«To the Zoco Chico».
«I’ll walk with you».
«Okay». He did not want Thami along, but there was no way out of it, and anyway, he thought they might have a drink afterward.
As they walked, Thami looked disparagingly down at his own trousers, which were very much out of press and smeared with grease.
«My old clothes,» he remarked, pointing. «Very old. For working on my boat».
«Oh, you bought that boat?»
«Of course I bought it. I told you I was going to». He grinned. «Now I have it. Mister Thami Beidaoui, propietario of one old boat. One very old boat, but it goes fast».
«Goes fast?» Dyar repeated, not paying attention.
«I don’t know how fast, but faster than the fishing boats down there. You know, it’s an old boat. It can’t go like a new one».
«No. Of course».
They passed Ramlal’s shop. It was closed. Ramlal had added six batteries for portable radios to the array of fountain pens, celluloid toys and wrist watches. They passed El Gran Paris, its show windows a chaos of raincoats. It was always difficult to navigate the Zoco Chico with its groups of stationary talkers like rocks in the sea, around which the crowd surged in all directions. Arrived at what Dyar thought was the entrance to the Crédit Foncier, at the top of some steps between two cafés, he saw that even the way into the outer courtyard was barred by high gates which were closed.
«This isn’t it,» he said, looking uneasily up and down the plaza.
«What do you want?» Thami asked, perhaps slightly annoyed that Dyar had not already told him exactly where he was going and on what errand. Dyar did not reply; his heart sank, because he knew now that this was the Crédit Foncier and that it was closed. He ran up the steps and shook the gate, pounded on it, wondering if the sound could be heard through the vast babble of voices that floated in from the zoco.
Thami slowly climbed the steps, frowning. «Why do you want to get in? You want to go to the bank?»
«It’s not even five of four yet. It shouldn’t be closed».
Thami smiled pityingly. «Ha! You think this is America, people looking at their watches all the time until they see if it is exactly four o’clock, or exactly ten o’clock? Today they might stay open until twenty minutes past four, tomorrow they might lock the door at ten minutes before four. The way they feel. You know. Sometimes you have a lot of work. Sometimes not much».
«God damn it, I’ve got to get in there!» Dyar pounded on the gate some more, and called out: «Hey!»
Thami was used to this urgency on the part of foreigners. He smiled. «You can get in tomorrow morning».
«Tomorrow morning hell. I have to get in now».
Thami yawned and stretched. «Well, I would like to help you, but I can’t do anything».
Pounding and calling out seemed fairly useless. Dyar continued to do both, until a very thin Arab with a broom in his hand appeared from a corner of the courtyard, and stood looking between the bars.
«Ili firmi!» he said indignantly.
«Mr. Benzekri! I’ve got to see him!»
«Ili firmi, m’sio». And to Thami: «Qoullou rhadda f’s sbah». But Thami did not deign to notice the sweeper; he went back down the steps into the zoco and shouted up to Dyar: «Come on!» Seeing that the latter remained at the gate trying to argue with the man, he sat down in a chair nearby on the sidewalk to wait until he had finished. Presently Dyar came down to join him, muttering under his breath.
«The son of a bitch wouldn’t even go and call Mr. Benzekri for me».
Thami laughed. «Sit down. Have a drink. Be my guest». A waiter had approached. Dyar threw himself into a chair. «Give me a White Horse. No water,» he said.
Thami ordered. Then he looked at Dyar and laughed again. He reached over and slapped Dyar’s knee. «Don’t be so serious. No one is going to die because you can’t get in the bank today instead of tomorrow. You can go tomorrow».
«Yes,» said Dyar. Even as he said it he was thinking: Legally the money belongs to whoever has it. And I’ve got it.
«You need money?» said Thami suddenly. «How much? I’ll give you some money. How much?»
«No thanks, Thami. I appreciate it. You’re a good guy. Just let me think. I just want to think a minute».
Thami was silent until the whiskey was brought. Then he began to talk again, about an Englishman he had once known. The Englishman had invited him to go to Xauen with him, but for some reason there had been difficulties at the frontier. Never very perceptive, he did not notice that Dyar was still sunk inside himself, formulating, rejecting possibilities.
«A votre santé, monsieur,» said Thami, raising his glass expectantly.
«Yeah,» said Dyar. «Yeah». And looking up suddenly: «Right. Prosit». He drained his glass. He was thinking: if only Ramlal had gotten the money yesterday morning instead of last night I’d be in the clear. No Legation wondering when I’m going to phone. No Madame Jouvenon. Damn Madame Jouvenon. He did not realize how illogical his reasoning was at this point, how inextricably bound up with his present decision was his involvement with that lady.
«Let’s get out of here». He rose to his feet. The suddenness of the remark and the tone in which it was said made Thami look up at him wonderingly.
In the street, going down toward the port, he began to speak confidentially, holding his mouth close to Thami’s ear. «Can you run that boat?»
«Well» —
«You can’t run it. All right. Do you know anyone who can? How about the guy you bought it from? He can run it, can’t he? Where is he now?»
«Where is he now?»
«Yes. Right now».
«He lives in Dradeb».
«Where’s that?»
«You know,» said Thami obligingly. «You go from the Zoco de Fuera into Bou Arakía. You go past the Moorish cemetery and you come to Cuatro Caminos» —
«Can we go there in a taxi?»
«Taxi? We don’t need a taxi. We can walk. The taxi charges fifteen pesetas».
«We can get there in a taxi, though?»
Thami, looking increasingly surprised, said that they could.
«Come on!» Dyar rushed ahead, toward the cab-stand at the foot of the ramparts. Laughing and protesting, Thami followed. At last the American was behaving like an American. They got to the foot of the hill. Dyar looked at his watch. Ten after four. I’m glad I thought of that, he said to himself. «Hotel de la Playa,» he told the driver. If Wilcox just happened to be at the hotel waiting for him, he could still have an alibi. Chocron had kept him so long that the Crédit Foncier was closed when he got there, so he had come back immediately to lock up the money until tomorrow. Wilcox could either take it with him, or leave it, as he liked. But if he returned to the hotel any later than this and happened to find Wilcox, there would be no way of explaining the time that had elapsed between four and whatever time he got there. «If you just do each thing as it comes along and keep calm you can get away with this. Get rattled and you’re screwed for good,» he told himself.
The sun had gone behind the high buildings on the hill, but it still shone on the freighters at anchor in the harbor; all their white paint was turning faintly orange in its light. Beyond them on its cliff stood the whitewashed tower of the lighthouse at Malabata.
At the hotel he had Thami wait in the cab. With his parcel he jumped out and went into the lobby. There was no sign of Wilcox. That was all right, but the more dangerous moment would be when he came back downstairs. Even then he could still say he had thought of locking it in one of his valises, then had decided to give it to the management to put into the hotel safe. The boy gave him his key and a telephone message, which he put into his pocket without reading. He ran upstairs. The air in his room was dead, colder by several degrees than the air outdoors. He laid his brief case on the bed, quickly put into it his razor, shaving cream, blades, toothbrush, toothpaste, comb and four handkerchiefs. Then he unwrapped the box and laid the bundles of bills in among the toilet articles. There was still room for a pair of shorts. The door was locked; if Wilcox rapped on it at this moment he would have time to take out the money and throw the brief case into the closet. He felt in his pocket to see if his passport, wallet and express checks were all there. He stuffed a woolen scarf and a pair of gloves into the pocket of his overcoat and slung it over his arm, closed the brief case, spun its Sesamee lock to triple zero, and looked once more around the room. Then, with a caution which he felt was absurd even as he used it, he unlocked the door and opened it. The corridor was empty. Through the window at the end he saw the distant dunes behind the beach; their shadows reached out along the flat sand toward the harbor. A radio upstairs was playing Flamenco music, but there was no sound in the halls or stairway.