At the table immediately in front of me are a big Spanish woman, three children and a man with blue-black hair. The children have been elaborately dressed for the occasion and are slapped when they fidget. “Ignacio! Concepcion! Tomas!” To left and right of me are other people at their tables - Spaniards, Moors, nondescripts - and every one of them is engrossed in the spectacle of Sunday evening paseo. 

For better or worse we are all gathered in the Socco Chico which is a plaza in the Moorish part of Tangier. Hundreds of us are immobilized thigh to thigh at cafe tables. Hundreds more are pressed still closer together on the little open plaza itself where under the influence of some cosmic necessity they ebb and flow and sway, like algae in the shallows. Amongst them are creatures that dart about in the manner of fishes and smile with their teeth. 

Anyway here I am. My back is against the wall, or rather against a cast-iron grille which ventilates the interior of the cafe. There is a Cinzano on the table beside me and a siphon of aerated water. I am at a loss to know how ants have got into the siphon. Neither the ants themselves nor the people who filled the siphon can have intended this. 

“Is it not rather warm,” people are asking themselves in their various languages, “for the time of year?” It is spring and it is rather warm. 

Sometimes a little breeze springs up and some of it is sucked into the cafe through the grille. At such moments the big Spanish woman tweaks at her corsage, and I think I feel cooler also. I have an hour in hand, my luggage is safely deposited at the terminus and I have escaped molestation hitherto, but I begin to fear that there is something behind that grille. 

As I say, I am sitting in a little barricaded world of my own, here in the second row of cafe-terrace tables, and if the Tangier people suppose that I too am admiring their persons and their Sunday-evening walking-clothes, I would like to tell them that I am doing nothing of the sort. My eyes may be open, they may glint like little chips of coal, but it is not with desire. I have chosen to focus upon infinity, and for me infinity excludes Tangier and the present time and begins tomorrow at Latitude 31.40. The Tangier people can look that up in their atlases, and they may sink or swim for all I care: they may send out distress signals or invitations to the valse, but they have no power to melt my heart or fascinate me. My eyes are open but unseeing. My ears are deaf, or nearly deaf..., but if there really is someone behind that grille, then it is his voice that hums around the edges of my consciousness. I shall take no notice. 

I am still sitting behind my defences, and there is now no doubt at all that an ill-wisher has discovered a chink in my back-plates through which he is repeatedly hissing a demand. He refuses to be ignored. He is saying - 

“...vous avez du feu, m’sieur, s’il vous plait?” 

I passed a box of matches backwards over my shoulder without looking round. It was taken softly through the bars as it might be by a well-mannered parrot. 

“Merci, m’sieur. Tiens! ce sont des cigarettes anglaises que vous avez la? You are English? If you wish I will try one. I am often glad to accept an English cigarette, pour changer, n’est-ce pas?” 

I made no move. Someone put a handbill on to my table, leaning forward over the Spanish lade to do so. It said: HOY! HOY! TODAY! TONIGHT! LUCHA LIBRE. SO-AND-SO, THE BLACK MARVELLOUS! SO-AND-SO THE LOCAL SPLENDID! COME, COME, COME! My enemy must have paused to read it too. After a brief interval the voice said: 

“Ah. All-In Wrestle.” It paused again. Then: “Sir, I have something to say, something you will wish to know.” There was another pause and he repeated the sentence. 

I did not look round. Instead I said clearly in French, because it seemed more impersonal: “There is nothing that one wishes to know.” 

“I have been watching. Guarding over you, sir, from the interieur. I have seen all! That girl, for example - the girl in the costume aux paillettes. Sir! I implore you!” 

I said: “Leave me in peace.” 

“You do not know! You are strange to Tangier. I know. I have seen the regards exchanged, the balancing of the haunch. Sir, that girl will destroy you in a twink!” 

I pretended to have heard nothing. 

“Sir, look at me! Turn and look! You will find that I am a nobleman of Morocco. I love your country England and, as my brothers, I love your countrymen English whose language I have learned so fluent from a Swedish gentleman now dead (rest in peace). You risk to suffer because of your strangeness. This I will not see. If you should be heated, then let me advise and assist.” 

Had the Swedish gentleman really spoken English like this? I turned slowly and looked at the speaker. He was about twenty-five, brownish and shabby. It was not a bad face - a round face with big, black, startled eyes, and when he saw me looking at him he smiled socially and said: 

“Let me present myself. I am Moulay Hamed - or, as you would say, the Seigneur Hamed. I have the entree into all the houses because of my nobleness. You will kindly tell me your name and business and permit me to lead you to some private place where each of the girls is beautiful- and blood-tested by physicians. By diploma’d physicians.” 

The language and the prospect were equally fascinating but I said coldly: “If you do not leave me, I shall leave you.” 

“But we have only just met!” 

“The meeting will do no good to either of us.” 

“Listen! You are strange here...” 

“I am not in the least strange anywhere. I was quite happy till you came to pester me.” 

I had turned round on him again and spoke with an indignation that must have shocked him. He seemed crestfallen. He was obviously a very unsuccessful guide. You had only to look at the others with their flashing self-confidence to know that this poor creature was a failure. I even felt sorry for him. He then said: 

“Please remain seated. I come to sit at your table.” 

“Now you listen,” I replied firmly. “I am a mad person who does not think it strange to be alone and to know nothing and within a few minutes I shall be gone from here, and I am praying that where I am going I shall find a world where guides are born with the mark on them, so that - ” 

“Going? Where? Oh, sir, where?” he broke in. 

“- so that they can be identified by their mamas and strangled before -” 

“But where are you going, sir?” he broke in again, excitedly. 

“I am going to Marrakesh. By the night train.” 

“Insha’Allah,” he breathed. Then his face widened into an ecstatic smile. “What! To Marrakesh, you say? Sir, I have a cousin in Marrakesh, equally noble as me, with whom it is possible to lodge for he is proprietaire of hotel! Very select. Look! I have a photograph of my cousin dressed in Arabic with his friend before the Bureau de Poste of the Place Djema’a el-Fna at Marrakesh. You wish to see?” 

And suddenly I found myself with the wallet in my hand and the Seigneur Hamed no longer behind the grille. I knew then that I had been mistaken, that the Seigneur was after all at the top of his profession.