They first walked to the house Beatrice had because the car was parked there. The car was a Giulietta, small and fast, and an Arab from Beatrice’s house stood by the garden wall to see that nobody stole anything out of the car or took off the wheels. The garden wall was very solid and high and the house behind was not visible.
“Come in for a drink,” said Beatrice. “You’ll have a long drive.”
“Which is why I don’t want to come in,” said Whitfield.
“I want to go down to the pier first,” said Quinn.
“All right,” said Whitfield.
“I think you could use the drink,” said Beatrice.
“Never mind, never mind. Siesta going to be shot and everything if we don’t get cracking.”
“I can drive,” said Quinn. “You can sleep in the car.”
“I take a bath during siesta. I don’t sleep.”
Whitfield got behind the wheel in a fair state of irritation, and when Quinn had slammed his own door Whitfield got the car down to the main street in something like leaps and bounds, as if inventing a new way to shift gears.
“You’re not turning towards the water,” said Quinn.
“Eh?”
“I want to check on those cans.”
“Preserve me, yes.”
“But you’re not turning…”
“Quinn, baby, listen. I must first stop by a store.”
“For what?”
“A preservative.” And then Whitfield shot down the main street until it petered out and stopped at the mouth of an alley where no car could enter.
“Native quarter,” said Whitfield. “Note the native craft of whitewash, the rustic filth on steps and cobbles, the aboriginal screams of joy and of anger as they chat in the street. Wait here, I’m buying me a bottle of wine. If you please.”
Quinn watched Whitfield go into a door. Or into a window, thought Quinn, because Whitfield had both to stoop down and step over a high stone sill all at the same time. Quinn got out and leaned by a stone wall and smelled the street and looked at the confusion of people. There were windows in the walls reminding one of gunslits, and a goat sat in the middle of the street looking at a butcher shop.
“Ah, the new one,” said somebody next to Quinn. Quinn gave a start which was close to fright.
“You’re Quinn, no?”
The Arab had a young face but an old-looking mouth because so many teeth were missing in the front. But he smiled just the same. He wore pants and an old army jacket.
“Now what?” said Quinn.
“I mean you just came, right?”
“You seem to know everything.”
“If I know your name, wouldn’t I know you are here?”
That sounds like an old Arab proverb, thought Quinn. And the guy looks like a cadaver which is still young. Quinn could think all this but he didn’t know what to say.
“Call me Turk,” said the Arab.
“That’s a fine old Arab name.”
“My good Arab name you couldn’t pronounce.”
“You want something?” asked Quinn. “You live here?”
Which he said to get just something or other straight.
“I live,” said Turk and kept smiling.
“Where’d you learn so much English?”
“Like this,” said Turk, and counted off on his fingers. “I once drove for the French. Then I went to France. There I soon moved to Paris. In Paris are Americans, and I learn to speak.”
“How’d you know who I was? You a friend of the mayor’s, too?”
“Who?”
“Remal.”
“Oh no.”
“That seems strange. All I ever meet…”
“He doesn’t trust me. Not at all,” and Turk laughed.
Quinn looked away to see if Whitfield was coming back yet.
“It always takes fifteen minutes,” said Turk. “Because of the talking you do with the purchase.”
“You sound like a guide,” said Quinn.
“Oh I could. Would you like to see the streets?”
“The mayor and I both don’t trust you,” said Quinn.
Turk shrugged and leaned by the wall, next to Quinn.
“You have a cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke,” said Quinn.
“I meant for me, not you. Ah well,” and he scratched himself. “Anyway,” and now he looked earnest. “If you do want to see the native quarter, you know you should do it now.”
Quinn waited because he did not follow the man.
“You know that Remal won’t let you come here again.”
“What’s that?” said Quinn. He understood even less now. But somehow he felt he understood this Turk rather well, not the man perhaps, but the type. New arrival in town, little sucker play, a quick piaster or dinar or franc or whatever they use here, that type, and Quinn felt familiar with it. Not the pleasure of familiarity, just familiar “You don’t know anything, do you?” said Turk. He folded his arms, looked at the doorway Whitfield had taken, then back at Quinn. “You are a stranger,” said Turk, “and have upset him. Him, Remal.”
Quinn frowned and looked at the doorway again, wishing that Whitfield would show up.
“Leave me alone,” he said to the Arab. Quinn was almost mumbling.
Then Whitfield appeared, stepping through the doorway like a crane toe-testing the water. Quinn suddenly thought, What’s keeping me from asking what in hell Turk is talking about?
Whitfield waved at Quinn to come along, and when he saw Turk he nodded at him and Turk smiled back.
“What’s this about Remal?” said Quinn. “What’s he got here that he’s worried I might upset it?”
“What’s he got here? Almost everything.”
“Quee-hinn!” called Whitfield.
“Like everything what?” Quinn asked again, feeling rushed.
“He’s coming back,” said Turk and nodded towards Whitfield. “See you again, eh, Quinn?” And Turk moved away, smiling with his young face and the old gums where the teeth were missing. “You’ll be here a while, anyway.” Then Turk left.
Whitfield held a moist jug of wine by the neck, and when Quinn reached him he turned and walked back to the car.
“Fine friends you have,” he said to Quinn. “Did he ask you for a cigarette?”
“Yes. Who is he?”
“Did you give him one?”
“No.”
“Ah, saved,” Whitfield said. “Will you drive, please?” And he stopped at the car.
“You don’t think I followed any of this, do you?” said Quinn.
“You didn’t? That’s only because you don’t know Turk.” Whitfield opened the car door. “ If you had given him the cigarette,” and Whitfield interrupted himself to sniff at his jug, “then I would now ask you to look up your empty sleeve to determine if something at least were left in it. In short, he is not trustworthy.” And Whitfield got into the back of the car.
Quinn got behind the wheel, slammed the door, and when he had the motor going he let it idle for a minute.
“How come he doesn’t like Remal, that Turk?”
“What gave you that idea, Quinn? He loves Remal.”
“Look, Whitfield, I just talked…”
“We all love Remal, dear Quinn, but some of us more, some less. But Turk loves him most of all, would love to be Remal altogether. He would steal Remal’s teeth out of his head to have a smile like the mayor’s; he would cut his heart out, I mean Remal’s, to have a big heart like that. But — Swig of wine, Quinn?”
“No, thank you.”
“But Remal does not like him. And I’m sure that’s what Turk told you and no more. Drive, Quinn. We U-turn and go straight out of town.”
Quinn shifted and drove back down the main street.
“Do we pass the place where you keep my cans?”
There was no answer from the back-just the hissing and gurgling which came from the jug.
“Did you hear me, Whitfield?”
A deep breath sounded from the back, as if Whitfield were surfacing, and when he talked he sounded exhausted.
“Quinn, baby, I realize you don’t have any money, and if I can be of any assistance while you…”
“Are you stalling me for any reason?”
“Turn right, the next street,” said Whitfield. “This wine gives me a headache. While you look at your bleeding cans I’ll just dash into my office for a headache potion I keep there.”
The side street ended on a cobblestone square of which one side was open to the long quay. There was just one warehouse and Quinn pulled up next to it. The two men got out, and on the water side of the building they walked along the white pier.
Quinn saw the place for the first time but it did not interest him. The cement threw the heat back as if the sun was below them. There was a small tramper tied up where the warehouse doors stood open, and a barge lay at anchor a little way out. It had a single lanteen sail furled in some messy fashion which made the yardarm look like a badly bandaged finger.
The box had been moved. It lay on its side at the far end of the pier and the splintered edge of the top gave a ruined impression. A mouth with no teeth, thought Whitfield. It gapes, after spitting out.
And somebody had cleaned the inside. There was not much smell, which was also because of the sun. And all the cans were gone.
“Where are they?” said Quinn.
“Ah yes,” said Whitfield. “Obviously gone. Quinn, look here. My company and I will reimburse you, all right? Theft is common around here, you know, but in view of, ah, yes.” He petered out that way and squinted with the sun in his face. This is new, thought Whitfield. That look on his face is no longer simple. Maybe this is how he used to be.
“All right, just a minute,” said Whitfield, and then he turned around and yelled something in Arabic.
Two Arabs were carting boxes from the tramper into the warehouse and one of them put down his load and looked over at Whitfield. They yelled at each other across the distance, Whitfield and the Arab, and since the language was meaningless to Quinn, and since they had to yell at each other because of the length of the pier, Quinn could not tell if there was anger in all this, or even excitement. They stopped yelling and Whitfield turned to Quinn.
“I have good news for you,” Whitfield said, looking as if good news were no news at all. “Your bleeding cans have not been stolen, he knows where they are…”
“What’s that?”
“Quinn, there’s a storage hut which we own on the trackless wastes of the North African coast. We can’t drive there in this car, I won’t buy the cans from you till evening when we get back, and in the meantime they will bring your cans to the warehouse, so you can count them, so we can bicker about them, and so you can make your profit. Please, Quinn, doesn’t that sound nice?”
“Don’t treat me like an idiot,” said Quinn and put his hands into his pockets.
But for the first time Whitfield thought that perhaps Quinn was an idiot, in some ways.