Casablanca Blues (2013) (7 page)

Having pushed the door open, Ghita stood in its frame, somehow unable to summon the courage for the final step. She had never witnessed such vile accommodation. Just as she prepared to retreat into the street, something goaded her forward.

The thought of proving her father wrong.

In the middle of the lobby, the clerk was asleep on a flea-infested sofa, its once ivory-coloured upholstery matted sludge-brown with dirt. Opening an eye, he swished a nest of kittens off his chest, and welcomed Ghita in.

‘I would like a room,’ she said frostily.

The clerk lit a cigarette and sneezed, twice. His chest was covered in cat fur. Before attending to the newly arrived guest, he poured a large bowl of milk. Instantly, a kaleidoscope of cats darted to it from every corner of the room, miaowing and purring as they came.

‘Do you have a reservation?’ said the clerk in his own time.

Ghita balked.

‘What kind of low-life vagrant would make a reservation to stay in a place like this?’

The clerk put down the milk carton, and shuffled over to the reservation book. His fingers moved through many weeks of blank pages, the cigarette clenched between his teeth.

‘I think I have something free, up on the second floor,’ he said. ‘Room thirteen. It’s seventy dirhams a night.’

‘I’m waiting for my money to come through,’ Ghita replied, her voice a little meek. ‘I’ll pay you as soon as I can.’

The clerk nodded sympathetically, as though prompt payment was unknown at the Hotel Marrakech. He slid a key across the desk, the key to room thirteen.

Ghita took it, turned, and found herself face to face with the American from the street. His hair was damp from the shower, his face scrubbed clean. There were dimples in his cheeks.

‘Hello again,’ he said.

‘Hello.’

Blaine grinned.

‘Wasn’t the Hyatt to your liking?’

Ghita waved a hand through the air, and found herself peering down at the feline sea.

‘It was too obvious,’ she said.

‘Too obvious?’

‘You know – one Hyatt’s just like another. There’s no soul.’

‘Well, it sounds as though you’ve come to the right place,’ said Blaine.

Twenty-seven

The headquarters of Globalcom were forged from black glass and steel, a towering expression of corporate power that rose forty storeys into the North African sky.

The building’s roof was paved in giant satellite dishes and television masts. The only zone clear of them was marked with an enormous letter ‘H’, and was reserved for the Globalcom Eurocopter EC135, finished in metallic blue.

Every few minutes a satellite truck would arrive or leave through the main security gate on the north side of the perimeter fence. The only vehicle permitted to enter by the other, smaller entrance, was the chairman’s black Maybach 57.

The barrier rose as the car approached, the duty guards saluting in unison. A moment before the vehicle had reached the building, a cluster of staff hurried out. They fell into line and stood to attention as the tyres drew to a halt.

At the head of the line was Patricia Ross. A tall redhead, she was dressed in a tailored business suit, her hair tied up in a bun. Omary regarded her as a confidante and a friend, and entrusted her with far more than the duties of an ordinary PA.

‘Cancel all my meetings,’ he said, as he strode fast towards the great revolving door. ‘And assemble my senior policy unit in the boardroom. I want them there in...’ Omary glanced at his wristwatch. ‘On the hour.’ He paused, thought for a moment, and added: ‘Oh, and make sure you get security to sweep it first.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Is there anything on the agenda that can’t wait?’

Ross touched a hand to her hair as they walked to the elevator.

‘Just a lunch meeting.’

‘With who?’

‘The Portuguese Prime Minister. He’s here with a trade delegation.’

‘Oh God. Where’s he staying?’

‘At the Hyatt.’

‘Send my sincerest apologies. The usual excuses. An international crisis. Something like that. Send a huge bouquet... and a case of Dom Pérignon from my private cellar.’

‘Right away, sir.’

Twenty-eight

A line of conical tagines was bubbling with steam at the Marché Central.

Nearby, in the covered area, a horse butcher was cleaving a steak for an elderly French client, one of the last of the
pieds noirs
. Weighing the meat in his hand, he slapped it on the scale and grunted a price. Across from him, the oyster stall was doing brisk business, the shells served up with a lemon wedge and a sprinkle of salt.

Blaine strolled through the arcades, taking in the bustle. His old life in Brooklyn seemed like a million miles away. As he took it all in, he became absorbed by the vibrant cultural colour, and found himself overlaying what he saw on the black and white scenes of his own obsession.
Casablanca
may have been filmed entirely on a Hollywood back lot, but to Blaine it was inseparable from the actual city that bore its name.

Strolling out from the market, the American gazed up at the buildings, all crumbling and worn. The peeling paint gave a sense of faded grandeur, as if the old Casablanca, the one from the movie, was lying just below the surface, waiting to be discovered.

At the end of a narrow street, just past the little Garage de la Bourse, Blaine came to a cinema, The Rialto. Peering up at the façade was like setting eyes on a lost sweetheart.

Without hesitating, he stepped inside.

The swing doors were shut, light flickering under them. At the booth he bought a ticket – spewed from the same machine that had been used in New York on première night.

And then, in a moment touched by magic, Blaine pushed through the swing doors, half-imagining he was in a dream.

Alive on the screen before him was the smoke-filled scene of Rick’s Café Américain. Waiters in starched white jackets were weaving between the tables with cocktails and cigarettes. A croupier was spinning the wheel and dealing cards and, in pride of place at the upright piano, was Sam.

Twenty-nine

Up in number thirteen, perched fearfully on the edge of the bed, Ghita coaxed herself to be brave.

Her gaze moved fitfully across the room, from the soiled walls to the cracked pane of glass in the window, to the spatter of dried blood sprayed over the wardrobe doors. And then, cautiously, she pressed a hand down onto the mattress, its blanket peppered with cigarette burns and stray hairs.

Strewn out from the Louis Vuitton case was a swirl of designer clothing and assorted accoutrements, packed and unpacked with equal speed. There were belts and shoes, dresses and underwear, makeup pouches and lace gloves. Many of the items had never been used, and still had the price tags hanging from them.

Ghita reached for a Ferragamo scarf in fuchsia silk and pressed it to her face. As she did so, the stolen iPhone she had bought began to ring.

‘Hello?’

A man’s voice was on the other end, a voice she recognized.

‘Mustapha,
chéri
, how did you get this number?’

‘From Aicha. She said you texted her from it. I didn’t know you had a new number. Where are you? Want to have dinner tonight?’

Ghita blinked hard. She let out a squeal.

‘No, no, dearest, not tonight. I’m busy tonight.’

‘Then tomorrow?’

‘Er, no, busy then as well.’

‘Ghita, my love, is there anything wrong?’

‘No, not at all. It’s just that I’m out of town in...
Mmmmm
...’

‘In Marrakech?’

‘No... in... Monte Carlo.’

‘That’s a surprise! I didn’t know you were travelling!’

‘Oh, it was a last minute girlie thing... an engagement shower.’

‘How long will you be away, my darling?’

Ghita bit her knuckle in thought.

‘For a month,’ she said.

Thirty

The far wall of Hicham Omary’s expansive office at Globalcom was tiled with flat screen TVs. There were eighteen of them, each one playing a different channel – a jumble of soap operas and rolling news, documentaries and sport.

A long walnut veneer desk ran down the far side, with a view towards the city far below. Its surface was cluttered with files and computer screens. On another small table lay a cluster of photographs, each one in a solid silver frame. The largest was of Omary and his wife, Fatym, on their wedding day, the others were all of Ghita arranged in order of age.

Omary swept into the office. He logged on at the central computer as an assistant came in with newspapers and espresso. She was waved politely aside.

‘No time for that. Get me Abdallah right away.’

Less than a minute later, Abdallah Smiri, Globalcom’s head of news was on the bank of TV screens. Omary looked up.

‘Hi Abdallah. I need a favour. Hold the prime slot at six. What are you leading on right now?’

‘On a massive car bomb in Baghdad.’

‘Put it in at number two.’ Omary pinched the end of his nose and sniffed hard. ‘I’ve got a new lead.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Send me your chief reporter up here and a crew.’

The screens jerked back to their various channels. Omary picked up a landline on his desk and hit a speed dial.

‘Good morning, Governor. This is Hicham Omary. Sorry for the disturbance. I’ll be brief as I know how busy you are. There’s something I’m putting out on the evening bulletin. It may tread on a few toes and so I just wanted you to have a heads up.’

Thirty-one

The bright winter sunshine threw long shadows in the late afternoon, as Blaine strolled down the length of the grand Boulevard Mohammed V. He was walking on air, having been serenaded by Bergman and Bogart at the Rialto.

As he glanced into the shop windows and took in the random features of the street and of life, he thought about the world he had left behind. It had been a sham, one detached from reality.

Three blocks from the end of the boulevard, Blaine noticed a scruffy shop-front. The sign had fallen away decades before, but the window display hinted at treasures within.

He forced open the door.

Inside lay an Aladdin’s den of oddities and accessories from the days of the French Protectorate. There were old postcards in black and white, threadbare furniture with rounded legs, cut crystal glasses and cocktail shakers, gramophones, empty jeroboams of Moët, aspidistra stands, and crates of scratched old 78s.

Against one wall, a dark mahogany cabinet was packed with all sorts of odds and ends. In the middle of it all was a photograph – a large signed studio shot of Humphrey Bogart, cigarette smouldering in his hand.

A figure was slumped in one corner. He was so still that Blaine didn’t notice him at first. His name was Adam Raffi. Wizened with great age, he had a lazy eye, and a shirt-front speckled with gravy from his lunch. He had been dozing, but was wakened by the sound of the door, which was warped at the top.

‘
Bonjour Monsieur
,’ he said, pushing his shoulders back, and fumbling for his spectacles.

‘
Bonjour
,’ Blaine replied, as he looked into the cabinet.

‘Is there something you are searching for?’

‘That picture... how much are you asking?’

The shopkeeper gazed out at the street.

‘It’s not for sale,’ he said.

‘That’s a great pity. It’s a nice one.’

‘It’s special to me. You see, he gave it to me.’

‘Bogart did? ‘He was here... in Casablanca?’

Monsieur Raffi blinked a yes.

‘When?’

‘During the War. He was here with his wife, the drunkard. They were entertaining the troops.’

Blaine stepped into the light. He caught the lilting sound of the call to prayer streaming out from the old medina, and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves closer by.

‘I take it you are an admirer as well,’ he said.

The shopkeeper looked at the American hard, his good eye sharp as steel.

‘Aren’t we all?’ he replied.

‘Did you get to speak to Bogart?’

Monsieur Raffi stood up, and staggered over to the cabinet. His face was wrinkled like elephant hide, his old hands speckled with liver spots.

‘To say we spoke together much would be misleading,’ he said. ‘But we passed many hours together, hours in another kind of conversation.’

Blaine didn’t understand.

‘Conversation without words?’

Raffi nodded slowly.

‘Yes, yes, conversation without words,’ he said. ‘A conversation played in chess.’

Thirty-two

Fifteen well-groomed men and women were seated around an oval conference table, miniature bottles of mineral water and pencils laid before each one.

As they sat in silence, wondering what could be so important as to change the running order, Omary entered. He was composed, calm, and was followed by Patricia Ross.

Pulling off his jacket, he rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie.

‘Has security been in here yet?’ he asked.

‘It’s all clean,’ said Ross.

‘Good.’

Omary slipped down onto the chairman’s seat at the head of the table. Wringing his hands together, he took a deep breath.

‘My friends, there’s a terrible threat hanging over us all,’ he said. ‘It’s invisible and more deadly than anything we have encountered before. It is far more treacherous than our most scheming competitor and, if gone unchecked, it will bring this great company and many more like it crashing into the ground!’

The policy team listened attentively.

‘Yet this opponent,’ Omary went on, ‘is regarded by most of us as a harmless irritation, something we endure in all our daily lives. In actual fact it’s a killer, an exterminator of justice and of truth! And so I have decided that I shall wage a war against it, and direct every resource I have at my disposal to destroy it.’

The chairman got up from the table, and smoothed a hand down over the side of his face.

‘I can hear you asking what is it – this enemy?’ he said. ‘And so I shall tell you. It is CORRUPTION!’

An uneasy wave of whispering rippled through the room.

Seated at the far end of the table, Hamza Harass spoke up:

‘With respect Mr. Chairman,’ he said, ‘how do you propose to destroy something that is so endemic in society? It would be like trying to wipe out the common cold.’