Casablanca Blues (2013) (17 page)

‘Which mountains? The Atlas or the Rif?’

Blaine pulled his bow tie loose.

‘He didn’t say. I’m so sorry.’

Ghita began to weep. She covered her eyes with her hand.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she sobbed.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Are you expecting someone?’ Blaine asked.

‘No... no one except for you knows I am here. No one except for...’

‘Saed.’

Ghita unlocked the door and the shoeshine boy stepped in as if he owned the place.

‘How was Club Souterrain?’

‘Well, the good news is that they’ve caught a guy who admitted to killing the backpacker.’

‘And the
bad
news?’

‘That I couldn’t find out where Ghita’s father is being held – just that it’s in the mountains.’

‘Which mountains?’

Blaine shrugged.

‘Dunno.’

Ghita started sobbing again.

‘I have an idea,’ said Saed. ‘An idea that may work.’

‘What is it?’

‘I’ll ask my girlfriend.’

‘You’ve got a girlfriend?’ Ghita and Blaine exclaimed both at once.

‘Yes, of course I do. She’s older than me, and she works for the commissioner at the main police station.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before? It could have saved a lot of time,’ Ghita said witheringly.

‘Not to mention a lot of drinking,’ murmured Blaine.

Saed filled himself a tumbler of neat Grey Goose and took a long satisfying gulp.

‘You are very lucky,’ he said.

‘How’s that?’

‘Because she owes me a big favour – a favour I have been waiting to use for a very long time.’

Seventy-three

For three days and nights it rained.

It wasn’t mild European splish-splash rain, but a full African downpour. The city was flooded right away, the old French drains clogged with decades’ worth of dirt and grime. A number of
bidonvilles
, shantytowns, were washed clean away, leaving the impoverished residents homeless and bereft.

Up the hill in Anfa, Casablanca’s
nouveaux
riches
were moaning about what they imagined to be the terrible inconvenience of it all. They sat indoors, cancelling their golf games, and flicking through imported magazines.

Down near the port, one of the last remaining Indian traders was bailing the rainwater from his shop. His family had come to Casablanca back in’ 28, lured by the promises of the French, and by the prospect of a land untouched by low-cost Indian wares. His name was Ankush Singh and, while he himself had never visited the land of his ancestors, he knew it through the stories his grandfather used to tell.

As he chucked out another bucket of dingy grey water, he spotted a pair of sensible well-made shoes standing at the kerb. They led to slender ankles, and up to fine legs, a pretty dress and, eventually, to a lovely face.

Putting down the bucket, Ankush Singh looked at the girl.

Unable to remember the last time beauty of any kind had visited his premises, he wanted to savour the moment.

‘Someone told me that you are a pawn dealer,’ she said.

‘Yes, I am, but business is a little slow at the moment,’ the shopkeeper replied. ‘The rain’s driven my customers away and there’s some flooding down there in the back.’

‘Could I come in for a moment?’

‘Of course you may.’

Ghita stepped inside, drying her feet on the mat.

‘I am rather embarrassed to be here like this,’ she said.

Ankush Singh patted his hands on his shirt.

‘And why is that?’

‘Because I am from a family of means,’ she replied. ‘My father has run into some trouble and our assets have been seized. I have begged my friends for a loan, but they have all forsaken me in my moment of need.’

‘I don’t loan money,’ Ankush Singh explained. ‘But I can give you money in return for an object of value.’

Ghita pulled a tissue from the sleeve of her dress, and pinched it to her nose.

‘I’ve sold most of my clothes – practically gave them away. The rest are at our family home and the police have sealed it shut.’ She fumbled with the clasp of her necklace, a gold locket, encrusted with diamonds and sapphires. ‘This is all I have left,’ she said.

Ankush Singh inspected the jewellery with a loupe.

‘It’s excellent work,’ he said. ‘Looks stolen to me.’

Ghita stamped her foot.

‘How dare you? I am no thief!’

The shopkeeper leant over the counter. He took Ghita’s hand in his and turned it over.

‘Your palm is as soft as silk,’ he said gently. ‘You have never done a day’s work in your life, have you?’

Ghita blushed.

‘I don’t need to work,’ she said defensively.

The shopkeeper stepped away from the counter and motioned to a chair.

‘Please do sit down. May I offer you some tea?’

Before Ghita could refuse, the shopkeeper had lit a burner and was brewing the pot.

‘I don’t know why, but you look familiar,’ he said, looking at her side on. ‘Have you come in here before?’

‘No, no, never.’

‘Are you sure?’

Ghita blushed again.

‘I am certain,’ she said icily.

‘Then maybe your brother or sister.’

‘I am an only child.’

The shopkeeper spooned some loose tea into the pot, dropped in a sprig of mint, and a chunk of sugar the size of his fist. He stirred and, as he stirred, he frowned.

‘Who is your father?’ he asked.

‘His name is Hicham Omary. He owns the telecommunications company Globalcom.’

‘I knew someone of that name when I was a child,’ said Ankush Singh. ‘He had a deep scar on his cheek from wrestling with me out there in the dirt.’

Ghita looked up.

‘My father has a scar on his cheek,’ she said.

‘Is it curved at the end?’

‘Yes... yes, it is.’

Ankush Singh poured the tea into a pair of small Chinese-made glasses.

‘He was always lecturing us about his Berber heritage. He was
so
proud of it. In every game we played, and every fight we fought, he was a Berber warrior protecting his homeland.’

‘That’s my father,’ said Ghita with half a smile.

The shopkeeper reached out and touched her hand.

‘I will help you in any way I can,’ he said.

Ghita handed him the locket.

‘Then would you lend me a little money in return for this?’

Ankush Singh dug a hand down into his underwear and took out a cloth bag filled with banknotes. He passed it to her with his right hand. And, with his left, he returned the necklace to her.

‘To help the daughter of an old friend is an honour,’ he said.

Seventy-four

During a break between downpours, Blaine walked along Boulevard Mohammed V in the direction of the Casa Voyageurs railway station.

The main thoroughfare of French-built Casablanca, the street was once the preserve of the most fashionable shops, cafés and restaurants. For a company to have a headquarters there was a statement of influence and power.

But, despite the new tramway and a coat of fresh whitewash, most of the buildings were in a wretched state, symbols of the despised days of the French Protectorate.

Put up back in’ 34, the Shell Building stood in pride of place at a little crossroads, once named after General Patton. Like everything else with a French title, it had been subsequently renamed. In the postcard there had been a prim new streetlight there, the kerb around it striped in black and white.

Weaving between the parked cars and the mounds of soaking garbage, Blaine made his way to the exact spot where the open-topped limousine had stood in the photograph. A Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, its liveried driver was holding a door open for a lady in a wide-brimmed sun hat.

Unsure of quite what to do, Blaine went inside.

The building was empty, and was gutted of its original contents and fixtures. A guardian emerged from the shadows. He had been feeding milky bread to a nest of puppies.

‘
C’est fermé
,’ he said. ‘This building closed.’

The American held up a hand.

‘I was hoping something might have been left for me.’

The guardian winced.

‘
Quand
? When?’

‘About seventy years ago.’

Blaine realized how foolish the sentence sounded before he had even spoken it. He passed the guardian the postcard. Holding it into the light, he moved it close to his eyes. And, after a long wait, he seemed to smile to himself.

‘This picture... very old,’ he said. ‘Cars different now.’ He motioned to the passing traffic. ‘Small, ugly.’ He drew a breath. ‘This one... beautiful!’

‘I am hoping that an envelope or something might have been left for me,’ said Blaine.

‘Your name?’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t be in my name. If anything, it would be in the name of Mr. Bogart.’ He took a step back. ‘Monsieur BEAU-GART,’ he said, enunciating. He was an American gentleman.’

‘Your father?’

‘No, not exactly.’

‘Oh.’

The guardian appeared a little displeased.

‘Well, yes, kinda,’ Blaine corrected. ‘My father.’

A big toothless smile welled up on the guardian’s face.

‘Father, good,’ he said.

‘Well, do you know if anything was left for him – for my father, Mr. Bogart?’

The guardian shook his head and went back to the pups.

‘
Non, Monsieur
,’ he said as he went. ‘
Il n’y a rien ici pour votre père
.’

At Café Berry, across from the Shell Building, Blaine sucked down a black coffee and waved a hand through the suffocating smoke.

The waiter hadn’t asked whether he wanted it in a glass or a cup, but had served it in a glass – a sign that he was looking more like a local. After all, most Moroccan men take their coffee in a glass, especially those who while away their lives in run-down Art Deco cafés.

For fifteen minutes Blaine stared at the postcard without looking up once. He studied every detail, every speck. And he read and reread Bogie’s spidery scrawl.

When he finally did look up, he noticed an elderly lady. She was watching him. The only woman in the entire café, her large meaty frame was stuffed into a flowery dress. Her hands were muscular, and seemed somehow familiar. But Blaine was bad with faces and even worse with names.

He glanced down at the postcard, and then up again.

The woman was still looking at him. She grinned anxiously, stubbed out a cigarette and moved over towards him, parting the empty tables with her legs.

‘How are you?’ she said in a rather hoarse voice.

‘Fine thank you, and you?’

‘Oh, you know... I’m surviving.’

There was an uneasy pause. Blaine took a sip of coffee, and swallowed.

‘Do I know you?’ he asked.

‘Last night... I was playing.’

‘
Playing
?’

‘The piano.’

The American caught a flash of the Club Souterrain and an aftertaste of single malt.

‘Of course. The pianist.’

The woman fluttered her strong masculine fingers.

‘Yes, the pianist,’ she said.

‘Please join me,’ Blaine replied.

The pianist introduced herself as Rosario. Then she wasted no time in revealing her background. She had come from Buenos Aires decades before, but had put down roots in Casablanca –roots that had taken hold.

‘What brought you here?’ asked Blaine with genuine interest.

Rosario looked sheepish.

‘A surgeon’s knife,’ she said.

‘A...?’

‘A knife.’

The pianist touched a thumb to her pearl earring.

‘Gender reassignment,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ Blaine replied, wondering whether to deliver it as a question or an exclamation.

Rosario ordered a coffee. It came in a glass as well.

‘Back in the’ seventies,’ she said, lighting a cigarette, ‘Casa had the only reliable clinic in the world offering The Operation.’

‘Which operation?’

‘You know...’

‘Do I?’

Rosario jabbed a thumb between the American’s legs and made a scissors motion.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I know, I know,’ Rosario continued, ‘even then it was a little shocking, and a little sordid.’

Blaine didn’t want to appear impolite, but he couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘That sounds painful,’ he mumbled after a long pause.

The Argentine pianist stubbed out her cigarette and tapped a fresh one from a soft pack. She lit it with a match.

‘It was agony,’ she said.

‘Was it legal?’

She giggled frivolously.

‘Of course not,’ she responded mischievously. ‘But this is Casablanca, a city with far less on the surface than there is underground.’

‘And why did you stay here, and not go back to Argentina?’

‘I fell in love,’ the pianist said. ‘Hopelessly and stupidly in love. When I woke up to realize he was a rotten egg, it was far too late. You know how it is. Life traps you.’

‘Oh, believe me, I know all about getting trapped,’ said Blaine.

‘Well, I am guessing you have not come to Casablanca for gender reassignment,’ the pianist replied.

Blaine might have smiled, but he did not.

‘I have come in search of Bogart,’ he said.

‘As in Humphrey?’

‘Yes.’

‘A little before my time.’

Blaine pulled out the postcard.

‘I’m living in the past,’ he said. ‘Following clues. This one led me to the Shell Building across the street.’

‘I hear it’s going to be turned into a boutique hotel,’ said Rosario. ‘But if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’ She held the writing to the light and squinted. ‘My eyes are showing their age,’ she said. ‘But it looks like it says “Les Cafés du Bresil”, that’s a little shop on the corner of the Central Market. It’s been there for ever.’

Blaine’s eyes lit up. He shook Rosario’s hand, pressed a couple of coins to the tabletop, and stood up.

‘I’ll see you around,’ he said as if distracted.

‘At the club?’

‘Maybe.’

The Argentine pianist pointed to a building adjacent to the café.

‘That’s where I live,’ she said. ‘The fifth floor. I’m always ready for a little conversation, or to take a stroll down memory lane.’