The Drifters by James A. Michener
Joe remained as unsettled, as insecure, as he had been on that first day I met him at the Alamo. His love affair with Gretchen impressed me as immature, and his inability to solve his draft problem bespoke a character that was alien to mine, yet he remained the most likable of the three men, the one with whom I felt the most solid sense of identification. I felt like a father when I found myself thinking: I wish to hell he would make up his mind about things.
And there was Monica. As I thought of her my pace slowed and I fell behind in the crowded souk; for she was the one with whose previous life I had had the closest contact; she was, in a very real sense, my daughter, but as Cato had detected, I loved her also in another way. It had been no idle conceit when I had said that she stood for me as a summary of all those tragic European girls who had through a dozen centuries found their way to Meknès and Marrakech. Now, still relying on her youth and resiliency, I shook off my lugubrious thoughts, and hurried through the crowds to overtake the other four. When I caught up with them I said, ‘We’d better be driving back,’ and on the trip Gretchen chose a seat beside me and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
When I asked for what, she said, ‘You handed me the key.’ To the others she said, ‘This sounds ridiculous, but at the café when Mr. Fairbanks said “Children’s Crusade,” my whole book flashed before me. Within three seconds I saw the entire outline … each detail in order.’
The pop-top was filled with argument as to whether such a thing was possible, and my opinion was, ‘It’s not ridiculous. You’ve been brooding on this general topic—preparing yourself to receive such a flash of inspiration. Don’t be surprised that it finally came.’
‘But in three seconds!’
‘It would be ridiculous only if it happened without your having done the spadework. In Portugal you devoted a lot of time to rejecting the Crusades. At Pamplona you were apparently wasting your time on the religious pilgrimages. In Moçambique it was probably something else. And your long preoccupation with ballads. All this made you eligible to receive what might seem like a sudden idea.’
We agreed that a young person’s years of indecision were not wasted if they provided thinking space fortified by relevant data, even though some of the latter might not be understood at the moment, so that when the lucky moment of inspiration struck, it found tinder to ignite, but Joe asked, ‘What if you just keep on drifting, not knowing what tinder to collect because you don’t know what’s going to ignite you?’
‘You go on long enough,’ Holt growled, ‘you become a bum.’
Now there was extended discussion of what the term long enough’ meant, and someone asked me what I thought, and I said, ‘I don’t know much about girls, but for a man it’s almost impossible to waste a year before the age of thirty-five. Now if he wants to enter some field with a highly defined training period—say, medicine or engineering—he’d obviously lose time and relative advantage if he dropped out for five years, so if he wants to be a doctor or scientist he’d better get to it, even though his prescribed course might leave him narrow or even uneducated. But for everyone else, no year can be wasted. Knocking around Europe may be the very best thing a young man can do if he wants to become a great lawyer. Working in a lumber camp may be the real road to a vocation for the ministry. Suppose you want to be a fine dramatist. Maybe the route lies through Marrakech. I think a man has till the age of thirty-five for exploration.’
‘By thirty he’s a bum,’ Holt said.
Again the talk became heated, with Cato and Gretchen agreeing with Holt that thirty-five was much too late, and finally I was challenged to prove my point, so I said, ‘I graduated from the University of Virginia in 1930 … high marks and not a clue as to what it was all about. My uncle put up the money for a summer in Europe … kind of graduation present. So I came over, and it was totally confusing. A man in my uncle’s office had scheduled me into Belgium, Italy and Spain, keeping me out of London and Paris as too dangerous. Every hotel was arranged for, and along with my letter of credit I carried introductions to specific gentlemen in Antwerp, Milan and Sevilla.’
‘Why those three?’ Gretchen asked.
‘Because those were the bankers my uncle’s firm knew. And they were the salvation of my life … those accidental cities.’
‘How?’
‘It happened in Sevilla.’
‘Sounds like a song,’ Cato said.
‘It was one of those three-second bolts of lightning that Gretchen spoke of. I was standing in the nave of the cathedral at Sevilla and was comparing it with the cathedrals I had seen at Antwerp and Milan.’
‘So what happened?’ Joe asked.
‘So in a flash of revelation I realized that I had a capacity which I guessed most men did not have. I could keep in mind an intricate series of data on these three cathedrals, and from that data, reach value judgments.’
‘What do you mean?’ Joe asked.
Their length, their breadth—pure statistics. The beauty of their design, the quality of their light—aesthetics. Their location in the city, their relationships to their surroundings—comparatives. The enormous gloom of Sevilla versus the tracery of Milan versus that staggering Rubens altarpiece at Antwerp. I even had an evaluation of the French language in Antwerp, the Italian in Milan, the Spanish in Sevilla. In other words, I could crank into my cranium an immense volume of confused data and sort it out into a concise summary. One which encouraged the making of value judgments.
‘In World War II I served on Admiral Halsey’s staff, keeping conflicting purposes in balance. When I joined World Mutual it took them only a little while to discover that they could send me into a place like Morocco and ask me to decide whether to invest in Marrakech or Tangier or ever jump the border into Algeria.’
‘You keep all the data in your mind?’ Joe asked.
‘I’m a kind of IBM,’ I said.
‘Do they ever bend, staple or tear you?’ Cato asked.
‘Worse. They blow the fuse.’
‘Could you crank me into your system?’ Joe asked.
‘It works only when value judgments are to be derived from facts,’ I said. ‘And I don’t know the facts about you.’
‘The fact is,’ Holt broke in, ‘he’s a bum.’
‘Not at twenty-two.’
‘But at thirty-two he will be a bum, and at forty-two,’ Holt said, but you could tell he hoped his prediction was wrong.
When we reached Hotel Bordeaux at one that morning, Britta rushed out to throw her arms about Gretchen, crying, ‘Monica’s run off. With three young Moroccans.’ Then she added irrelevantly, ‘In expensive western clothes, Léon said.’
As we entered the hotel we could hear Big Loomis thrashing about the top floor, cursing Jemail. We ran up the stairs to find him issuing orders that the little bastard must be found … that he had the answer to this. When he saw us he exploded, ‘Why in hell did you leave a mortally sick girl alone in a dump like this?’
Holt snapped, ‘Why didn’t you look after her? She was living up here,’ and the big man said, almost tearfully, ‘That filthy little pimp has been propositioning her for weeks. As soon as Britta went out for food, I saw him sneaking about my floor and I kicked him down the stairs. I thought that was the end of him.’
Now Britta burst into tears, explaining, ‘I was gone only a few minutes. To the Terrace for some stew. When I came back she was gone. Léon said something about some Moroccans.’
We hurried down to find Léon, and he gave us our first substantial information: ‘Jemail waited for Britta to leave. As soon as she was gone he rushed upstairs, but Loomis kicked him back down. So he whistled …’
‘I heard that whistle!’ Loomis cried, striking his forehead. ‘My God, I thought it was a bird.’
‘Right away Monica slipped down the stairs with her suitcase, and Jemail led her to the Djemaá,’ Léon said. ‘I followed to see what he was up to, and he led her to a car where three young men were waiting. Whhhhhst! They were gone.’
&nbs
‘You want me?’ he asked, striding right up to Big Loomis, who tried to grab him by the throat.
‘What have you done with Monica?’ Loomis roared.
‘Monica gone,’ Jemail said firmly, like an ambassador conducting negotiations with a sovereign he knows to be his enemy.
‘Where is she?’
‘Right now probably in bed with three clean young men.’
‘Where?’ Again Loomis lunged at the slippery little fellow, who danced away to safety.
‘Why should I tell you?’ he asked.
‘Because within one minute I’m going to call the police.’ Loomis fumbled for the chain from which his watch was suspended, located it, and started counting the seconds.
Jemail saw that the big Negro really intended to turn him over to the authorities, so he began to temporize: ‘I do nothing wrong. I tell her these nice gentlemen like to sleep with her … pay her well. She want to. What police care about that?’
‘Where did they take her?’ Holt asked, trembling with anger.
This Jemail refused to answer, and, enraged, Holt reached out and caught the sleazy bowling jacket. ‘Now, you little bastard, talk.’ As Holt said this, Big Loomis grabbed for the boy, and Jemail screamed, ‘Keep him away!’ and Holt hauled the boy out of reach, cuffing him enough to let him know that he would receive no gentler attention from him than from Loomis. Then, as he shook the boy, he realized with loathing what the child was up to, for Jemail grinned at Holt and asked, ‘How much you pay I tell you?’ Holt was so repelled by the little pimp, he thrust him over to Loomis, who began coldly strangling him, so Holt had to grab him back again. ‘Hold it, Loomis,’ Holt said. ‘Not till we find out where they took her.’
‘What’s it worth to you?’ the boy insisted.
‘Do you know where she is?’ Holt asked.
‘I know.’
‘Where?’
‘How much?’ the boy repeated, whereupon Holt, to my astonishment, began beating the child about the head with blows of real force.
‘You little son-of-a-bitch,’ he whispered, ‘you tell me where she is or I’m going to knock you unconscious.’
Jemail twisted partially free, turned to face his captor, and spit square in his face, an act which so surprised Holt that he relaxed his grasp, allowing Jemail to spring free. From a safe distance he reviled us in English, with a flow of such hideous indecency that we wondered anew how he could have acquired the words. There was no hope of catching him again that night, and we last saw him surrounded by his gang, obviously describing his exploits in getting the English girl out of the hotel and himself out of Holt’s strong grasp.
We returned to the Bordeaux, distraught, and after an inconclusive conference as to what we might do next, Holt and Britta and I walked gloomily back to our hotel, and as we went upstairs, Britta said, ‘Just as I was going to take her to a hospital.’
The next day was miserable. We convened at the Bordeaux in the morning, and in the daylight, its grubbiness was inescapable. In our speculations no one referred to the fables always current in Morocco of beautiful white girls surreptitiously fed hashish cookies, then abducted into a life of prostitution and slavery; these were tales used to frighten newcomers. Inger made the common-sense suggestion that Monica had voluntarily run off with the Moroccans for a sexual adventure and that after two or three days, would show up as though nothing had happened.
Two days passed with no Monica, and on the morning of the third we were not surprised to see Jemail, smiling, cheerful as ever, entering the Bordeaux to offer us another chance. ‘I not talk with the fat one, or him or him,’ he said, indicating Joe and Holt. ‘But if you want to find your girl,’ he said to Cato, ‘we talk.’
They went out into the alley, and after a while Cato came back and said, ‘For ten dollars he’ll tell us where she is. I think we’d better pay.’
‘Did he give you any clue?’
‘No, but I got the idea she’s not in Marrakech.’
‘Not a dime to that monster,’ Big Loomis protested so loudly that Jemail heard him. The boy popped his head through the door and warned, ‘That fat prick makes one move, I never tell you.’
We concluded that we’d better give the little blackmailer his ten dollars, so we sent Cato back to negotiate. The agreement was: Jemail and I would hold the money till he told where Monica was, and I would guarantee that no one would hit him. Like a little pirate, he countered with a demand that we not start to chase him until he reached the end of the alley, and to this we agreed.
With the bill held half by me, half by him, and with his feet turned toward his escape route, he smiled up at me sweetly and said, ‘Your friends the three engineers … they see her your hotel … on ride to the palms. They take her Casablanca, Hotel Miramar. That her idea, not theirs. She send me to arrange it.’ Grabbing the money out of my hand, he darted up the alley.
I was too stunned to say anything, appalled that the engineers should have used me in this way, but Big Loomis swung into action. ‘We’ll call them from your hotel,’ he said, and en route he arranged for two airplane tickets to Casablanca. The phone call was a disaster. I reached the Yale man at his office, and when he heard what I had to say, he started laughing. ‘Please, Fairbanks. She was just a little tart. We took her to the hotel and had a good time with her … Yes, three of us … We gave her some money and sent her on to Tangier with two other men … It was her idea … She was in good shape … Hotel Splendide, Tangier.’
Quickly Big Loomis got three tickets to Tangier, saying, ‘I’d better fly up with you and Cato. The others can leave by car right way.’ He was not hopeful of finding Monica in Tangier: ‘So many things can happen in that city.’ Then he called the Splendide: ‘Yes, two men did check in with Monica Braham—two days ago—but they checked out this morning … No, not engineers from Casablanca—two rather ugly types from Tangier, who could be traced if you were here.’ Loomis said he would be, within a couple of hours. As soon as this disturbing call was completed, he phoned the Tangier police, asking for an officer he had known favorably for some years: ‘Ahmed, we’re in trouble. Name is Monica Braham, eighteen years old …’
‘Seventeen,’ Britta corrected.
‘Seventeen, beautiful, fair-skinned, dark-haired English girl. Daughter of an important family. Using heroin daily. Checked into the Splendide two nights ago. Left this morning. We’ve got to find her.’
He hurried us back to the Bordeaux, but as we crossed the Djemaá, he stopped in anger and looked to the far side of the square, where Jemail lounged against a kiosk, watching our progress. As we approached, he met us with a new proposal: ‘You fly to Casablanca, right? How about I get you the very best taxicab to the airport?’ I shook my head no, and he countered, ‘Then how about a limousine? Drive you non-stop right to Hotel Miramar, Casablanca?’ Again I said no, and he replied, ‘Hope you find her.’ Then nonchalantly he waved goodbye and moved to the part of the Djemaá at which tourists were beginning to unload.
Police Inspector Ahmed was a large-boned, dark-complexioned officer who had served on the local force when Tangier was a free city belonging to no nation. It was then the roughest spot in the world, cynically governed by a commission of foreign consuls; it had been easier to arrange a murder in Tangier than to fix a traffic ticket in Chicago. Dope, forgery, blackmail, forced prostitution and the printing of false passports had been openly acknowledged specialties, and Inspector Ahmed had done what he could to keep the corruption within bounds.
Now Tangier was part of Morocco, and his job w
The first day he accomplished nothing, and most of the effective searching was done by Big Loomis, who had a remarkable knowledge of Tangier and a host of friends. From one bar to the next we plodded, interrogating any habitués who had seen the English girl, and we established that she had spent her first night in the city touring the smaller bars with a man who had not driven her to Tangier. Apparently she had picked him up in this city, but none who had seen him recognized him.
We scoured the Zoco Grande, finding no trace of her, and passed down the narrow passageways to Zoco Chico, a small square surrounded by bars which served as headquarters for the hippies of Tangier. We asked young people of all nationalities and in all costumes if they had seen Monica, and two Swedish girls who looked as if they hadn’t bathed for months said they’d seen her at a miserable flophouse called the Lion of Morocco. For fifty cents they took us down a series of filthy alleys to a ramshackle building. Its upstairs windows overlooked the harbor, and as we stood staring down at the scene which had excited so many travelers in past ages, an asthmatic Arab climbed the stairs to greet us. ‘Yes,’ he admitted, ‘I had the English lady as a guest. One night. Yes, she was with several young Moroccan gentlemen and they left after only one day.’