Before anything else crossed her mind she had a fleeting but unsavory intuition that she knew the young man and that she did not want to speak with him. However, here he was, taking her hand, saying: «How are you?» And because she was looking increasingly confused, he said: «I am Thami Beidaoui. You know» —
Without actually remembering him, she knew in a flash, not only that this was the ne’er-do-well brother of the Bei-daouis, but that she had had an unpleasant scene with him at the cocktail party. There were certain details in the face that seemed familiar: the strange eyebrows that slanted wildly upward, and the amused, mocking expression of the eyes beneath. Obviously, now that she saw him closely, she realized that no Spaniard could have a face like that. But it was not the grave figure clothed in white robes that she had expected to find. She was relieved, perplexed and apprehensive. «How do you do?» she said coldly. «Sit down».
Thami was not one to beat about the bush; besides, he took it for granted that it was only the dim light which had prevented her from recognizing him at once, that by now she remembered all the details of their exchange of insults, and had even more or less guessed the reason for his visit.
«You had a good time at my brothers’ house yesterday?»
«Yes. It was very pleasant,» she said haughtily, wondering what horrors of misbehavior he was remembering at the moment.
«My brothers like Miss Kumari, your friend. They think she’s a very nice girl».
She looked at him. «Yes, she is».
«Yes. They think so». She heard the slight emphasis on the word think, but did not realize it was purposeful. He continued. «At the party Madame Vanderdonk ask me: Who is that girl?» (Mme. Vanderdonk was the wife of the Dutch Minister.) «She says she looks like a Moorish girl». (Eunice’s heart turned over.) «I told her that’s because she’s Greek».
«Cypriot,» corrected Eunice tonelessly. He stared an instant, not understanding. Then he lit a cigarette and went on. «I know who this girl is, and you know, too. But my brothers don’t know. They think she’s a nice girl. They want to invite both of you to dinner next week, an Arab style dinner with the British Minister, and Dr. Waterman and Madame de Saint Sauveur and a lot of many people, but I think that’s a bad idea».
«Did you tell them so?» asked Eunice, holding her breath.
«Of course not!» he said indignantly. (Still safe! She thought; she was ready to go anywhere from here, at whatever cost, whatever hazard.) «That would be not nice to you. I wouldn’t do that». Now his voice was full of soft reproof.
«I’m sure you wouldn’t,» she said. She felt so much better that she gave him a wry smile.
He had gone down to the port that afternoon and had managed to get the price of the boat down to five thousand seven hundred pesetas. When it came time to pay, he still hoped to be able to knock off the extra seven hundred, simply by refusing to give them.
There were roars of laughter from the next room, which was the bar.
«Will you be at the dinner party?» said Eunice, not because she was particularly interested to know.
«I’m going away, I think,» he said. «I want to go to Ceuta in my boat, do a little business».
«Business? You have a boat?»
«No. I want to buy one. Tomorrow. It costs too much money. I want to get out». He made the hideous grimace of disgust typical of the low-class Arab; he certainly had not learned that at the Beidaoui Palace. «Tangier’s no good. But the boat costs a lot of money».
There was a silence.
«How much?» said Eunice.
He told her.
A little over a hundred dollars, she calculated. It was surely worth it, even if he did not leave Tangier, the likelihood of which she strongly doubted. «I should like to help you,» she said.
«That’s very kind. I didn’t mean that». He was grinning.
«I know, but I’d like to help. I can give you a check». She wanted to finish the business and get rid of him.
In the bar someone began to play popular tunes on the piano, execrably. Several British sailors drinking in there looked into the reading room with undisguised curiosity, one after the other, like children.
«I’ll write you a check. Excuse me. I’ll be right back». She rose and went out the door into the foyer. With this native monster under control, and the American idiot out of the way, she told herself, life might begin to be bearable. She brought the checkbook downstairs with her, and made out the check in his presence, asking him how he spelled his name.
«Suppose we make it out for six thousand,» she said. It was just as well to be generous.
«That’s very kind. Thank you,» said Thami.
«Not at all. I hope you have a good trip». She got up and walked toward the bar. Before she got to the door she paused and called to him: «Don’t get drowned».
«Good night, Miss Goode,» he said respectfully, her very personal irony having gone wide of the mark.
She went into the bar and ordered a gin fizz: the whole episode had been most distasteful. «What foul people they are!» she said to herself, finding it more satisfying to damn the tribe than the mere individual. The sailors moved a little away from her on each side when she ordered her drink.
Across the street Thami was back in the café, where he intended to stay in hiding until he saw Hadija return from her fruitless mission to the Cine Mauretania; he wanted to be sure and not meet her by accident in the street. With the eagerness of a small boy he looked forward to morning, when he could go to the bank, get the money, and rush to the waterfront to begin haggling once more for the boat. Watching the Metro-pole’s entrance, he suddenly caught sight of the American, Dyar, about to go into the hotel. There was one Nesrani he liked. He had no reason for liking him, but he did. With a joviality born of the flush of victory, he rose and rushed out into the narrow street, calling: «Hey! Hey!»
Dyar turned and saw him without enthusiasm. «Hi,» he said. They shook hands, but he did not let himself be enticed into the café by the other’s blandishments. «I have to go,» he explained.
«You want to see Miss Goode?» Thami guessed. Dyar was annoyed. «Yes,» he said shortly. Thami was not the one to whom he would confide his business: the picture of him and Hadija talking so intensely and at such length at the party was too fresh in his memory. He had decided then that Thami was trying to make her.
«You’ll be a long time in the hotel?»
«No, just a few minutes».
«I’ll wait for you. When you come out you come in that café. You’ll see me».
«Okay,» said Dyar reluctantly. On the way he had bought a bracelet for Hadija; he swung the box on one finger by the little loop the saleswoman had tied in the string. «I’ll look for you».
It was an absurd-looking old hotel, a gaudy vestige of the days when England had been the important power in Tangier. Still, he had to admit it was a lot more comfortable and pleasant than the new ones like his own Hotel de la Playa. At the desk they told him they thought he would find Miss Goode in the bar. That was good luck: he would not have to see her alone in her room. They could have one drink and he would be on his way. As he went into the crowded bar one of the sailors was pounding out «Oh Susannah». The room was full of sailors, but there was Eunice Goode in the midst of them, monumentally alone, sitting on a high stool staring straight in front of her.
«Good evening,» he said.
It was as though he had slapped her in the face. She drew her head back and stared at him. First the Moor and now this one. She was horrified; in her imagination he was already out of the way, gone. And here he was, back from the dead, not even aware that he was a ghost.
«Oh,» she said finally. «Hello».
«Drunk again,» he thought.
«What are you doing here?» she asked him. She got down from the stool and stood leaning on the bar.
«I just thought I’d drop in and say hello».
«Oh?. Well, what are you drinking? Whiskey?»
«What are you drinking? Have one with me, please».
«Certainly not! Barman! One whiskey-soda!» She rapped imperiously on the top of the bar. «I’m just on my way upstairs,» she explained. «I’m just having this one drink». She felt that she would jump out of her skin if she had to stay and talk with him another minute.
Dyar was a bit nettled. «Well, wait’ll I’ve had my drink, can’t you? I wanted to ask you something». The barman gave him his drink.