said, ‘as a member of society, you should report it. In either place. It’ll bother you if you don’t.’
‘It doesn’t bother me. You sound like OWL.’
‘I’m sorry you didn’t tell me all this from the start.’
Ingham sighed and put down his empty glass. It was an unpleasant, vague story.’
‘Even when the boys dragged something off your terrace?’
‘Suppose Abdullah was simply knocked out? Suppose he went to another town—considering his unpopularity here?’
‘I think I will have a Scotch after all.’ When she had made it, she said, ‘What about the hotel people? The management. Don’t they know?’
He sat down near the foot of the bed. She had leaned back against a pillow.
‘I doubt it. The boys wouldn’t report it, because they’re supposed to keep prowlers off the grounds.’ He shrugged. ‘If the management knew, I don’t think they’d tell the police. They don’t want the rumour spreading that the Reine has burglars.’
‘Mm-m,’ she said on a dubious note. ‘Curious reasoning. But you’re an American. It’s customary to report things like that. I mean attempted robbery. Maybe the police wouldn’t do anything to you, if he’s found dead. He was invading your house. All right. But they must have a census or registration of some kind, and presumably Abdullah’s missing.’
Ingham smiled, amused. ‘I can’t imagine a very accurate census here, I really can’t.’
??
?You—just didn’t consider reporting it,’ she went on.
1 considered it, and gave the idea up.’ After talking with Anders, he thought, but he didn’t want to mention Anders again.
It hadn’t helped, his telling her. He could see that she would always disagree with him. Ingham felt adamant about not reporting it—especially at this late date it seemed silly—but he wondered if that would be the next ultimatum, the next hurdle he had to take to please her?
‘In view of the atrocities going on in some parts of Africa,’ Ingham said, ‘Arabs massacring blacks south of Cairo, murders as casual as fly-swatting, I dunno why we make so much over this. I didn’t murder the fellow.’ He took her hand. ‘Darling, let’s not let this throw a gloom over everything. Please don’t worry, Ina.’
‘It’s not really for me, it’s for you—to worry.’ She said it with a shrug, looking towards the window.
The shrug hurt him. ‘Darling, I want to marry you. I don’t like—secrets between us. You wanted me to tell you the truth, so I did.’
‘You compare it to a lot of Africans or whatever killing each other. But you’re not an African. I just find it surprisingly callous of you, I suppose. When you see a man fall—I presume—knowing you’d hit him, wouldn’t you turn on the light and see what had happened to him, at least?’