The Casbah

I went down to the Hotel's desk and asked for a large envelope. I put those important letters and the three passports - my spare and those for Herr Adler and friend - in an envelope I brought from Gibraltar and sealed it with a stray hair "accidentally" caught across the gum. That envelope I put in my pocket. The hotel's envelope I filled with a copy of The Gibraltar Chronicle and sealed it with important looking red wax. I went back to the desk and handed the sealed envelope over to be kept in the hotel's safe.

I walked to the British Consulate. There I left the first envelope in their safe.

On return to the Grand Hotel I went to the bar. This early in the day only the bored staff were there. I ordered a Scotch and asked how to get to the "Kit-Kat" Club. Horror and consternation!

"You can't go to that place, sir!" the head barman protested. "It's in the Casbah. Even the police don't go there!"

"That's as may be" I said "but I've been told that the entertainment is special. One of my friends recommended it."

"Does your friend have a good reason to wish you dead, sir?" the barman asked in all seriousness.

"No!" I laughed "He just suggested that the entertainment was worth the risk. No matter what you say I'm going to go there - maybe not tonight because I'm tired from travelling - but tomorrow night. How do I get there? Take a taxi?"

"No taxi or gharry can get into the casbah. The alleys are too narrow and twisting. The only way in is on foot or possibly horseback."

"On foot it will have to be. How do I find it?"

"You'll need a guide. You'll probably need bodyguards if you really insist on going." the barman replied.

"So where would I find a trustworthy guide and/or bodyguards?"

"Right here, sir. We can arrange it for a fee"

"For which you get commission?"

"Yes, sir. That's how Tangier works." he said.

"I suppose it does. How much to take me to the Kit-Kat club tomorrow night?"

"Pounds or dollars, sir?"

"Which is best?"

"Dollars, sir."

"Then how much in US dollars?"

"To take you there safely would be five dollars. To look after you while you are there - five dollars an hour. To bring you back another five dollars, sir."

"That includes your cut?"

"Yes sir."

"OK. Here's fifty dollars. I want to go there tomorrow night. To stay there for as long as I want and to come back here when I've done. Will fifty cover it?"

"Oh yes, sir. That would be very generous."

"OK. I'll be in this bar at 8 o'clock tomorrow evening."

"Yes sir. It will be arranged for you."

"Good. Now give me another Scotch. After dinner I'm going to bed ..." he looked at me as if he could offer another service "... alone. I had too much excitement in Gibraltar last night."

"I understand, Sir." He looked as if he did.

I finished that Scotch, went in to dinner. Not as good as the Bristol but infinitely better than rationing. Then I went to my virtuous bed and slept the sleep of a man with nothing on his conscience. See! I can even lie to myself.

*****

I did the tourist bit during the day. I hired a garrulous gharry driver to drive me round the sights. I'd had a belly-full of Tangier when we'd finished. It looked splendid with its whitewashed walls and golden sand - from a distance. Close to and the smell was appalling! The golden sand was streaked with oil and alive with biting sand-flies. The roads were caked with manure and running with sewage. Was it Pepys who'd described Tangier as a running sore? I couldn't remember. It still was!

The food market was the worst. There were immense quantities of meat and fruit and vegetables that would cause a riot in England but everything was covered in insects. The meat was crawling with flies that the stallholders occasionally waved off with languid movements of a palm frond.

By the end of the day I almost felt a longing for London.

Back at the hotel I had a light meal before preparing myself for the evening's expedition. I showered and changed into another lightweight suit. I put fifty dollars under the insoles of my shoes and twenty in my breast pocket. Everything else I left behind even down to my watch. I strolled into the bar just before eight o'clock.

The barman gave me a Scotch.

"It's probably the last decent drink you'll see tonight. The guide and bodyguards are waiting at the back door. The bodyguards wouldn't be allowed in the hotel. Selim is your guide. He's my brother-in-law so please, sir, don't get into too much trouble. If you do, my wife would never forgive me, nor would my mother-in-law!"

"I'll try to avoid trouble." I said not really knowing what would happen when I made contact.

Selim looked the part of a guide to a dangerous area. He and the bodyguards wore bandoleers and carried Lee-Enfields.

"Selim" I said "Rifles don't seem sensible for a confined area like the Casbah."

"You are right, sir. But we usually carry them. We'll change."

He spoke rapidly in Arabic to the others. He handed his rifle over to one.

"Just a minute or two, sir."

The others came back carrying Sten guns. They looked ready for use.

"That's better." I said.

We set off. We looked incongruous in the civilised streets but that soon changed when we entered the Casbah. We fitted right in with the other villainous types. My bodyguards shoved people right and left to get through. Some looked ready to protest but one look at the Sten guns was enough.

The Casbah passages were far worse than the rest of Tangier. Even the house walls looked if they had leprosy. They hadn't been painted for decades and were falling down. The further we went the worse the place looked. It certainly wouldn't win prizes from the Chamber of Commerce.

Selim stopped outside a larger than normal ruin. Ahead two flickering bulbs illuminated a drunken sign announcing the Kit-Kat club. The sign was adorned with the worst examples of erotic art I had ever seen. No, not because they depicted vile practices. They were vile art! The so-called women looked deformed and anything but erotic.

Under the sign was a heavy nail studded door. Selim banged on it with the butt of his Sten. I flinched. Sten guns had been known to fire after less abuse.

A small hatch opened in the door. Selim hissed at it in Arabic. It slammed shut and the door swung open. Selim entered with his sten cocked. I and my bodyguards followed.

Inside an immensely fat European man stood up from behind his desk. He smiled at me. His smile was nearly as false as his teeth or even the artwork outside.

"Mr A!" he said "Welcome to the Kit-Kat club. I'm Hans, the manager. Why didn't you tell us you were coming? We could have sent an escort for you. You didn't need to hire your own."

"I have. They're staying with me. You have a table booked for me?"

"Yes. This way, sir. I'll put your escort on the table just behind you. Is that OK?"

"Yes."

Hans hissed an aside at a waiter who rushed off ahead. We had to pass through two more heavily reinforced doors before entering the club itself.

It was a large smoke-filled room. To our left as we entered was a bar on a raised dais railed off from the main area. In front was a low stage projecting into the group of small round tables. To the right were toilets and double swing doors presumably to the kitchen. Beyond was a small band trying to play Glenn Miller and failing. There was a commotion just in front of the empty stage. A group were being moved to make way for my bodyguards.

The sight of my guards' levelled Sten guns stopped the band, the argument and the whole club stone dead. I crossed to my table in a deathly silence. The displaced party moved swiftly out of our way.

I looked around. The place was half-empty. The waiters and waitresses nearly outnumbered the customers. The waiters were conventionally dressed in black tie. The waitresses wore gold decorated bra tops and swirling pink harem skirts. Unexpectedly all were Europeans - only the band looked like locals.

Hans pulled out a chair beside my table. As I sat down he waved at the band leader who jumped into action. The band played "Rule Britannia" - I think. It sounded worse than their attempt at Glenn Miller.

"A drink, Mr A? Scotch? Rye? Gin?"

"Scotch, please."

"Certainly."

He snapped his fingers at a scared waitress who scurried off.

"Anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"Not at the moment but you could tell me when Zulieka does her act. I'm here because I was recommended to see her in action."

"Of course, sir. She is the star of the Kit-Cat club. I hadn't thought that her fame had gone so far. I'll send her to your table in a few minutes."

Hans waddled off importantly.

The Scotch arrived as he left. The waitress deposited it as if it was a live grenade.

"Is that all sir?" she asked. She was excessively nervous.

"You could ask my friends" I pointed at Selim and the bodyguards "what they would like. Put it on my bill."

"Yes sir! Certainly sir."

She hurried off as if I was the devil incarnate. I watched as she served fruit juices to Selim and the others. She wasn't scared of them. She was even flirting with Selim. What was it she found so frightening about me?

I tasted my Scotch. The barman at the Grand was right. It wasn't even a good imitation of Scotch. Probably the same bottle pretended to be Rye.

The club had just resumed its normal hubbub when it went quiet again. I turned round. Through the main door had entered one of the few really beautiful women I had ever seen. She was very tall, blonde, wonderfully curved in the right places. The waves of her shoulder length blonde hair covered and uncovered her cheeks as she stalked towards me. She walked through the club as if she was the only one there. Her blue sequinned strapless dress clung where it should and flowed everywhere else. I stood to meet her.

I blinked when she addressed me in perfectly modulated Parisian French. It took me a second or two to adjust languages. I pulled out a chair for her while greeting her automatically.

What she'd said was:

"I've been waiting to meet you, Monsieur A. I'm Zulieka."

My French came back.

"A woman as beautiful as you shouldn't have to wait for any man. I'm enchanted to meet you, Zulieka."

She lowered her voice so that only I could hear.

"My act starts in an hour. I will have to leave you about fifteen minutes before then to prepare. At the end of my act I will take you with me. Then we can talk properly. Until then ..."

"How about joining me in a drink?" I asked "Although I wouldn't recommend the Scotch."

She laughed.

"Hans should have known better." She looked at the scared waitress who came rushing over as if she was running from a fire.

"Madeleine, could you get some decent Scotch for Mr A and me? I'd be obliged."

Madeleine brightened up.

"Yes, Miss Zulieka. Right away!"

When Madeleine returned she served the drinks as if they were precious nectar. She seemed completely different from the girl she'd been serving me.

Zulieka sipped her drink.

"Try it, Douglas - you are Douglas, aren't you?"

"My friends call me Doug."

"Then we must be friends, Doug."

I sipped the Scotch. Wow! This was the real thing. A single malt from one of the islands. I'd rarely tasted any Scotch so good.

"What do you think of it, Doug."

"It's wonderful. Nearly as good in it's own way as you are in yours."

"And what's my way, Doug?"

"Being beautiful and a woman for men to dream about."

"I didn't think that Englishmen were so good at flattery, Doug."

"It's not flattery. It's the truth. As for reticent Englishmen: we're speaking French and a Frenchman who wouldn't praise a beautiful woman when he met her just couldn't be French. He'd be an impostor!"

"I can see why you escaped the Germans in France. Not only do you speak French like a Frenchman, you think like a Frenchman."

"From a Frenchwoman, I take that as a compliment."

She nodded briefly. Her hair swung alluringly close to me. She dropped her voice again.

"Your guards may be a problem, Doug. They might want to follow when I take you with me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to kidnap you on stage!"

"You're joking!"

"I'm not. You will have to come with me willing or not. Your guards might try to stop me. That would cause real problems for both of us."

"You are sure?"

"Yes. You'll have to trust me, Doug."

"OK. I came here to meet you. I'm in your hands, Zulieka."

"Not yet you aren't. You will be, Doug. You will be!"

I turned round and beckoned to Selim. He came over.

"Selim. When Miss Zulieka starts her act your task is over for tonight. As her act starts, you and the bodyguards will leave."

"But sir! This place is dangerous. How will you get back?"

"Miss Zulieka will look after me. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir. If that is what you want, that is what we will do. I know of Miss Zulieka."

He spoke quietly to her.

"Miss Zulieka. I give you the responsibility for Mr A. If you fail - I will find you."

It sounded like a threat. Perhaps it was.

She answered.

"Selim. I will look after him as if he was my man. You understand?"

"Yes, Miss Zulieka. That promise I will accept."

Selim went back to his table and whispered to the others.

Zulieka looked at the tiny jewelled watch on her wrist.

"I must leave you now, Doug. You will be part of the finale of my act. When I leave the stage, so will you. Whatever happens remember what I just said to Selim. I will look after you."

She stood up. So did I. She brushed her lips against my cheek even though she had to bend a long way to do it.

As she walked out through the main doors all the male eyes followed her. I was glad I still had Selim and the bodyguards. Every man in the place was jealous of that brief kiss.

While we'd been talking the club had filled up. My table was conspicuous with only one occupant. Every other table was crowded. That earned me several curious looks as if to say "Who is he who is so important?"

The band stopped playing and began to pack away its instruments. Three native drummers took their place.

The drums began to beat at a slow pace. The club quietened as if this was an overture. The lights dimmed and spotlights bathed the stage. The drummers increased their tempo. Then they stopped suddenly. I nearly laughed at the let-down when Hans waddled on to the stage.

"Distinguished guests, Ladies and Gentlemen." he began.

I looked around. I saw no ladies. Except for the waitresses huddled by the bar there were no women present. Hans repeated himself in French, German and Italian.

"I have the honour to present ..." then the other languages.

"Zulieka and her harem!"

Hans waddled off stage towards the bar, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. The drummers began again. The spotlights illuminated the curtains at the back of the stage. A small hand curled between the curtains waving a glittering chiffon scarf. Another hand and scarf appeared. Then another until eight hands were waving. The drum beat became an insistent dance rhythm and eight women erupted on to the stage.

Each was veiled under a pillbox hat. Their necks and shoulders were swathed in silver chiffon over pink sequinned brassieres. Their midriffs were bare apart from jewelled navels. They had heavy belts slung on their hips covered in golden discs. More golden discs hung from their face veils. Below the belt were wide harem pants under flaring silver chiffon skirts. Barely visible through the chiffon layers were pink sequinned panties.

They shimmied round the stage shaking their hips and undulating their tummies. Off stage out of sight a nasal flute played a melody. The women were all young, all shapely if slim by African standards. The sway of their hips and the undulations of their tummies was mesmerising. I had seen belly dancing before. Compared to this troupe, the others had been third division. These were the best and they knew it. So did the audience. They sat there as if petrified with their eyes popping out. OK. I admit it. Mine were too!

I was barely aware of Selim and the bodyguards leaving. Their table was filled instantly by more goggle-eyed spectators.

The drumming grew more insistent. The dancers more animated. The flute player weaved his pattern of notes around the dance. Then it all stopped dead. Just like that! The dancers froze in elegant attitudes.

The audience knew what was coming. They clapped rhythmically and stamped their feet shouting "Zu-li-e-ka! Zu-li-e-ka!" over and over again. The last "ka!" was staccato and emphasised with a stamped foot or crashed fist. The whole club shook with the vibration. The drummers picked up the beat. The dancers shook to it. Even the flute was dimly heard punctuating the chant.

The curtains drew back revealing Zulieka. She stood with her hands on her hips surveying the audience as if to say "Do you deserve what I can give you?"

She was dressed like the others but blue and gold to their pink and silver. No clinking coins. Just a wide golden belt. She looked like a different species from the other dancers. She was a head taller than the tallest. Her legs - Oh her legs! They seemed to hold her up - it's no good. I haven't got words to describe how Zulieka appeared. She looked like the embodiment of a Goddess, an Aphrodite or Diana the Huntress.

Slowly while she stood there her navel began to move. She was as still as a statue while her stomach muscles picked up the rhythm of the chant which filled the club. I couldn't believe just how much movement she could achieve without a tremor in her hips.

The other dancers were still there doing their best but no one was watching. All eyes were on Zulieka's navel. Her movements became more and more violent in a motionless frame of her perfect body.

Then the hips slowly swayed as well. They moved at a quarter of the pace of her stomach muscles. They were so sensuous. They hinted at the eternal Eve - the mother. The navel was the whore and the immobile bust the virgin. Zulieka presented the triple Goddess before us in one body. The audience was worshipping HER!

It seemed an age before the hips changed speed. First to half the beat of the navel, then together with it.

Her bust began to move. Slowly those wonderful orbs joined in the dance. The first sign was a slight shimmering of the sequins holding them in. Before I really knew that the breasts were actually moving they'd reached the quarter pace. Then the half. Then they accentuated the beat. She was improvising Jazz with her breasts! Louis Armstrong never plays like this!

Her legs and arms began to move and she glided round the stage among the other dancers. She'd pick one, then another to play duets with. You could see the harmony between them. Each girl responded to Zulieka's dance with a counterpoint of her own. Zulieka enhanced each one's skill with her own so that together they reached heights neither could scale alone.

The dancers went wild as the beat increased. Then they spilled off stage into the audience. They twined around excited men shimmying their navels right in the poor sap's face. As he got too excited they swirled away to another leaving the first with a scarf from the costume's skirt draped over his face. Each skirt was made of many such scarves.

Then Zulieka turned on me. She snapped her fingers at a drummer who rushed on centre stage with a chair. He placed it facing the audience.

Zulieka's navel was in front of my eyes mesmerising me. Her hand reached out for mine and pulled me up. Still gyrating she pulled me on stage towards the chair. She passed it leaving me to sit gingerly on it. Her arms waved around me draping a scarf across my chest. She pulled it tight behind me. One of the girls dropped behind the chair as Zulieka moved between me and the audience. While her hips waved a few inches from my eyes I felt the scarf tied tightly round me.