by Tahir Shah
‘You made an infraction, sir,’ the officer repeated.
‘So give me a ticket.’
‘But...’
‘But, what?’
‘But, sir, there’s another way to sort out the situation.’
‘And how would that be?’
The official frowned, fumbling for his pen. No one ever agreed to pay the fine. After all, the standard bribe was a quarter of the price and executed in a fraction of the time. The last thing any policeman wanted to do was paperwork. In the time it took to fill out a single form for an infraction he could bring in ten times as much in bribes – cold hard cash he got to keep.
Omary held out his wrists.
‘Let’s go to the police station,’ he said. ‘I’m all yours!’
Seven
Another bright Brooklyn morning, the blue sky masked by the slate grey walls of Acme Telesales. Seated at desk 52, Blaine slipped on his headset and got down to coaxing random New Yorkers into bulk-buying Drain-O-Sure.
‘Good morning, sir. I’m calling about your drains.’
Click.
‘Hello, ma’am... do you have a smell in the kitchen that won’t go away?’
Click.
‘This is your lucky day, Miss – a Drain-O-Sure day!’
Click.
Just as Blaine was about to make the next call, the supervisor strode up, clipboard in hand.
‘I want to see you in my office right away, Williams!’
‘I’ve got five more calls to make before my break. That OK?’
‘No, not OK!’
‘Huh?’
‘You’ve been suspended!’
‘Suspended? What for?’
‘You know what for... for that email to the shareholders... for damn well claiming that Drain-O-Sure’s a con!’
Tugging off his headset, Blaine wiped a hand down hard over his face.
‘But Mr. Seldon, we’re preying on the elderly and the vulnerable. We’re touting a product that’s nothing but watered-down bleach... It’s shameful and it’s probably illegal as well.’
The superintendent whispered into a miniature microphone on his lapel.
‘What’s going on?’
‘You’re being terminated. Right now. That’s what’s going on.’
‘What?!’
‘Clear out your stuff, Williams. Security’s on their way up. I want you out of the building in ten minutes!’
Eight
A pair of size six Jimmy Choo black crocodile stilettos crossed the lawn, the heels sinking down into the grass as they went. Strapped tightly into them, Ghita Omary struggled to stay upright. She reeled towards a group of caterers who were huddling at the far end of the garden.
‘No, no, no! You imbeciles!’ she cried, her arms flailing for balance. ‘What are you doing with those lights? They’re not supposed to be there! And change those tablecloths at once! Where did you get them – from a prison?! I don’t want cotton. I want the finest silk!’
The caterers jerked to attention. They were surrounded by toppled stacks of chairs, piles of trestle tables yet to be assembled, and by miles of crumpled fabrics. One of the men, the bravest and also the most senseless, wagged a finger towards Ghita.
‘We’re just following orders, Miss,’ he said.
The next thing he knew, he was lying on the grass, his thigh having been pierced with a size six Jimmy Choo in black crocodile.
In one slick movement, Ghita withdrew her bloodied weapon, slipped it back on her foot, and turned to greet her father, whose Jaguar was purring into the drive.
‘Baba! Sorry, but you can’t park there,’ she called loudly. ‘The champagne delivery is about to arrive.’
Hicham Omary might have protested, but he was used to being dealt orders by his daughter.
Parking beside the kitchen door, he closed his eyes and found himself in a simple bare-walled apartment in an old Art Deco walk-up somewhere far downtown. For a moment there was silence, and simplicity.
Ghita opened the car door, and her father’s memory vanished.
‘I’m working with idiots, Baba!’ she exclaimed, dabbing a lace handkerchief melodramatically to her eye. ‘I don’t know what to do. One tiny mistake and tongues will wag. You know how they are – like vipers.’
‘Dearest Ghita, it’s only an engagement,’ Omary said as he climbed out of the car, touched with a sense of déjà vu.
‘Only an engagement? And we are just ordinary people, are we?’
Before her father could reply, Ghita clapped her hands, the soft skin of her palms anointed twice daily with a moisturizer from the Savoy Alps.
‘I shall need some cheques, Baba,’ she said, a tone of sternness in her voice.
‘Some?’
Ghita calculated. Maths was never her strong point. She quickly lost count, and then frowned.
‘Just sign me the entire book, and leave them blank... I have lots of people to pay.’
Standing on tiptoes in her Jimmy Choos, she pecked her father on the cheek, her lips leaving a smudge of Chanel Rouge Allure.
‘Baba, what would I ever do without you?’ she said.
Nine
A short stout man with a waxy face and a week’s growth of beard was standing in the shadows outside apartment 5B. The kind of figure you would never pick out in a police line-up, there was nothing at all memorable about him.
Blaine knew his landlord was waiting there in the darkness before he reached the landing. He could smell him, even against the stench of rotting eggs – he reeked of Turkish cigarettes.
‘Good evening to you, Mr. Rogers,’ he said, taking the last pair of steps in one. ‘And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?’
‘I’ve had enough!’ the landlord growled. He limped backwards a pace until resting a shoulder on the wall.
‘Enough of what?’
‘Of your chasing away my potential tenants! You make this place sound like it’s out of Silence of the Lambs!’
Blaine untied the belt of his raincoat and got out his key. Without thinking, his thumb ran down the notches and he turned it the right way up for the lock.
‘Was it wrong of me to point out the highlights?’ he asked.
‘What highlights?’
‘Let me think,’ Blaine said, stepping forward until his face was half a foot from the landlord’s. ‘The abundance of free vermin, the rising damp, and the curious case of Mr. Wilson in 4D.’
The fingers of Mr. Rogers’ right hand formed into a fist. He might have thrown a punch, but he was too close and far too feeble. So he yelled instead:
‘I want you out of here tomorrow, Williams!’
‘But...’
‘No buts! Just get the hell out!’
Ten
A line of black limousines stretched down the street, high society streaming out of them and in through the wrought iron gates of the Omary Mansion.
The ladies were coutured in woven silk jelabas, jewels glittering in their ears and around their necks. Their husbands were impeccable in tuxedos, solid gold watches on their wrists.
On either side of the entrance, a pair of giant flambeaux was burning, their flames licking the night air. The ground beneath them was sprinkled with scarlet rose petals, picked at dawn that morning in the foothills of the Atlas.
Inside the gates, a band of musicians from Jajouka were playing, brought in by bus from the Riff. Armed with tambours, fiddles, and with simple wooden pipes, they had been the only choice that Hicham Omary had successfully made. Their music reminded him of his own Berber ancestry, and of carefree summers in the hills in Morocco’s north.
The platinum spotlight of a television crew blinded the guests as they entered and ran the gauntlet of welcome.
Inside, against the scent of roasting lamb and of pungent white lilies, Hicham Omary and his daughter mingled. There was much grinning, many superlatives, congratulations and kisses.
As father and daughter gave welcome, an army of waiters glided between the guests,
with trays laden with food, and with flutes of vintage Cristal.
Eleven
The door to the street swung open wide.
Blaine stumbled out, the last cardboard box filled with his possessions clutched in his hands. Balanced on the box, like an imperial crown, was his precious fedora. Tucked into the band was his most prized trophy of all – the stub of a cinema ticket from Casablanca’s première night.
With care, he placed the box beside all the others just outside on the pavement, put the hat on the back of his head, and did a count.
There were fifteen boxes in all, packed tight with a lifetime’s collection of Casablanca memorabilia. Beside them was a single vinyl suitcase a little the worse for wear and, next to that, half a dozen framed posters, each one an original, of the same legendary film.
Blaine scanned the street for the truck that the doorman had ordered for him. With no sign of it, he picked up his oversized satchel and a plastic bin-liner with a few stray clothes, and went back inside to check.
‘Hey, Al, he’s still not out there.’
‘OK. I’ll give ‘em a call.’
The doorman’s bloated finger hit redial and his ear was assaulted by a shrill musical recording.
‘I hate the Beach Boys,’ he said.
Blaine tapped his watch.
‘He should have been here half an hour ago.’
There was a loud grumbling sound outside, as if it were about to rain. The doorman peered out at the sky just as the dispatcher came back on the line.
‘Yeah this is Al at Atlantic Avenue. We ordered a van to go to...’
‘To storage in Jackson Heights,’ Blaine whispered.
‘To Queens. Yeah. That’s right.’ Al hung up the phone. ‘Any minute now,’ he said.
Blaine gave a thumbs-up and went out to the kerb.
He did a double take.
All the boxes were gone.
The only thing left was a poster of Humphrey Bogart, with the word Casablanca ornamented in red along the bottom edge. The glass had been shattered, and there was a diagonal boot-print across Bogart’s face.
In the distance, slaloming away down Atlantic Avenue, was a garbage truck.
Blaine’s hands gripped his cheeks. He couldn’t make a sound. Then, slowly, the vacuum in his lungs filled with air.
‘Screw you, you bastards!’ he screamed. ‘And screw you Mr. Rogers! And you Mr. Seldon, and you too, Laurie! Screw the whole damned lot of you!’
Twelve
Poised on the marble steps that led down to the terrace, Ghita surveyed the guests with her best friend, Aicha.
They were both dressed in couture gowns, every inch of visible skin laden with cut jewels and gold. Ghita’s neck was hidden beneath a fabulous sapphire and diamond necklace, a matching tiara weighing down her chestnut hair.
‘You’ve got the whole zoo here tonight,’ said Aicha, sipping her champagne.
‘And to think that this is just the engagement,’ Ghita added.
‘Sweet of your father to roll out the red carpet.’
Ghita turned to face her friend, a glint of annoyance in her eye.
‘And what’s wrong with that? As I’ve told him so often, he mustn’t be shy about blowing a little small change if he wants to be respected by society.’
A waiter swanned up, a silver tray of canapés in hand. Aicha took one. Foie gras on a bed of Beluga from the Persian side of the Caspian.
‘This is divine. Where d’you get them?’
Ghita’s glance moved dreamily through the guests below.
‘I sent the jet to Paris this morning,’ she said. ‘We emptied half of Fauchon. But if you’re serving Cristal, how can you have anything but the best caviar?’ Ghita shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s just money,’ she said, ‘and Baba can always make some more of that.’
Thirteen
Huddled up at a corner table at Rick’s Diner in Brooklyn Heights, Blaine opened his satchel, and spilled its contents over the table.
There was a Casablanca mug, a bound copy of the original screenplay, a passport, a wallet, and the studio shot of Bogart that had adorned desk number 52. Propped up in the chair across from him was the glassless picture frame, the smudged boot-print across the screen hero’s face.
A waiter glided over, notepad in hand.
‘What’ll it be?’
‘What’s the special?’
‘Couscous with prunes.’
‘I’ll take it... with fries, and a Bud Lite.’
The waiter scribbled, grinned robotically, and was gone.
Blaine sat quite still, his eyes locked on Humphrey’s, as he contemplated his tremendous loss. At first, he felt terrible remorse, as he remembered each individual object that had been swallowed and pulverized by the mechanical monster. He half-wondered whether there was any hope of making an insurance claim. But even if he had grounds, how could he put a price on a collection that had taken his entire life to amass?
The couscous arrived, fries at the side. The waiter raised the clay pot’s conical lid and clenched his face in another automatic smile. All he was thinking about was the tip.
Blaine dug a fork into the couscous, moved it to his mouth, swallowed, then grimaced. Across from him, it seemed as though Bogart was grimacing too.
‘Excuse me!’
The waiter gushed over, his expression taut and submissive.
‘Yes, sir, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m not gonna bore you with details, but I’m not having the greatest of weeks. So I came in here because couscous is the one thing I expect the universe to deliver without any surprises – especially here at Rick’s.’
The waiter narrowed his eyes.
‘And?’
‘And, this couscous tastes like gravel... salty gravel. It’s barely even cooked.’
‘We haven’t had any other complaints, sir.’
Blaine sniffed aggressively.
‘Yeah, well maybe your other clients are cement mixers, but I’m not!’
The waiter’s cheerful façade evaporated. He loomed down over Blaine and Bogart, his fingers gnarled like talons.
‘Listen to me, you schmuck!’ he roared. ‘I’ve had enough of you! If our couscous isn’t to your liking, you can go screw yourself! Or get your royal ass up to some chichi Moroccan joint on the West Side! Or better still, take a hike – to Casablanca!’
Blaine was about to explode. But something stopped him, something deep inside. All of a sudden, he was the personification of calm.
‘That’s it...’ he said in a whisper.
‘Huh?’
‘You’re a genius. What’s your name?’
The waiter looked down sideways, as if expecting a veiled attack.
‘Carl,’ said. ‘The name’s Carl.’
‘Well, thank you, Carl! I don’t know how to ever thank you enough!’
‘Thank you me what?’
‘For saving my life.’
Fourteen
Arm in arm, Ghita and Aicha glided down the curved marble staircase and into the crowd.
For Ghita it was a moment to savour. All eyes were on her, the most eligible young woman in all Casablanca. And there was nothing she relished more than being the centre of attention.
A waiter hastened up, glasses arranged over the burnished surface of his tray. Ghita took a flute of Cristal. She sipped, then almost spat.
‘This champagne is warm!’ she scowled.
‘I shall have it chilled at once, Mademoiselle.’
‘Have the bottle poured away!’
‘At once, Mademoiselle.’
‘These people are so incompetent!’ Ghita hissed at her friend.
‘They don’t understand about hot and cold,’ Aicha replied.
‘I know they don’t, and that’s why they’re poor.’
At that moment, the sound of a massive engine revving broke above the strains of the musicians from Jajouka.
Ghita’s eyes lit up.
‘Mustapha’s Ferrari...’
A moment later, the two women were standing at the great iron gates of the Omary Mansion. Smoothing her gown after the gallop, Ghita regained her composure and straightened her tiara.
Just before the car’s door opened, a little girl stepped in from the street. Standing between Ghita and the scarlet Ferrari, she was barefoot and dressed in rags.
‘Shoo! Get away at once, you nasty little thing!’
The child didn’t move. Ghita motioned to one of the security guards, who stepped forwards and snatched the child out the way.
‘What an embarrassment,’ Ghita exclaimed under her breath.
The Ferrari’s door opened, and a slim man with designer stubble and slicked back hair stepped out. He was moist with expensive aftershave, as though he had just been hosed down with it.
‘Your knight in shining armour,’ Aicha laughed.
Mustapha stepped forwards and pressed his lips to Ghita’s knuckles.
‘I’ve been waiting half an hour for you,’ she said crossly.
Mustapha smoothed a hand down over his lacquered hair.
‘And I have been waiting for you my entire life,’ he replied.
Fifteen
Blaine stepped out of Rick’s Diner into the rain.
In one hand was the poster and, in the other, the black bin-liner, and the satchel around his neck.
He flagged down a cab, the brake lights reflected in the damp street.
‘Where to, bud?’
‘JFK. And step on it!’
The door slammed, the tyres screeched, and Blaine found himself energized in a way he hadn’t been in years. He checked the flight details on his phone. Royal Air Maroc Flight 201, the red-eye to Casablanca. Leaning back into the tattered seat, he stared out at the droplets tumbling down the window.
He closed his eyes and heard the sound of his grandfather calling him inside. The afternoon was filled with syrupy yellow light, the kind that only really exists in a childhood memory. His grandfather moved into the doorframe, raised a hand, and waved.
‘Got something to show you,’ he said. ‘A little surprise.’
‘What is it, Grandpa?’
