Equality: In the Year 2000

Chapter Two The Year 1956

Unlike some, Julian West seldom realized that he was dreaming while it was going on. The past usually came to him with such vivid accuracy that he thought he was actually experiencing it. To call most of them dreams was stretching a point. They were more accurately nightmares. Even under a sedative, he was unable to avoid them.

Now he was reliving an experience he’d had some years before going into stasis. It was on a trip to Tangier, Morocco, that fabulous city nestled on the Straits of Hercules and forming the link between Africa and Egypt, back when it was still an International Zone governed by eight European countries.

He landed at the Tangier airport. As usual, the administration building and its environs were swarming, mostly with men and boys. Save for a dozen or so ladies in European dress, obviously awaiting passengers on arriving flights, the handful of women were wearing the shapeless, tentlike white cotton hail which came over the head and, in combination with a veil, shielded the face completely except for the eyes, then dropped all the way to the ground so that not even the feet could be seen. The costume of the men was more diverse. Turbans of a half-dozen varieties could be observed. Some had on the fez, that rimless, red-colored hat. Still others wore wool knit hats, in such condition it seemed a self-respecting rat wouldn’t have slept in them. Almost universally, the men were garbed in the djellaba, handwoven of wool or camel hair. It was a useful garment, Julian knew, warm at night as a blanket, protection from the sun during the day, and it repelled rain. In fact, there was a hood that could be pulled up over the head in bad weather.

The airplane from Gibralter was a small craft, seating but twenty-one. When Julian disembarked, he and the other travelers were immediately surrounded by a small crowd of peddlers, hotel solicitors, money changers, and pimps. An old hand, Julian snarled at them in French, and was able to make his way toward the immigration and customs office inside. He could change money in town, at one of the many booths on Pasteur Boulevard; he’d get a better rate than from any of the touts here. Actually, all currencies were legal tender in the International Zone, but the most widely accepted was French francs and you often got better prices using them.

Customs and immigration were the merest of formalities. The immigration man stamped his passport without checking if the photo inside corresponded with Julian’s face.

Two barefooted teenagers, thin and grimy, had scurried up to take his two heavy leather bags as soon as they had been checked. He could have carried the luggage himself. But he didn’t want to go through the hassle of telling them so, and simply followed the urchins out to the parking lot where he located a Chico Cab. They were, he had decided, the smallest taxis in the world: little Fiat 500s from Italy.

He put the bags on the seat next to the driver and climbed into the back.

“El Minzah Hotel,” he said, after giving both of the boys a quarter. They yelled for more, but he ignored them. They would have protested had he given them a dollar—or five dollars, for that matter.

The countryside into town was typical of North Africa from the Atlantic to the Nile: incredibly dusty, worn down, poverty stricken. It seemed impossible that any of the tiny farms could support the rag-clothed families who lived in the little one-room shacks made of tin cans, waste wood, cardboard from cartons. They passed a few scrawny dogs from time to time,, some scrawnier chickens, an occasional burro, a couple of motheaten camels, and a multitude of filthy children.

The driver entered town from the southwest, speeding along the Avenue d’Espana, which paralleled the half-crescent bay around which the city of Tangier is built.

Julian liked the city. It was one of the most exotic in the world. Founded by the Phoenicians several millennia ago, a dozen nations had controlled it since. Its palace-crowned Kabash overlooked the Spanish coast across the way, and in the distance Gibraltar, that most impressive landfall on earth, reared its bulk. It still appeared today much as the Baghdad of Scheherazade’s time must have looked, with its narrow winding streets which allowed for no vehicle, its teeming souks with their produce and handicrafts of all Morocco; filthy, swarming with flies, but overflowing with some of the most beautiful fruit and vegetables to be found, products of the oases to the south.

They were going through the Spanish section of Tangier now. Ahead and to the right, Julian could make out the Port de Peche, a dock and basin supposedly devoted to fishing, but the sleek-looking boats, he knew, were smugglers. Among them were former German E-Boats, French torpedo boats, British anti-submarine craft. Immediately after the Second World War they had become surplus and a drug on the market, using too much fuel to be converted into pleasure craft. Smuggling was legal in Tangier, and they broke no law running cigarettes and such over to Europe.

The boulevard had been circling the bay. Now the driver took a sharp left and started up a rather steep, narrow street, heading for the modern European section of the city. It looked more like the French Riviera, or a California town, not anything you’d expect to find in Morocco.

After a couple of blocks, which were becoming more modern in architecture by the moment, the taxi pulled up before the El Minzah Hotel. There was a huge black standing out front, garbed in what the hotel owners probably thought was the type of clothing once worn by the Sultan’s bodyguard, complete to a golden sash with a vicious-looking scimitar thrust through it.

Two maroon-uniformed bellhops, wearing the fez, scurried forth for his bags. Julian paid the cabby with an American dollar, ignored his protests, and followed his luggage inside.

The El Minzah was the best hotel in Tangier, and he had reserved one of the twin penthouse suites. He invariably stayed here when in the International Zone; the view over the straits was superb. He went through the routine of registering, the fez-hatted manager, oily as ever, bobbing and gushing.

In the suite, Julian didn’t tip the bellhops. In Morocco you didn’t tip until you paid your bill, at which time you left a sizable percent of your tab with the desk clerk who supposedly spread it around to everyone who had served you. Julian suspected that most of it went into the pockets of the manager and clerk.

At the moment, he didn’t bother to unpack, or even to summon a valet to do it for him. He simply tossed his homburg on the bureau and started out again. He felt like a drink or two and then possibly a late lunch; it had been a long time since he had enjoyed a Moroccan cous cous.

The El Minzah was situated just below the Place de France, the center plaza of the European area, and about halfway to the Grand Zocco, the largest of the town’s open souks located on the edge of the native section. Julian headed down in the direction of the zocco, mildly surprised at the number of people on the streets. He came to the Rue America du Sud and turned left. He was headed for Dean’s, in his opinion one of the outstanding bars in the world, comparable to Sloppy Joe’s in Havana, Sheppard’s in Cairo, even Harry’s in Venice, that old standby of Papa Hemingway’s. Such oases, considered Julian, were saloons with souls.

Just as he was about to cross the street, a youngster sidled up to him. He was possibly ten years old, with a beautiful Arab face, light coffee of complexion, dazzling white teeth, and the wide, sad, dark brown eyes of a gazelle.

Julian was initially of the belief that the child was a beggar and reached for his pocket, though ordinarily he refrained.

However, the boy did not hold out his hand. “Fuckee, fuckee—suckee, suckee?”

Julian was horrified. He had been accosted before by both male and female child prostitutes in Tangier, a world-renowned watering place for homosexuals who preferred youth, but never by one so young as this. A wave of renewed contempt for Moslem mores and customs swept over him. He knew, for instance, that by Moslem law a girl could be given in marriage at the age of eight. In theory her husband was not to bed her until she had menstruated—but that was only the theory.

He, shook his head at the boy and crossed the street to Dean’s.

To his surprise, the only occupant of the bar, besides Dean and his two waiters, was an old friend from college days.

“Roy!”

“Jule, for Christ’s sake.”

Roy London was seated at a small table near the door, obviously so that he could watch the passers-by. Now he rose to his feet and they shook hands enthusiastically.

Julian said, “I thought I had heard you were up in London working for Reuters.” He turned: “A couple of those Singapore Slings, Dean. And how are you?”

“Excellent, Mr. West.” Dean never forgot a customer. “How long are you in town for, Mr. West?”

“Search me. Until I finish my business, I suppose.”

He took a seat across from Roy.

Roy called out, “No more for me, Dean. These are working hours. I’ll nurse this one.” To Julian he said, “I was in London. Boring job at a Reuters desk. All copy either from or to the States landed on it. I had to change Britishese into Americanese, and vice versa. You know, like calling gasoline ‘petrol.’ Anyway, it bored the hell out of me and when this hassle in Morocco started, I quit and came down to freelance.”

“What hassle?” Julian asked. He sipped his drink. “And what in the hell are all those people doing out in the streets?”

“There have been quite a few riots and demonstrations this last couple of weeks. The Moroccans want to bring the Sultan back—Mohammed the Fifth—and reunite the French Zone, and Spanish Zone, and the International Zone. The Sultan’s in exile with about fifteen wives and concubines and about fifty servants and aides. My heart is really bleeding for him.”

“Will they win?”

“Probably. Nobody wants colonies any more,” Roy said cynically. “They’re expensive to run, and it takes more to keep the people down than they’re worth. The British didn’t get out of India because they loved the Indians. It’s more profitable to dominate a country by owning its industries, controlling its money, getting a monopoly on its trade and raw-materials, than it is to own it. Even the French are finding that out. Meanwhile, though, they don’t want to lose face. Last night, some of the Foreign Legion were brought into town. And the French have two tanks and several machine gun emplacements on the lawn of their embassy. Somebody will probably get hurt before the day’s over. The rabble rousers are in the streets, trying to stir up a march on the French Embassy.”

He nodded toward the door. “That’s who’s out there now—the potential mob. They’re trying to get up their courage. Poor bastards, they don’t have any weapons beyond cobblestones and clubs.”

Julian took a tobacco pouch from his coat pocket and a Canadian shell briar, and loaded up. Silently, he picked up Roy’s matches from the table and lit his pipe, exhaling through his nostrils.

Outside, the milling crowd was growing.

“First time I’ve ever seen a demonstration,” Julian commented.

The newspaperman smiled wryly. “It probably won’t be the last, the way the world’s going. I’ll try to cover the story when they get around to lining playboy entrepreneur Julian West up against the nearest wall for target practice.”

“They’ll have to catch me first,” Julian murmured, taking up his glass again.

Outside, the mob was moving. The French Embassy bordered the Place de France, only a long block away.

“There they go,” said Roy. “This business of yours in Tangier. Is there a story in it?”

Julian shrugged. “I came to talk over a few things with Ira Levine, over at the Moses Periente bank. They handle some of the West Enterprises.”

“Moses Periente, eh?” Roy looked thoughtful.

“What’s wrong with Moses Periente? There’s some talk of their moving their whole operation to Switzerland,” Julian added.

Roy said carefully, “The rumor in Tangier is that Moses Periente is going to move the operation all right, but to the Bahamas. And you know what that means. It’s home base for every crooked financial operation in the world.”

“That wouldn’t influence West Enterprises. We’re too big to mess around with.”

At that moment there were two loud explosions from the direction of the French Embassy.

“Good God!” Julian exclaimed. “They’re shelling the mob!”

Roy shook his head. “No—not yet, at least. Those are noise bombs.”

“What in the hell’s a noise bomb?”

“A bomb that makes a lot of noise but has no fragments. The riot police use them. It’s a scare tactic.” He rose to his feet, picked up his cigarettes from the table and put them into his pocket. “I’d better mosey on up and take a look.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Roy stared at him for a couple of seconds. “This is the way I make my living. I have to go…”

Julian banged his pipe out. He stood up, saying, “Put the drinks on my tab, Dean.”

The bartender asked apprehensively, “Mr. London, do you think I ought to close up?”

“Yes,” Roy responded laconically. He looked at Julian. “All right, sucker, let’s go.”

The street outside was comparatively empty now; those people to be seen were mostly women. They started up toward the plaza, in the direction of the mob.

In an alleyway stood some twenty soldiers with bayoneted rifles. They wore steel helmets, except the sergeant in charge who was bareheaded. His skull was shaven, deeply tanned with an ugly scar running from the top down to one mangled ear. He had cold, piercing eyes.

“French Legion,” Roy muttered.

The sergeant growled in French, “Move on.”

“Get screwed,” Roy told him in English, but he was moving when he said it.

He turned to Julian. “They also brought in some water cannons last night. So all the fun and games won’t be with noise bombs.”

“What’s a water cannon?”

They were nearing the square and the French Embassy. Julian could see two tanks within the iron fence which surrounded the building, the long cannon snoots pointed in the direction of the yelling, screaming demonstraters. There were quite a few legionnaires standing at ease on the Embassy lawn, with rifles or submachine guns in hand.

“Another anti-riot device, invented—surprise, surprise—in Germany. There’s one up ahead,” London said.

It looked like nothing so much as a gasoline truck, except that the windows were barred, and what appeared to be twin machine guns were mounted on top of the cab.

Roy slipped into a doorway and pulled Julian in beside him. “They shoot water at an unbelievable pressure, stronger than any firefighting equipment ever heard of. The next day the newspaper says, ‘The police turned water on the mob and dispersed it.’ Sounds innocuous to the reader, but it’s deadly.” Suddenly he grabbed Julian by the arm and hauled him deeper into their shelter. “Look out,” he snapped.

A sizable element of the mob had spotted the vehicle and were running toward it, screaming in protest.

The two muzzles of the hoses atop the cab opened up and double streams of water, seemingly no thicker than a pencil, shot out.

The screams were suddenly cut off. The Moroccans were hurled back, smashed up against the brick building behind them, thrown to the sidewalk, tumbling and spilling, driven back by the unbelievable pressure.

For a moment, a confused, terrified child stood alone. The water spray hit him before he could turn to run. It hit him at waist level and traversed his body, cutting him in two.

It was the child prostitute who had accosted Julian earlier.

Julian awoke in his bed in the high-rise apartment building of the University City. He was wringing with sweat.