The Lighthearted Quest by Ann Bridge Page B

the way to it, but gave her directions—down through the Medina and the Socco Chico, the Small Market, and then a street on the right, close above the harbour.
    Julia had the sensible habit of always buying a plan of any new town the moment she arrived in it; her hotel however had none, so she set off without. Everyone in Tangier speaksSpanish, so she had no difficulty in asking her way to the Socco Chico, revelling as she went at the sight of teams of donkeys laden with unrecognisable merchandise blocking the road for Chrysler cars, or more of those women smothered in white draperies, and men in dark-brown woollen djellabas, straight from neck to ankle, and topped with wide straw hats looped up and trimmed with cords and tassels of wool. Heavenly fun, she thought; delicious entertainment of the eye—no wonder Colin and Reeder liked this part of the world.
    But when she tried to go through the Medina to the Socco Chico the heavenly fun became a little too much of a good thing. The old Moorish city of Tangier is a network of steep cobbled alleys, so narrow that the passage of a single donkey sends the thronging pedestrians scrambling into the open-fronted shops for safety; even without a donkey’s passing it was hard to push one’s way through the swarms of people—Moors and Jews, men and women—and the smells were unwonted and strong; moreover there were so many twists and turnings that she soon felt in danger of being hopelessly lost. She beat a retreat uphill, and managed to find her way back into the big open market lying immediately above, the Gran Socco; here she took a taxi, which circumnavigated the impossibly steep angle and narrowness of the Moorish shopping quarter, and drew up in a quiet, narrow, modern street, where a small and discreet notice said “Purcell’s Bar”.
    She found this to be quite a small place, a narrow room with a bar along one side leading through into a larger one, both with small glass-topped tables and modern leather-covered chairs—it was all as quiet as the street and as discreet as the notice, rather to her surprise; she had expected something more exotic or more rough-and-tumble. It was early in the evening; she took a seat in the narrow room opposite the bar, ordered a drink, and then sat demurely sipping it while she took stock of her surroundings. The man who served her wore an ordinary dark suit, but his face was far from ordinary:negro blood was obvious in the wide mouth and broad mask, but his hair was brown and straight, his skin merely of a European sallowness, his eyes grey. When he brought Julia her drink he spoke perfect English, but having done so he busied himself quietly among his bottles, not making conversation after the manner of his kind. This struck her; and indeed there was about the whole man a quiet dignity, combined with a look of strong intelligence, which was impressive. Could this, she wondered, be Purcell himself? If merely a barman he was an unusual one.
    Her question was answered by the entrance of a little Moor in fez, baggy blue trousers, and scarlet jacket, who carried a basket full of bottles and spoke in Arabic to the grey-eyed man; he was promptly set to washing and polishing glasses, and from the demeanour of them both it was obvious that the half-negro was the boss. Julia studied him with fresh interest. He certainly had the look of a person who might know everything, and would keep his mouth shut on what he knew, she thought, recalling Reeder’s words. A few minutes later she received fresh confirmation of his identity. The muslin-veiled door onto the street opened again to admit a small rather seedy man, who somehow had the word ‘spiv’ written large all over him; he leaned over the bar and greeted the man behind it with the words, “Look here, Purthell, old man”—then he caught sight of Julia and lowered his voice, so that the rest of his communication was lost to her. Julia was