Casablanca Blues (2013) (11 page)

‘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.

It was what was on them.

Each one was tuned to the same channel – 2M. And, to Ghita’s horror, each one was screening the same picture, of her father being led to a prison van in chains.

She rushed into the shop.

‘Put up the volume at once!’

A salesman stepped from the shadows.

‘Which unit would you like to be demonstrated, Miss?’

‘Any one... just turn up the volume!’

Frowning, the sales assistant shook his head.

‘Excuse me, Miss, this isn’t a café, but a television shop.’

‘Alright, alright...’ Ghita stammered, pointing to a large flat-screen model. ‘That one. I’d like to hear the sound.’

The salesman pressed a button on the remote control.

‘Omary is expected to be incarcerated without bail,’ said the news anchor, ‘due to the seriousness of his crime.’

‘
Crime
? What crime?’ Ghita exclaimed.

‘As you can hear, Miss, the sound on this model is particularly good.’

‘
What
?’

‘And the picture is exceptional.’

Regarding the salesman with a look of utter contempt, Ghita darted from the door, and hailed a cab.

‘Take me to Anfa, as quickly as you can!’

Forty-nine

The idea of Humphrey Bogart’s secret gnawed away at Blaine.

The more he tried to dismiss it as an idle daydream, the more it crept back into his thoughts. He felt a little bad at bothering Monsieur Raffi yet again, after all he had no spare funds for knick-knacks. But, as he reasoned it, the old shopkeeper valued conversation with a genuine
Casablanca
aficionado. And so, seeing the shutters up, Blaine crossed the street and shoved open the door.

The shopkeeper was asleep in his chair, a chipped china cup skewed on its saucer beside his left hand. He opened an eye, and then the other, pushed himself up.

‘
Bonsoir Monsieur Américain
,’ he said. ‘I am hoping you have come with some answers and not more questions.’

Closing the door, Blaine smiled hard, his cheeks dimpling.

‘I regret to say that I am here to bother you again with questions... questions to get an answer.’

‘An answer to the secret of Humphrey Bogart?’

‘The very same.’

Monsieur Raffi got up, shuffled to the corner, and boiled a kettle on the gas ring.

‘My sister used to bring me a special blend of tea from Lyon,’ he said. ‘She died last year, but thankfully she left me with enough packets to see me out. Wait till you taste it. There’s nothing like it in the entire world.’

The American took a step forward.

‘I have to explain something,’ he said. ‘You see, I’m one of the purists who regard it as the finest movie ever made. I know every line... every word.’ He slapped his hands together hard. ‘Hell,
Casablanca
is far more than an obsession,’ he said. ‘It’s a way of life.’

The shopkeeper measured two spoons of his precious tea into the pot, added the water, and stirred.

‘And why has that film had such an effect on your senses?’

‘Because of the way it gets under the skin.’

Monsieur Raffi poured two cups of tea. It was straw-coloured and scented of ginger.

‘You know the story. It wasn’t ever expected to be anything more than a “B” picture?’ he said.

‘And that’s what it is...’ Blaine replied. ‘There’s “B” stamped all over it! But it’s the one “B” movie that was better than any of the A-list.’

‘You really think so?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of Bogart. His depth, his anger, his helplessness...’

‘And why did he succeed where so many others had failed?’

Blaine peered into the mahogany cabinet and took in the studio shot.

‘Because he didn’t give a damn,’ he murmured. He paused. ‘Will you tell me the secret?’ he said, his voice a little louder.

The shopkeeper tapped six of his little pills out of their bottle and gulped them back with his tea.

‘If I was going to tell what I know, I would have done so long ago,’ he said. ‘You see some secrets are better lost with time.’

‘Is it about an affair? I heard that Mayo thought Bogart was sleeping with Ingrid Bergman.’

‘Of course she did. After all, he was sleeping with half the known world,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘but this secret isn’t about infidelity.’

‘Then?’

‘Then you have to work it out.’

‘But I need a clue to start me off.’

Monsieur Raffi was about to say something, when a group of Chinese tourists peered in the window, hands cupped to their eyes. They clicked a volley of photos and were gone. Raffi sunk down into his favourite chair, hands caressing the faded satin armrests.

He took another sip of tea.

‘What will you give me in return for a clue that leads to the secret?’ he asked quietly.

The American sensed his spine warming with resentment. Until that point he had liked the old French shopkeeper, but as a New Yorker he had a sixth sense for being taken for a ride.

‘I don’t have any cash,’ he said. ‘Just a mountain of goodwill.’

‘I’m not talking about payment in money,’ Monsieur Raffi said. ‘I’m talking about detail. Give me a detail and I shall give you a clue.’

‘What kind of detail?’

‘One from your life.’

Blaine thought for a moment. He almost smiled.

‘Any detail?’

Raffi blinked.

‘OK. Let me think... When I was a child we lived for a while at Catskill, Upstate New York. I used to go fishing in the river with my pals. We camped out in the summer beneath a full moon. And on those nights, when my buddies were asleep, I’d crawl out of my tent and sit on the rocks, watching the reflection of the moonlight on the water. It was silver... magical... like something from another world.’

‘A detail of moonlight in exchange for a clue?’

Blaine nodded.

The shopkeeper drained his cup. The tea was cold but he didn’t care.

‘Do you know why Bogart was here in North Africa?’ he asked.

‘To entertain the troops.’

‘That’s right. Or, at least that was the official story. It was, as you might say, the “cover”.’

‘Then what was the real reason?’

‘The secret.’

Blaine cleared a chair of its magazines and sat down close to Raffi.

‘We’re going around in circles, aren’t we?’ he said.

‘Well, the best way to arrive at a destination is by a circle, or a spiral.’ The old man paused, then glanced at the floor. ‘Tell me another detail. A detail about taste.’

Concentrating, the American closed his eyes.

‘When I was eleven years old,’ he said, ‘my parents were out for the evening. My brother and I found the key to the drinks cabinet. We opened it and drank the bourbon – Jack Daniel’s No. 7. It tasted like liquid fire. I can still remember it burning my mouth, then my throat, and my stomach.’

Monsieur Raffi blew his nose into a polka-dot handkerchief.

‘The real reason Bogart was here in North Africa wasn’t to entertain anyone,’ he said. ‘It was to collect something.’

‘
What
?’

‘A box. A very special box.’

‘Couldn’t it have been shipped to him?’

‘No... no... not this box.’

‘What was inside?’

Raffi winced.

‘A secret.’

‘Something valuable?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Where is it now?’

‘That’s a secret, too.’

Blaine turned to look at the cabinet, and glimpsed Bogart framed in mahogany and glass.

‘So many secrets,’ he said.

‘It went with the time.’

‘With the War?’

‘That’s right.’ Monsieur Raffi coughed hard into his hand. ‘Bogart played chess by mail with a few GIs,’ he said. ‘The game was his greatest love – more precious to him than women or even drink. In one match, a GI stationed here in Morocco promised him something if he won. But the arrangement was that he would have to come and collect it himself.’

‘A treasure?’

Raffi rubbed his eyes.

‘A spoil of war.’

‘So he won the game, and then came to collect his prize?’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘It’s a good story,’ Blaine said.

‘But it’s far more than that... more than a story.’

The shopkeeper sat up. He looked at the clock. Almost time to close for lunch. He pressed a knuckle to his lips and thought for a good long time.

‘I’ll be dead soon,’ he said, all of a sudden. ‘Not much life left in these bones. I have outlived my son, and my daughter has no interest in anything of substance. She’s never shown any interest in the things I hold dear.’

‘No interest in Bogart or Bergman?’ asked Blaine.

‘None at all.’

‘A wasted life?’

Monsieur Raffi grinned. He looked at the American, old eyes mapping the young man’s face. Then he pointed to a dresser to the right of the door. It was covered in junk acquired through decades of collecting.

‘Open the third drawer,’ he said, ‘and inside you will find your clue.’

Blaine stood up, crossed the room, and gently eased the drawer open. He expected to find it packed with odds and ends, but there was only one thing inside.

A postcard.

It was a hand-coloured picture of a Casablanca street. The buildings were gleaming white, the pedestrians dressed in suits with hats. Blaine turned it over. It was blank on the back.

‘What kind of clue’s this?’

‘Take it,’ said Raffi. ‘Turn what you see over in your head and...’

‘
And
?’

‘And let the spirit of Humphrey Bogart seep into your veins.’

Fifty

There was nothing the taxi driver disliked more than going to the ritzy neighbourhood of Anfa. Everyone there owned a car, and the journey meant he would most likely be returning empty.

He disliked the people, too, regarding them as most locals did, as phoney Moroccans, the kind that were far more at home in France.

Jerking the wheel to the left after the Saudi Palace, the driver gritted his teeth. A sea of congestion stretched out in front of his car’s bumper – most of them black Range Rovers and new German cars.

‘The traffic’s always bad here,’ he said under his breath, ‘because these stupid rich people don’t know how to drive.’

Ghita wagged a finger aggressively.