Chapter 6 Chapter Six

Casablanca in Morocco is a bustling French-style town. Except for the crowds on the streets, there is no hint of oriental mystery, which somewhat disappointed Hillary. The weather is still clear and blue.She enjoyed watching the fleeting scenery through the car window on their journey north.A small Frenchman who looked like a traveling salesman sat across from her.In the diagonally opposite corner, a frowning nun was counting her rosary in prayer.Two Moorish women carrying a lot of baggage were chatting happily.That's all the passengers in this carriage.After lighting a cigarette with Hillary, the Frenchman struck up a conversation with her.He pointed out the places of interest and historic sites he passed along the way and told her many things about the country.She found this man very interesting and very smart.

"Madame, you should go to Rabat. It would be a mistake not to go to Rabat!" "I'll try to get there. But I don't have much time," she said, laughing. "Besides, there's not enough money. You know, that's all we can take with us abroad." "That's very simple. Can you ask your friends here to arrange it." "Unfortunately, I don't have such convenient friends in Morocco." "Madame, next time you go on a trip, let me know and I can give you my business card. Besides, I can arrange everything for you. I often go to England for business, and you can repay me there. It's very simple. "

"You are so kind, I really hope to come to Morocco again next time." "It must have been a great change for you, ma'am, from England. London is so cold and foggy and uncomfortable." "Yes, it has changed a lot." "I only came from Paris three weeks ago. It was foggy and rainy, and I hated it. It's been sunny here. Although, mind you, the air is still cold, but , very clean. All in all, the air is very pleasant. How was the weather when you left England?" "It's mostly what you said," Hilary said. "There's fog."

"That's right, it's the foggy season. Snow—is it snowing this year?" "No," Hilary said, "not yet." She thought to herself happily that the little Frenchman probably thought it best to talk to the Englishman about the weather, so they talked all the way.She asked him a question or two about the political situation in Morocco and Algiers.He was willing to answer and showed that he was well-informed. She glanced diagonally into the opposite corner and saw the nun staring at her disapprovingly.The two Moroccan women got out, and others got up.It was already dark when they reached Fez. "

"Madam, let me assist you." Hillary stood there, looking at the noisy crowd at the station, feeling a little lost.The Arab porters scrambled for the luggage from her hands, screaming and scrambling to introduce the hotel.She turned to her new French friend with a begging look. "Madam, are you going to the Jimmy Palace Hotel?" "Yes." "Very well. It's eight kilometers from here, you know." "Eight kilometers?" Hilary was frustrated. "So it's not in the city yet." "In the old city." The Frenchman explained, "as for me, I usually live in hotels in the business district of the new city. When it comes to holidays, if I want to rest or play, I will naturally go to the Palais Guimet. You know , it used to be a residence of a nobleman in Morocco, where there is a beautiful garden, from which you can directly enter the untouched old city of Fez. It seems that the Jimei Palace Hotel did not send a car to pick up the train. If you Agree, and I'll hire a taxi for you."

"It's too kind of you, it's just..." The Frenchman spoke a few words of fluent Arabic to the porter, and in a few moments Hilary was in the taxi with her luggage.The Frenchman also told her exactly how much to pay the greedy Arab porters.Although they argued that the money was too little, he sent them away in Arabic at a raised voice.Then, suddenly, he took out a business card from his pocket and handed it to Hillary. "This is my business card, ma'am. Just let me know when you need my help. I'm staying here for four days at the Great Bright Hotel." He saluted and left.When Hillary stepped out of the dazzling train station, she saw the business card in her hand:

Mr Henry Laurier. The taxi drove quickly out of the city, through the countryside, and up a hill.Hilary tried to look out the window to see where they were going, but it was dark.I couldn't see anything except passing by lighted buildings.Could it be that from here she left her normal travels and entered the unknown?Was Mr. Laurier the emissary of some organization that persuaded Thomas Betterton to leave his job, his family, his wife?She sat in the corner of the taxi and wondered where the car was going to take her. However, the taxi took her to the Jimei Palace Hotel without any mistakes.She alighted, passed an arched entrance, and was delighted to find that the interior was oriental.There are couches, coffee tables and local rugs.From the check-in desk, she was led again through several interconnecting rooms.Arrived on a platform.There are orange trees and fragrant flowers all the way, winding corridors, until a spacious and comfortable bedroom, all in an oriental mood, but equipped with "modern equipment" necessary for twentieth-century travelers.

The waiter informed her that dinner would start at half past seven.She unpacked her luggage, took some daily necessities, washed up, and went downstairs.Pass the long oriental smoking room, cross the terrace, and take a few steps to the right to the brightly lit dining room. Dinner was exquisite.When Hillary was dining, there was a constant stream of people coming and going in and out of the restaurant.This night, she was too tired to look at those people and classify them.Still, one or two particularly conspicuous people caught her attention.An elderly man with a sallow complexion and a small goatee.She noticed him because the people around him treated him with such respect.As soon as he looked up, the dishes on the table were removed and replaced with new ones.As long as his eyebrows are slightly wrinkled, the waiter will rush over to serve him.She wanted to know who this person was.Most diners were clearly pleasure-seeking tourists.At the big central table there was a German, a middle-aged man, and a pretty girl with blond hair.The pair, she thought, were probably Swedish, or maybe Danish.There is a British family with two children.There are also a few groups of Americans traveling.In addition, there are three French families.

After dinner, she drank coffee on the deck.It seems a bit cool, but it doesn't matter, she likes the scent of flowers very much.Still, she went to bed early. The next morning, as she sat on the terrace under a red-trimmed parasol, Hilary found all this incredible.She sat there, dressed as a dead woman, expecting something astonishing and strange to happen.Then again, wasn't it probable that poor Olive Betterton had gone abroad to lighten her mental and emotional burden?It is possible that, like everyone else, the poor woman was kept in the dark. Indeed, the words she said just before her death could well be explained in the ordinary way.She told Thomas Betterton to be on the lookout for that Boris-somebody.She was out of her wits, and uttered a strange bit of doggerel—she had gone on to say something she didn't believe at first.What don't you believe?Possibly simply referring to why Thomas Betterton had been kidnapped that way.

There was no sinister meaning to be heard, and no useful clues to be found.Hilary gazed down at the garden, which was beautiful, beautiful and quiet.The children ran up and down chattering, and the French mother called and scolded them.The Swedish blonde came over and sat down at a table and yawned.She took out a tube of pink lipstick and dabbed it on her already well-painted lips.On the one hand, she prides herself on her beauty, but on the other hand, she is a little self-pitying. Immediately, her partner—Hilary thinks, her husband, and possibly her father—arrives.She nodded and didn't even smile.She leaned forward to talk to him, obviously complaining.He first objected, then apologized.

The old man with the sallow face and the small goatee came up the terrace from the garden below.He went all the way to sit down at the table under the wall, and the waiter rushed over immediately.He asked for something, and the waiter bowed and walked away, serving him hastily.The blonde grabbed her partner's arm excitedly and kept her eyes fixed on the elderly man. Hillary ordered a martini.When the wine was served, she asked the waiter in a low voice: "Who's that old man sitting against the wall?" "Oh!" said the waiter, leaning forward in a play. "That's Mr. Aristides. He's a very rich--yes, very rich--millionaire!" He sighed, dreaming of other people's millionaires, while Hilary studied the hunched, shriveled old man at the table.It turned out to be such a wrinkled, shriveled, shrunken little old man!However, because he had a lot of money, the waiter ran up and down, serving him back and forth, and he had to speak softly and respectfully.Old Aristides moved his seat.At this moment, his eyes met hers.He looked at her once, then looked away. "It's not that pointless," Hilary said to herself.Although far away, those eyes still showed intelligence and vitality. The blonde and her escort got up and went to the dining room.The waiter, who seemed to be a guide and counselor, stopped at her table while she was clearing the dishes, and began to make irresponsible remarks to her again. "That gentleman just now, he's a Swedish tycoon. Rich and famous. The girl he's with is a movie star--Second Garbo, they say. Very charming...very touching. But she's been quarreling with him all the time, it's her old business. Nothing pleases her. She, how to put it, is 'tired' of this place. In Fez, there are no jewelry stores, no other graces The rich woman admired and envied her dress. She asked him to take her to a more pleasant place tomorrow. Why, a rich man does not always enjoy peace and tranquility of mind." He hadn't finished these emotional words when he saw someone beckon him with a finger; he flew across the platform and walked away, as if electrified. "gentlemen?" Most people went in for lunch.Hillary was in no rush for lunch because she had a late breakfast.She ordered another glass of wine.A handsome French lad came out of the bar, across the terrace, gave Hilary a quick wary glance, barely disguised, as if to say, "Wonder if this woman wants to take the bait?" Then he descended the steps to Go up to the platform below.As he went down, he half sang and half hummed a passage from a French opera: Along the rose, the laurel, Dreaming of the warmth of love. Those words formed a small pattern in Hillary's brain. "Along the rose, laurel", laurel (French "LAURIER" is pronounced Laurier), isn't that the last name of the Frenchman on the train?Are the two connected, or just a random coincidence?She opened her handbag and looked for the card he had given her: Henry Laurier, 3 Crescent Road, Casablanca.She flipped through the back of the business card, and there seemed to be faint pencil writing.It seems that something was written first, and then erased with an eraser.She tried her best to decipher the writing. "Where," began, then she couldn't make out what she said, and finally she made up the word "Dantan."For a moment she thought it was some kind of message, but, after a moment, she shook her head and put the card back in her handbag.Presumably he wrote some quotations on it at one time, and then erased it. A figure loomed over her, and she looked up, startled.It was Aristides who stood between her and the sun.His eyes were not on her, but across the garden below, to the silhouette of the distant mountains.She heard him sigh, then turn suddenly towards the dining room.The sleeve swept the wine glass on her table, and it fell on the platform and broke.He turned around very politely at once and said, "Oh, madam, I'm so sorry." Hillary smiled and said repeatedly in French that it didn't matter.With a flick of her finger, she summoned the waiter. The waiter came running over as usual.The old man ordered him to exchange a glass of wine for his wife, apologized again, and then went to the restaurant. The French boy who was still humming a ditty came up the steps again.He paused on purpose as he passed Hilary, but, since Hilary didn't respond, he shrugged like a philosopher and went to the dining room. A French family crosses the platform, parents calling to their children. "Come here, Bobo. What are you doing? Come here." "Stop playing ball, honey. We're having lunch." They went up the steps and into the dining room.A small centerpiece of a happy family life!A sense of loneliness and fear suddenly flooded into Hillary's heart. The waiter brought her wine.She asked if Aristides was here alone. "Oh, ma'am, a rich man like Aristides never travels alone. He comes here with his servants, two secretaries, and a chauffeur." The waiter was shocked that anyone should think that Aristides was traveling unaccompanied. However, Hilary found that when she finally entered the restaurant, the old man was sitting alone at the table just as he had been the night before.At a nearby table sat two young men.It must have been the secretary, she thought, for, she noticed, one or the other of them was always on the alert, keeping an eye on Aristides's table.Aristides, haggard and monkey-faced, sat eating his lunch and seemed oblivious to the existence of those two in the world.Obviously, according to Aristides, the secretary is not a person! The afternoon passed like a dream.Hilary walked in the garden, descending from one platform to the next.The tranquility and beauty seem to be very surprising.The fountain is splashing, the golden oranges are shining, and the countless fragrant flowers are bursting into the nose.This is the mysterious atmosphere of the East, and Hilary was very satisfied.Because the claustrophobic garden was her sister, her consort... that's what a garden meant, a secluded place - full of evergreens and gold. "If only I could stay here forever," thought Hilary, "if only I could stay here forever..." What she was thinking of was not the garden of the Palais Guimet before her, but the state of mind that this garden aroused: when she no longer sought tranquility, she found it.And when peace of mind comes, it is also the day when she devotes herself to adventure and danger. But maybe there's no danger, no risk, maybe she can stop here for a while and nothing will happen... and then... Then—what to do? A gust of cool wind hit, and Hilary shuddered.You have strayed into the garden of a peaceful life, but, in the end, you have to rebel from within.The chaos in the world, the hardships of life, countless regrets and disappointments weighed heavily on her heart. As the sun went down, Hillary stepped up and returned to the hotel. In the shadows of the Eastern Lounge, after Hilary's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, the sight of Mrs. Calvin Baker, her newly dyed hair and her appearance as unmistakable as ever, was a series of exciting The incident made her doubts disappear in an instant. "I just got here on a plane," she explained. "I can't stand those trains - it's too long! Besides, the people on the trains don't care about hygiene! In these countries, hygiene is not understood at all. My dear! Look at the meat stalls, flies It's everywhere. They probably think it's natural for flies to sit on everything." "I think that's the reality," Hillary echoed. Mrs. Baker had no intention of letting go of this heretical statement. "I'm a big fan of the 'clean food' movement. In America, perishable food is always wrapped in cellophane - but, even in London, your bread and pastries have very little wrapping. Now, tell me, enough shopping Is it? I think you must have visited the old city today, haven't you?" "I'm sorry, I haven't been anywhere," Hilary said with a smile. "I've been sitting in the sun." "Of course, you just got out of the hospital. I forgot." It was clear that Hillary had been hospitalized recently, so she didn't go out for sightseeing. This was the only reason Mrs. Baker could accept. "Why am I so stupid? Exactly. After a concussion, most of the day is supposed to lie down and rest in a dark room. After a while, we can go out and play. I'm one of those people who likes to live tight, Everything is planned, everything is arranged. No minute is idle." Given Hillary's current mood, this arrangement sounds as dire as hell.Mrs. Baker, however, was brimming with energy, and she congratulated. "Well, I'll say, for a woman my age, I'm doing pretty well. I'm hardly ever tired. Do you remember that Miss Hetherington in Casablanca? An Englishwoman with a long face .She's arriving tonight. She'd rather take the train than the plane. Who's in the hotel? French, I think. Also, honeymoon couples. I've got to check it out now My room is gone. I don't like the one they gave me. They promised to change me." Like a whirlwind of vitality, Mrs. Baker was gone. When Hilary entered the dining room that night, the first thing she saw was Miss Hetherington eating dinner at a small table against the wall with a Fontana book open in front of her. The three ladies had coffee together after dinner, and Miss Hetherington was interested in the Swedish tycoon and the blonde movie star. "Not yet married, I understand," she murmured, masking her delight with justifiable resentment, "that sort of thing seems too much abroad. There seemed to be a very happy French family at the table under the window." The children seem to like their father very much. Of course, French children are allowed to stay up late. Sometimes, he doesn’t go to bed until ten o’clock. Besides, he has to finish the menu Every dish, not just milk and biscuits like a child." "Although they eat and drink like this, it seems that their health is not bad." Hilary said with a smile. Miss Hetherington shook her head and made a voice of disapproval: "It's not going to do them any good," she said with a sense of foreboding. "Their parents even made them drink." It seems that there is nothing more terrifying than this. Mrs Calvin Baker started making plans for tomorrow. "I'm not going to the Old Town tomorrow," she said. "I did a good job last time. It's very interesting. It's a fascinating labyrinth, if you know what I mean. Such a strange and ancient place." Well, I couldn't find my way back to the hotel without a guide with me. You just can't help getting lost. My guide was fine, and he told me a lot of interesting things. He seemed to say he had a brother United States - in Chicago. After walking around the old city, he took me to a restaurant or tea house or something, just on the hillside, overlooking the whole old city - the view is amazing. I had to drink that called Peppermint tea that people are afraid of. Oh, don't mention it, it's disgusting. Besides, he wants me to buy this and that. Some things are not bad, but some are broken. I found that I have to have a backbone .” "Yes, that's right," agreed Miss Hetherington. She also added meaningfully: "Of course, there is no money to buy souvenirs. There are restrictions on carrying foreign currency. What can I do?"