by Tahir Shah
Digging her heels into the marble, Ghita made a beeline for the reception desk. She sashayed with the confidence and swagger of someone accustomed to comfort.
The duty manager looked up, caught eye-contact, and smiled.
‘Good morning to you, Mademoiselle. How are you?’
‘I am all the better for being at the Hyatt,’ she said. ‘I won’t bore you with the details of my morning. But it’s been horrifying to say the least.’
‘And what may I do for you?’
‘A room. I would like a room,’ Ghita paused. ‘Actually, I would like a suite. Something big, with a view... a view away from the city.’
‘Of course, Mademoiselle. And how long will you be staying with us?’
Ghita Omary glanced at the calendar behind the reception desk.
‘For a month,’ she said.
The manager’s fingertips tapped away at a keyboard.
‘We have an Ambassador Suite available, Mademoiselle. It has a fine view over the port, and complimentary breakfast. The price is one thousand and twenty-six euros per night, including tax. A total of thirty-thousand, seven hundred and eighty euros.’
‘That’s fine, I’ll take it.’
‘We shall need your credit card to make the confirmation.’
Ghita delved into her handbag, a limited edition Versace.
At the very bottom, below the compact, the lipstick, the silk scarf and the leather-bound notebook from Coach, was a secret compartment. Unzipping it, she pulled out a Black American Express card.
Smugly, she passed it to the clerk.
After all, no top-notch shopaholic would go out without emergency plastic.
The card was swiped. The manager squinted at the computer display.
‘I am so sorry, Miss Omary,’ he said, ‘but this card appears to have been cancelled. Do you have another we could try?’
Ghita felt her back warming with anger. Snatching the card, she snarled:
‘Damn him! Damn him! How dare he subject me to this!’
The manager took a step back.
‘My father,’ Ghita said, straining to regain her composure, ‘he seems to be having a little amusement at my expense. I’ll just check into the room now, and give you another card later.’
The manager held up a finger.
‘I am afraid to inform you that hotel policy insists that we take a valid credit card in advance.’
Ghita Omary calmed herself. She moved forward into the light, so that the duty manager could see the depth of the displeasure exhibited in her eyes.
‘Do you have any idea who my father is?’ she said. ‘He’s Hicham Omary, owner of Globalcom! If you don’t give me a suite right now, I’ll have you fired and then publicly disgraced! You’ll be down in the Sahara by nightfall!’
The duty manager didn’t respond. Calmly, he took back the credit card.
‘Alas, it seems as though the card is stolen,’ he said. ‘There is a message in the system asking merchants to destroy it if located.’
Taking a pair of scissors from a drawer, he snipped the Centurion card in half.
‘A very good day to you, Mademoiselle Omary,’ he said.
Twenty-five
A little later, the Maybach limousine cruised through Anfa’s palm-lined streets. Hicham Omary was reclining in the back. He had been going through the morning’s news schedule on the phone, the leather seat strewn with papers.
Looking out at the traffic lights of the Boulevard Gandhi intersection, he noticed a commotion. A policeman had pulled up a truck piled with crates of oranges from Agadir. The officer was going over the driver’s documents, all part of a ballet designed to end in a bribe.
Omary got another burst of childhood memory, a sun-drenched lane in the country and bare swollen feet. He had picked citrus fruit near Tafroute after leaving school at the age of twelve. It was there that his family had herded sheep and raised crops for fifteen centuries and more. The sweet scent of oranges brought back memories of the endless citrus groves, and of his uncle, a wily old farmer who was bitter to the core.
Running a hand over his face, Omary watched as the truck’s driver slipped over the neatly folded bill, before his ramshackle vehicle was waved on.
The lights changed and the Maybach rolled away down Boulevard Gandhi.
Omary’s mind turned to his daughter.
A pang of guilt, even remorse, hit him. It was tempered by a sense of anger, anger at himself. He had been far too lenient, and his lenience had created a brat – the kind he had so despised on his way up through the ranks from the orange groves to the boardroom.
The limousine glided to the end of the boulevard, and on towards Californie, where the most pretentious of the nouveaux riches were to be found. They were lured there by the exotic name of the suburb, and by the size of the villas, grand enough to wow even the most blasé of socialites.
The old houses were few and far between these days. Most had been torn down and replaced by concrete monstrosities, wedding cake homes, like his own. The old ones from the French era had been studies in serene perfection, leftovers from an era dedicated to good breeding and to style.
On one corner there stood the finest of all, a villa that was almost a century old. It was absolutely perfect. Symmetrical in form and Art Nouveau in style, there was an almost enchanted quality about it, a sense that it had been conjured through an architectural alchemy.
Omary always looked out for it as he approached. He could feel it drawing near, and was energized by the mere thought of being in its presence.
But on that particular morning something was wrong.
Outside the villa there stood a line of parked trucks, a battery of workmen attending each one. Every man was wearing a yellow helmet and was clutching a pickaxe, as if he were heading down a mineshaft.
The limousine slowed in the traffic, and Hicham Omary watched in horror at what was going on. The workmen were demolishing the villa, the jewel of jewels – smashing, crushing, slamming. It was an execution.
Omary asked the chauffeur to pull over.
He got out. Reeling in revulsion and in shame, he strode over to the ruins.
An aged guardian was squatting on the sidelines. He was grizzled and half-blind, his eyes frosted by cataracts. Omary approached him, squatting down as well. He gave greeting, and asked:
‘Tell me, brother, what is happening here?’
The guardian whispered a line of greeting in return, waved a hand at the rubble and the dust.
‘They’re breaking it up,’ he said very slowly. ‘I’ve worked here all my life, keeping it safe. And now this... the end of a life.’
‘How can they get permission to tear down such a treasure?’
The old man rubbed the side of his hand to his eye.
‘They can do anything they like,’ he said.
‘But it’s against the law.’
‘Law, what law?’
‘The law of the city, the law of the land!’
The guardian rubbed a thumb and index finger together.
‘Pay the bribe to the right people and you can do anything you like,’ he said.
Twenty-six
Expelled from the Hyatt, Ghita had taken refuge at a tumbledown kiosk opposite the Marché Central.
It sold cheap cigarettes and lighter fuel, chewing gum and glue. On the journey back down the main boulevard she had run the full gamut of emotion, ranging from bizarre euphoria to despair and rage.
She had dragged the portmanteau behind her, leaving its underside battered and scarred. Had she not been so extremely attached to its contents, she would have abandoned it.
Instantly grasping from her clothes and her luggage that she was out of place, the kiosk’s owner slid over a telephone.
Snatching the receiver, Ghita wiped it with lace, and dialled. There was a pause, then a woman’s voice, shrill and excitable.
‘Aicha, darling, it’s me, it’s Ghita. I’m having an awful time. Thank God I remembered your num
ber. Baba’s being beastly...’
‘Ghita, darling, it’s early for you, especially after a night like that.’
‘I swear I’m still dreaming... but it’s no dream – it’s a nightmare. You have to help me!’
‘But dearest, I’m en route to the airport, going to Gstaad for the weekend. Last skiing of the season. It’s Malik’s little treat.’
Ghita broke down again.
‘I need help,’ she repeated. ‘I am in danger!’
Aicha’s voice crackled and faded away as the line went dead.
Slamming down the receiver, Ghita spat out a line of expletives. Then she stormed across the road to Hotel Marrakech, dragging the Louis Vuitton behind her.
Outside it, a young man was touting stolen phones from a scruffy old shoebox. His accomplice was on the lookout for possible customers and for the cops. Spotting a well-dressed woman in lavender heels, the pair made a beeline for her.
‘Need a phone?’ they both said at once. ‘Got some nice ones here.’
Ghita peered into the box. One of the mobiles was buzzing. Another was chiming Yankee Doodle Dandy. She spotted the familiar outline of an iPhone.
‘How much is that?’
‘Four hundred dirhams.’
Ghita unclasped her brooch. It was gold, fashioned in the shape of a dolphin, and had been a gift from the mayor of Paris.
‘I’ll swap it for this, and only because I’m desperate.’
The young man snatched the brooch, furled it away, and handed over the iPhone. Wasting no time, Ghita tried Aicha again. Unable to reach her, she sent a text.
There was no reply.
Cursing, Ghita shook her fists and stamped her stilettos as angrily as she could. Then, crushed, she climbed the steps up to the Hotel Marrakech, dragging the portmanteau up behind her.
The lobby was dark, caked in dirt, and decidedly unappealing. It was decorated with ashtrays, tattered old airline posters, and with third-rate plastic plants. Every surface seemed to be a perch for a cat. There were dozens of them – tabbies, tortoiseshells, anxious Siamese, and sleek Burmese.
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.
&
nbsp; 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.