Casablanca Blues (2013) (12 page)

‘Don’t you blame the wealthy!’ she barked. ‘They’ve got enough problems in life without fools like you giving your pathetic and unwanted opinion!’ She threw down a note. ‘This will do fine. I’ll get out and walk from here.’

A minute later she reached the curled iron gates of the Omary Mansion. They had been sealed with chains and the wax seal of the high court.

A pair of uniformed officers was standing to attention outside.

‘Open these gates at once!’ Ghita ordered.

‘You can’t go in,’ said the first officer.

‘No one can,’ added the other.

‘Well, I am Ghita Omary... I live here!’

‘I don’t care who you are,’ said the first. ‘If you don’t leave I shall arrest you!’

Freezing the officer in a poisonous stare, Ghita turned, and strode briskly down the street, passing half a dozen palatial villas. As she walked, she called Aicha on her stolen iPhone, her cheeks running with tears.

No one picked up and so she left a message:

‘Aicha, darling, it’s me. Look, I don’t know what’s happening. Baba has been arrested. The house has been seized! I’m panicking. I don’t know who else to call. Call me as soon as you get this!’

Ghita stopped at an enormous house set back from the street. She marched up to the front gate, and rang the bell. The security camera rotated clockwise, its red LED light flashing as it did so.

‘Yes?’ said a voice from a speaker on the wall.

‘This is Ghita Omary. I want to see Mustapha, at once.’

The gates clicked opened electronically, and Ghita paced purposefully across to the house. A butler opened the front door as she approached. He escorted her through into the main hallway, the walls hung in antique yellow silk, and down a long corridor adorned in Warhol’s Soup Cans.

A minute later, Ghita found herself seated in the library on a suede sofa, the wooden parquet overlaid with Persian rugs. The shelves were lined with a multitude of books, each of them bound in identical red leather, gilt lettering down the spines.

On the mantel, a clock with ormolu fittings chimed the hour and, as it did so, the door opened.

Mustapha’s father came in.

‘Ghita, my dear,’ he said, kissing her cheeks, ‘I am so happy to see you.’

‘And, I you, Mr. Harass. Please forgive my intrusion but I was hoping to find Mustapha. He’s not picking up his phone.’

‘Did he not tell you? He had to leave town on work.’

Ghita frowned.

‘No, I didn’t know. But I was unreachable myself.’ She paused, touched a hand to her lips. ‘I just found out about my father. I’m confused, and so worried.’

‘My dearest Ghita, I am sincerely sorry about what has happened,’ Harass replied. ‘I warned him that he was placing himself in terrible danger.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He embarked on a mission, a crusade, an exposé of corruption. Going on national television, and unmasking high level officials, publicly shaming them... well, it’s a hazardous sport.’

‘Is it a crime to stand up for what you believe in?’ Ghita said, her eyes welling with tears.

Harass stepped over to the window. He removed a book at random, a first edition of Victor Hugo’s
Les Misérables
, volume three. Glancing at it vacantly, he laid it down and turned to face Ghita.

‘Is it a crime?’ he asked. ‘Well, I shall tell you. A great many powerful people have been landed in hot water...
boiling
hot water... and they don’t like it, not one little bit. So what you see is them, and the system they control, biting back.’

‘Where have they taken my father? I want to be with him.’

‘I understand he’s been taken to a central jail, just for now. I have spoken to Driss Senbel, who’s acting for him as you would expect. But the charges are so severe he’s not been permitted to see anyone at all, not for the moment.’

Ghita crossed the carpet and moved towards the shelves. Grasping Harass’s hand in hers, she lowered her head.

‘You are our family’s oldest and most trusted friend,’ she said. ‘I am begging you to help us in our moment of need. If Baba goes to prison, he’ll be eaten alive – you know he will.’

Hamza Harass took half a step backwards, the leather sole of his right shoe intruding on the carpet’s geometric design. The shoe was handmade by Lobb of St. James’s, fashioned from indigo ostrich leather. Ghita couldn’t help but wonder why a man of such wealth should have such abysmal taste. She looked at him, and he at her, his eyes cold and his jaw clenched.

‘I am afraid that there is nothing I can do for you,’ he said.

Fifty-one

For the rest of the afternoon, Ghita tried calling her friends.

Each one in turn hung up as soon as they heard her voice. It was as though an invisible enemy was conspiring to gain the perfect revenge. Confused and tearful, Ghita took a taxi back to the apartment building, and made her way up the dim stairwell.

The dirt and stink were almost too much to take. But at that moment, it seemed the one safe place, a refuge from which she could make sense of what was going on, and struggle to make a plan.

On the fourth floor Ghita poked the key into the lock, opened the door to her apartment, closed it, and peered out through the spy hole.

Only when certain the coast was clear, she pulled open the doors to the voluminous wardrobe and stepped inside.

Closing them behind her, she slid away a secret hatch at the back, and climbed through...

...into a fabulously bright apartment.

The walls were painted taupe, hung with original artwork from Japan, the furnishings upholstered in ivory white, and the floors scattered with exquisite Turkish kelims.

The sitting-room was dominated by a white leather canapé, its matching ottoman strewn with designer catalogues and magazines. Standing between it and an open kitchen area on the left, was a great wrought iron birdcage, suspended from a brass hook mounted on the ceiling. In the cage was a parrot, its lime-coloured plumage bringing out the green accents of the room.

Shuffling into a pair of Thai slippers, Ghita lay back on the sofa. She took a deep breath, kicked the magazines off the stool, and hit a speed dial on her phone.

After much ringing, a voice came on the other end.

‘Hello? Aicha, sweetie, it’s me! I’ve been trying you all day!’

Silence prevailed. Ghita assumed the call had been lost. Just before she redialled, Aicha spoke:

‘Ghita, you are never to call me again,’ she said in a low bitter tone. ‘Do you understand? We are no longer friends.’

‘Aicha, what are you saying? It’s me! I’m your best friend!’

‘Your father has betrayed us all!’

‘Darling, listen... I don’t know what’s happening, but he’s been taken away in handcuffs!’

‘So has mine, and Bouchra’s and Hamid’s as well!’

‘But why is this happening?’

‘Because your damned father began exposing people, that’s why!’

‘I’m so confused. I just don’t understand.’

Aicha’s voice was now charged with emotion, the words delivered one at a time:

‘Listen to me, Ghita! You will never call me again! In my eyes you are dead!’

Fifty-two

The roof of Hotel Marrakech was flat, tiled in red bricks, and covered in a spider’s web of junk.

There were rusting old bicycle frames and rotting bamboo deck chairs, crates of empty gin bottles, strands of lead piping, threadbare furniture, and a line of refrigerators from the days when home appliances were the size of a family car.

On the south side of the roof there was a small area free from clutter. It was just big enough for a wrought iron table and chair, and an ice bucket arranged on a stand that doubled as an ashtray.

Blaine sat there all afternoon, his gaze locked on the postcard, his mind conjuring fantasies of a lifetime ago.

As his concentration strayed, he found himself wandering the streets of wartime Casablanca. He could picture himself clearly, strolling down the grand boulevard – what was then Avenue de France. The dazzling winter light bathed it all, reflecting off the gleaming Art Deco apartment blocks, the shops below them emporiums of wonder and delight.

And he could picture Bogart passing him, cigarette in hand, grey fedora tipped down low on his brow.

Blaine peered down to the street below and closed his eyes.

He wished he could wind back the clock’s hands, slip into the black-and-white postcard world, a realm of unending possibility.

By the end of the afternoon, he knew every detail of the picture – every shadow, every straight line and curve. He admonished himself for falling victim to an old man’s story. Then, slipping the card into his shirt pocket, he went down to Cinema Rialto, where the early evening screening of
Casablanca
was about to begin.

Fifty-three

His back warmed by the walk, Mortimer Wu arrived at the Marché Central, where he treated himself to a bowl of fish broth and a stale chocolate croissant. He wasn’t in the best of spirits, and hadn’t been for days, not since the bad business in Marrakech.

As he spooned the thin soup to his lips, holding the bowl in his right hand, he wished he were home in Hong Kong, away from the trouble that had overrun his life.

‘Want a shoeshine?’ said a voice.

Saed sauntered up to the table with his box.

‘I’m wearing sneakers,’ Wu replied, ‘don’t think you’d get much of a shine on them.’ He struggled a smile. ‘Want half a croissant?’

Leaning forward, as if only half-trusting, Saed took the pastry.

‘You are new... new to Casablanca, no?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘Your shoes... they are dusty. Marrakech dust.’

Mortimer Wu slurped the broth. He motioned to the waiter.

‘My little friend here is joining me. Bring another bowl of soup.’

Saed sat down and was soon slurping as well.

‘Which hotel you staying?’

‘Not sure. I’m travelling to Tangier tomorrow. D’you know anywhere cheap and good?’

The shoeshine boy jerked a thumb behind him.

‘Hotel Marrakech,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind cats.’

Fifty-four

At seven forty-five Blaine left the Rialto.

He was still glowing from the final sequence, and was mumbling the dialogue as he went. Drifting through the empty streets on his way to Baba Cool, he noticed a light in Monsieur Raffi’s shop, and the shutters drawn up.

Without thinking, he crossed the street and rapped gently on the window.

Raffi unbolted the door.

‘Come on in my American friend,’ he said. ‘I have been sitting here waiting for you.’

‘But we hadn’t planned to meet.’

The shopkeeper locked the door once Blaine was inside.

‘Of course we had, but you just didn’t know it,’ he said, slumping down in his tattered satin chair. ‘Now, tell me, how are you getting on with the clue?’

Blaine pulled out the postcard.

‘I’ve spent the afternoon staring at it.’

‘And what have you seen?’

‘Old Casablanca in a time before the rot set in.’

‘That’s good,’ Raffi said, ‘but you are missing the details. And the world depends on details.’

‘Believe me, I’ve seen them all.’

Monsieur Raffi shuddered.

‘Seeing is not the same as understanding,’ he said.

‘Seeing what?’

‘The real picture.’

The American frowned. He held the card up to the light and turned it slowly.

‘What am I missing?’

‘
Everything
.’

Again, Blaine turned it, slower this time. And, as he turned, he noticed the edge gleam very slightly, as if it had been glued flat. He assumed it was part of the printing process. But, as he turned it again, he saw that the glue had been added later.

With great care, he pushed his thumbnail into the space where the picture was pasted onto the card. The two sheets separated easily, as if they were supposed to be pulled apart.

Working his way around the entire edge, Blaine found himself staring at the side of the card that had been glued to the image.

The left side was covered in writing, made in a small neat hand. It looked like a series of directions – directions through Casablanca. The right side was devoted to a very rough hand-sketched map. It featured what appeared to be a main street, with bars, cafés and cinemas, all of them crudely marked.

Blaine’s mouth opened but no words came out at first. Then, as if in a daze, he said:

‘This is Bogart’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere.’

Monsieur Raffi coughed hard, then blew his nose.

‘Now you have the clue, you can begin to unlock the secret,’ he said.

Fifty-five

A gleaming glass elevator ascended up through a sumptuous office building, the floors and walls clad in pallid grey granite, the fittings all polished steel.

Ghita Omary stepped out at the fifteenth floor. Dressed more conservatively than usual, she moved with uncharacteristic urgency.

Striding up to the reception, she tapped a manicured fingernail on the desk. The receptionist, who was talking to her boyfriend on the phone, glanced up.

‘I will be with you in a moment,’ she said tersely.

‘Please tell Mr. Senbel that Ghita Omary is here to see him.’

The receptionist covered the receiver with her hand.

‘Would you wait? Mr. Senbel is very busy indeed.’

Turning, Ghita pushed her way fast down the corridor, and began searching for the largest office. She had not visited the lawyer before, but knew full well that jaw-dropping grandeur was expected by the upmarket clientele.

At the end of the corridor stood a thick glass door, a potted bonsai standing proud either side. It was the only one with plants.

Making a beeline for it, Ghita barged in, the receptionist sprinting after her.

Driss Senbel was seated near the window at a teak desk, the wall facing it obscured in diplomas and photographs of the lawyer in the company of the great and the good.

‘Forgive me for not making an appointment,’ said Ghita, ‘I didn’t have your number.’

The lawyer looked up from a legal contract. He seemed alarmed at first, but then smiled tautly, waving the receptionist away.

‘My dear Ghita, you are a daughter to me, and do not need an appointment. The door is always open to you.’