The Blue Hour (40 page)

At the checkpoint before Ouarzazate, the young police officer started asking me a few questions. Aatif had to do his spiel about my mental challenges. Even so, the cop continued to pose direct queries to me. I stared blankly ahead, willing the interrogation to be over. When I didn't answer, he got impatient until Aatif again explained that I was deaf. The young cop seemed suspicious and called over an older officer, motioning to my niqab, clearly indicating that he wanted me to remove it. The older cop sidled over and had a chat with Aatif. Whatever he said to him seemed to do the trick, as the older cop motioned to his young colleague that there was no need to further continue the interrogation. He waved us on.

As soon as we were clear of the checkpoint I could see Aatif gripping the wheel and trying to forestall another panic attack.

“That was close,” I said.

He nodded agreement and noted that, with any luck, the next checkpoint would be in Marrakesh.

As we negotiated the avenue Muhammed V in Ouarzazate, our eyes told two different stories. I kept scanning the streets in some vain hope that Paul would suddenly materialize on the spot where he was last sighted. Aatif, meanwhile, seemed pained to be in this city. He spent much of our time on the main boulevard with his eyes focused downward. Just as I was still desperate to lay eyes on my missing spouse, so he was desperate not to make visual contact with the woman who broke his heart and ran off with the bakery czar of Ouarzazate.

“The road ahead . . . it is complicated,” Aatif said, snapping me back to the present. “Are you afraid of heights?”

An hour or so later I certainly was, as we had gained almost six thousand feet in altitude and were driving on a single-lane switchback road, hugging the edge of the Atlas Mountains.

Every hundred yards or so there was a blind corner, behind which lurked assorted obstacles: an oncoming truck, a shepherd with a flock of about two dozen goats, and a young Moroccan daredevil on a motorcycle who nearly plowed into us and shouted abuse before speeding off along another hairpin turn.

But what made this drive across a mountain pass called the Tizi n'Tichka even more terrifying was the fact that one small mistake would send us into vertiginous free fall. On the passenger side, I had a dizzying view of the deep ravine that began around a foot away from our vehicle's tires on the right side. There was no wall, no guardrail, nothing to stop you from going over the side.

“In winter, with snow, it is terrible,” Aatif said.

In high summer, it was still something of a roller coaster ride, each turn presenting a new navigational challenge, or some potential oncoming onslaught. Aatif smoked nonstop during the most taxing stages of the drive, humming to himself at the same time. As his humming increased, I was transported back to a drive with my father when I was fifteen and we were moving from Chicago to Minneapolis. We got caught in a huge blizzard on the interstate. Despite the fact that the visibility was zero, Dad kept driving at sixty miles per hour and hummed to himself throughout (“Fly Me to the Moon,” of all things), ignoring my mother's entreaties to slow down. Aatif wasn't driving dangerously. But he did tell me that, even though he drove this road twice a month, it never ceased to spook him.

“There is at least one terrible accident here every week,” he said.

“But we're not going to be this week's tragedy.”

“Inshallah.”

There was an awful moment when, passing through a mountain village, a young boy chased a ball into the road, right in the path of our vehicle. Aatif slammed on the brakes. We skidded frighteningly toward the precipice on which the village rested. I screamed and had my hands over my eyes as Aatif somehow managed to stop us just before our front wheels went over. The boy ran off, frightened after almost being run over and almost sending us over the edge into the valley below (a fall of at least one thousand feet). There was a moment of terrible silence. Aatif did what he always did when stressed: he gripped the steering wheel tightly for several moments, trying to regain his equilibrium. Then he lit up a cigarette.

After several inhalations of smoke, he backed up the vehicle and got us back on our way.

“That was nearly the fatal accident of the week,” he said.

Happily the road began to improve as we lost altitude. The woozy verticality—and the potential for grievous bodily harm—diminished as we started heading through flatter ground. Night fell. We filled the gas tank with the final jerry can of gas and ate the last of our bread.

“Where's your jeweler?” I asked.

“We first have to go to my merchant in the souk because he is expecting a delivery from me and will be disappointed to see my vehicle empty. But he might know someone.”

“The way we're going now we should reach Marrakesh at what time?”

“Just before eight . . . if there are no roadblocks.”

But there was a huge one on the outskirts of the city. It took us over forty minutes to edge our way to the front.

“They are not just looking for you,” Aatif explained before we reached the officers. “They're also looking for terrorists.”

The police were so clogged up with cars that, after a cursory glance at our ID cards, they waved us through.

Marrakesh. I was expecting something mythic. I wasn't ready for all the new housing developments. Or the malls with big international chain stores. Or the chain hotels. Or the congealed traffic. Or the hyper tourist economy. We parked near the famed souk—that amazing open square on which snake charmers frightened visitors with their vipers. Monkeys were running wild. A camel stood forlornly as tourists climbed atop it for a photograph. Men were bothering every foreign woman who was out walking alone. Tour guides were offering an exclusive tour of the souk. I saw a fellow American—late forties, preppy businessman clothes, very button-down with a twin khakis-and-blue-oxford-shirt wife—losing it with a man who was not leaving him alone, blocking his path, hassling him into submission.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” he shouted.

His wife glared at me as I walked by, shrouded in the djellaba and niqab, so disapproving of this encasement of women.

We dodged all the tourist stands, the rug shops, the carved goods and leather store, and entered a back passageway, whereupon we came into a bazaar within a bazaar. Besuited men, elderly gentlemen in immaculate djellabas, venerable establishments dealing in gold, the smell of old established Marrakesh money hidden away from the bleating, cheap commerce of the mercantile arena that Westerners saw.

Aatif steered us into a warehouse in which a young guy around thirty—dressed in a black sweatshirt and sweatpants adorned with the Armani label, Versace sunglasses, a lot of bling on his wrists, including a big Breitling—greeted him with a curt nod. He had a cell phone in one hand, and another on the table in front of him, on which was a calculator, a packet of Marlboros, and a lighter that looked like it was made of solid gold. He eyed me warily, pointing and asking Aatif why I was there. Or, at least, I presumed that's what he was saying, as Aatif began to recite the sad story that had now become so familiar—of a mentally challenged girl behind the veil. Aatif got rather plaintive in tone, as I sensed (from the gestures and the sadness in his voice) that he was recounting the robbery and the reason why he had arrived empty-handed. The guy lit up a cigarette, made a point of not offering Aatif one, and blew smoke in my friend's face. I loathe arrogance—especially that of a preening little man who uses the small amount of power he has in the world to lord it over people like Aatif, whose struggle to survive is seen as a sign of weakness. I could only begin to imagine what he was like around women, how he treated them as contemptuous objects, and how perhaps (wishful thinking) he was inadequate with them. How I wanted to pull off my niqab and call him on his petty cruelty. But I knew that would be disastrous. So I sat there silently as he berated Aatif and, with a dismissive hand motion, as if swatting a fly away, told him to leave his office.

Aatif looked broken and slinked out, his head down, tears in his eyes. I followed but turned and simply stared directly at the guy. I could see him making contact with the accusatory eyes, showing contempt through the veil. He shouted something at me in Arabic. I continued to stare at him. He pointed to the door and seemed to be telling me to get lost. I continued to stare at him. He became nervous, stammering a bit as he stubbed out a cigarette and lit up another, then barking at me again to leave, but in a manner that betrayed his jitteriness. I continued to stare. He picked up his phone and marched to other end of the room, trying to engross himself in the emails on his screen. Still I stared. He turned back at me, now looking spooked. I raised my hand and pointed at him, using my index finger as a weapon of accusation. He stood there, not knowing what to do. Except to do what all bullies do when confronted. He turned and fled out a back door.

I left his office and found Aatif outside, his eyes red, a cigarette alight.

“What did he tell you?” I asked.

“He said he thought I was stupid to get robbed, that I had left him short of goods and didn't care that I could come back next week with a full van of new ones. He also said if I wanted to do business with him again, I would have to pay him five thousand dirhams as an apology.”

“Well, you don't have to do business with him again.”

“But he and his father have been my contact here in Marrakesh for the past five years.”

“I'm sure you can find a better contact—and one who doesn't behave like a spoiled little boy.”

“But he has been reliable.”

“I bet he's argued over every dirham.”

“He is not a nice man. But—”

“No buts. You can ask around here and find another merchant who will gladly take your clients' goods and will treat you with respect. Which you certainly deserve.”

He thought about this for a moment, then pointed to a small shop across the alley.

“There is a jeweler there.”

His way of changing the subject.

Aatif had to accompany me into the jeweler's, as I feared removing the niqab and causing unwanted interest. The man in charge was hefty, brusque. Aatif explained what I wanted to sell. The fellow held out his fleshy paw. I handed over the two rings. He screwed a loupe into his eye and gave the rings perhaps ten seconds of his attention. Then he announced a price in Arabic to Aatif—who leaned over and whispered it in my ear, “Five thousand dirhams.”

I held out my open hand. The fellow dropped the rings back into it. We left.

There was another jeweler adjacent. This gentleman was more polite—a man in a shiny brown suit, with equally brown teeth. But he was also taking me again for a sucker. When Aatif whispered his offer—ten thousand dirhams (I presume he told the man that I had limited hearing)—and I shook my head, he upped it immediately to fifteen. A second shake of the head, and he told Aatif, “Twenty thousand, final price.”

I shook my head and held out my hand for the rings. Slipping them back on, I nodded goodbye and we left.

I was beginning to despair of having to let these rings go at an absurdly low price. But then I saw a small, upscale shop at the corner of the alley where we were now standing. Over the front was the name
Abbou Joaillier
. I'd read somewhere, during my pre-trip research, that there was a small Jewish community in Morocco. Abbou Jewelry—with its mosaic tiled décor, its mahogany counter, and a large mahogany desk behind which a well-dressed man in his sixties was weighing diamonds on a small scale—had a Star of David featured in the tiling above its entranceway. When I entered the shop the gentleman immediately stood up. He wore an old-school pinstriped double-breasted suit with a well-pressed blue shirt and black tie. He had a most paternal face. Bifocals were perched on the end of his nose. I noticed immediately photographs of his younger self in front of a jewelry store on West Forty-Seventh Street in New York (he was standing under the actual street sign). He addressed me in Arabic. I decided to take a risk; a potentially huge risk, but one that might just get me a good price for my rings. I reached up and pulled off the niqab. I could see him just a little stunned to discover that behind the veil was this Western woman.

“I presume, from the photographs, that you speak English,” I said.

“Indeed I do,
madame
.”

He motioned for me to sit down. Aatif was standing in a corner, nervous that I had shown my actual face. I turned to him and said that if he wanted to go outside for a smoke, that was no problem with me. He was happy to comply, bowing to the jeweler before leaving. Once he was out the door the man handed me his card: Ismael Abbou.

“And you once worked in New York?” I asked.

“I lived there for fifteen years. I still have an interest in my former shop there, and get back once a year.”

“What made you return to Morocco?”

“Family,” he said with just the slightest roll of the eyes. But then he studied me for a moment. I sensed what was coming next.

“Excuse me for asking,
madame
, but haven't I seen your face before?”

I chose my next words with care. “You may have . . . but does that matter?”

He considered this for a second. “May I offer you some tea?”

“That's very kind, but I would rather get down to business. Might I ask if you wouldn't mind lowering your window shades while we discuss my proposed transaction?”

I could tell that he was deciding whether I was worth the risk. I also saw him glancing at the diamond engagement ring and gold-encrusted wedding band on my left hand.

“As you wish,
madame
.”

He stood up and went to the door, putting out a sign that read
Back in Thirty Minutes
. He lowered the shades that covered the door and his shopwindow, turning on several lights at the same time. Then he sat down opposite me again.