Whitefly

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “Ever seen these before?”

  She shook her head.

  “No idea what’s inside them?”

  “No.”

  “Did your husband have some kind of illness?”

  She shook her head again.

  Laafrit took all the vials out. At the bottom of the box he found a folded sheet of paper that had been crumpled and then smoothed out again. An illegible word was written on the paper. There were some rough marks next to some words scrawled in French. Next to one of the marks, Laafrit read “Oualidia.”

  “When your husband called you last, he said he was calling from Oualidia?”

  “Yes, but I thought he was really calling from El Jadida,” she said.

  Laafrit put the vials back in the box and stuck the paper in his pocket.

  “I’m taking these with me,” he said.

  Amina didn’t seem to care. She shrugged as if the whole thing didn’t have anything to do with her.

  “Do you have a recent picture of your husband?”

  She took the photo album out of the wardrobe and flipped through it.

  “These are all pictures from our wedding,” she said in frustration. She was looking for a picture of her husband alone.

  “Can I have one of the wedding pictures?” asked Laafrit, stopping her.

  “I’ll keep it as a souvenir,” he added, trying to make light of the situation, although they both knew why he needed the picture.

  He looked at the photo and was struck by Amina’s beauty. She was standing next to Bensallam in his tux, wearing a white wedding dress and smiling happily at the photographer.

  Back at the Beni Mellal police station, Laafrit put the plastic box on the desk and took out a vial. He opened it up, sniffed it,, and then gave it to Detective Said, who was sitting in front of him.

  “I found these vials in Bensallam’s locked drawer in his bedroom. There’s no label and his wife doesn’t know anything about them.”

  Said looked closely at the vial, opened it, and put a drop on his finger.

  “Don’t taste it,” said Laafrit, grinning. “Might be poison.”

  “Looks to me like the stuff herb doctors sell to boost sex drive.”

  Laafrit laughed. He spread out the sheet he found with the vials and began to sound out the roughly scrawled place names: Oualidia, Chtouka, Bir Jdid, Haouzia.

  He pushed the sheet toward Said.

  “This was with the vials in the box.”

  Said looked at it.

  “It’s a map of the Doukkala region,” he said immediately.

  Laafrit realized he heard that name a lot these days.

  “I found it under the vials in the box. Amina remembered Bensallem called her from Oualidia last time he came back to Morocco.”

  “It’s just a local aphrodisiac,” said Said in jest. “Sold only in the rural markets. Maybe Bensallam went from village to village looking for it.”

  “If that’s right,” said Laafrit, faking a laugh, “we’re going to have to redo the autopsy to confirm he was impotent.”

  “Why bother looking at the corpse? Just go ask his wife!” said Said.

  With all his guesses and jokes, Laafrit felt Said’s involvement was pointless. He put the vials back in the box and stuck the sheet in his pocket. He looked at his watch, pretending to be in a rush.

  “I’ve got a long trip ahead of me,” said Laafrit.

  Said got up gently, as if he was afraid Laafrit was trying to get away.

  “I swear to God,” said Said, “I told my family you’re going to be our guest tonight. You can’t just leave like that.”

  “You’re right,” said Laafrit without putting up resistance, realizing Said was going to insist no matter what. “Why rush? I still have plenty of time to make it back to Tangier.”

  And with that he sat back down again.

  “So, is this town famous for any good food?” he asked playfully.

  “Our city is famous for the proverb that goes ‘the guest doesn’t ask for anything but the owner of the house takes good care of him.’ But I like you, so I’ll top the proverb and do whatever you ask,” said Said.

  Laafrit smiled and took out a fresh box of lozenges. He gave a lozenge to Said and then put one in his mouth.

  11

  LAAFRIT COULDN’T RESIST THE URGE to go check things out in Oualidia, despite how many times he told himself it’d be a complete waste of time. So, at seven the next morning, he said good-bye to Said and told him he was heading back to Tangier. But now here he was, more than a hundred kilometers farther south, even though he was still thinking about changing direction and heading north.

  His consolation was that he was soothing his policeman’s curiosity, something that was hard for him to control. Wherever he looked from the car window, he saw lush green becoming gradually paler as if it were dissipating. Then it became dense again with the beginning of new fields. Laafrit loved the rose, white, scarlet, and yellow sparkling like lilies in the midst of the green. From time to time he looked up from the wheel at the summer sky, which was clear blue in every direction.

  He had a quick lunch in El Jadida. After another half hour on the road, he arrived at Oualidia. He remembered camping on the beach there with some friends twenty years ago. What remained in his mind about this area was that it had a great campsite and thick woods overlooking the sea from rocky hills. At this time of year, he was sure Oualidia would be empty except for locals. Laafrit thought this would really help his chances to find someone who’d met Bensallem, especially since Bensallam, according to his wife, visited Oualidia at a time when there weren’t any summer tourists around.

  The Fiat stopped in front of a café with a wide terrace crowded with people. Laafrit squeezed the car between two four-by-fours. As he got out he noticed a cop car, as well as a car with the logo of the Moroccan TV station 2M. Sitting at a table on the patio, he ordered a coffee and checked out the people around him. He recognized some of the station’s journalists. He also saw a TV camera and some other gear sitting on top of the tables. He gathered from what he heard that the TV people were there because of the epidemic that had struck the region’s tomato harvest.

  The waiter brought Laafrit’s coffee and looked at him suspiciously, as you would a stranger in a small town. Laafrit gave him a wide smile and took out the photo Amina had given him. He bent it in half so the bride was at the back and the groom, dressed in his neat tux, was in front.

  “Excuse me,” Laafrit said, presenting the photo to the waiter. “This man was here a few weeks ago. Did you see him?”

  The waiter looked at Laafrit skeptically before checking out the photo. The detective watched the waiter’s reaction carefully and thought from his suspicious looks the waiter would be lying if he denied it. All of a sudden, the waiter turned the photo over and let out a laugh when he saw the bride.

  “Did the guy run off on his wedding night?” he asked.

  Laafrit gave him a smile.

  “Yeah, he was at the café,” added the waiter. “He drove a Mercedes 190 with Spanish plates.”

  Laafrit’s heart was pounding, and he tried not to come across like a cop.

  “Fantastic,” he said, emboldened. “Yeah, he’s the one with the Mercedes with Spanish plates. You guys eat a lot of fish here, so your memory’s really good. Tell me, did you notice the woman with him?”

  The waiter looked to the right and left as if he were looking for someone.

  “He didn’t have a woman with him. He was sitting with Si Lahsan.”

  “Oh, Si Lahsan,” said Laafrit, laughing loudly. “Where’s he?”

  “Over there,” said the waiter. “With the TV people.”

  “Remind me,” said Laafrit, putting his hand on his temple. “Si Lahsan is . . .”

  “The agricultural engineer,” said the waiter, not picking up on Laafrit’s charade. “That’s him in the
black leather jacket.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Laafrit, taking back the photo.

  The waiter heard someone calling him so he went back into the café without paying attention to Laafrit, who was thanking him.

  Meanwhile, the TV director was giving instructions to the cameraman while the journalist, who was standing next to one of the farmers, adjusted his necktie and tested the microphone. Like the other people there, Laafrit got up and stood behind the guy carrying the TV camera. His eyes were on Si Lahsan, who was getting ready to give an interview. The director gave the signal to begin, but before the journalist even finished his question the farmer burst out yelling.

  “Everything’s lost! Not a single good tomato is left. Last year we suffered from the whitefly, and this year we’ve got an epidemic and we don’t know how it infected us, despite all our precautions. More than twenty thousand wasted! I’ve got debts and the banks have no mercy. We’re asking the state for help. We’re demanding that the government step in!”

  The man was yelling as if he were leading a protest. Other farmers spoke in front of the camera with the same pain and distress. Then came Si Lahsan’s turn. He spoke in such a low voice that Laafrit could only make out a few words from where he was standing.

  The farmers soon got into a loud argument. Laafrit was waiting for a chance to get the engineer alone. As soon as the journalist moved away from the group, Laafrit walked up to Si Lahsan and greeted him as if they knew each other.

  “Hey, Si Lahsan, how’s it going?”

  “Good,” replied the engineer, looking at Laafrit suspiciously.

  Si Lahsan was about forty. He hadn’t shaved in a week. His hair was long and curly and his eyes looked worn out. Laafrit gently pulled him by the arm away from the others.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Laafrit, “I’d like to talk a little about Mohamed Bensallam.”

  The engineer suddenly lost his gentle appearance. He clearly wasn’t thrilled with Laafrit.

  “Who are you?” asked Si Lahsan tensely.

  Laafrit knew the act he’d used with the waiter wouldn’t work with the engineer. He decided to be up front from the start.

  “I’m a detective from Tangier.”

  “Nice to meet you,” said Si Lahsan suspiciously. “Can I see your ID?”

  “You’re right to ask,” said the detective.

  Laafrit showed his ID to the engineer, who wasn’t satisfied with just glancing at it. Si Lahsan took the ID, read everything on it, and then gave it back to Laafrit with a cautious smile on his face.

  He took the photo out of his pocket and instead of handing it to the engineer with the groom facing upward, Laafrit accidentally showed him the bride.

  “Have you met the person in the photograph before?” he asked, starting his questioning in an official tone.

  The engineer laughed out loud. Laafrit looked at the photo and quickly turned it over.

  “Sorry, sorry,” he said.

  “Strange,” said the engineer, looking quickly at the photo. “He didn’t tell me he was married.”

  “Can you please tell me the name of the person in the photo?” asked Laafrit.

  “Mohamed Bensallam,” said the engineer. “Did something happen to him?”

  “When did you meet him?”

  “In November, but why all the questions? I want to know why you’re interrogating me.”

  “I’ll explain everything,” said Laafrit gently. “But please, answer my questions first. When did you meet Bensallam for the first time?”

  “Like I said, in November. I found him wandering around in the tomato fields and when he found out I was an agricultural engineer, he told me he was a student at the agriculture school in Madrid. He said he was preparing a thesis on irrigation. On the economics of the irrigation water used in vegetable farming in general and in tomato farming in particular.”

  The engineer noticed the look of surprise on Laafrit’s face.

  “Please go on,” said the detective.

  “I gave him some help. I took him to the irrigation canals and showed him the pumps controlling them.”

  “How long was he here in Oualidia?”

  “Two days, I think.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yeah. He spent the day here but the night in El Jadida.”

  “Had you ever see him before November?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I asked the waiter and he told me he saw you two together at the café.”

  “That’s right, we were there a few times.”

  “Did he tell you about his personal life?”

  “We talked about ordinary things,” replied the engineer after hesitating for a moment. “About his studies in Spain and his life in Madrid. I don’t remember him telling me anything exciting or memorable.”

  The TV cars were getting ready to leave.

  “Si Lahsan!” yelled one of the journalists, sounding the horn.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ve got to go with the TV crew to the tomato fields,” said the engineer apologetically.

  “Mind if I go with you?” asked Laafrit.

  “Sure. I’d like to know what’s behind all these questions.”

  Laafrit got into the engineer’s old Renault 4. The line of cars set out quickly on a dirt road to make the forty-kilometer trip. As they drove, Laafrit told the engineer all about the case, from the day the bodies washed ashore to when they found the gun at the suspect’s apartment, and then his conversation with the Spanish detective. When Laafrit mentioned the name Carlos Gomez, the engineer cut him off.

  “Carlos Gomez’s company in Almería,” he said in surprise, “is the one that supplied the Daniella tomato seedlings from Israel to one of the Moroccan importers in the El Oulja region.”

  “Are those the seedlings that caused all the problems?” asked Laafrit.

  “Last year, yes. The Daniella seedlings carried TYLCV, the tomato yellow leaf curl virus, which is spread by very small insects that look like flies. They’re called Bemisia tabaci. Thank God, we did everything we could to get rid of it but this year’s disaster has destroyed so many crops you can’t even imagine. It destroyed thousands of hectares and, despite all our analyses, we still don’t know the slightest thing about it.”

  “Couldn’t it be the seedlings?”

  “No way. We banned the importation of the Daniella seedlings, conducted the necessary tests, and even made use of foreign labs. It’s been confirmed that all the seedlings we used this year were virus free, but this current wave of the disease has spread like the plague.”

  They had slowed down so much the other cars disappeared from sight. Laafrit and the engineer exchanged glances. It seemed as if they wanted to say the same thing.

  “What do you think was Bensallam’s motive for posing as an agriculture student and coming here?” asked Laafrit.

  “That’s what I was wondering. It seems strange Bensallam was working for the owner of the biggest tomato-exporting company in Spain. Carlos Gomez’s company was the intermediary for Moroccan farmers who imported the seedlings carrying TYLCV last year.”

  “Don’t you think Bensallam was sent here by Gomez?”

  “Maybe. Gomez might’ve sent him to spy.”

  Laafrit took out the sheet of paper he had found in Bensallam’s house in the box of vials. He asked the engineer to pull over for a second. The engineer stopped in the middle of the road, took the sheet from the detective, and began looking at it closely.

  “Oualidia, El Oulja, Azemmour, Chtouka, Bir Jdid, Haouzia,” he read aloud.

  The engineer moved the sheet away and looked at it with growing surprise.

  “It’s a map of Doukkala,” said Laafrit.

  “No,” said the engineer. “It’s a map of tomato farming in Doukkala. This guy must have been a spy for Gomez,” he said, turning to Laafrit.

  “Couldn’t Bensallam have some connection with what’s happening here?” asked Laafrit after a moment.

 
“What do you mean? The epidemic? I don’t think so. Anything that could’ve infected the tomatoes would’ve come from seedlings, and seedlings imported in huge quantities. This operation’s now under heavy supervision. Big companies control it. Bensallam was probably just sent to spy.”

  “Possibly,” said Laafrit. “But maybe he told you he was researching the economics of water irrigation to distract you from his real interest in the tomatoes.”

  “Maybe,” said the engineer.

  Si Lahsan gave the sheet of paper back to the detective and started the car. The old Renault took off, leaving a cloud dust behind it.

  When they reached the tomato fields, Laafrit was stunned by the sheer size of the cultivated area.

  “I thought all the tomatoes for export were grown in hothouses,” said Laafrit.

  “We have five hundred hectares of hothouses spread out over a number of areas, and another thousand hectares of open tomato fields between Oualidia, Chtouka, Bir Jdid, and Haouzia. Those are the areas Bensallam drew on his map, the same ones completely destroyed by the epidemic.”

  The engineer pulled up next to the other cars. The TV crew was getting ready to shoot the fields. The director approached Si Lahsan and spoke to him as if Laafrit wasn’t there.

  “If you don’t mind, after we take some panoramic shots of the fields, we’ll ask you to give a scientific commentary for viewers.”

  The engineer nodded in agreement. Laafrit walked into the tomato fields, which were devastated as far as the eye could see. The leaves had wilted and turned a pale yellow. Only at this point did Laafrit understand the true scope of the catastrophe.

  “As you can see,” said the engineer, pointing across the fields, “all plant medicines and insecticides are useless against this new epidemic.”

  The director came back with his crew and asked Si Lahsan to walk deep into the fields. As the soundman put the small microphone on the engineer’s jacket collar, Laafrit moved away and stood behind the camera, next to the others. The director gave the signal to begin and the engineer picked up a tomato plant and began his commentary.

  “The virus that struck the region last year curled and yellowed the tomato leaves. It was spread by an insect called the whitefly. It’s very small—between 1.6 and 2.67 millimeters—and feasts on the sap of tomato plants. It breeds and lays nearly three hundred eggs at a time. The fly’s gestation from egg to full-grown insect takes about four weeks. With the help of winds, it crosses long distances. It’s possible for the mature insect to infect plants with the virus for a period of up to ten days. Last year we managed to quarantine the fly, and this year we took precautionary measures and used every available means, from insecticide to nets and flytraps. We destroyed the damaged plants, uprooted infected shrubs, and burned the rest of the tomatoes and plants. We also completely banned the importation of Daniella seedlings, which were supplied by the Banfort Company. Unfortunately, we still don’t understand this new disease, which couldn’t possibly have come from the seedlings. There’s a committee at the ministerial level following the situation’s developments, working with producers, and watching over the lab analyses.”