Tangier by William Bayer

taxis, could barely live on his income as it was. He had an inheritance from an aunt, twelve hundred a year, but prices were going up, and the pound seemed to fall lower every day.
    He was the only Englishman to live in Dradeb, though he felt no shame about that. Over the years he'd learned Arabic, enough to get him by, and now he had friendships with his neighbors and Moroccans all over town. That was more than anyone on the Mountain could claim—those people didn't know they were in Morocco half the time. He, at least, had some contact with the world, knew Moroccans, shared their struggle to survive.
    Better that, he thought, than the easy life, though now he wished he owned more than TP. Why? Why had they turned on him? How could they have been so cruel? They had stood there, supposedly his friends, simply stood there, nodded at Kelly, and acquiesced. He'd been insulted to his face, and not one of them had come to his defense. Were they all so false—Jack Whyte, Jill Packwood, the Drears? Was it true, as Derik had told him, that the Calloways made fun of him behind his back? He couldn't bear the thought—it hurt too much—that his decade in Tangier had added finally up to that.
    He was in the middle of Dradeb, lost in the odor of the slum, when suddenly something hit him in the back. The pain was sharp, quick, and instinctively he cried out. Some men sitting in a café   looked up. He heard laughter and obscene Arabic words. He turned to see a gang of boys, stones in their hands, poised to throw at him again. One of the men said something, there was some shouting back and forth, and then the boys threw down their stones and ran up an alley out of sight.
    They had hit him in the shoulder; he could feel the bruise. The man who'd stopped them came over and shook his head. He was old, bearded, a gold tooth in the center of his mouth. Did the foreign gentleman need assistance? Did he need help in getting home?
    Laurence thanked him, shook his head, and continued on his way. At least, he thought, the older generation still is decent, though not the Moroccan young. What had just happened would have been unthinkable a year or so before, but now for some strange reason all the young Moroccans were turning mean. It was all those Kung Fu films, he was sure—in Dradeb, often, he saw boys practicing chops and kicks. What did it mean, this anger? Why this hostility toward foreigners when tourism was the bread and butter of the town? Now, lately, more and more he felt this violence in the poorer sections, a vague and generalized rage.
    He turned up an alley and entered his house, past the smell of the septic that oozed always near the door. The building wasn't so bad, on the edge of the slum, away from the worst sections, in a quarter that was vaguely middle class. He had two small rooms on the first floor, separated by an archway, ventilated by a window on the street. No hot water, of course, but a clean well around the back; no central heating, not even a fireplace, but he had a butane heater and in winter piled blankets on his bed. There was a toilet, Moroccan style—two cement footprints set into the floor. He didn't mind. And there was electricity, at least, which was a blessing since he liked to read.
    He went to his bedroom, hung up his jacket, took off his shirt, inspected his wound. He wasn't cut, though the bruise was tender to the touch. He lay down on the bed that had been a gift from Musica Codd, thought over the evening, and wished that he could sob. But there were no tears left—too many parts lost, too many lovers gone, too many failures, too many disappointments had used them up. Well, it was done, the play was ruined. He would have to discipline Kelly, of course, ban him from the club. But he couldn't do that without a vote, and then the issue would become himself.
    What would become of him if he lost TP? Surely his health would begin to fail. It was keeping him alive, the excitement of