Chapter 1

Tangier 1980 Monday

Manners, manners, repeated the old man.

He walked slowly to the window, his tall, upright figure framed by the half-closed shutters. He cleaned his glasses with trembling hands and tried to remember.

He had called the police. He had tried to explain the events in a chronological fashion using his most precise Arabic, but instead of a concerned commissaire, he had been connected to two voices, rude and demanding, that kept interrupting him with irrelevant questions. He could detect two different Moroccan accents and also that they were using incorrect verb forms while arguing between themselves. He tried to explain, once again, the events that were becoming fainter in his memory, but, once again, he was interrupted with asperity and insolence in the middle of a sentence, at the precise moment he had mentioned Cornelia. Then Henry C. Haskins carefully nestled the telephone on its cradle. He had always refused to deal with impolite people.

Turning from the window, he looked around. Everything was in order, every object in its place, giving the room a symmetry that pleased him, the perfection of a room where each element had accepted the others in quiet harmony, nothing to add, nothing to remove. He had selected the furniture, objects, and books that satisfied his sense of comfort. He wanted to remain in his library, protected by all the familiar objects that seemed to smile at him in silent approval. Even the austere, heavily carved cabinet seemed to nod. He walked around the room, touching, almost caressing, each object, trying to recall its first memory. His hand, hurting at the joints, felt the scratches on the desk, the sharp edges of a brass tray, and the softness of a table runner. At every contact he stopped, his mind flooded by memories he had thought forgotten. He looked at the Berber rug that he had hung on the wall fifty years ago; he smiled sadly at the faded rug. Then he began to read the titles of the books neatly lined in the cabinet behind glass doors; some he had never read, but they were there, read and unread, new and old, standing like soldiers ready to be reviewed, reminders of past interests and dreams that rushed in, crowding his mind. The sun reaching the edge of the desk told him that it was time for his daily stroll to the newspaper stand. It was a pleasant walk along the crest of the hill, but today, breaking a routine of years, he was going to remain in his library with his memories.

He stopped in front of the photograph of Cornelia and him leaning on a wooden fence holding tennis rackets. Nineteen thirty three; happy times, Cornelia, those were happy times, he said aloud. It was a time when the town conformed to the rules and norms of Europe. He looked at the inkwell with five holes, which, since his childhood, had been on his desk. It had never held ink but had held sentimental bits of life that at some time or another had warmed his life: a feather, a flower, a letter. It was given to him on a hot summer day by a Frenchman who gave it a history of adventures covering five continents. He felt the muscles of his eyes relax and the wrinkles around his mouth loosen; he was ready to surrender to his memories. At this precise moment of abandon, a shrieking sound, incoherent and senseless, shattered the silence like a blast of Levanter wind—the wind that funnels through the Strait of Gibraltar for days on a wild chase to the Atlantic Ocean, forcing old ladies to lock themselves in interior rooms with pillows over their heads.

Bewildered, Henry Haskins returned to the window. He saw trees wilting under the sun, their leaves dangling motionless. He saw flowers waiting for the evening breeze to disperse their petals. He could not understand the sudden whirlwind. It was a most peculiar phenomenon, and he should tell Cornelia about it. He was still wondering about it when he heard the familiar chime of the garden gate. He saw Driss opening the heavy green door; he saw four men entering his garden and talking forcefully to Driss, the five framed by palm trees like an old postcard. Henry vaguely remembered that their visit had something to do with him, as if rehearsed a long time ago. He was unwilling to leave the protection of his library, and he did not want the strangers inside his house either. Reluctantly, he left the comforting security of the room, crossed the entrance hall, picked up his walking cane, and stepped onto the covered porch constructed many years before by a Belgian architect trying to reproduce his vision of an Andalusian patio: red tiles, whitewashed walls, geraniums pots, and a window protected by iron bars. Henry Haskins preferred to enter his house through its simple back door.

He stood at the top of the steps leading to the garden. He fixed his piercing gray eyes on the ocean shimmering under the bright sun, visible between the hills of the Old Mountain and Marshan—he had looked at the sea every day of his life. He presented an impressive figure in spite of the fact that his summer jacket now hung loosely over his shoulders. His stately face, once softened by his friendly smile and twinkling eyes, now reflected weariness and the weight of time. He hoped that the visitors would lose their way and disappear among the flowerbeds; instead, they advanced along the garden path bordered by sweet peas and roses encased in low hedges of rosemary. On the left stood a graceful gazebo overgrown with morning glories. Henry Haskins would have liked to have gone inside it to see if the wooden bench he had built was still standing. He was distracted by the lower frond of a palm tree, which knocked off the hat of one of the strangers in a futile attempt to prevent his entrance. When they reached the bottom of the steps, Henry greeted them in English, a language he always turned to when seeking comfort, as if longing for a protected childhood. The one in charge spoke in Arabic, then French, and then in hesitant Spanish. Haskins, descending the steps, shook their hands and greeted them again in English.

Aicha, the old servant, her brown parched face showing the hardships of generations, came out and kissed his hand out of habit. It was a light kiss, a gesture repeated a thousand times during her life that did not have any meaning other than a respectful affection.

You don’t kiss the hands of Europeans any longer, said one of the policemen.

Aicha retreated without a word. She intended to keep doing what she had always done. Driss, her husband, stepped forward; he had not lost the stern martial bearings of a soldier who had fought with the rebels of the Riff Mountains under Abd-El-Krim against the Spaniards and the French, but the years of war were long gone. He was now a guardian of a house. Aicha did the washing, and for their services they had a room under the terrace, food, and a little cash. It was a good life for a retired soldier who had forgotten how to work the land.

Mr. Haskins, what is all this? asked Driss in a low voice.

Don’t worry, Driss. I am leaving now with them, but I will be back soon, replied the Englishman in the same low voice, but he could not figure out why he had to leave.

And Mrs. Haskins?

In a tentative gesture, Henry Haskins touched the rough woolen djellaba of Driss, and with the tips of his fingers Driss touched the linen jacket of Henry Haskins.

She will be all right.

Let’s go, urged one of the policemen.

Give him time, said an older one.

Henry Haskins walked slowly to the police car. He had always walked slowly. There never was a need to rush anywhere. There was always time, plenty of time.

At the gate, he turned around to look at the mulberry tree that showed its branches behind the house—a mulberry tree that had been there when, as a young man, he had come to Souk-Al-Bakra for the first time. The whole area was then a barren land with a single, mysterious, magnificent mulberry tree. He directed his eyes to the row of eucalyptus he had planted to keep away the mosquitoes and to delineate his property from the top of the hill to the bottom of the ravine. Finally, with special affection, he turned toward the few pear trees he had cared for tenderly, with meager results.

Let’s go, he said in English.

Chapter 2

1914

Henry Haskins was born in 1903, the year that the English citizen Walter Harris, correspondent of the London Times and resident of Tangier, was kidnapped by Ahmed-El-Raisuli. He was one year old when this same Raisuli kidnapped another resident of Tangier, the American Ian Perdicaris. Both were released unharmed after enjoying the hospitality of the Moroccan tribal chief.

Henry Haskins could not remember these events that had shocked the European community, but he had heard a thousand versions of them, sprinkled with whispered details that had awakened his curiosity and fed his imagination. Nor could he remember the triumphant visit of the German kaiser, who rode on a white horse through the narrow streets of the Kasbah, nor the waltz that his mother, Mary Roberts Haskins, danced with the German ruler, who smiled at her and asked about the weather.

But he did remember the numerous conversations of wars and battles that for years had filled dinners and parties, the jubilant narrative of army officers followed by signs of approval from the gentlemen and sighs of admiration from the ladies, and the occasional regretful downcast of eyes when reports of casualties reached his house. News of Europeans at war in Africa did not affect the routine of his family, as they were living on the edge of rebellious territory, and a taste of danger permeated their existence. For these reasons, he did not understand the horror in his mother’s eyes when his father, Edwin Haskins, announced that war had broken out in Europe. For Henry, Europe was a vast land of good men from whence both his parents had come and where he would one day go to study like his two brothers. It was a land that was civilizing the world. Henry knew he was a European, and he was not allowed to forget it.

His father had not proclaimed the news at lunch with the certainty of victory as he had done with other war engagements. This time he had come back to the house at midmorning, gone directly to his library that he rarely used, and asked for his wife. Henry had followed her with guilty curiosity, convinced that they did not want him to be present. His father’s library was a room he always entered with apprehension. It was the only room of the house without a view of the sea and with curtains that would not be faded by the sun, a dark rectangle with humidity stained walls. It contained a gun cabinet, an ornate Arab trunk, the antlers of an antelope he had killed, fading diplomas in frames no longer tight, a desk he did not use, and a glass case containing an English flag. It was a room that did not conform to the jocund personality of Edwin Haskins, a corpulent man of easy laughter and friendly disposition. The war his father had announced was not going to be like the other wars of Henry’s memory. It had an ominous resonance, like millions of horsemen galloping and converging on his house in the Old Mountain. Henry moved closer to his mother, who, trembling, touched his shoulder.

We are at war with Germany, repeated Edwin.

It did not make sense to Henry. Wars had always been against the Moors or the rebels; wars between two civilized nations were supposed to have ended long ago, only to be read about in books.

Edwin Haskins placed himself in front of the flag that was given to him when he resigned from the English Foreign Service. He kept it as a proof of his unflagging allegiance to the crown. He had been sent to Tangier to resolve lingering problems resulting from the treaty of 1880 by which the Sultanate of Morocco was relinquishing rights and granting privileges to the European powers. The problems were solved slowly, in part due to the difficulties of the issues, in part due to the pleasure the parties took in negotiating. Along the way, Edwin fell in love with the life of a town that, being the diplomatic capital of Morocco, was able to trace for itself a path that escaped the norms of nations by inventing its own laws and requirements. When, around the turn of the century, Edwin was called back to England, he looked at the clear sky, looked at the sea, looked at his villa and seven servants, looked at his finances, and decided that he could do without the Foreign Service. His wife did not share his enthusiasm for the place but was content to settle in Tangier, the town sitting in the uppermost tip of Africa in sight of the mighty Rock of Gibraltar.

Edwin’s patriotism was exuberantly sincere, as he was exuberantly sincere about any activity he engaged in, whether importing Scotch whiskey or publishing an English newsletter for a handful of English readers. This exuberance was patently absent the day he announced that England was at war with Germany.

Why? implored his wife.

He breathed heavily and his portly belly heaved, making the gold chain of his watch swing back and forth.

I do not know, he finally said. We are so isolated here.

But, it is true?

Billy told me.

He could be wrong.

Mary hoped that good, silly Billy was wrong yet again, as when he played the wrong card or mounted the wrong horse, or when he assiduously studied for five months an Arabic dialect not spoken in Morocco. Silly Billy could be wrong again.

No, he is not. He showed me the cable.

Henry felt her hand grabbing his shoulder; she was silently crying for a war he did not understand. Edwin moved to the window without a view, his face redder, his heavy walrus mustache trembling. Please, Mary, tears will not change anything. We will win this war as we have won all the others.

He poured two glasses of Porto, offering one to his wife.

They will be all right.

They will have to go?

It is their duty.

Henry remembered the two brothers he had not seen for two years.

Edwin Haskins, his hands in his vest pockets, felt imposing, as usual, but not contented, that was unusual. Glorious wars meant a joyful departure and a triumphant return, if only they could be guaranteed. He would have liked to build himself up to a patriotic harangue, something that Henry would remember with filial pride, but nothing came to his mind. He tried to recall appropriate quotes and rousing speeches, but the words blended in a blur without meaning. He served himself another Porto.

Mary got up, took Henry by the hand, and went to the round room that she had made her own at the other end of the house. She sat straight on her wicker armchair and looked at the coast of Europe, the continent where war had broken out. Henry had seen his mother when upset close her lips tightly until all blood had left them; he had seen her restrain her emotions to a simple embrace when her two older children left for England, or leave a room with controlled steps and crochet with intensely contained anger, but he had never before seen her cry.

Under control again, Mary Haskins began puttering with the flower pots on the window sill. Why don’t you go play in the garden? she said without turning.

Henry resented his father for bringing the news that had injected an unknown gloom into their lives, and he resented his mother’s tears that had made her vulnerable. He detested both for having shattered the morning, the day, maybe the whole week. He went to the terrace, which ended in a low stone wall. Beyond it started the flower garden—exclusive domain of Abdelazis the gardener—which sloped down to end at the edge of a cliff overlooking a small, sheltered cove. Henry looked at the Strait, on the north side Spain and Gibraltar, on the south side the successive capes of the African coast. He looked across the cove to the hill of the Marshan covered by blindingly white Moroccan houses, and he felt threatened. The tall wall that separated the property from the street was no longer reassuring; the war could come to his house, and his parents did not want him to know. He took the graveled driveway toward the gatekeeper’s house, kicking a single round pebble. He knew that at a curve he would lose sight of the house, hidden behind live oaks and eucalyptuses. Today, he did not feel safe walking that short distance.

The gatekeeper, Hamido the Blind, lived in the one-room square brick building, which curiously gave the impression of having two stories. Henry had seen once the long rifle that Hamido kept hidden under his bed. Although he was not supposed to own it, everybody knew he had it, and no one said a word about it.

Good morning, Hamido.

Hamido spent his days dozing gently, dreaming of his years as a warrior in faraway mountains, when his legs could carry him quickly along goat paths and rocky fields. He had the acute sense of a soldier who could awaken at the slightest alien sound, whether a touch on the gate or a change of wind. He opened his eyes, barely visible under the hood of his djellaba.

Hamido, my father said that there is war in Europe, exclaimed Henry in his incipient Arabic.

There are always wars, replied Hamido, not impressed by the news.

Have you been in wars?

Yes, I have.

What are they like?

Hamido did not like to talk. He preferred the solitude of the night, when he would look at the stars, count them, and assemble and reassemble them. His youth’s enthusiasm for war had been replaced by the sadness of unfulfilled dreams.

Some are good; some are bad.

But, what is it like to be in a war?

Hamido could not explain to a European boy what it was to be at war against Europeans: the thirst to win, even to kill in defense of his religion and his land; the anxiety of the wait at dawn, when one could die or not, because all things are in the hands of Allah; the tickling on the soles of his feet when the earth trembled with the explosions of cannons or the galloping of horses; the finger that refuses to obey the brain, and the brain that does not think anymore. How could he explain it to a child?

Why are you called the Blind?

Hamido, definitely preferred the quiet of the night waiting for the muezzin’s call, when he would kneel and pray to his god, who was, or was not, different from the god of the Christians.

Why? insisted Henry.

I got the name in a war.

Why?

A Moroccan peasant and his donkey, with a load twice its size, passed by the gate. The peasant looked inside and spat. Hamido and Henry were used to it and paid no attention.

Wars can be beautiful or can be ugly, but they are not good—too much blood. Wars are not good.

But saying it, he felt again the impulse of all the men of his people to take a knife and a rifle and run to battle, even to that war he knew nothing about.

Will war get here?

No, Tangier is not a town for wars. There are towns for war and towns for peace. Tangier is a town for peace. Men get soft in Tangier. There will be no war here.

Hamido closed his eyes, his mind already in other landscapes.

Henry observed a