Murder in the Medina

Murder in the Medina

by Johnny Strike

Published by Bold Venture Press

boldventurepress.com

Cover design: Rich Harvey

Copyright 2017 Johnny Strike. All Rights Reserved.

Introduction Copyright 2017 Allen Hibbard. All rights reserved.

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the publisher and copyright holder. All persons, places and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to any actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Introduction by Allen Hibbard

Murder in the Medina

The Edge of the World

Voiceovers

You Must Know

The Story of Taza

We Are Here

The Child

The Floating City of Hate

Border of a Dream

Days of the Moon

Nights of the Sun

The Floating City of Love

Under the World

About the Author

Connect with Bold Venture Press

Introduction

It was through our mutual interest in Paul Bowles that Johnny Strike and I came in contact with one another. We had both spent time in Tangier over the past couple of decades and knew some of the same American expats who inhabited that scene, though we’d never met there. We found, too, that we shared an interest in William S. Burroughs. The legends of these two writers and the topography of Tangier, where they lived and wrote, are intertwined. The specters of both Bowles and Burroughs hover over this novel as well.

Like Bowles, Strike has made his mark in both musical and literary realms. Indeed, both were known primarily for their musical productions before applying their talents to literary endeavors. Bowles, a composer, went to Paris in the 1920s to study with Nadia Boulanger and went to Morocco for the first time with Aaron Copland in 1931. Johnny Strike, along with Hank Rank, was a member of the iconoclastic Bay Area proto-punk band Crime, riding the same cultural wave on which surged The Clash, The Ramones, The Sex Pistols, and Iggy Pop in the 1970s. When on the occasion of our first meeting in the spring of 2008 in San Francisco, Johnny and I visited bars playing live music. I became aware that Johnny enjoyed an avid local fan base among younger generations. He continues to explore and push the boundaries of what sound can do. On my most recent visit to see Johnny a couple of years ago, he played me a cut titled Gnostic Wolf from an album/CD he is working on with Naked Beast, due out this summer (2017). I still recall that it was a remarkable, sublime aural experience and am eager to hear the album in its entirety. (Excerpts from his novel Ports of Hell and story collection A Loud Humming Sound Came From Above are woven into the musical material.)

And, like Bowles, Johnny Strike has set his fiction in exotic locales that heighten the psychological drama of American characters who find themselves, at once exhilarated and vulnerable, in places where they only imperfectly understand the cultural codes surrounding them. Murder in the Medina, as well as his earlier novel Name of the Stranger (also published by Bold Venture), is set predominantly in Tangier, Morocco (with scenes in Mazatlán, Mexico, as well). Just as Chandler’s mysteries are so solidly grounded in the topography of Los Angeles, Strike’s narrative is lodged within the distinctive topography of Tangier, moving smoothly and surely from the Grand Socco to the Hotel Continental, to the Café de Paris, to the Medina, to Merkala Beach, to the Café Hafa on the Marshan, to nearby Asilah, on the Atlantic Coast, as action unfolds. The city makes a perfect backdrop for a mystery. Reality and dream or fantasy blur, making it difficult to tell just what is going on. Have you noticed how everyone tells you something different here? an Inspector Hassan at one point. It is a city ripe for hallucination, paranoia, witchcraft, potions, and revenge.

The novel is populated by a colorful cast of cosmopolitan characters. The disappearance of an expatriate, Katherine Charles, sets in motion the novel’s plot. Taylor Reed, our protagonist, at first a possible suspect, becomes a kind of detective, pursues clues, collects evidence and — in the end — acts to quash the forces of evil. There are other expatriates and travelers, among them Japanese, Dutch, German, New Zealanders — writers, artists, rock musicians, and hangers-on. Of the American, Warren, we are told he hated almost everything about [Morocco] and Warren was another would-be writer washed up in Tangier. These expats interact with Moroccans, who mainly play supporting roles or serve as extras: Taylor’s maid Fatima, the Moroccan Inspector Hassan, hosts of taxi drivers. And it would be an oversight not to mention Caesar, the neighborhood tom, a reassuring presence midst all the confusion and mayhem.

The meta, quasi-postmodern qualities of this novel provide other layers of interest, giving the novel a raucous, Pynchon-like feel. One character, Mustapha Senhadji [Mokhtar] is working on a murder mystery using the artists as actors, incorporating local artwork and music into it — all while a real murder mystery is going on. And, there are stories within stories, notably portions of The Story of Taza, an obscure novel by Tangier expat Slater, a work whose narrative apparently veers from Zurich to Mazatlán via Guatemala, then to Las Vegas, then by private jet to Tangier. Readers are left to tease out and ponder connections between the two story lines. Similarly, works of art figure prominently, providing mirrors or counterpoints to actions and themes. Taylor himself is an artist whose work becomes a key component in the development of events. Three coveted paintings by an artist known as Abdul Ra Hiem appear in (and disappear from) a local antique shop. The plot thickens. Things get increasingly weird, with djinn, a cult, abductions, amulets, magic, and — murder! The final scenes — wildly imaginative, surreal — seem to spring from a Hieronymous Bosch painting.

Because of its Tangier setting, one is naturally drawn to place Murder in the Medina alongside other novels written or set in that city: Bowles’s Let It Come Down (though his thriller Up Above the World, set in Latin America, might be a more apt comparison), Burroughs’s Naked Lunch, Irving Rosenthal’s Sheeper, Alfred Chester’s Exquisite Corpse, Patricia Highsmith’s Ripley Under Water (or her wonderful novel Tremors of Forgery, set in Tunisia), and — especially — Brion Gysin’s The Process. Each of these novels in some way bears the mark of the city in which they were composed or set. Ultimately, comparisons and attempts to categorize or situate Strike’s work only go so far. Johnny Strike is Johnny Strike. As readers of Murder in the Medina will see for themselves, he has a vision and style all his own.

Allen Hibbard

Author, Paul Bowles, Magic & Morocco

April 2017

Murder in the Medina

The Edge of the World

In the Grand Socco, by the medina, Taylor Reed retrieved his bag from the trunk of a grand taxi. He’d been on a two-week painting trip in Agadir. As he looked around the busiest public square in Tangier, he felt that something inexplicable had transpired in his absence. What, he didn’t know yet, but he was certain that something was different. Taylor saw a seller of fake antiquities, recognized a hash dealer, who winked and sipped mint tea from a glass. Taylor entered the medina and paused by Club Zewa, wondering whom he might find inside — probably the usual crowd — but it was the new arrival, Katherine Charles, who was on his mind.

A couple of street boys thinking him a tourist attached themselves, offered to carry his bag, take him to a good hotel, provide kif, sex, or anything else he might want. In adequate Moroccan Arabic, Taylor explained that he lived here. This didn’t deter the boys from pleading for dirham, so he gave them five apiece. Taylor was in a good mood. They thanked him, touched their hearts, and went on their way.

Inside Club Zewa, Taylor stashed his bag with Abdullah and went into the belly of the cavernous room. Ahmed was sitting crossed-legged on the low stage playing his ghita. Two older musicians sat on stools on either side of him, pounding large-frame drums. The steady rhythm kept some drunken foreigners moving in a peculiar combination of dance steps. A few locals laughed and cheered them on. Others sipped tea, smoked kif pipes in the corners and watched. Taylor searched for a familiar face in the crowded room. He spotted Jesse and Rosalyn at the bar looking serious. They brightened when they saw him. Rosalyn, an attractive lady of thirty with dark, short hair, green eyes and a flair for fashion even on hot and oppressive days, waved. She looked to be feeling no pain. Jesse, blond, tall, lean, managed to come off both bookish and athletic, and as usual appeared perfectly sober.

Taylor, sweetheart, come here! When did you get back? Rosalyn asked, giving him a hug and a peck on the cheek.

Just now. Have I missed anything? Besides this? He gestured to the dancing fools.

What, they don’t have tourists in Agadir? Give me a break. Rosalyn finished off her drink, and started on another that was already there.

Taylor shook hands with Jesse, who turned to the bartender and ordered Taylor’s usual: a Heineken from the back of the fridge.

As you know, the place is lousy with ‘em, Taylor said. But I managed to avoid the crunch. I found a sweet, inexpensive riad in a neighborhood that isn’t even on the map.

Taylor hadn’t missed the bar scene nor would he return to it after tonight. He would continue his new schedule of working on sketches and paintings each morning, having lunch, then swimming and sunbathing in the afternoons. Taylor had a special affection for Malabata Beach. He would go there or to Merkala with a sketch pad, packed lunch, and a bottle of water. In the afternoons, he would visit the medina cafés, talk with the Moroccans he knew; after all, that was one of the reasons he’d come to North Africa, although since then, he’d fallen in with the expat community that was at times everything he’d been trying to escape.

Taylor felt differently about Katherine, who had arrived a few weeks earlier. He had to admit he was smitten. On their last date, they’d talked a lot about painting and writing, or, rather, painters and poets. She’d published a handful of poems in underground ’zines and one in a respected Parisian journal. There had been one show of Taylor’s work in Tangier at the Hotel Rembrandt. The reviews had been evenly divided. He felt the critics might as well have attended two entirely different shows. One review though, in the prestigious British publication Poison Arrow, was glowing.

The two weeks that followed that article brought Taylor a taste of celebrityhood: a bit on local television, congratulations on the street, and visits from a couple of foreign journalists. Truth be known, he’d been relieved to get away. It was part of the reason that he’d gone to Agadir. While there, Taylor produced three new paintings unlike any of his previous work. He felt that these paintings had a life of their own. He was excited but reluctant to share them with anyone yet. He smiled when he thought about the frightened reaction of the maid when she’d seen them. Ah, djinn! Monsieur, this is the djinn’s work! Djinns, as defined by Paul Bowles in his book Points in Time, were fearsome spirits capable of assuming human or animal form.

So how was your trip? Jesse asked. Was the South as hot as a kettle?

Taylor said it was, and talked some about his stay in Agadir, although Rosalyn, half in the bag, was not following it but instead making eyes at a Moroccan hipster in a black suit. Taylor told them about his stop in Fez, where the poor sat by the side of the road or on the concrete meridians to catch the traffic’s breeze. At first, he’d thought the people were gathered for some event until someone explained it to him.

Jesse was an American writer who had recently placed his second novel with a British publisher. He complained about the advance, though Taylor could tell that overall he was pleased. Rosalyn was the female equivalent of a playboy. She loved Moroccan men, though she’d had a number of bad relationships with them. The Moroccan in the black suit approached, politely introduced himself all around. He asked if anyone would be offended if he asked madame to dance. Rosalyn laughed, grabbed him by the arm, and led him off to the dance floor.

Have you seen the new girl around? Katherine? You know, the poetess? Taylor asked. Jesse’s look made him anxious.

So, she wasn’t with you then?

What? No. What happened?

Well, the police will want to talk with you. They’ve spoken with everyone else. She seems to have just disappeared. Taylor felt his stomach drop.

One possibility is that she went to Chaouen with a Dutch couple she’d met. The thing is she didn’t tell anybody, not even friends. And her bags were still in her room. There was no way to contact you, you’re so mysterious about your getaways. Jesse laughed, finished his Flag Especial. I’m sure she’ll turn up. She’s something of a kooky kid, right?

I guess. I don’t really know her, Taylor said, wondering why he’d said that. An older British couple approached, thanking Jesse for suggesting that they visit Ksar es-Seghir. He introduced Taylor and they shook hands. Jesse asked where they’d eaten. They had taken another of his suggestions.

The fish tagine was divine and the service was pure entertainment, the woman gushed. She was a retired schoolteacher. The old boy had done some bureaucratic job or other for the government and also was retired. They’d bought Jesse a mint tea at a café a few days before. Jesse and the teacher launched into a conversation about Lord Byron, but Taylor was thinking about Katherine. Should he go to the police immediately or wait until morning?

They moved to an outside garden area with small tables that were mostly empty. A slender, young couple were poured together into one dark corner, an elderly man with a bushy, white mustache, wearing a gandora and turban, sat in another corner with a tall glass of mint tea. As they were choosing seats, Taylor decided to take his leave. The British couple looked disappointed yet remained cordial, and said they hoped to see him again. Call me, Jesse said.

Taylor walked the rest of the way, through the narrow, curving passageways up to his small house, which was in the Casbah. In the foyer was a pile of mail that Fatima, his housekeeper, had stacked when she’d done her usual cleaning. Taylor wasn’t in the mood to go through it, and fastened the bundle with a rubber band. He would go to the police in the morning. If Katherine had been missing since his trip, she’d been missing for two weeks. There was nothing he could do about it now. In that curious state that combined alertness with the fatigue that travel generated, as well as his obsessing about Katherine’s disappearance, he felt the need for a sleeping aid. He took two pills and prepared for bed.

Taylor dozed off and deep in a dream found himself in front of an enormous and unknown painting by Velázquez. The light rapidly dissipated when he tried to identify it. He found himself in darkness, trying to feel his way around. He found a door. The new room was dimly lit. He saw figures, dressed in monkish robes adorned with mystical symbols, gathered around something at the far end. From within their circle, there was a flash of teeth, then a flash of blue light. He found himself walking in daylight, in the countryside with Katherine. Across the road to Meknes was a field full of tall sunflowers. Katherine’s hand was in his pants, their lips were together, and soon they were behind some trees.

In the morning, Taylor had a hangover. Nonetheless, he had ways to alleviate it. First he made strong coffee, chewed up a couple of aspirins. After two cups black, he had a semi-stale chocolate croissant, a third coffee with milk and lots of