Marrakech Noir

by Yasin Adnan

  “Wouldn’t it be a good idea if you went and looked for a job?” Marcel retorted.

  “I’d rather be dead than hear you say things like that.”

  “I hate it when you say that sort of thing,” he snapped.

  “Come back with good news,” she said.

  “I’ll be coming back with material for a book.”

  He wondered if he should tell her why he didn’t want to go to Marrakech. He would rather go to any other place on Earth. Would she understand? But then he would have to tell her that Marrakech had been an experience that had changed him, that had made him who he was. Without that period in his life, he would never have begun a long-term relationship.

  She waved her hand in the direction of the door. “I think the taxi’s here. Quick. I can’t stand it any longer. I have to go to my yoga class.”

  6.

  Marcel could see Marrakech crystal clear from the air. It was a pleasure to look at it. It was only later that he understood that the transparency was deceptive. It was difficult not to be overwhelmed. The city had proved itself resistant to the tourism hype. It had not only survived it, but it had given it a twist. Tourists did their thing, the residents did their thing—it was a city that began each day trying to remember who it was yesterday, and had already forgotten again by the end of the evening.

  When he smelled the air he knew that it had been a bad idea to come to the city. The best thing he could do was go straight to the check-in desk and catch the first airplane back home. He had hardly any time to think it through before the taxi driver who’d come to pick him up was standing in front of him, frantically waving a board with his name on it. Incorrectly spelled. The man embraced him as if he were a long-lost family member. And perhaps he was, a little. Anyway, he was already sweating. He wanted more than anything else to go to his hotel room and lie under a bedsheet with the curtains closed until this oppressive feeling had subsided.

  It was not to be, however. The driver sped to the hotel as if he were being chased by people he owed money to, all while alternating Marcel’s name: Monsieur Marcel, Monsieur Marcel, the driver said, Monsieur Hirschfeld, Monsieur Hirschfeld, like he was a small child who had just learned the words. It was only a short way to the Mamounia from the airport, but the driver seemed to know an even shorter route. The buildings Marcel remembered from his last visit flashed by left and right, pushed back in the course of time by more recent, more prestigious buildings, like old masters surrounded by voluptuous young women. As soon as evening came, the lights would be turned on, and Marcel would be able to see just how big everything was—the lights gave the decadence contours. He’d once been a part of it. Before they came to a halt in front of the Mamounia, the driver asked: “Have you been to Marrakech before?”

  Marcel bit his lip. “This is the first time,” he lied.

  “You are a lucky man,” the driver said as he opened the door.

  If only he knew.

  He would need something to drink first, to calm himself, so that he could cope with his pending conversation with Mr. Hirschfeld.

  The Mamounia Hotel impressed him. Mr. Hirschfeld was paying for the cost of his stay. The way in which the attendant met and escorted him confirmed to Marcel that Mr. Hirschfeld was an important guest.

  “Mr. Hirschfeld receives for dinner in his suite at nine o’clock,” the attendant said.

  “Can you tell me where I have to be?”

  “You will be collected.”

  He installed himself in his room. He hung up his suit, shined his shoes, and quickly ironed a shirt. In the city evening fell, the time for people to drift to the old center, the hum mixed with the excited chatter of the exotic birds. From his room he could see the Koutoubia Mosque with the Atlas Mountains behind it. The city was seething. Sitting here inside, protected from the cacophony, made him feel small. He felt isolated, not really a person. He should have been out there, anonymous, just wandering, no real objective except the longing to be entertained and to meet new people. The city was good at that, giving the feeling that anyone could be friends with anyone else. “Who am I kidding?” Marcel asked aloud, trying to pull himself together. “I’m not welcome here. If I take one step outside the door, I’ll suffocate. Everywhere I go . . .” It was pointless thinking about it. It was history. Marcel breathed air in through his nose. Air he was addicted to.

  7.

  Three rather insistent knocks on his door awoke him. The three miniature bottles of whiskey he had thoughtlessly knocked back had done their work a little too well. It was five minutes to nine and he had an erection. He wanted to have sex. He missed his wife. He was going to be late and wouldn’t make a good impression on a billionaire that way. For a rich person, time is a fetish.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming!” Marcel shouted in his best French as he pulled on his blue suit. It had been a long time since he had slept so deeply in the daytime. He couldn’t tell from the face of the attendant who led him to Hirschfeld’s suite if anyone was irritated with him. But did it matter? People fell asleep. It would have been much worse if he had stayed asleep.

  With a knock on the door, they were allowed in. The attendant handed him over as if he were a parcel—only they didn’t scan him. The spacious room proved to be an antechamber. There was a gigantic cage in which a Brazilian parrot was enjoying some nuts. It was being spoiled, and yet the bird did not seem to be at ease. It didn’t move and looked suspiciously at the new guest. Max Hirschfeld’s parrot doesn’t like strangers, thought Marcel. And I don’t like his parrot.

  He was allowed into the next room. The attendant left him alone. They did that, of course, to heighten the effect—this man could only function by creating distance, by giving you the feeling that you were small. And the longer he was left alone, exposed to the décor around him, the deeper the realization that he had come a long way to meet this man. What an extraordinary meeting this will be! Marcel knew he couldn’t give in to the depression that was hanging over him, throwing a blanket of melancholy over everything. It was the last thing he needed at the moment. He was contractually bound, by all sorts of clauses, to exude energy and enthusiasm. The billionaire must have zero doubts about him.

  Suddenly, the billionaire stood in front of him and thrust an enormously big hand toward Marcel, fingers outstretched like a ship. Hirschfeld was bigger and more agreeable-looking than Marcel had expected. The corpulent, somewhat sickly looking figure was actually a friendly man, who moved easily and looked at him with welcoming eyes. His feet were in comfortable brown loafers and his face was well polished by the Moroccan sun. No sign of arrogance.

  “Marcel Ophuis,” he said, shaking the billionaire’s hand.

  “Hirschfeld, but call me Max. May I call you Marcel? Formality is for people who are on their way to the top, but we’re there already. You as a writer, me as a newspaperman.”

  Rich people and people of standing found it difficult to relate to ordinary people. Not because they didn’t understand them, but because they didn’t know the context well enough, and they were afraid of making a mistake, of being confronted with their ignorance of ordinary things. This man was one of the few rich and successful people who had something of an ordinary life. That made him human. Marcel was immediately fascinated by him.

  “Haven’t they offered you anything to drink?” Hirschfeld asked. “The scoundrels. Please, sit down.”

  They sat close together. He found the intimacy, which Hirschfeld seemed to take as a matter of course, not unpleasant. It was important to leave a good impression and Hirschfeld understood that. Marcel was silently grateful that his agent had insisted that he accept the job. He sat opposite a true mensch.

  “We’re going to do it right. A biography has to have a face. Everyone makes mistakes, but few have the courage to admit them,” Hirschfeld explained. “I’m able to say that I wouldn’t have been who I am today without those mistakes. That’s what the book has to be about.”

  “You already have an idea. That’s
good.”

  “I’m an open book. People have always underestimated me. And do you know why? Because they didn’t know any better. And I made use of that. I regret some things . . .” the billionaire admitted. And to make it immediately clear that he meant what he said, Hirschfeld rattled off a number of names that Marcel had read about in preparation. The bottom line was that a lot of Hirschfeld’s wealth had fallen into his lap because people had thought that he would mess it up. “They underestimated me, the idiots. Underestimated. And instead of giving me respect every time that I showed that I could do it, they gave me an even bigger commission, just to see how I would mess that up. But I didn’t. I won and won and won.” The last comment came out embittered.

  So there was a pain that could be lived off for a lifetime. Pure kerosene was needed to keep on flying and to cross time zones. Hirschfeld’s drive to make something of himself reminded Marcel of his colleagues on Mars, always trying to show the world that they were decent, that they were doing the right thing, that they were good people. It was a glimpse of a damaged man. That could be used to fill a very good book. He was a success in everything, but still he always had the feeling that it was thanks to the stupidity of others.

  Hirschfeld clapped his hands. In no time, all sorts of dishes were placed in front of Marcel. Exquisitely flavored Moroccan food with a well-seasoned choice of spices. While Marcel ate, Hirschfeld watched him intently. Marcel’s agent had warned him about this: Hirschfeld couldn’t stand thin people. Marcel had to eat.

  “Have you had enough?” the billionaire asked.

  “Yes, it’s delicious.”

  “Good. I’m impressed by your appetite,” the billionaire said. “Your agent told me you could eat like a horse. That makes me happy. My father was like that, and my grandfather was as well. Cigar?”

  “No thank you. I don’t smoke.”

  “Smoking at my age is like unwrapping a present. I don’t let anyone tell me what to do anymore,” Hirschfeld joked. Then he burst out into an incoherent tirade about his four ex-wives who had tried to prevent him from smoking. He visibly enjoyed losing himself in such bouts of anger; his eyes shone with pleasure as he verbally got even. He tore his wives to pieces, but he did it with style. As if all the pent-up anger over the years had delivered the jackpot: passion, release, and relief. Before Marcel knew it, the two men were laughing together. The evening had somehow become enjoyable.

  “But haven’t they helped you live longer by stopping you from smoking?”

  Hirschfeld moved a little bit closer to Marcel, and his voice smoothed into an almost whisper: “Better a short and happy life than a long and unhappy one. They were bitches. I tied myself up in knots trying to keep them happy, while they were just planning to fleece me.”

  Marcel couldn’t do anything else but change his opinion: there was a book in this man. Maybe even two or three. If they became friends, it could turn into something big. If Marcel could place his talent in the service of a man who had not only made it, but who had seen enough to be able to tell a truly remarkable story, then it would also help his own career as a writer.

  “Luckily, I now have a wife who really loves me,” the billionaire said, his anger melting with a smile.

  “Such luck is scarce. To fall for someone so late in life.” Marcel quickly realized that he had said something stupid. He had to correct himself fast: “I mean . . . not that you’re old.”

  Hirschfeld leaned into him. “You speak from the heart,” he reassured Marcel, placing his hand on his own heart. “I like you. Because I’m old and my life is behind me, it allows me to see the time that I have left as a bonus. I don’t talk to people that often anymore. And people don’t talk that often to me. Do you know why? After a certain age, you don’t trust people anymore. I’ve had bad luck. Each and every one of my children—and I have twelve—are unreliable, opportunistic, and dishonest. They’re lucky in business and unlucky in life. If they call me it’s only to ask for more money . . . What did you do before?”

  “I was on Mars,” Marcel answered.

  “The planet?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good, there’s a nightclub here called Mars. Wasn’t it incredibly cold out there?”

  “We were inside.”

  “You weren’t there to write a book, were you?” Hirschfeld asked.

  “Work.”

  “Were you a part of the oil boom that brought our planet so much wealth?”

  “It was a good time,” Marcel said.

  “You must be happy to be home.”

  “It’s okay. The money I earned turned out to be less than I thought.”

  “And the damned inflation as well,” Hirschfeld said. “You couldn’t see that coming on Mars, of course.”

  “You couldn’t see it coming on Earth either. Money didn’t interest me until I didn’t have it anymore,” Marcel admitted. “And then I became very interested. But I’d rather not talk about it. We’re in Marrakech and we’re having an interesting conversation. That is worth a lot to me.”

  “Come with me.” Hirschfeld led Marcel to the window. There was a telescope on the balcony. “Part of the hotel service. Show me where Mars is.”

  Marcel began to point the telescope. He gestured to Hirschfeld. “There.”

  The man bent down to peer into the lens. Marcel saw that he enjoyed what he could see. “We’re looking at Mars in Marrakech,” the billionaire said, his tone full of awe.

  When they went back inside, Marcel saw the woman who had brought both Hirschfeld and himself so much unhappiness. She was four years older. She had only put on a few pounds. She was beautiful, sensual, and sly—her name was Sarah, even if she didn’t look like a Sarah.

  “Ghizlaine, ma chérie,” Hirschfeld said. “You were going to bed early. Did you miss me?”

  This new name matched the off-white silk nightdress that fit perfectly over Sarah’s copper-colored body, like a sumptuous art deco vase draped in silk. Yet the dress wasn’t vulgar; she could never come across as vulgar. She had learned over the years that a man would surrender himself entirely to a woman whose appearance was based on a sort of shock effect. It was impossible not to want to hold her, to want to love her, destroy her, and then resurrect her—if that was even possible.

  When she had financially and sexually drained him, had utterly humiliated him by disappearing without a trace, just before he was to leave Marrakech—he’d even been followed by boys who kept bothering him after he had asked around for her in the neighborhood where she lived—Marcel became so damaged that just the mere thought of her made him sick. But in her renewed vicinity, there was nothing of that. It was just possible that somewhere in his heart there was room for forgiveness. He would once again have the chance to enjoy her delicious presence—that promise which emanated from her broke his resistance.

  They once had to leave a restaurant in a hurry while quietly waiting for their main course because his agent had discreetly whispered that a man at the bar could not stand that Marcel was with her. “Such a gentleman is sitting with such an interesting lady. It might be better for you and her and the furnishings if you continue your evening at another address. I can recommend somewhere for you,” the waiter had told him.

  Sarah was so beautiful. He was proud of her—his attention made her lively, and every time she’d disappeared with his credit card, she came back more richly clothed and more gorgeous.

  “I can’t sleep without a good night kiss, just like the French writer you told me about,” Ghizlaine said to her husband. “I thought for a long time that I was the only one like that. It made me lonely.”

  Proust had felt that way as well. She had done some more reading since he last saw her: the change wasn’t just on the surface. She couldn’t return to the working-class area she had left like a missile. It had become a strange planet for her.

  “Is this the monsieur you’ve been talking about? The writer?” she asked, tilting her head to get a better look at him. “Don’t I k
now you? Haven’t I read a book of yours? I’d like to. And then talk to you about it. Preferably in the shade in the afternoon.” She didn’t walk toward him, she floated, as if a gigantic wind turbine blew her along. The refinement that hid her dark past as if it were a secret weapon had become even more intense.

  “We have seen Mars. He’s been on the red planet,” Hirschfeld said.

  “Extraordinary—an astronaut. Weren’t you afraid up there?”

  “You take your fear with you—and it’s just as bad anywhere else,” Marcel replied.

  “Philosophical.” She looked at him charmingly, as if to reward him.

  “Ghizlaine,” Hirschfeld whispered, almost as an admonition, in a tone they’d invented especially for their relationship. It was a tone that excited them—a needy girl for a forceful man. That tone was stronger than a legal contract. That tone said everything. “In just a short space of time, I’ve become very fond of this man, and now you come and spoil it for us,” Hirschfeld teased. “Be nice to him. You could have been nice to the other one.”

  “That man was not as nice as this gentleman.”

  “We had a writer here staying with us,” Hirschfeld explained. “There was some tension between him and my girl.”

  “And the girl won?” asked Marcel.

  “He found it difficult to settle in,” said Ghizlaine. “I’m not very good in competitions. Can’t you see?” The small, soft hand that she held out melted in his; it told him that she knew very well who he was and that she wanted him, that she hadn’t forgotten him and never would.

  “But the other guy had to go to make way for you. You’re a true talent. Everything has a reason. He didn’t believe that Allah preordained all things. But I do. Do you?”

  “What was it like on Mars?” Ghizlaine asked, her hand still lingering in his. “You have to tell me everything. You can only go once, and I’ve heard so many things.”

  Translated from Dutch by Terry Ezra

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