Already the flies were gathering.
Seymour walked round it, trying to take in as much as he could. Later, a particular detail might become relevant. At the moment he could only stare.
Mustapha and Idris sat in the shade of a bush, bored.
‘Seen what you want, Monsieur?’ hinted Idris, after a while.
The truth was, there wasn’t much to see. A dead pig looked, well, like a dead pig.
Men were coming through the bushes on foot. They were Musa’s men and their job was to collect the pigs after they had been stuck. They had brought poles with them which they thrust between the pigs’ trotters after they had tied them together. They did this to both pigs, the shot one as well as the stabbed one. Then they hoisted the poles on to their shoulders and with the pigs slung beneath set off back to the Tent.
Quite a crowd had gathered round, Seymour suddenly realized, to watch. They were mostly the ones unable to keep up with the hunt: the old, the fat, the halt and the lame.
A thought struck him. They would have been old and fat and lame on the previous occasion, too.
He began to move among them.
‘Were you here when the Frenchman . . .? Did you see . . .?'
They looked at him blankly.
He had tried them in French. Up to now he had found that everyone in Morocco spoke French. Now, of course, it appeared that no one did.
He tried them in his less strong Arabic.
‘Pig-stuck?’ said a man helpfully, but then lapsed into silence.
‘Here?'
There was no response. He couldn’t believe that no one, absolutely no one, seemed to understand him. What he needed was an interpreter, or at least someone who could put the questions for him. Surely, among all these people, there was someone who . . .
His eye fell on Mustapha and Idris.
‘Listen,’ he said.
‘Hello!’ said Macfarlane. ‘Given up the chase?'
‘I’ve seen what I need.'
‘Already? But you’ll have missed the exciting bit at the end!'
‘So did Bossu,’ said Seymour.
At the far end of the bar he saw Madame Bossu, surrounded by men all anxious to help her make up for her loss. He had no wish to add to their numbers but the sight of her put into his mind another of Bossu’s women, the petite amie who lived in town. Monique, was that her name?
He saw Millet, the horse doctor, and went up to him.
‘Monique? Yes, I expect she’s here. Would you like me to introduce you?'
She was another blonde, not, this time, pouting and fluffy but thin-faced and harder, as if the sun and the wind had worn her youth away.
‘Monique, can I present Monsieur Seymour? He is from England and has come here to look into Bossu’s death.’
‘He is more likely to get somewhere than Renaud is.’ She extended her hand. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur.'
‘You have been in the country long?'
‘All my life.'
‘You will know it well, then. And, of course, you knew Bossu.'
‘Of course.'
‘Could you tell me something about him?'
‘I don’t know that I can tell you anything that will help you on this –’
‘In general, then. Tell me about him as a man.'
She laughed.
‘As a man? Well, there I could tell you a lot!'
‘I have no wish to pry, Madame, but it would help me if I could get a picture of him. As a person. I know nothing about him, you see.'
‘Where to begin!’ She thought. ‘Well, why not! Everyone else knows, so why shouldn’t you? I will begin with me. Let me tell you the story of my life. It is a very ordinary story, the old story of a rich man and a poor girl.
‘My parents were settlers. They came out here to farm. And, like most settlers, they struggled. We were poor. We came out here to make our fortune but instead we lost it. So you can understand that my parents did not dissuade a rich neighbour when he began to pay attention to me. I was beautiful then.
‘No, don’t say I am beautiful still. That is the sort of thing all men say. And it is not true. This country is hard on women. But I was beautiful then and I caught Bossu’s
Seymour walked round it, trying to take in as much as he could. Later, a particular detail might become relevant. At the moment he could only stare.
Mustapha and Idris sat in the shade of a bush, bored.
‘Seen what you want, Monsieur?’ hinted Idris, after a while.
The truth was, there wasn’t much to see. A dead pig looked, well, like a dead pig.
Men were coming through the bushes on foot. They were Musa’s men and their job was to collect the pigs after they had been stuck. They had brought poles with them which they thrust between the pigs’ trotters after they had tied them together. They did this to both pigs, the shot one as well as the stabbed one. Then they hoisted the poles on to their shoulders and with the pigs slung beneath set off back to the Tent.
Quite a crowd had gathered round, Seymour suddenly realized, to watch. They were mostly the ones unable to keep up with the hunt: the old, the fat, the halt and the lame.
A thought struck him. They would have been old and fat and lame on the previous occasion, too.
He began to move among them.
‘Were you here when the Frenchman . . .? Did you see . . .?'
They looked at him blankly.
He had tried them in French. Up to now he had found that everyone in Morocco spoke French. Now, of course, it appeared that no one did.
He tried them in his less strong Arabic.
‘Pig-stuck?’ said a man helpfully, but then lapsed into silence.
‘Here?'
There was no response. He couldn’t believe that no one, absolutely no one, seemed to understand him. What he needed was an interpreter, or at least someone who could put the questions for him. Surely, among all these people, there was someone who . . .
His eye fell on Mustapha and Idris.
‘Listen,’ he said.
‘Hello!’ said Macfarlane. ‘Given up the chase?'
‘I’ve seen what I need.'
‘Already? But you’ll have missed the exciting bit at the end!'
‘So did Bossu,’ said Seymour.
At the far end of the bar he saw Madame Bossu, surrounded by men all anxious to help her make up for her loss. He had no wish to add to their numbers but the sight of her put into his mind another of Bossu’s women, the petite amie who lived in town. Monique, was that her name?
He saw Millet, the horse doctor, and went up to him.
‘Monique? Yes, I expect she’s here. Would you like me to introduce you?'
She was another blonde, not, this time, pouting and fluffy but thin-faced and harder, as if the sun and the wind had worn her youth away.
‘Monique, can I present Monsieur Seymour? He is from England and has come here to look into Bossu’s death.’
‘He is more likely to get somewhere than Renaud is.’ She extended her hand. ‘I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur.'
‘You have been in the country long?'
‘All my life.'
‘You will know it well, then. And, of course, you knew Bossu.'
‘Of course.'
‘Could you tell me something about him?'
‘I don’t know that I can tell you anything that will help you on this –’
‘In general, then. Tell me about him as a man.'
She laughed.
‘As a man? Well, there I could tell you a lot!'
‘I have no wish to pry, Madame, but it would help me if I could get a picture of him. As a person. I know nothing about him, you see.'
‘Where to begin!’ She thought. ‘Well, why not! Everyone else knows, so why shouldn’t you? I will begin with me. Let me tell you the story of my life. It is a very ordinary story, the old story of a rich man and a poor girl.
‘My parents were settlers. They came out here to farm. And, like most settlers, they struggled. We were poor. We came out here to make our fortune but instead we lost it. So you can understand that my parents did not dissuade a rich neighbour when he began to pay attention to me. I was beautiful then.
‘No, don’t say I am beautiful still. That is the sort of thing all men say. And it is not true. This country is hard on women. But I was beautiful then and I caught Bossu’s
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