Gorgeous East (40 page)

“Go take care of that nose,” Pinard said. Then to all of them: “We’ll forget this incident. Blame it on the
cafard
. We’re all spoiling for action and I assure you, it’s coming. Until then, you’re confined to quarters. Dismissed!”

The men trailed off. Pinard put his gun away and began policing the beer bottles strewn around the courtyard.

“That wasn’t so good,” Szbeszdogy said.

“Bad,” Pinard agreed.

“I’ll be honest.” Szbeszdogy lowered his voice. “That Brazilian bastard scares me. It’s those eyes—they’re like the eyes of an intelligent animal. He’s going to kill you for what you did to him. Unless—” He squinted up at the hot, miserable sky.

Pinard stopped policing the beer bottles and looked at his comrade.

“Unless what?”

“You kill him first. Soon.”

9.

B
ecause of the poolside incident at the Agadir and after a visit from the local gendarmes, and even though a large illegal bit of baksheesh changed hands, the Legionnaires were forced to change hotels. Laayoune is a large city of perhaps three hundred thousand, no one is quite sure exactly; for political reasons, the inhabitants of the Saharoui souk are never accurately counted. But Laayoune supported only a couple of hotels rated more than one star—the Agadir and the Hotel Palais-Maroc—the former now off-limits to the Legionnaires, the latter entirely occupied by UN personnel working out a timetable for the closure of MINURSO team sites and for the general retreat of all UN forces from the Non-Self-Governing Territory of Western Sahara, this side of the Berm and in Algeria. Indeed, from anywhere the Marabout insurgency might oppose their ineffectual and vaguely benevolent agenda with terror and decapitation.

The MINURSO Mission Command Coordinator, the Dutch pacifist General van Snetters, was one of those modern soldiers who had never been involved in combat operations of any kind, his only experience in the field being humanitarian in nature. He was, in fact, a recent convert to a neo-Hindu sect that preached the wearing of lavender garments, a strict vegan diet, and non-violence under all circumstances, even under imminent threat of death. It was nobler and more holy, General van Snetters now firmly believed, to let the bastards kill you than to kill the bastards—a fine sentiment for a Hindu bodhisattva, but not, probably, for a general. Wearing the amulets and tiny silver bells of his new theology and a fancy Dutch general’s hat, van Snetters was at that moment ensconced in air-conditioned comfort in the midst of his staff on the top floor of the Palais-Maroc, arranging for the delivery of vegan meals to all UN personnel during the pullout. This, while the Royal Moroccan Army and Polisario exchanged vicious shrapnel-packed mortar rounds daily across the Berm, exactly as they have done for the last forty years. And the Marabouts prowled the darkness of the desert, even unto the outskirts of Laayoune itself, sharpened scimitars at the ready, avidly hunting the heads of all nonbelievers.

10.

T
he rooms of the Hotel Djinn were not air-conditioned and were unfurnished except for metal bunk beds and a few scraps of colorful but moth-eaten Zaiane carpet from the mountains of the Middle Atlas, hundreds of miles to the north. The Djinn was an ancient no-star facility in a rundown quartier of the city. Its four stories of mud brick overlooked the Saharoui souk two streets away. Spotlights from the Moroccan machine gun towers trailed twice every five minutes across the crumbling facade.

The personnel of Mission: SCORPIO took the entire top floor, with Pinard and Szbeszdogy in one room and the 4e RE assassins across the hall in two others. At midnight—the preappointed time—with the assassins locked safely in their rooms like misbehaving children, Pinard took out the satellite phone, punched in the scramble code, and called Legion headquarters in Aubagne. Tonight, for the first time since leaving France, he reached General le Breton. Pinard stood in the tall, open window where reception was best, stepping aside discreetly whenever the Moroccan spotlights swung his way.

“Did you read my report, sir?” Pinard said. “It went out in code via Internet last Tuesday.”

“I read your report. A bunch of trash. How long have you been down there?”

“Thirty-seven days,” Pinard said.

“Thirty-seven days”—the general’s voice quickly rising as usual to the level of a roar—“and all you’ve got for me is one pitiful Frenchwoman on holiday?”

“The Marabouts are impossible to infiltrate,” Pinard protested. “No one on the street wants to talk about them, no one will even admit they exist. We’re still trying to find a way into the Saharoui souk. We’re sure the Marabouts have a presence there, but access is proving difficult, the main gates are guarded by Moroccan soldiers and off-limits to everyone who’s not a Saharoui. And what do we do when we get inside? If you would allow me to make contact with the Moroccan authorities here—perhaps offer money for information—they might be willing to share some intelligence. The Minister of Tourism already suspects—”

But the general cut him off. “This is a Legion mission, Pinard! And the Legion takes care of its own. Absolute secrecy will be maintained.”

“
Oui, mon general.
”

“And the Legion does not pay. Not a ransom and certainly not for information. The Legion makes
them
pay, with their lives if necessary.
Reçu
, Pinard?”

“
Reçu, mon general
.”

A pause. The signal, bouncing from earth to satellite to earth again, crackled with distance. Pinard imagined the general sitting on the side of his bed in green silk pajamas in the comfort of his quarters on officer’s row in Aubagne. One of the Kaybile whores from the 1e RE brothel, perhaps La Mogador herself (the general, a bachelor, often had a girl delivered directly to his bed against regulations), no doubt now slept naked and exhausted after satisfying the fat man’s notorious appetites.

“What about morale?” the general asked presently.

Pinard failed to describe the near mutiny of the 4e RE that afternoon by the Agadir’s pool.

“We moved hotels,” he said. “Too much alcohol at the other one. But I do think the men are getting a little restless. The
cafard
—”

“
Le cafard n’existe pas!
” the general shouted. “It’s a myth, another word for failure of leadership.”

“
Oui, mon general.
”

“You know, I’m beginning to suspect my confidence in your abilities was misplaced! A complete lack of nerve, that’s what you’ve got!”

Pinard thought it best not to respond to this accusation.

“
Bon, bon, retournons aux nos moutons
,” the general huffed. “Tell me about Louise. What has she been doing the last few days?”

Pinard pictured the woman at the Colline des Oiseux, Louise de Noyer, his colonel’s beautiful wife. He closed his eyes for a moment and saw her pale face in the sun and shadow of the alleys lined with empty aviaries.

“Madame de Noyer remains under surveillance,” Pinard said. “On Tuesday, I detailed Legionnaire Szbeszdogy to follow her full time, but she can’t be followed everywhere in a town like this without arousing suspicion. So far, she still behaves like a tourist. I believe she’s seen everything there is to see in this depressing place—which is possible in a single afternoon. Szbeszdogy reports she often takes a taxi to the beach. She spends entire afternoons out there lying on the sand.”

“Ah!” General le Breton exclaimed. “You see what I mean by failure of leadership?”

“
Pardon, mon general?
”

“You leave such an important matter to a subordinate! This woman might lead you directly to her husband—why else did she vanish from France and turn up in Laayoune? Certainly she’s trying to locate him, perhaps she’s offering baksheesh for information even as we speak. Stick close, I mean very close. But do not under any circumstances reveal your identity to her. Her politics are very far to the left, she’s antimilitarist, anti-French, and despises the Legion. Wait, I’ve got her dossier here”—the sound of some papers being shuffled—“ ‘Louise de Noyer; family name Vilhardouin. Illegitimate daughter of well-known radical singer—’ ”

“You don’t mean
that
Vilhardouin?” Pinard gasped.

“Yes, imbecile!” the general bellowed. “That Vilhardouin! The one who should have been put against a wall and shot back in ’68! Now do you get the picture?”

“
Oui, mon general.
”

“
Bon.
Make contact, but be careful.”

“I’ll relieve Szbeszdogy. I’ll follow Madame de Noyer myself.”

“Don’t sound so glum, Pinard! It’s not exactly punishment duty! She’s not so bad-looking, am I right?”

“An attractive woman,” Pinard said stiffly.

“And for your information, she’s definitely not a nun.” The general paused, chuckling. “A couple of confidential reports in this dossier make the
Autobiography of Catherine M.
look like kids’ stuff. So talk to her, get to know her. If you need to fuck her to gain her confidence, then fuck her!”

Pinard bristled at this. “The wife of a fellow officer—”

“Results, Pinard!” the general roared. “I don’t care how you get them! Otherwise you’ll face a court martial for incompetence when the Legion drags your ass back to Aubagne!”

11.

P
inard stood in the window for a long time, smoking the last of his French cigarettes, watching the Moroccan spotlights trail over the blind alleys and covered walkways of the souk, across the pendulous nodes of cumulonimbus clouds. He, no less than his men, was in the grip of the
cafard
. In him, the ailment manifested itself as a kind of melancholy introspection, even though his better judgment told him that for a soldier, introspection is best avoided. Now sad images from his past piled in drifts like dry leaves against unexamined longings, deeply held fears.

He thought of his childhood, back in Canada, a subject as a rule banished from his conscious mind. He’d been an unhappy child. No one tending to the scabs on his knees, few friends, brutal experiences at school, the unhappiness so pervasive he’d grown used to it, aware of it only as one is aware of breathing. His mother, often drunk by ten in the morning, brought men home from the run-down taverns of Ours Bleu nearly every night. His father, the only bright spot, but always away in the far north, came home rarely (once sporting an eye patch like a pirate, the result of an industrial accident), bringing tales of polar bears and sea lions and ice floes, the arctic cold clinging to his coat, his skin. Now, after all these years, Pinard recalled a forgotten incident: His father once brought him a little scrimshaw ivory tusk, intricately carved with a battle scene between Inuits and Frenchmen. On one side the Inuits were fighting valiantly, the Frenchmen winning with guns and cannons against spears; on the other side all the Frenchmen were dead, the Inuits improbably victorious. The young Pinard studied this little tusk for hours, carried it in his pocket to school, kept it under his pillow—whatever happened to it? He couldn’t remember now, the years had swept it away, but he still remembered that battle scene, bold and terrifying at once. Forget the judge’s order, the official choice of deportation or the Legion. Maybe that bit of tusk was why he’d become a soldier.

The Legion had been Pinard’s family for more than fifteen years now. He’d been more or less content with military life until—the thought astonished him!—last week. Until meeting Louise de Noyer at the Colline des Oiseaux. And Pinard felt the peculiar squeezing in his heart again and he knew now without a doubt that he was no longer unhappy in the way he had been unhappy before; this new unhappiness lighter, leavened by longing but more painful. He was in love. Suddenly he was sick of military life, sick of the Legion. A family? No, a collection of foulmouthed brutes, drunkards, drug addicts, fools, sadists, murderers. Pinard felt himself choking, short of breath as he’d been at the Colline the other day. Stop! This was not possible! And yet the thought that he loved Louise de Noyer filled him with warmth, filled the dusty equatorial twilight of his soul with new light and hope—though hope was the devil to a Legionnaire, who learns to abandon it during the first weeks of basic training.

Agleam, suffering, Pinard turned away from the window, from the darkened souk and all the potential complications below, and lay down on his hard bunk in the gloom, his solitary universe expanded to include one other person.

12

PINARD IN LOVE