«Oh, sixish».
«Sure». The picnic would be over long before that.
«Perfect. I’ll take you to a little party I know you’ll enjoy. It’s at the Beidaouis’. They’re Arabs, and I’m devoted to them».
«A party?» Dyar sounded unsure.
«Oh, not a party, really. A gathering of a few old friends at the Beidaoui Palace».
«Wouldn’t I be a little in the way?»
«Nonsense. They love new faces. Stop being anti-social, Mr. Dyar. It just won’t do in Tangier. My poor poached egg is getting cold».
It was agreed that she would call for him at his hotel at six on Sunday. Again he apologized for his powerlessness to help her.
«Couldn’t care less,» she said. «Good-bye, my dear. Until Sunday».
And as Sunday approached and the weather remained undecided, he was increasingly apprehensive. It would probably rain. If it did, they could not have a picnic and there would be no use in his going to the Parque Espinel to meet Hadija. Yet he knew he would go anyway, on the chance that she might be waiting for him. Even if the weather were clear, he must be prepared for her not being there. He began to train inwardly for that eventuality and to repeat to himself that it was of no importance to him whether she appeared or not. She was not a real person; it could not matter what a toy did. But there was no inner argument he could provide that would remove the tense expectancy he felt when he thought of Sunday morning. He spent the days learning the facts in the material Wilcox had given him, and when he got up on Sunday morning it was not raining.
Where the little side street ended they came out at the top of a high cliff. It was a windy day and the sky was full of fast-moving clouds. Occasionally the sun came through, a patch of its light spreading along the dark water of the strait below. Halfway down, where the gradient was less steep and brilliant green grass covered the slope, a flock of black goats wandered. The odor of iodine and seaweed in the air made Dyar hungry.
«This is the life,» he said.
«What you sigh?» inquired Hadija.
«I like this».
«Oh, yes!» She smiled.
A long series of notches had been hewn in a diagonal line across the upper rock, forming a stairway. Slowly they descended the steps, he first, holding the picnic basket carefully, feeling a little dizzy, and wondering if she minded the steepness and height. «Probably not,» he thought presently. «These people can take anything». The idea irritated him. As they got lower the sound of the waves grew louder.
On the way down, there was an unexpected grotto to their right, partially covered by a small growth of cane. A boy crouched there, the dark skin of his body showing through his rags. Hadija pointed.
«He got goats. The guarda».
«He’s pretty young». The boy looked about six years old.
Hadija did not think so. «All like that,» she said without interest.
Here and there in the strait, at varying distances from the shore, a seemingly static ship pointed eastward or westward. Dyar stopped a moment to count them: he could discern seven.
«All freighters,» he said, gesturing, but it was half to himself that he spoke.
«What?» Hadija had stopped behind him; she was scanning the beach below, doubtless for natives who might recognize her. She did not want to be seen.
«Boats!» he cried; it seemed hopeless to elaborate. He moved his hand back and forth.
«America,» said Hadija.
There were a few Moors fishing from the rocks. They paid no attention to the picnickers. It was high tide. Getting around certain of the points was not easy, since there was often very little space between cliffs and the waves. At one spot they both got wet. Dyar was a little annoyed, because there was no sun to dry them, but Hadija thought it an amusing diversion.
Rounding a sharp corner of rock they came suddenly on a small stretch of sand where a dozen or more boys were running about stark naked. They were of an age when one would have expected them to want to cover their nudity at the arrival of a girl, but that seemed to be the last thing in their minds. As Dyar and Hadija approached, they set up a joyous cry, some assuming indecent postures as they called out, the others entering into group activities of an unmistakably erotic nature. Dyar was horrified and incensed. «Like monkeys,» he thought, and automatically looked down for a stone to fling into their midst. He felt his face growing hot. Hadija took no notice of the antics. He wondered just what indignities they were shouting at her, but he did not dare ask. It was possible that she considered this frantic exhibitionism typical of male behavior, but it hurt him to see a delicate creature like her being obliged to witness such things, and he would not believe that she could accept them with equanimity. For a second he wondered if by any chance she were so preoccupied with her thoughts that she had not noticed the boys. He stole a sidelong glance at her and was gratified at first to see that she was looking out across the strait, but then he caught the fixity of her stare.
«Son bitch,» she muttered.
«The hell with them,» he said, turning to smile at her. «Don’t look at them».
They came to a long beach, completely deserted. Ahead of them rose a low mountain covered with cypress and eucalyptus; large villas sat comfortably among the trees toward the summit. The wind blew harder here. Dyar took her hand, from time to time lifted it to his lips and kissed the fingers lightly.
They rounded another rocky point. The wet wind blew with added force. A shore of boulders stretched before them into the distance. Dyar turned to her.
«Hey, where is this cave?»
«You tired now?»
«Do you know where it is or do you just think you know?»
She laughed gaily and pointed ahead to the farthest cliff jutting into the sea.
«Go past there». And she indicated a left turn with her hand.
«Oh, for God’s sake! That’ll take us an hour. You realize that?»
«One hour. Maybe. Too much?» She looked up at him mockingly.
«I don’t care,» he said with bad grace. But he was annoyed.
They walked for several minutes without speaking, devoting all their attention to choosing the easiest way of getting past each boulder. When they climbed down to a tiny cove where there was a spring among the rocks, he decided to kiss her. It took a long time; her response was warm but calm. Finally he drew away and looked at her. She was smiling. It was impossible to tell what she felt.
«By God, I’ll get a rise out of you yet!» he said, and he pulled her to him violently. She tried to answer, but the sound of her voice came out into his mouth and died there. When he released her, the same smile was there. It was a bit disconcerting. He dug in his pockets and pulled out a pack of cigarettes which she took from him, tapping the bottom so that one cigarette appeared. She held up the pack to his mouth and let him take the end of the cigarette between his lips.
«Service,» he said. «But now I’ve got to light it myself. Let’s sit down a minute».
«O.K». She chose the nearest rock and he sat beside her, his left arm around her waist. They looked out across the strait.
He was glad she had chosen the shore of the strait here for their picnic, rather than the beach along the bay, although actually there would have been more assurance of privacy on the beach than here, where one never knew what would appear around the next point or who might be hiding among the rocks. But he liked the idea of being able to see Europe across the way while knowing he was in Africa.
He pointed to the big sand-colored crest directly opposite. «Spain».
She nodded, drew her finger across her throat significantly. «Bad. They kill you».
«What do you know about it?» he said banteringly.
«I know». She shook her head up and down several times. «I got friends come here never go back. No fackin good place».
«Hadija! I don’t like to hear that kind of talk from girls».