by Tahir Shah
‘How much is it?’
‘Eight hundred dirhams a month.’
‘How many rooms?’
‘Four. Five if you include the bathroom.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Ghita affirmed.
‘But you haven’t seen it yet.’
Ghita took out some money and handed it over.
‘You heard me,’ she said.
Forty-three
That afternoon, six large delivery trucks pulled up outside the apartment building, and a stream of personnel staggered inside, laden with equipment and supplies.
Across the street, at Baba Cool, Blaine was sitting at the same table as before, sipping a miniature glass of coffee. He was pondering his circumstances, wondering whether he could ever fit back in to American life.
Inside the café, the television was reporting breaking news:
‘Our lead story today is that Mr. Hicham Omary, the well-known and charismatic CEO of Globalcom, was arrested by armed officers, and charged for being in possession of a massive narcotics stash. The haul, described by police as “monumental”, was taken away for examination, while Mr. Omary was refused bail. Speaking a short time ago, the Governor of Casablanca said that he was saddened by the news, that such a respected pillar of society should be involved in such illicit activities.’
Blaine blinked, and found Saed crouching beneath the table on his box.
‘Shoeshine?’
‘What, again? No, don’t need one. Anyway what was all that about with the meat cleaver?’
‘He was looking for my cousin.’
‘From where I was sitting he looked like he wanted you.’
‘My cousin... he looks like me.’
Blaine pushed out a chair.
‘Have a seat,’ he said.
‘Why don’t you go to Marrakech... all tourists, they go to Marrakech?’ Saed asked.
‘Because it’s Casablanca that I like.’
‘But no one likes Casa.’
‘Why not?’
‘They say it’s dirty, that it’s not beautiful.’
‘Well, I like it,’ Blaine replied. ‘Sure, it’s a little worn in. But you know what they say about beauty?’
‘No.’
‘That it’s in the eye of the beholder.’
Blaine’s attention moved from Saed, over to the building opposite, where the delivery trucks were moving away. He thought he saw Ghita coming out, but wasn’t sure.
‘Where is your Casa Trash friend today?’ asked Saed, reading his thoughts.
‘She’s no friend of mine! She’s awful!’
The shoeshine boy let out a shrill laugh.
‘I think you like her,’ he said.
Forty-four
A pair of officers was standing guard outside Cell No. 5 at the imposing Central Police Station on Boulevard Zerktouni. Tucked away at the end of a whitewashed corridor two levels underground, it stank of urine and of fear.
Still in his pyjamas, Hicham Omary was sitting in the far corner. He was biding his time.
All of a sudden, there came the sound of hobnailed boots on stone, and a trail of cigarette smoke. Omary listened, as the guards snapped to attention, greeting an officer of rank.
There was a rattling sound, and then a small oval inspection window slid back, throwing an angular shaft of light through the cell.
‘Stand up!’ the guard ordered.
Hicham Omary didn’t move.
‘Get up or I’ll beat you!’ the voice commanded.
Slowly, Omary got to his feet. As he did so, the key turned in the lock. A moment later, the door was open.
‘Stand back!’ the guard roared, as a short angry-looking police chief advanced into the doorway. Drawing hard on his cigarette, an imported one, he blew the smoke in Omary’s direction.
‘I would have expected a man like you to be wiser than this,’ he said.
The prisoner smoothed back his hair with a hand.
‘I expected to ruffle a few feathers,’ he replied.
‘You have succeeded in doing that... You’ve ruffled a lot more feathers. The Governor is apoplectic. And the police force isn’t exactly flushed with joy at your campaign.’
Hicham Omary leaned back against the wall.
‘A trapped cat is all fangs and claws,’ he said. ‘Nothing more than that.’
The chief held up a clipboard and squinted to make sense of the scribble written across it.
‘What a great shame you were found with the narcotics. What was it – heroin?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Says here they found ten kilos in all, stashed under the floorboards in your home. Ten kilos... you know what that means?’
Omary didn’t answer.
‘It means they’re going to lock you up for good.’
Forty-five
Monsieur Raffi was asleep in the pool of sunlight at the front of his shop.
He was reclining in a rounded Art Deco chair upholstered in faded red satin, his feet resting up on an ancient stack of Paris Match. In the habit of taking a long siesta in the afternoon, he always dreamt the same dream. It was of the glory days of his youth, days unhindered by the complexities of modern life and advanced age.
Raffi rarely sold anything of any value, but the shop gave him a purpose, and the occasional chance for an interesting conversation.
Feeling a draught of cool air on his hands, he stirred from his doze and opened an eye.
‘Bonjour Monsieur Américain,’ he said.
Blaine shut the door behind him.
‘Good afternoon. I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t resist.’The shopkeeper sat up, and searched for his glasses.
‘I am sure you didn’t come here for advice,’ he said. ‘But as an old man, I feel it my duty to impart some to anyone who might listen.’
Blaine looked round into the light.
‘I’d be happy for any advice on offer,’ he replied.
Monsieur Raffi touched a hand to his knee.
‘I’m as old as time itself,’ he said, ‘and I ache from my eyebrows to my toenails... my advice is to seize every day you’re given, while you’re still young enough to appreciate it all.’
‘That’s exactly why I’m here in Casablanca,’ Blaine said.
He stepped forward to the cabinet, and began inspecting the objects through the glass.
‘My grandfather taught me to follow my dreams,’ he said, ‘and told me never to listen to anyone who tried to hold me back.’
‘He must be a wise man, your grandfather.’
‘He was... and he would have loved it in here, that’s for sure.’
Monsieur Raffi looked out at the street, no more than a glance, but long enough. ‘I have to take my pills,’ he said. ‘They keep me alive.’
Blaine wasn’t quite listening.
‘It’s as though your shop, your objects... they’re a missing link,’ he said, ‘as though they help me see my Casablanca... how it all once was – you know, in the movie.’
Raffi knocked six small pills onto his palm, counted them once, then again, and swallowed them with a cough. He took a sip of water from a jug by his chair, then belched.
‘You need imagination these days,’ he said, rearranging himself. ‘The old Casablanca isn’t as obvious as you might think. You have to search for it. But it’s out there, lurking in the shadows and the mess... not on the surface, but deep underground.’
‘Do you remember how Casablanca was?’ Blaine asked.
The shopkeeper closed his eyes.
‘It was like something from a child’s fantasy,’ he replied very slowly. ‘The streets were paved in the finest stone, so clean you could have eaten your dinner off them. The buildings were dazzling, like cut crystal, each one more marvellous than the last, and each one a symbol of colonial power.’
Monsieur Raffi paused to take another sip of water. He knocked a hand to the back of his neck and cleared his throat.
‘The women walked on heels from Paris,’ he
said, ‘and the men dressed impeccably in pinstripe suits and hats. They were prosperous and handsome. There was a sense of invincibility, as though the world was our oyster, that there wasn’t anything we couldn’t achieve.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The French left, that’s what happened. This was their city, their obsession, their fantasy. Forget what you know from the movies – Casablanca was a French invention, not a Moroccan one.’
Blaine picked up an old silver ice bucket and weighed it in his hands.
‘I can feel them here,’ he said, ‘just like in Casablanca, the officers of the despised Vichy rule... the danger... the secrecy.’
Struggling to his feet, Monsieur Raffi plodded over to the cabinet. Blaine and he were inches from one another, their faces reflected in the same small sheet of glass.
‘Will you tell me about Bogart?’ said the American. ‘What was he like?’
Raffi breathed in, then exhaled hard in a sigh.
‘He was no angel,’ he said. ‘He drank and smoked himself to an early grave. No one could keep up with him, no one except for Mayo.’
‘Mayo Methot?’
‘That’s right. She was his third wife. Think of it... married three times by the age of thirty-eight.’
‘And four by forty-five.’
The shopkeeper blew his nose on a square of rag.
‘That’s right. But of them all, Mayo was the most wanton. In her appreciation for liquor she was more than his match. She liked cheap cognac. A horror of a woman,’ he sighed again. ‘She stabbed him once, with a butcher’s knife. Did you know that?’
Blaine shook his head.
‘No, but it doesn’t surprise me. Was she here with him in Morocco?’
The shopkeeper went back to his red Art Deco chair and slumped down like a tired old cat.
‘Yes of course. She followed him like a shadow. Didn’t trust him for a moment, after all...’ Raffi stopped mid-sentence, as though he had lost his train of thought. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said, all of a sudden. ‘I may be an old man, and not a very wise one at that. But I know Bogart’s secret, the one he kept hidden from everyone – even his wife. And it’s waiting for a bright young spark to root it out.’
‘What is it, the secret?’ Blaine asked.
Raffi shook a finger at the American’s chest.
‘There’s no value in being told something when you can work it out for yourself,’ he said.
‘Will you start me off with a clue?’
The aged shopkeeper lifted his feet back onto the stack of Paris Match.
‘Sometimes the best way to find something,’ he said, ‘is not to search for it at all.’
Forty-six
That afternoon, as he left Baba Cool, Blaine caught sight of Ghita going into the apartment building opposite. There was something different about her, less of the peacock and more of a snipe, as though she was struggling not to be recognized.
A pair of oversized sunglasses were pulled down over her eyes, her hair furled up in a patterned silk scarf, and her slim form wrapped in a voluminous coat. It was the heels that gave her away, though. They were four inches high and were monogrammed fox fur.
Unable to resist, Blaine followed.
Leaving the street, he stepped into the gloomy building, where an old woman was down on her knees mopping the floor tiles with a cloth. Without even being asked, she held up four fingers, then jerked her head back towards the stairs.
Blaine climbed, the wide sweeping staircase spiralling upward in darkness like a snail’s shell.
By the fourth floor, he was wheezing from the ascent and from the dust, and felt as though he was back in Mr. Rogers’s walk-up. Then he sneezed and, as his nose cleared, he caught the smell of fresh paint.
Peering to the left, and then right, he realized there was only one door on that level. Lightly curved, it was teak, the brass fittings long since sold. From beneath it there radiated a trace of bright yellow light.
Blaine knocked hard. He waited. There was no reply. He knocked again, and was about to leave, when the door opened no more than a crack.
‘Yes?’ said a woman’s voice, an eye straining to focus. It was Ghita. She seemed flustered. ‘You!’ she exclaimed.
‘I saw you from across the street and I... I couldn’t resist...’
‘Following me?’
‘No... well, I guess so... Aren’t you staying at Hotel Marrakech any more?’
‘No. I’ve rented this little room instead.’
Blaine looked down at his feet, then up into Ghita’s eyes.
‘Look, I think we got off to a bad start,’ he said. ‘I thought you were an arrogant princess...’
‘And I thought you were a stupid American.’
‘Shall we try again?’
Blaine held out his hand. This time Ghita shook it.
‘Come inside,’ she said. ‘It’s not very fancy, but it’s my home, for the moment at least.’
The apartment’s sitting-room was just fifteen feet square, with a large cupboard on the wall adjacent to the door. There was a terrible stench of damp and possibly even death. In one corner there lay a pile of dead cockroaches. Above it on the wall was an alarming damp patch, a patch that seemed to be spreading.
There were no windows.
Except for the wardrobe, the only piece of furniture was a mattress spattered with vomit and blood.
‘It’s... it’s... it’s nice,’ said Blaine, lying.
‘I like to think of it as home,’ Ghita replied humbly.
Blaine felt that he ought to sit, to give the sense he was comfortable there. But there was no chair, so he stood.
‘I have to tell you something,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Well, I came to Casablanca because of a love affair.’
‘With a woman?’
Blaine smiled.
‘With a movie,’ he said. ‘Casablanca. It’s the most important thing in my life, something of an obsession. I came here on kind of a pilgrimage, expecting to find a city brimming with intrigue and with mystery... and until now you are the only mysterious person I’ve met.’
‘Mysterious?’ Ghita pushed back her hair. ‘How ever am I mysterious?’ she asked.
‘Well, it doesn’t add up. You don’t add up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, forgive me for saying it, but you reek of wealth and sophistication, and you’re living here like this.’
Ghita looked at the American coldly.
‘Do you always speak so plainly?’ she said.
‘Well, I don’t believe in beating around the bush.’
‘Beating...?’
‘Around the bush. It’s an expression.’
‘I am here because of circumstances.’
‘What circumstances?’
‘I’m proving a point to my father.’
‘Huh?’
‘He doesn’t believe that I can survive without the finer things in life.’
‘Can you?’
Ghita fluttered a hand towards the mattress.
‘Well it appears that I am doing quite well,’ she said.
‘And what’s the point... the point of proving your point?’
‘Respect.’
‘From your friends?’
‘No, no... from my father. My friends must never know I stayed down here like, this... like a pauper.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’d die of shame.’
Blaine took a step backwards, towards the damp.
‘Let me get this right,’ he said. ‘You’re here pretending to be poor to win some kind of a bet with your dad?’
‘He’s going to regret pushing me to this,’ Ghita declared, knotting her fingers together.
‘You’re doing it all to make him feel bad?’ Blaine asked, frowning.
‘My reasons are none of your business!’
‘Excuse me, but it sounds as if you’re one decidedly unhinged young lady
.’
Ghita’s fingers unknotted.
‘And you... you’re the most stupid American I’ve ever met, and the one person I hoped I wouldn’t ever encounter again!’
Blaine stepped out into the corridor.
And the door slammed hard behind him.
Forty-seven
At Casa Voyageurs, Mortimer Wu climbed down from the Marrakech train, amid the heaving frenzy of luggage and confusion that accompanies the major stops.
He had horn-rimmed glasses, a spike of jet-black hair, and a week’s growth of stubble on his cheeks. Wu was like any other backpacker – scruffy, lost, and in need of a good hot meal and a bath.
Exiting the station, he pushed through the droves of taxi drivers touting for a fare, and made his way to the café across the street.
In his left hand was a rolled-up newspaper, that morning’s Le Matin, and in his right was a soft pack of Marlboro, even though he didn’t smoke. He took a seat with his back to the road, ordered a nous-nous, coffee mixed with milk, and he waited as he had been instructed.
An hour passed, and then another.
Wu felt certain he had missed the contact, or that he had got the wrong café, when a man in a tweed jacket and matching cap rushed in and sat down.
‘There was a problem with the supplier,’ he said, helping himself to a cigarette. ‘I have the documents now.’ He slipped a brown manila envelope into the folded newspaper, and lit the cigarette.
‘Once I’ve done this, I’m free to go, right?’ said Wu anxiously.
‘Do the job right and you’ll be notified, do you understand?’
The contact took a long hard drag, breathed out, and disappeared behind the smoke.
Mortimer Wu thought of his boyhood in Hong Kong, an elderly aunt leading him around the Wet Market in search of live turtles for soup. He picked up the newspaper and pulled out the envelope. It was thicker than he had expected. Stuffing it into the inside pocket of his fleece jacket, he left a coin for the coffee, and went out onto the street.
Forty-eight
Ghita was making her way through Derb Omar, the cloth market, when she noticed a television shop opening its shutters after lunch. The only shop on the street that didn’t sell textiles, it seemed rather out of place. But it wasn’t the televisions that caught her eye.
