Thomas M. Disch by Casablanca

Author:Casablanca
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-12-13T15:36:03+00:00

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Mrs. Richmond wasn’t in the room. Instead, the man in the red fez was engaged in packing all their clothes and toilet articles into the three suitcases. “Hey!” Fred shouted. “What do you think you’re doing? Stop that!”

“You must pay your bill,” the hotel manager, who stood back at a safe distance in the hallway, shrilled at him. “You must pay your bill or leave.”

Fred tried to prevent the man in the red fez from packing the bags. He was furious with his wife for having gone off—to the W.C. probably—and left the hotel room unguarded.

“Where is my wife?” he demanded of the manager. “This is an outrage.” He began to swear. The man in the red fez returned to packing the bags.

Fred made a determined effort to calm himself. He could not risk a stroke. After all, he reasoned with himself, whether they spent one or two nights in the airport waiting room wouldn’t make that much difference. So he chased the man in the red fez away and finished the packing himself. When he was done, he rang for the porter, and the man in the red fez returned and helped him carry the bags downstairs. He waited in the dark lobby for his wife to return, using the largest of the suitcases for a stool. She had probably gone to “their” restaurant, some blocks away, where they were still allowed to use the W.C. The owner of the restaurant couldn’t understand why they didn’t take their meals there any more and didn’t want to offend them, hoping, perhaps, that they would come back.

While he waited, Fred occupied the time by trying to remember the name of the Englishman who had been a supper guest at their house in Florida three years before. It was a strange name that was not pronounced at all the way that it was spelled. At intervals he would go out into the street to try and catch a sight of his wife returning to the hotel. Whenever he tried to ask the manager where she had gone, the man would renew his shrill complaint. Fred became desperate. She was taking altogether too long. He telephoned the restaurant. The owner of the restaurant understood enough English to be able to tell him that she had not visited his W.C. all that day.

An hour or so after sunset, Fred found his way to the police station, a wretched stucco building inside the ancient medina, the non-European quarter. Americans were advised not to venture into the medina after dark.

“My wife is missing,” he told one of the gray-uniformed men. “I think she may be the victim of a robbery.”

The policeman replied brusquely in French.

“My wife,” Fred repeated loudly, gesturing in a vague way.

The policeman turned to speak to his fellows. It was a piece of deliberate rudeness.

Fred took out his passport and waved it in the policeman’s face. “This is my passport,” he shouted. “My wife is missing. Doesn’t somebody here speak English? Somebody must speak English.

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