by Tahir Shah
‘A surprise.’
Blaine took the porch steps in one, wrenched back the screen door with both hands, and charged into the house. There was the scent of banoffee pie from the parlour and the sound of vinyl crackling Billie Holiday’s Summertime.
‘What is it, Grandpa?’ Blaine squirmed. ‘What’s the surprise?’
The old man turned round. He was holding a glass beaker half-full of water. In the glass was his smile.
‘Hold on a minute, son,’ he said, draining the glass and slipping in his teeth.
Then, reaching down onto the bureau, he picked up a grubby fragment of grey paper, no bigger than a postage stamp.
‘When I was a young man I took a girl on a date,’ he said. ‘The girl was your grandma, and the date was the most important night of my life. It was on that night that I asked her to be my bride.’
Blaine sat on his grandpa’s knee. He could feel the bones.
‘Where did you go – on the date?’
Grandpa didn’t reply at first. His tired old eyes glazed over. Then, slowly, he said:
‘To see the most magical movie of all on opening night.’
‘Which movie, Grandpa?’
‘Casablanca – the finest picture ever made.’ Again, he paused, pushed his teeth back into place, and said: ‘I want to give you two things, Blaine. The first is this little bit of paper. I’m hoping you’ll look after it, and cherish it.’ Opening his palm, he revealed the grubby scrap of paper.
‘But what is it?’
‘My ticket stub from that night, from the première of Casablanca.’
Blaine took it. As he held it up close to his eyes, his grandpa drifted off to sleep.
‘What’s the other thing, Grandpa?’ he said in a loud voice.
Blaine’s grandfather stirred from his doze, confused.
‘Huh? What? Oh... yes, the other thing...’
The old man put on his glasses and strained to look at the TV Guide. ‘The other thing is that we’re gonna watch it together.’
‘Watch what?’
‘Casablanca of course! It’s just about to start!’
Sixteen
There had been toasts, and more toasts, laughter and even tears.
Hicham Omary had thanked his friends for honouring him at his daughter’s engagement. He had lavished praise on the impending union, and regrets that his wife was not alive to witness it all. As the Jajouka musicians struck up, and the guests began to dance, Ghita and her fiancé slipped away into the rose garden.
‘I was thinking of Australia for the honeymoon,’ Mustapha said.
‘The Great Barrier Reef?’
Ghita smiled.
‘You read my mind!’
Mustapha was about to reply when his mobile rang. Without thinking, he took the call, his brow beading with sweat, a hand cupped over his mouth.
‘Hi sweetie... How are you? Yes, yes. Can’t talk now. OK. Until tomorrow. Me too. Yes, OK... I promise.’
‘Who was that?’
‘It was, er, my... my... cousin... Karim, I mean Karima.’
‘And we didn’t invite her? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Oh, she’s not a close cousin.’
‘But you’re meeting her tomorrow?’
‘Just for a coffee. She needs some help with something.’
Ghita moved closer, until her lips were less than an inch from her fiancé’s ear. In a voice as cold as crushed ice, she said:
‘If you ever lie to me about another woman, my darling, I shall hunt you down and tear out your heart.’
Seventeen
At ten minutes to ten, Hicham Omary went up to his private study and took a call from his senior editor, as he did every night of the week.
He might have taken it on his mobile, but he wanted a little space and solitude. And, besides, he was tiring of the great and the good of Casablanca society.
The editor had gone over the news agenda for the main bulletin of the night. It was a formality, one that even Omary – as owner of the channel – was not expected to change in any way.
Putting down the receiver, he paced over to the window, and watched as Ghita strolled through the crowd. She was showing off a colossal diamond set on a band of Russian gold.
Beside her was her beloved Mustapha, whose good looks were matched only by his confidence, and by the size of his father’s bank balance.
There was a knock at the oak door and Hamza Harass, father of the groom to be, swept in. In his hand was a Cohiba cigar, a luxury he clung to despite a chronic heart condition.
‘Thought I’d find you in here,’ he said.
Omary mumbled something indistinct. Stepping across to a bookcase lined with leather-bound volumes, he pushed a secret button made of brass. It was mounted to the underside of one of the shelves, and transformed the unit into a well-stocked bar. Omary poured two tumblers of Glendullan. He handed one to Harass, his closest friend, a man with a seat on his company’s board.
They clinked glasses.
‘To a union between our families,’ said Omary, peering towards the window again.
‘You certainly know how to throw a party,’ Harass replied.
‘I didn’t do anything. Just found the band.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘And I wrote a few cheques as well.’
‘They make a wonderful couple. So in love.’
Omary cupped the single malt in his hand, warming it.
‘I worry about her – I worry about Ghita,’ he said.
‘Look at her, you’ve given her everything. She’s elegant, beautiful, intelligent.’
‘But she’s not street-wise,’ Omary sighed, taking a gulp of his Scotch. ‘She’s never been touched by the real world. Never taken a taxi let alone a bus, never had to rough it – never even gone shopping for food, or anything, except for luxuries and designer brands.’ Omary fell silent, and sighed again. ‘She has never starved,’ he said.
‘And is there shame in that?’ Harass asked.
‘Perhaps not. But it weakens her, and leaves her open to attack.’
Eighteen
Dawn broke over Africa, its light brighter than anything Blaine had ever witnessed. Squinting through the half-shaded window, he peered down, catching a first glimpse of the Dark Continent. Beside him, Bogart was strapped into the empty seat, the tread of the boot-print a little less obvious than before.
What an adventure! Blaine thought to himself. First time to Africa and on a journey in search of true love.
He looked down at the parched landscape below. His grandfather’s picket-fence smile was overlaid on the canvas of desert. The old man would be pleased – pleased that a little ticket stub had led to an obsession – and that the obsession had in turn led to adventure.
Flight 201 descended fast through a clear blue sky, banked sharply over water, and flew in low over a vast metropolis – all gleaming and white like a distant paradise. There were straight boulevards edged with pin-prick palms, dazzling villas and apartment blocks laid out in radiating lines. And there was a sense of order, as though the city below the metal wings was inspired by something divine.
‘Casablanca,’ whispered Blaine to himself. ‘At last...’
His eyes welling with tears, he touched a hand out to Humphrey, and gave thanks to the universe.
The tyres touched down with a thud and a trace of smoke.
All the passengers leapt up. In a maelstrom of movement, they fought each other for their cases and their abundant packages of duty free.
Taking his lead from the others, Blaine grabbed Bogart, and elbowed his way down the aisle. Before he knew it, he had clambered down the staircase, and was treading with uncertain footsteps over African soil, or rather, cement.
In the terminal building, an immigration official drew deeply on his filterless cigarette, exhaled and asked:
‘Combien de temps restez-vous au Maroc?’
Blaine jabbed a finger at his passport.
‘American,’ he said. ‘You speak English?�
�
The official stubbed out the cigarette, and blew out a last lungful of smoke.
‘What is your age?’
‘Twenty-nine... my date of birth is in the passport.’
‘How long you stay in Casablanca?’ he asked in a voice deepened by a fondness for Gauloises.
‘Um, er,’ Blaine faltered. ‘Not quite sure. I got a one way ticket. You see, it’s a last minute trip.’
‘What the name of your hotel?’
‘I don’t have one. Not yet.’
The official lit another cigarette despondently. He flicked through the empty pages, clicked down the stamp, and slid the passport back across the counter.
‘Welcome to Casablanca,’ he said.
Nineteen
At the back of the Omary Mansion, the empty bottles were piled up, the catering staff gorging themselves on leftover canapés. The last of the guests were stumbling out to their cars, a little the worse for wear after all the chilled Cristal.
Ghita stood at the gate, kissing cheeks and giving thanks. She was irritated that Mustapha had left early amid a whirlwind of excuses. The owner of the catering firm moved cautiously from the shadows and received the full force of Ghita’s wrath. It was late and there was no one else to savage. But, having been in the business for many decades, he knew how to sidestep the insecurities of the city’s nouveaux riches.
Stooping to the point of grovelling, he kissed her hand, and declared:
‘Miss Omary, allow me to say that you were a radiant princess tonight.’
Her vanity never quite satiated, Ghita’s wrath melted. She blushed, the colour lost to the darkness.
‘Do you really think so?’ she giggled.
There was a crash of bottles in the distance and the caterer slunk off to bark orders at his team. All alone for the first time that night, Ghita strode into the mansion, slipped off her stilettos, and searched for her father.
She found him in his study nursing a second glass of Glendullan, his bow tie undone. He seemed a little depressed, but it never occurred to Ghita to ask why.
‘They have all gone, Baba,’ she said. ‘I think it went well.’
Hicham Omary’s eyes creased in a smile. He wasn’t listening.
‘For the wedding we will definitely use another caterer,’ said Ghita. ‘Mr. Hamood and his band of merry men were incompetence personified.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Omary distantly, staring into mid-air.
‘The caterers... they’re imbeciles. And they’re liars and they’re thieves. I shall insist that they are all fired. It’ll teach them a good lesson.’
Hicham Omary took a sip of his whisky. His eyes slowly focusing, he took in his daughter, who had slumped down in a leather armchair across from him.
‘Do you ever think of the families they support?’ he said softly.
Ghita frowned.
‘Their lying, thieving relatives? Why should I spare a thought for them?’ she said, rubbing a hand over her heel. ‘Damn those shoes. You’d think that Louboutin could design shoes that didn’t pinch.’
Again, Omary sipped. He patted the place on the sofa beside him.
‘Come and sit with me,’ he said.
‘Oh, but I’m tired, Baba. I think I shall go to bed.’
Omary patted a second time, repeating his request a little more forcefully.
‘There’s something I want to ask you.’
Ghita crossed the room and sat down on the sofa.
‘What is it, Baba?’
‘Tell me something...’
‘What?’
‘What is the greatest suffering you have ever known?’
Ghita pressed her hands together, touching a fingertip to her lips.
‘Is this a joke?’ she asked, a little confused.
‘No, just a question.’
‘Well, if you are asking, I’ll tell you. It’s enduring that terrible car you gave me. It’s made me a laughing-stock. It almost broke down again last week. And that chauffeur you gave me is a scoundrel.’
‘Which car?’
‘The white one... the one with those little silver rings on the front, like the Olympics.’
‘An Audi.’
‘That’s it. It’s German, and quite unreliable.’
‘Ghita, can I tell you something?’ said Omary, resting the empty glass on the table to his left.
‘Yes, Baba. Oh, is it a surprise? You’re giving me a new car? Well, would you give me a new driver at the same time? Tawfik’s such a wretch.’
Ghita’s eyes lit up.
‘Oh! Thank you! Thank you!’ she exclaimed, kissing her father’s cheek, and leaving another smudge of Rouge Allure.
‘Listen to me,’ her father said coldly. ‘When I was your age I had holes in my shoes. I had never taken a taxi. My feet were covered in blood from walking. I was thin as a pole.’
‘Poor Baba.’ She leaned forwards and kissed him again.
‘I don’t want sympathy,’ he said. ‘I just want you to understand.’
‘To understand what?’
‘The value of money.’
Ghita sat up straight.
‘Oh, I do,’ she said. ‘I know the cost of all sorts of things and think it’s bordering on the criminal what they charge. I was just looking at a jacket at Gucci’s. They’re asking a king’s ransom.’
‘And the cost of milk? How much is milk?’
Ghita shrugged.
‘Well I suppose it depends on how much you buy.’
‘A litre. For a litre of milk.’
Another shrug.
‘A few dirhams, I suppose.’
‘How much exactly?’
‘Dearest Baba,’ Ghita giggled. ‘I’ve never bought milk.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there are people to do that.’ She yawned. ‘Now, I’m tired, so terribly tired. I shall go to bed.’
Omary stood up, and walked to the window. He peered down into the darkness, where the strands of coloured lights were being taken down, and the trestle tables folded away.
‘How would you survive without all of this?’ he asked.
‘Without what, Baba?’
‘Without the luxuries you take for granted every moment of the day?’
Again, Ghita giggled, a giggle tinged with apprehension. She wondered what her father was getting at.
‘I am quite sure I would survive very well, Baba.’
Hicham Omary turned slowly to face his daughter. He looked at her hard, taking in the tiara and the jewels, the couture gown and the perfect manicure.
‘Without me bankrolling your lifestyle and your whims, I’d give you five minutes out there in the real world,’ he said.
Ghita emitted a faint squeak – the seed of a giggle. Then she fell silent, realizing her father was for once deadly serious.
‘I don’t need money to survive,’ she said faintly. ‘But it just makes life, well... nicer.’
‘So you are telling me that you would survive quite happily out there without the funds I provide – funds you plough through without a second thought.’
‘Of course I could survive, dearest Baba.’
‘But for how long?’
Ghita touched an index finger to her lower lip, the nail polished in rosebud red.
‘For ages, I suppose.’
‘For a day... a week... a month?’
‘Yes, yes... at least that long.’
Omary took a step closer to the sofa.
‘For a month?’
Ghita widened her eyes and nodded very gently.
‘Yes, I’m sure I could survive for a month. After all, how hard could it be?’
‘I don’t believe it!’ shouted Hicham Omary, slamming his palm down on the sofa’s wooden arm. ‘I don’t believe you could survive without my money or your fancy friends.’
A tear rolled down Ghita’s cheek, as her face flushed with emotion. She had never seen her father angry before, let alone annoyed at her – and on this most speci
al of nights.
‘Then I’ll prove it!’ she exclaimed.
‘How?’
‘I’ll go downtown.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ll... I’ll...’
‘You’ll what?’
‘I’ll live there.’
‘For an afternoon?’
‘No... for longer. For much longer. For...’
‘For...?’
‘For a month!’
Ghita’s father said nothing. He turned his back on the sofa, gazing out to the garden again.
‘You don’t even know where downtown is,’ he said gently.
‘Yes, I do... it’s near the port... somewhere there, near all those ugly old streets.’
Omary had a flash of memory.
A young Berber kid playing soccer in the medina’s filth. The other boys were taunting him because his shoe had ripped open, and because his family came from down in the desert. The taunts led to a brawl, a brawl that ended with blood.
He turned round.
As he did so, Ghita stood up. She strode over to him. Her eyes were dark and serious, her breathing deep.
‘I shall do it,’ she said. ‘I shall go and live downtown for a month without any luxury or funds. I swear on Mama’s grave I shall do it.’
Twenty
A tidal wave of travellers swept out from the terminal building, the majority of them pilgrims newly returned from the Hajj.
Many were clutching plastic containers, filled to their brim with precious Zamzam water from the sacred spring in Mecca. As soon as they reached the sun-drenched exterior of the terminal, they were engulfed by hordes of relatives. There was whooping and hugging, tears of joy, and exclamations of thanks to God.
Somewhere in the middle of the surge of humanity was Blaine, satchel and bin liner in one hand, Humphrey Bogart in the other. He was clothed in his grimy white mackintosh, the trusty fedora balanced on his head.
The pilgrims soon gushed away, leaving him alone.
Blaine stood there, awed by the moment. The initial sense of apprehension gone, he smiled, a smile that led to laughter.
At last, he was home.
Twenty-one
At Omary’s mansion, the sprinklers were at work again, rinsing away the footprints and the spilled champagne.
