by Tahir Shah
‘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.’
Hicham Omary cleared his throat.
‘From this moment we shall no longer pay bribes of any kind,’ he said. ‘Whether it be five dirhams to a parking guardian on a street corner, or fifty to a cop for an invented traffic violation... or bribes to judges, politicians, or anyone else. No longer shall we live in fear. And, gradually, if we survive, others will regard us as pioneers and they will follow our example.’
Omary paused. He took a sip of water, and stared down the conference table.
‘I shall give an interview for the evening news,’ he said, ‘a rallying cry for the new order. But before that, I am sending out a memo, to all personnel at Globalcom. From now on, anyone found paying bribes or being involved in corruption of any kind, shall be immediately dismissed.’
Thirty-three
A string of street vendors were touting used clothing and junk on the western side of Boulevard Mohammed V.
Most were dressed in heavy woollen jelabas, the kind that keep out the Atlantic winter cold. A few were crouched down, rearranging their wares, calling out to anyone who might listen.
One was eager to draw attention to a cluster of dirty wooden spoons, a pile of German paperbacks, and an ashtray stolen from the Hotel Negresco in Nice. Another had a bundle of coat hangers laid out on a mat, half a dozen screwdrivers, and what looked li
ke the back end of a vintage vacuum cleaner.
Rather out of place between them was an open Louis Vuitton portmanteau, overflowing with designer garments and accessories.
Standing beside it, a little awkward and a little cold, was Ghita.
From time to time burly women would sidle up, root through the clothes, and wander away.
One of them lingered longer than the rest.
‘Bonjour Madame,’ Ghita said politely. ‘What about this, it’s Dior, and has never been worn? Or how about this belt – it’s Lagerfeld, this summer’s collection?’
The large meaty woman picked out a crimson cocktail dress and held it to her chest. Ghita exhaled in a sigh.
‘It’s Valentino,’ she said. ‘A limited edition, one of only six.’
‘I’ll give you twenty dirhams.’
‘You must be out of your mind! It cost twelve hundred euros!’
The woman held out a banknote so worn that it felt like cloth. Gritting her teeth, Ghita snatched it and stuffed it in her bag. She was about to curse her father again when she saw a familiar outline cruising down the boulevard. It was low to the ground and scarlet, and was driven by Mustapha.
He paused at the lights, easing on the accelerator as they changed. Through the corner of his eye he noticed a slim figure in lavender with matching heels. She had a hand to her face and what looked like an open leather case in front of her. He almost frowned.
It looked like his fiancée.
But how could it be her, in such a shabby part of town? Anyway, it couldn’t be Ghita. She was living it up in Monte Carlo.
Thirty-four
The television on the back wall of Baba Cool was mounted high, to prevent the clientele who packed the café from morning to night from changing the channels.
A moody smoke-filled haunt, it was patronized by the legions of local men who were taking it easy and hiding from their wives.
No one could remember the last time a woman had ever dared to enter Baba Cool. It wasn’t that women weren’t welcome, rather that they stayed away, alarmed by what they regarded as an atmosphere of shameful iniquity.
The waiter zigzagged between the tables, serving up miniature glasses of the ubiquitous café noir. The beverage was slapped down whether you ordered it or not, as were the ashtrays. They came two at a time. After all, in Morocco there’s nothing quite so honourable than for a man to put in the hours at his local café, knocking back bitter coffee and chain-smoking Marquise cigarettes.
On the back wall, a prim female newsreader was serving up the headlines:
‘Mr. Hicham Omary, the CEO of the Globalcom media empire, has announced today that he will, quote “dedicate his life to eradicating every form of corruption in the kingdom”. He began his crusade without warning, and the first high-profile head has just rolled – that of Casablanca’s Governor. The official was caught red-handed by Globalcom reporters for taking millions of dirhams in illicit “donations”. While we cannot be sure how many other leading officials Mr. Omary has in his sights, we can be certain that he is going to make himself plenty of enemies.’
The waiter glanced up at the TV on his way to the door, where a uniformed silhouette was waiting, his back against the light. Without a thought, the waiter’s hand fished down into the pocket of his apron, pulled out a hundred-dirham note. Folding it in half, then in quarters, he slipped it over to the policeman, who ambled away without a word.
Thirty-five
Two full days had passed since Ghita had left home.
She felt disorientated and unloved, and was filled with loathing and self-pity. It had taken her all afternoon to make enough money for a bowl of soup and a chunk of bread at one of the stalls in the Marché Central. In that time she had been relieved of a small fortune in couture garments by her bargain-hungry clientele.
As she sat there, her belly stinging with hunger for the first time in her life, the stolen iPhone began to buzz. Squinting at the display, she thanked God.
‘My dearest Aicha!’ she exclaimed.
‘We touched down just this moment. Gstaad was sublime. How was your weekend, dearest?’
‘It was abhorrent!’
‘Oh, you poor baby! Where are you?’
‘Staying downtown... in a hotel.’
‘The Hyatt?’
Ghita’s expression glazed over. She bit her upper lip.
‘No, no, in a little boutique place. I don’t have a car. Can you come meet me right away?’
Within the hour a magnolia-coloured Bentley pulled up outside Hotel Marrakech. The chauffeur stepped out and opened the passenger door, kicking away a dead rat with his heel. There was a long pause.
Then, very slowly, an impeccably dressed woman got down.
Her eyes hidden beneath enormous Jackie O sunglasses, she was dressed from head to toe in pink Prada mink. She didn’t walk so much as waft, making her way between a pair of drunks lying outstretched on the pavement, leaving a vapour trail of rare perfume behind her.
Tugging a silk scarf from her Hermès Birkin, like a magician in the middle of a trick, she used it to push open the door.
The lair of hungry cats was awaiting her inside.
In deep hash-induced sleep on the sofa lay the clerk. Like his pets, he was unused to high society. Opening an eye, he struggled drowsily to sit upright, as the scent and silhouette of Ghita’s best friend approached.
Before she knew it, Aicha was standing outside room thirteen. She knocked.
The door opened inwards.
As soon as she saw her friend, Ghita burst into a flood of tears. She was inconsolable.
‘I can never forgive him!’ she sobbed. ‘Baba’s cruelty knows no bounds.’
‘But my dear Ghita, why are you here?’
‘Baba thinks I can’t survive in the real world. He thinks I’m incompetent, that I’m lazy.’
‘My darling, this is not reality. It’s Hell,’ Aicha said, pulling Ghita’s reddened cheek to her mink-covered breast, the tears soaked up by the fur.
‘What horror! What absolute horror! Get your things and come with me at once! The Bentley’s waiting downstairs. Come and stay with me for as long as you wish.’
Collapsing onto the bed, Ghita waved a finger left and right.
‘I’m going to break him,’ she snarled. ‘He’s a beast, but there’s no way I’ll let him win!’
‘But now that you’ve proved him wrong, surely you can go home.’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
Ghita wiped a tear from her chin.
‘I said I would support myself for a month.’
‘A month! That’s ridiculous!’
‘No it’s not. I have to prove to him that I’m as capable as anyone else... and I’m certainly as capable as any of those goons he employs. He regards me as useless as a little toy poodle, but I’m going to show him! Besides, he’s sure to have his spies out checking up on me. You know how he is.’
Aicha reached out, her mink cuff brushing over her friend’s shoulder.
‘There’s danger in this,’ she said. ‘It may be a matter of honour for you, but what if they find out?’
‘They?’
‘Mustapha... our friends... society!’
Ghita swallowed hard, her eyes welling with tears.
‘This is more important to me than anything else,’ she said.
‘More than losing your fiancé? Don’t be so stubborn. Come with me now.’
‘I can’t. I really can’t. I just ask that you give me some time and,’ Ghita swallowed again, ‘and that you lend me some money to buy a proper meal.’
Reaching into her Birkin, Aicha removed a brick of bank notes. It was two inches thick.
‘Here’s some change,’ she said.
Ghita reached out in a hug.
‘Please promise me that you won’t tell Baba that you saw me, or that you lent me this,’ she said. ‘I want him to think I’m suffering. I know that with a little time he’ll come crawling to m
e on his knees.’
Thirty-six
A water-seller was chiming his great brass bell outside the Marrakech Gate, the main entrance to Casablanca’s old medina.
He was dressed in traditional red robes, and straw hat decorated with pompoms, his chest crisscrossed with water-skins. Spotting a foreigner he made a beeline across the flagstones. But Blaine waved him aside, and pushed his way through the arch.
Lost in the shadows of late morning there were storytellers huddled in circles, and all manner of services and wares – shoe-shiners and lizard-sellers, rat-catchers, letter-writers, and stalls selling everything from underpants to imitation Rolexes, and from Reeboks to freshly stolen phones.
Blaine’s attention was drawn in all directions.
He paused to watch a snake-charmer, flute in hand, the cobra’s hood jerking back and forth as if about to strike. Nearby, lamb kebabs were roasting on a makeshift brazier, the heavy oily smoke hanging like a curtain in the bright sunlight. A group of acrobatic dwarfs were tumbling from each other’s shoulders. As he pushed through the crowd to watch them, Blaine felt someone nudge up hard against him.
Fumbling a hand into his pocket, he cursed. His money clip was gone. Scanning left, right, forward, back, he caught sight of a young man in a red hooded jacket darting through the crowd. He gave chase.
But, suddenly, he was gone.
Then he noticed a policeman at the end of the street. Dressed in a navy blue uniform, a white holster at his side, he was doing the rounds, taking favours in cigarettes and tea. Blaine rushed up.
‘I’ve just been robbed. A thief stole my money clip.’
‘Quoi?’
Acting out a hand slipping into his pocket, Blaine half-expected the officer to give chase.
‘Un voleur...?’
‘Yes, I mean, oui, oui, un voleur... a thief!’
The policeman shrugged.
‘C’est la vie,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you gonna do something?’
Again, the officer shrugged, a little more incredulously than before.
Standing there, wondering what to do, Blaine heard a young scratchy voice in English: