Aatif looked broken by this and slunk out, his head downwards, tears in his eyes. I followed but turned and simply stared directly at the guy. He made contact with my accusatory eyes, showing him contempt through the veil. He shouted something at me in Arabic. I continued to stare at him. He pointed to the door and seemed to be telling me to get lost. I continued to stare at him. He became nervous, stammering a bit as he stubbed out a cigarette and lit up another, then barking at me again to leave, but in a manner that betrayed his jitteriness. I continue to stare at him. He picked up his phone and marched to the other end of the room, trying to engross himself in the emails on his screen. I continued to stare at him. He turned back at me, now looking truly spooked. I raised my hand and pointed at him, using my index finger as a weapon of accusation. He stood there, not knowing what to do. Except to do what all bullies do when they are stood up to. He turned and fled out a back door.
I left his office and found Aatif outside, his eyes red, a cigarette alight.
‘What did he tell you?’ I asked.
‘He said he thought I was stupid to get robbed, that I had left him short of goods, and he wouldn’t care if I came back next week with a van full of new things. He also said, if I wanted to do business with him again, I would have to pay him five thousand dirhams as an apology.’
‘Well, you don’t have to do business with him again.’
‘But he and his father have been my contacts here in Marrakesh for the past five years.’
‘I’m sure you can find a better contact – and one who doesn’t behave like a spoiled little boy.’
‘But he has been reliable.’
‘I bet he’s argued over every dirham.’
‘He is not a nice man. But . . .’
‘No buts. You can ask around here and find another merchant who will gladly take your clients’ goods and treat you with respect. Which you certainly deserve.’
He thought about this for a moment, then pointed to a small shop across the alley.
‘There is a jeweller there.’
His way of changing the subject.
Aatif had to accompany me into the shop, as I feared removing the burqa and causing a great deal of unwanted interest. The man in charge was hefty, brusque. Aatif explained what I wanted to sell. The fellow held out his fleshy paw and I handed over the two rings. He screwed in a jeweller’s magnifying eyeglass and gave them perhaps ten seconds of his attention. Then he announced a price in Arabic to Aatif – who leaned over and whispered it in my ear.
‘Five thousand dirhams.’
I held out my hand, palm up. The fellow dropped the rings back into it. We left.
There was another jeweller next door. This fellow in charge – around sixty, in a shiny brown suit, with equally brown teeth – was more polite. But he was also taking me for a sucker. When Aatif whispered his offer of ten thousand dirhams (I presume he told the man that I had limited hearing) and I shook my head, he upped it immediately to fifteen. A second shake of the head, and he said:
‘Twenty thousand, final price.’
Once more I held out my hand for the rings. Slipping them back on, I nodded goodbye and we left.
I was beginning to despair of having to let my jewellery go at an absurdly low price. But then I saw a small, upmarket shop at the corner of the alley where we were now standing. Over the front was the name: Abbou Joaillier. I’d read somewhere, during my pre-trip research, that there was a small Jewish community in Morocco. Abbou Jeweller’s – with its mosaic tiled decor, its mahogany counter, and a large solid desk behind which a well-dressed man in his sixties was weighing diamonds on a small scale – had a Star of David featured in the tiling above its entranceway. When I entered the shop the gentleman stood up. He wore an old-school double-breasted pinstriped suit with a well-pressed blue shirt and black tie. He had a most paternal face. Bifocals were perched on the end of his nose. I noticed photographs of his younger self in front of a jewellery store on New York’s West 48th Street (he was standing under the actual street sign). He addressed me in Arabic. I decided to take a risk; a potentially huge risk, but one that might just get me a good price. I reached up and pulled off the burqa. I could see him just a little stunned to discover that behind the veil was a Western woman.
‘I presume, from the photograph, that you speak English,’ I said.
‘Indeed I do, madame.’
He motioned for me to sit down. Aatif was standing in a corner, nervous that I had revealed my face. I turned to him and said that if he wanted to go outside for a smoke that wasn’t a problem with me. He was happy to comply, bowing to the jeweller before leaving. Once he was out the door the man handed me his card: Ismael Abbou.
‘And you once worked in New York?’ I asked.
‘I lived there for fifteen years. I still have an interest in my former shop there, and go back once a year.’
‘What made you return to Morocco?’
‘Family,’ he said with just the slightest roll of the eyes. But then he studied me for a moment. I sensed what was coming next.
‘Excuse me for asking, madame, but haven’t I seen your face before?’
I chose my next words with care.
‘You may have . . . but does that matter?’
He thought about this.
‘May I offer you some tea?’
‘That’s very kind, but I would rather get down to business. Might I ask if you wouldn’t mind lowering the blinds in your window while we discuss my proposed transaction?’
I could see him considering this. Just as I could sense him deciding whether I was worth the risk. I also saw him glancing at the diamond engagement ring and diamond-studded wedding band on my left hand.
‘As you wish, madame.’
He stood up and went to the door, turning over a sign that I presume said he was closed. He lowered the blinds on the door and window, turning on several lights at the same time. Then he sat down opposite me again.
‘How may I help, madame?’
I took off the two rings and placed them in front of him.
‘I need to sell these, and I need a good price. They were purchased for me by my husband at Tiffany’s.’
‘Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street,’ he noted with a smile.
‘Indeed. The engagement ring is platinum. The diamond has a one-point-one carat weight. And as I see you have a computer over there you can check the list price on the Tiffany’s website, which I did recently when I got it reinsured. The engagement ring retails at thirteen thousand dollars. The wedding band is an Etoile style in platinum with seven diamonds, carat weight of point seven five. List price—’
He interrupted me.
‘I would surmise four thousand dollars on East Fifty-Seventh Street.’
‘I’m impressed.’
‘It’s my métier. Likewise I am impressed with your knowledge of such things. Are you in the business as well?’
‘Actually, I’m an accountant.’
Pause. He put his fingertips together. Then he said:
‘Yes, I did read that somewhere.’
So there we were: he knew exactly who I was, and he was still going to do business with me. Or, at least, that was my hope.
‘Might I inspect the rings?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
He spent the next ten minutes examining them minutely with his jeweller’s eyeglass, weighing them both on his scales, going to his computer and onto the Tiffany’s website, then excusing himself as he picked up a cellphone and had a hushed conversation for several minutes. Oh God, he’s calling the cops. But, as if reading my mind, he smiled reassuringly at me. Concluding the call he explained that he needed to speak to his business partner before making an offer.
‘So, indeed, those are Tiffany diamonds on platinum. And yes, the actual retail value in the United States for the two combined would be seventeen thousand dollars. But we are here in Marrakesh, and there is no possibility whatsoever that I could offer you anywhere near that.�
�
‘So what could you offer?’
‘Forty-five thousand dirhams.’
‘Seventy thousand.’
‘Impossible. Fifty thousand. That is close to six thousand dollars.’
‘And if I went to one of those jewellery exchanges in the West Forties I would get at least twelve thousand dollars.’
‘But you are in Marrakesh. Fifty-two thousand five hundred.’
‘And I know you will sell these rings for at least one hundred thousand dirhams in the next few days. Sixty-five thousand.’
‘Sixty thousand – final offer.’
‘Sold,’ I said, holding out my hand to shake. Mr Abbou took it and made a small bow. I could also see him eyeing the watch on my other wrist.
‘Might that be a vintage Rolex Explorer from the 1960s?’ he asked.
‘It’s the 1965 edition. It was my late father’s. I had it valued recently at fifteen thousand dollars.’
‘Might I please see it?’ he asked. I slipped it off and handed it to him. He studied it, then explained that he was going to open the case and inspect its workings. This he did expertly, using his magnifying glass to study its mechanism. Again he went over to his computer to run a check on current market value. Again he excused himself to make a second hushed call. When he came off the phone he told me:
‘The most I can offer is fifty thousand dirhams.’
‘Eighty.’
‘That is impossible. Sixty.’
‘I am certain you have a rich client somewhere who has been waiting for a watch like this and will pay you at least one hundred and thirty thousand.’
‘Sixty-five.’
‘Seventy thousand,’ I said, adding, ‘and that is my final price.’
Now it was his turn to offer his hand.
‘We are agreed, madame. And now I insist that we have tea.’
I nodded agreement. He stood up and opened a door, speaking to someone in the back. As we waited for the tea he asked if I needed help with anything else.
‘I need to get to Casablanca – but without being seen.’
‘Do you have any ID papers?’
‘The man who drove me – he has been letting me use someone else’s papers. And because I have been behind the burqa . . .’
‘Understood. But why not ask this man to drive you to Casa?’
‘Because I don’t want him further involved in any of this.’
He tapped his fingers on the counter, thinking, thinking.
‘I may be able to help you.’
The tea arrived, carried by a studious-looking young man in his twenties, also dressed in a double-breasted suit. He too did a double-take on seeing this Western woman in a djellaba, with a burqa on the table in front of her. Mr Abbou spoke to him in Arabic, clearly explaining various matters. They exchanged a few more words, tea was poured, glasses raised.
‘I wish you a safe return home,’ Mr Abbou said. ‘How, may I ask, are you planning to actually leave Morocco?’
‘I need to find a new passport. I don’t suppose you would know anybody who specialises in that sort of thing?’
Because I so wanted to avoid having to have any further dealings with Ben Hassan.
Mr Abbou smiled sympathetically but regretfully.
‘I am happy to send my assistant Mahmoud here with you to Casa. He will drive you in one of my Mercedes, so you will have a comfortable ride up to the big city. And if the price of three thousand dirhams is reasonable for you . . .’
‘I bet I could get a taxi around here to do it for half the price.’
‘Indeed you could, madame. But in my Mercedes, sitting in the back like a well-heeled woman with a driver – you will fly through whatever checkpoints may be in force tonight. With a normal taxi driver . . .’
‘OK, fine, three thousand.’
‘We will, of course, need to speak with your own driver and see if he is willing to entrust you with the ID card for another day or so.’
‘Yes, that will be crucial. But before we go any further, might you be able to show me the one hundred and thirty thousand dirhams? I am sorry to be so direct about this, but—’
‘No need to apologise. Business is business. And your rings and your Rolex will be left here in front of you while I go to my safe and retrieve the funds.’
As Mr Abbou disappeared into a back room Mahmoud kept an eye on the merchandise and also on the front door. I asked him if he spoke French. He nodded yes.
‘How long is it from here to Casablanca?’
‘What quartier are you going to?’
‘It’s called Gauthier.’
‘I know it. Very nice. At this time of the evening, it will be two and a half hours. There’s an autoroute that is direct most of the way.’
Mr Abbou returned with several large bundles of bills, all still with bank wrappers around them. He placed them in front of me. I counted them thoroughly, separating them into two distinct piles, one of which I put in the pocket of my djellaba. Then I asked Mr Abbou if he would mind me using his shop for a moment to talk to Aatif.
‘No problem,’ he said. ‘Would you like me to call him inside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Aatif is a very good name. Do you know what it means in Arabic?’
I shook my head.
‘Compassionate.’
Mahmoud stepped outside, calling Aatif in. Mr Abbou asked if we’d like to be alone but Aatif waved that away. I motioned for him to sit down in the chair next to mine near the desk. I could see Aatif taking in the considerable pile of money in front of him.
‘That is for you,’ I said.
He looked beyond astonished.
‘That can’t be right. We agreed two thousand dirhams to get you to Marrakesh.’
‘Yes, and I also promised you twelve thousand for the goods that were stolen. But I have also decided that you deserve a bonus. So the total there is one hundred thousand dirhams.’
He stared at me.
‘But . . . why?’
‘Because, once you pay off your clients, it should give you enough – along with the money you’ve saved – to buy the house and marry Hafeza.’
Silence. Aatif put his face in his hands.
‘This is too kind,’ he eventually said.
‘As I said before, you deserve kindness.’
‘But . . .’
Mr Abbou reached over and put a hand on Aatif’s shoulder, whispering something in Arabic. Then, out of nowhere, Aatif took my two hands in his own and said:
‘I have finally got lucky.’
To which I replied:
‘So have I.’
Turning to Mr Abbou and using French because I wanted Aatif to understand, I said: ‘Aatif needs a new merchant in Marrakesh to sell goods that he brings from the south. The man he’s been dealing with is awful.’
Mr Abbou asked Aatif for the merchant’s name. On hearing it, Mr Abbou rolled his eyes.
‘A nasty, stupid child,’ he said. ‘Will you be around here tomorrow?’
‘I could be,’ Aatif said. ‘We got little sleep last night, we’ve been on the road for hours . . .’
‘Where are you sleeping tonight?’ Mr Abbou asked.
Aatif shrugged.
‘We have a small guest room in the back. It’s very simple, but clean. You are most welcome to stay. And I would be honoured if you were to eat with me. There is a nice restaurant just two minutes from here. Then, tomorrow morning, I can introduce you to one or two merchants I know. We can discuss all this over dinner. D’accord?’
Aatif smiled his trademark shy smile.
‘D’accord.’
I asked Aatif if I could borrow his sister’s ID card for a few more days, but said I would mail it back to him if he gave me his address.
‘Please keep the card. My sister would have been pleased to know that her identity was put to such good use.’
I glanced at my wrist and realised my watch was no longer there. The last vestige of my father. My sole inheritance. Gon
e now for good. But being someone who appreciated life’s manifold vagaries – ‘You gotta play the hand you’re dealt,’ as he so often told me – he would, I was certain, agree that the money raised on his one and only asset had ended up in the right hands.
‘It’s eleven minutes past nine,’ Mr Abbou said.
That would mean Casablanca by midnight. I reached for a pad on the desk and wrote out my email address, handing it to Aatif.
‘Here’s how to contact me,’ I said. ‘Send me the wedding photographs.’
He stood up and again took both my hands in his own. Saying:
‘Allah ybarek feek wal ’ayyam al-kadima.’
I smiled and repeated the benediction back to him.
May Allah bestow his blessings on you in the days to come.
Ten minutes later, I was back beneath the burqa and speeding towards Casablanca. Mr Abbou had insisted on walking me to the Mercedes that Mahmoud would drive. As we reached this venerable black vehicle – it dated from the early 1980s, I was told – I handed Mahmoud the slip of paper on which Ben Hassan had scribbled his address.
‘No problem,’ Mahmoud said. ‘We have GPS.’
Mr Abbou handed me his card, telling me his mobile phone number was written on the back.
‘If there is any problem whatsoever you call me,’ he said. ‘I can’t get you a passport, but I have connections should difficulties arise. And by the way, the drive to Casablanca is on me.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘Consider it a mitzvah,’ he said.
Mitzvah. Jewish karma. I laughed.
‘I never thought I’d hear Hebrew being spoken in Marrakesh.’
‘Life is surprising.’
‘Yes, I am somewhat aware of that.’
‘And a mitzvah should always be rewarded with a mitzvah.’
‘How true – and how rare.’
Now I took his hands in my own.
The Heat of Betrayal Page 30