by Tahir Shah
It was what was on them.
Each one was tuned to the same channel – 2M. And, to Ghita’s horror, each one was screening the same picture, of her father being led to a prison van in chains.
She rushed into the shop.
‘Put up the volume at once!’
A salesman stepped from the shadows.
‘Which unit would you like to be demonstrated, Miss?’
‘Any one... just turn up the volume!’
Frowning, the sales assistant shook his head.
‘Excuse me, Miss, this isn’t a café, but a television shop.’
‘Alright, alright...’ Ghita stammered, pointing to a large flat-screen model. ‘That one. I’d like to hear the sound.’
The salesman pressed a button on the remote control.
‘Omary is expected to be incarcerated without bail,’ said the news anchor, ‘due to the seriousness of his crime.’
‘Crime? What crime?’ Ghita exclaimed.
‘As you can hear, Miss, the sound on this model is particularly good.’
‘What?’
‘And the picture is exceptional.’
Regarding the salesman with a look of utter contempt, Ghita darted from the door, and hailed a cab.
‘Take me to Anfa, as quickly as you can!’
Forty-nine
The idea of Humphrey Bogart’s secret gnawed away at Blaine.
The more he tried to dismiss it as an idle daydream, the more it crept back into his thoughts. He felt a little bad at bothering Monsieur Raffi yet again, after all he had no spare funds for knick-knacks. But, as he reasoned it, the old shopkeeper valued conversation with a genuine Casablanca aficionado. And so, seeing the shutters up, Blaine crossed the street and shoved open the door.
The shopkeeper was asleep in his chair, a chipped china cup skewed on its saucer beside his left hand. He opened an eye, and then the other, pushed himself up.
‘Bonsoir Monsieur Américain,’ he said. ‘I am hoping you have come with some answers and not more questions.’
Closing the door, Blaine smiled hard, his cheeks dimpling.
‘I regret to say that I am here to bother you again with questions... questions to get an answer.’
‘An answer to the secret of Humphrey Bogart?’
‘The very same.’
Monsieur Raffi got up, shuffled to the corner, and boiled a kettle on the gas ring.
‘My sister used to bring me a special blend of tea from Lyon,’ he said. ‘She died last year, but thankfully she left me with enough packets to see me out. Wait till you taste it. There’s nothing like it in the entire world.’
The American took a step forward.
‘I have to explain something,’ he said. ‘You see, I’m one of the purists who regard it as the finest movie ever made. I know every line... every word.’ He slapped his hands together hard. ‘Hell, Casablanca is far more than an obsession,’ he said. ‘It’s a way of life.’
The shopkeeper measured two spoons of his precious tea into the pot, added the water, and stirred.
‘And why has that film had such an effect on your senses?’
‘Because of the way it gets under the skin.’
Monsieur Raffi poured two cups of tea. It was straw-coloured and scented of ginger.
‘You know the story. It wasn’t ever expected to be anything more than a “B” picture?’ he said.
‘And that’s what it is...’ Blaine replied. ‘There’s “B” stamped all over it! But it’s the one “B” movie that was better than any of the A-list.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of Bogart. His depth, his anger, his helplessness...’
‘And why did he succeed where so many others had failed?’
Blaine peered into the mahogany cabinet and took in the studio shot.
‘Because he didn’t give a damn,’ he murmured. He paused. ‘Will you tell me the secret?’ he said, his voice a little louder.
The shopkeeper tapped six of his little pills out of their bottle and gulped them back with his tea.
‘If I was going to tell what I know, I would have done so long ago,’ he said. ‘You see some secrets are better lost with time.’
‘Is it about an affair? I heard that Mayo thought Bogart was sleeping with Ingrid Bergman.’
‘Of course she did. After all, he was sleeping with half the known world,’ said the shopkeeper, ‘but this secret isn’t about infidelity.’
‘Then?’
‘Then you have to work it out.’
‘But I need a clue to start me off.’
Monsieur Raffi was about to say something, when a group of Chinese tourists peered in the window, hands cupped to their eyes. They clicked a volley of photos and were gone. Raffi sunk down into his favourite chair, hands caressing the faded satin armrests.
He took another sip of tea.
‘What will you give me in return for a clue that leads to the secret?’ he asked quietly.
The American sensed his spine warming with resentment. Until that point he had liked the old French shopkeeper, but as a New Yorker he had a sixth sense for being taken for a ride.
‘I don’t have any cash,’ he said. ‘Just a mountain of goodwill.’
‘I’m not talking about payment in money,’ Monsieur Raffi said. ‘I’m talking about detail. Give me a detail and I shall give you a clue.’
‘What kind of detail?’
‘One from your life.’
Blaine thought for a moment. He almost smiled.
‘Any detail?’
Raffi blinked.
‘OK. Let me think... When I was a child we lived for a while at Catskill, Upstate New York. I used to go fishing in the river with my pals. We camped out in the summer beneath a full moon. And on those nights, when my buddies were asleep, I’d crawl out of my tent and sit on the rocks, watching the reflection of the moonlight on the water. It was silver... magical... like something from another world.’
‘A detail of moonlight in exchange for a clue?’
Blaine nodded.
The shopkeeper drained his cup. The tea was cold but he didn’t care.
‘Do you know why Bogart was here in North Africa?’ he asked.
‘To entertain the troops.’
‘That’s right. Or, at least that was the official story. It was, as you might say, the “cover”.’
‘Then what was the real reason?’
‘The secret.’
Blaine cleared a chair of its magazines and sat down close to Raffi.
‘We’re going around in circles, aren’t we?’ he said.
‘Well, the best way to arrive at a destination is by a circle, or a spiral.’ The old man paused, then glanced at the floor. ‘Tell me another detail. A detail about taste.’
Concentrating, the American closed his eyes.
‘When I was eleven years old,’ he said, ‘my parents were out for the evening. My brother and I found the key to the drinks cabinet. We opened it and drank the bourbon – Jack Daniel’s No. 7. It tasted like liquid fire. I can still remember it burning my mouth, then my throat, and my stomach.’
Monsieur Raffi blew his nose into a polka-dot handkerchief.
‘The real reason Bogart was here in North Africa wasn’t to entertain anyone,’ he said. ‘It was to collect something.’
‘What?’
‘A box. A very special box.’
‘Couldn’t it have been shipped to him?’
‘No... no... not this box.’
‘What was inside?’
Raffi winced.
‘A secret.’
‘Something valuable?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Where is it now?’
‘That’s a secret, too.’
Blaine turned to look at the cabinet, and glimpsed Bogart framed in mahogany and glass.
‘So many secrets,’ he said.
‘It went with the time.’
‘With the War?’
‘That’s right.’ Monsieur Raffi coughed hard into his hand. ‘Bogart played chess by mail with a few GIs,’ he said. ‘The game was his greatest love – more precious to him than women or even drink. In one match, a GI stationed here in Morocco promised him something if he won. But the arrangement was that he would have to come and collect it himself.’
‘A treasure?’
Raffi rubbed his eyes.
‘A spoil of war.’
‘So he won the game, and then came to collect his prize?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘It’s a good story,’ Blaine said.
‘But it’s far more than that... more than a story.’
The shopkeeper sat up. He looked at the clock. Almost time to close for lunch. He pressed a knuckle to his lips and thought for a good long time.
‘I’ll be dead soon,’ he said, all of a sudden. ‘Not much life left in these bones. I have outlived my son, and my daughter has no interest in anything of substance. She’s never shown any interest in the things I hold dear.’
‘No interest in Bogart or Bergman?’ asked Blaine.
‘None at all.’
‘A wasted life?’
Monsieur Raffi grinned. He looked at the American, old eyes mapping the young man’s face. Then he pointed to a dresser to the right of the door. It was covered in junk acquired through decades of collecting.
‘Open the third drawer,’ he said, ‘and inside you will find your clue.’
Blaine stood up, crossed the room, and gently eased the drawer open. He expected to find it packed with odds and ends, but there was only one thing inside.
A postcard.
It was a hand-coloured picture of a Casablanca street. The buildings were gleaming white, the pedestrians dressed in suits with hats. Blaine turned it over. It was blank on the back.
‘What kind of clue’s this?’
‘Take it,’ said Raffi. ‘Turn what you see over in your head and...’
‘And?’
‘And let the spirit of Humphrey Bogart seep into your veins.’
Fifty
There was nothing the taxi driver disliked more than going to the ritzy neighbourhood of Anfa. Everyone there owned a car, and the journey meant he would most likely be returning empty.
He disliked the people, too, regarding them as most locals did, as phoney Moroccans, the kind that were far more at home in France.
Jerking the wheel to the left after the Saudi Palace, the driver gritted his teeth. A sea of congestion stretched out in front of his car’s bumper – most of them black Range Rovers and new German cars.
‘The traffic’s always bad here,’ he said under his breath, ‘because these stupid rich people don’t know how to drive.’
Ghita wagged a finger aggressively.
‘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.