Rising Tides (17 page)

Casablanca, 1941

N
icky put her hands on Phillip’s shoulders and guided him into the low doorway of a leather shop redolent with the rich fragrance of knapsacks and newly tanned
babouches,
slippers like those both she and Phillip wore. Gradually, during their year in Casablanca, they had adopted comfortable native dress for their jaunts around the city, although she never intended to wear the veil required of the strictest Muslim women.

“Allahu akbar….”
From atop the slender minaret of the Grand Mosque, a muezzin called his people to prayer. His piercing—and unfailingly effective—wail was a cadenza to the discordant music of the
souk.
The marketplace resonated with the bleating of goats, the screech of fowl in tiny wooden-slatted cages, the
“Balek! Balek!”
of men shoving their way through the narrow aisles with baskets or carts of new merchandise. It was never quiet here, which was why Nicky loved it so.

Phillip stood in front of her as they watched prayer rugs unfurl and men—and the few women in view—kneel and face
Mecca. She had given up prayer years ago, and, as always, in the face of such devotion, she felt a pang.

“Mustafa says that those who believe in God and do what’s right, even Jews and Christians, have nothing to fear,” he said.

Mustafa was Phillip’s closest friend. Like the city of his birth, he was a unique blend of Moor and European, a child with one foot in the East and one in the West. His French was perfect, as was his Arabic, and he spoke the Berber dialect of his mother’s people. Much of what he knew, he was teaching Phillip.

“Mustafa’s going to be a politician,” Nicky said, squeezing his shoulders. “Someday men like him are going to free Morocco because they can think like Frenchmen and fight like Arabs.”

He turned so that his expressive brown eyes could search her face. “Then what will happen to us?”

“We won’t be living here by the time it happens.” Nicky saw rebellion in the way his mouth tightened. Phillip had turned twelve the day they fled France, and he had not wanted to come to Morocco. Now, at thirteen, he didn’t want to leave. She understood her son’s desire for stability. But the world had gone mad, and even an unstable life was a gift.

“It’s late and getting later,” she said. “We have to get to Palm Court so I can change and help Adele. Both her new assistants are sick, and I promised.”

“Did you get everything we came for?”

She held up a small basket. “Cumin and mint. Candles. And an afternoon with my son. I got what I needed.”

He smiled reluctantly, and her heart turned over in response. More and more Phillip resembled his father. He had Gerard’s dark eyes, the same engaging smile and ability to communicate displeasure with the lift of a brow. He was intense, like Gerard,
but she thanked God every day that, unlike him, Phillip could see good in those around him, and in himself.

They left the market and hurried through the narrow, crooked streets of the old medina, trading the aroma of spices for the smell of unwashed bodies, poverty and decay. The wealthy lived here, too, in homes with court yards perfumed by jasmine and orange blossoms, car nations and geraniums. But those scents were lost be hind the whitewashed limestone or sun-baked brick walls that dampened the noise of the street.

They skirted donkeys and old men in turbans and striped djellabas squabbling good naturedly at the medina’s keyhole gate. She had heard Morocco called a cold country with a hot sun, and today it was true. Out in the open, the sun shone mercilessly while a crisp Atlantic breeze added a tang to the myriad scents. They were in a different century and culture now, a tall city of white neo-Moorish and contemporary architecture, of wide, clean avenues and feathery palms swaying in the breeze.

“So what do you have to work on tonight?” she asked as they turned toward Palm Court, the club where she sang each night. “Algebra? Latin? History?”

“Do I have to study? There’s no school tomorrow. Can’t I take a break?”

“Well, sure. If you don’t mind spending all day Sun day studying while I visit Rashida. Maybe you could bring your books and study with Mustafa. ‘Course, I doubt he’ll want to, since
he
studies on Saturday nights.”

Phillip grumbled as they continued their walk. Nicky slowed their pace. She spent too much time indoors, hours lit by flickering candles and the glowing tips of cigarettes. She indulged herself in sunshine whenever she could. Small pleasures couldn’t
be taken for granted when war-torn Europe was only a day’s journey across the Strait of Gibraltar.

By the time they neared the boulevard de Paris, Phillip had promised to study at the table in the club’s kitchen that had been set aside for him. She imagined that in the years to come he would associate algebra and Latin with the smells of turmeric or garlic frying in olive oil.

Palm Court appeared at the next corner. Blinding white in the sunlight, the two-story club shimmered at the edge of the palm-lined boulevard. A narrow garden of marigolds and lilies separated it from the street and parted at a wide wooden door painted a gleaming green and banded with vibrant blue tiles. Although at first glance the building seemed to owe its existence to Moorish architects, there were departures from tradition, most notably a multitude of windows that looked out over the traffic—donkeys plodding beside trucks.

Inside, the temperature dropped sharply. Ceiling fans stirred the afternoon air, and parrots in ornate grillwork cages squawked a welcome. Phillip headed toward his favorite, Pasha Alexander, a red-and-blue monument to God’s love of color, and pulled out some of the sun flower seeds he stored in his pockets.

“Nicky?”

Nicky turned at the sound of Robert Gascon’s voice. “Robby? You’re here so early.”

“I like to watch my money being made.”

Robert Gascon was an ellipse of a man whose love of food was greater than his love of fashion. He always wore white—because he thought it made him look thinner—and covered his nearly bald head with a scarlet fez. But those were his only sops to vanity. He ate and cooked with gusto, and the food at Palm Court was some of the finest in the city.

“I came to help Adele,” Nicky said. “Did she tell you?”

They moved farther away from the tables where patrons in all manner of dress sipped coffee or mint tea and nibbled Adele’s honey cakes. Robby’s wife was as fine a cook as he was. “She’s doing fine,” he said. “I found some help for her. She was screaming happily at them a minute ago.”

“Good. Then I don’t have to hurry.”

“There are some men here I’d like you to meet. Americans.”

“How wonderful. My beloved countrymen.”

“Now, now.” He rested his hand on her arm, as if he were afraid she was going to disappear. “I doubt these men were the very ones who kept you from going home.”

“You’re right. But they’re probably blood brothers.”

“Blood brothers?”

She laughed. “A completely American ritual. See? I was born there, even if the authorities have their doubts.”

“Am I supposed to sympathize? If you’d been able to get on a ship going home, you wouldn’t be here singing for me.”

“And chopping onions. And mopping floors if they need it.”

“You have a multitude of talents.”

She shook off his hand. She could tease Robby, but she and Phillip might very well owe him their lives. In the nightmarish days before the fall of Paris, it had been Robby who bribed officials to get them all across borders, and Robby who abandoned his successful night club to flee to Morocco, despite the fact that he and Adele might have weathered the Nazi storm in Vichy France. Robby had seen the future, and for Phillip and Nicky, he had seen no future at all under the eyes of Hitler.

“Well, lead me to them,” she said. “I’ll be polite. I won’t even ask why they don’t have their fat asses in uniform.”

“Not all the fighting’s done on the front lines.”

“Meaning?”

“We’re going to be seeing our share right here at Palm Court.”

“You’re talking about agents and diplomats?” She shook her head. “I’ve had my fill already, thanks. Ger mans and Italians, and the little Vichy bastards strutting around in uniform, pretending they actually have some say about what goes on in their own country and here. And what do the Americans care? They’re not even in the war.”

“It won’t always be so.”

“Don’t bet on it. If it doesn’t come knocking on their front door, they’re not going to get involved.”

“They’re here in this club, Nicky. Ask yourself why.”

“Probably trying to protect their own interests.”

“They’re still our guests.”

She sighed. “Sure. All right. I can be charming.”

“Very charming. They have francs to spend.” Robby guided her to a table in the corner, hidden behind feathery fronds of palm and fern. Three men huddled close together, intent on privacy. They looked up at the same moment.

“Gentlemen, I want you to meet Nicky Valentine, our chanteuse,” Robby said in his excellent English. “If you come back tonight, you’ll be fortunate enough to hear her sing.”

For a moment the men seemed one clean-cut, distinctly American entity. Nicky thought nostalgically of the Bobs. One had been killed in a London air raid, smack in the middle of the biggest story of his career; the other had traded his notebook for a gun and was fighting somewhere as part of the Canadian forces, since his own country refused to take up arms.

“Gentlemen,” she said, inclining her head. “Are you enjoying Casablanca?”

They stood as one, too. She appreciated the gesture, since in her experience few American white men stood for a colored woman. But they were on her continent now. Perhaps that made the difference. Or perhaps, still dressed as she was in a bright blue caftan, her race was a mystery.

She held out her hand, and each man took it as he introduced himself. The final name was the only one she remembered, and then only because Hugh Gerritsen was from New Orleans.

“I was born there myself,” she said, “though I doubt we’re from the same part of town.” She accompanied the words with a flippant smile.

“You’re a New Orleanian?”

Despite herself, she liked his voice. It was mellow and deep, and the distinctive accent of the city of her birth brought back long-ago memories of Storyville nights. “Apparently not enough of one to get a passport home,” she said. “What brings you gentlemen here?”

One of the men pulled out a chair for her, and reluctantly she sat. Robby murmured something and disappeared, and she was left to fend for herself as the men took their seats.

The first man to whom she had been introduced answered. “We’re with the State Department. We were sent to keep an eye on the American goods being shipped through this port. Our government wants to be sure nothing falls into the wrong hands.”

“How nice of our government to be concerned,” she said. “And the French know you’re here? You don’t seem to be keeping your presence a secret.”

“We have an agreement.”

“And we all know what an agreement with Vichy is worth.” Thirsty, she signaled Abdul, the club’s bouncer, who sometimes served drinks in the afternoon as an excuse to keep an eye on the customers.

“You’re not fond of the men governing Casa?” Hugh Gerritsen asked.

“Oh, not as fond of them as Roosevelt and his friends are. I was in France when the Germans marched on Paris. And even if I’d gone south to Vichy, I wouldn’t have been a welcome guest. There’s something about dark skin that Hitler and his French puppets don’t find appealing.” She saw realization dawning in his eyes. “Yes,” she confirmed, “I’m not white.”

“You feel safe here?” Hugh asked.

“I don’t feel safe anywhere. Only a fool or a nation of them can shut their eyes to what’s happening all over the world.”

The man sitting beside Hugh entered the conversation. “If you don’t feel safe, why aren’t you back in the States?”

“I came to France when I was small, on my grand father’s passport. He died, and I had no proof of citizenship. In the rush to leave Paris, no one could find any records to verify my story. I wasn’t the only person trying to get out, and a lot of the others were easier to help.” She didn’t add that a lot of the others had been white. She had no proof that racism had entered into her predicament, only a certainty of it that these men would never understand.

“Are you still pursuing it?” Hugh asked.

“I’ll take my chances here, thanks. When the war’s over, the map’s not going to look the same, anyway. I’ll decide then where home is.”

“Does that mean you think Hitler’s going to succeed?”

She concentrated on Hugh, shutting out the others. He was easy to look at, with the solemn face of a young Gary Cooper, pecan-shell brown hair, and blue eyes that seemed to spark whenever he spoke. He was the youngest of the three by several years, at least, and the only one smart enough to dress for Casablanca’s weather. His suit was tropic-weight cream wool, and his blue shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.

“I don’t know what Hitler’s going to do,” she said. “But I know if the Germans try to land here, I’ll stand on the beach and throw rocks at them. They have to be stopped somewhere.”

He leaned forward. “But you entertain Germans.”

“Sure. I take their money and enjoy every franc. I’ll even take a drink with them—if I can pour it myself.” She leaned forward, too. “And it’s not the German people I despise, Mr. Gerritsen. It’s the Nazis and fascists everywhere, including the ones in my own country, who can’t tolerate differences.”

He didn’t answer, but, strangely, he seemed to approve. She sat back. From the corner of her eye she saw Phillip approaching the table with mineral water Abdul had poured for her. When he reached them, she proudly put her arm around his waist. “Gentlemen, this is my son.”

Hugh was the first to respond. He reached across the table and held out his hand. “Hi. My friends call me Hap. I saw you feeding the parrots. You’ve got more courage than I do.”

All the men chatted easily with Phillip, asking about school and how he spent his leisure time. She watched him open up to them. Through the years she had done everything she could to fill Phillip’s life with men, but she hadn’t done enough. At thirteen, he was hungry for models to emulate.