The Blue Hour

by Douglas Kennedy

  But instead of ordering me out of the van and demasking me, the officer handed back the two cards to Aatif. With a dismissive flick of the wrist, he informed him that we were free to go.

  Aatif muttered thanks, put the van into gear, and we drove off.

  Five minutes later, with the checkpoint far behind us and the road empty of cars, I turned to Aatif and said, “I am smothering in here. I have to take this off.”

  Aatif said nothing. But from the look on his face I could see he was not pleased. Pulling off the niqab I caught sight of myself in the rearview mirror. My hair drenched, my face beet-red, terror in my eyes. Aatif handed me the bottle of water.

  “Finish it,” he said. “You need it. We’ll get more in the next village.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  “For what? You did exactly what I told you to do. The police . . . they were just being difficult. When the officer asked about you I explained that you were mentally disabled, and could not understand language. The cop challenged me, saying he needed proof. I told him to pull off your niqab and interrogate you—but that he would face serious consequences afterward. He got scared and backed off. But you saw the posters. These roadblocks are normal, but there are not usually so many. The police are looking for you. That makes the main roads difficult. There will be no further checkpoints between here and Tazenakht. All the villages where I pick up goods are between here and Tazenakht. We will have to find a back route for tomorrow, away from the main roads.”

  “We got lucky with your sister’s ID.”

  “We only buried her two weeks ago,” he said. “They probably haven’t registered her death as yet on their computers in Rabat.”

  “Only two weeks ago? That’s terrible. Shouldn’t you be having some time off?”

  “I have to work. My sister has two children. Their father is in the Royal Moroccan Army and stationed in the Western Sahara, near Mauritania. He sends back little money. My mother is looking after them, but she is a widow and elderly. So I have to work.”

  “Listen, that was a close call back there. I don’t want you to get into trouble, lose your livelihood.”

  “I said I would get you to Marrakesh. I will get you to Marrakesh.”

  Ten minutes later we pulled into the village of Tissint. A row of low-lying buildings, dusty, fly-festooned. A butcher shop with bleeding carcasses of meat, a few cafés, a mechanic, idle young men everywhere, the stench of rotting sewage amidst the blast-furnace heat. Aatif’s client was a large cheery woman who lived in a tiny lean-to on the outskirts of the village. She insisted on serving us tea. I could hear Aatif offering an explanation about me, using, I presumed, the mentally deficient excuse. She smiled sheepishly at me as she helped Aatif load up the intricately decorated velvet bedspreads and cushion covers that she’d made. Before we left she clutched his right hand with two of her own and seemed to be making a plea to Aatif.

  When we were back in the van and heading to the next village I asked him what her entreaty was all about.

  “She was telling me that her husband has been unwell. They have two young children. Because he is in the hospital—and isn’t expected to live—they are dependent on the sales of the things she makes, which I will sell to my merchant in Marrakesh.”

  “Do you have to negotiate hard with your merchant on behalf of your clients?”

  “Of course. He is a businessman and he wants to buy at as low a price as possible.”

  “So you fight hard on their behalf?”

  “It is on my behalf too. I get thirty-five percent of all their sales. The more I get for my clients the more I get for me.”

  “How much did that woman back there ask you to get for her?”

  “She told me she needs fifteen hundred dirhams. That will get her and her two children through this month. Which means I need to sell her items for around two thousand dirhams. This is not easy, as the merchant tells me the market is very bad right now. Not as many tourists as before—even though there is little trouble in Morocco. Still I do argue hard for them.”

  “Can you make a living out of this?”

  He seemed a little taken aback by the directness of my question. But then he said, “I can support myself. Trying to support a family . . .”

  “Do you have a family? A wife or children of your own?”

  “Not yet. But . . . I have met a woman I like very much. Hafeza. She is a bit younger than me. Twenty-eight. A seamstress. Very kind. A good heart. And she would like many children, like me. She’s also from my village—which means I know her family. I know that several men before me asked for her hand. But she is very choosy! So, alas, is her father. He has told me that, though Hafeza wishes to be my wife, I cannot have her hand unless I can buy a house.”

  “He wants you to buy a whole house outright?”

  “Not outright—but he wants me to make . . . how do you say it? . . . a payment up front?”

  “A down payment?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And how much would that cost?”

  “I’ve found a little place. Four rooms. Simple, but enough space. The price . . . one hundred thousand dirhams. I have saved over the last year maybe ten thousand dirhams. But the bank wants me to put down forty thousand dirhams before they give me a loan.”

  “And Hafeza’s father is adamant?”

  “Until I can move us into that house she will not be my wife.”

  “That’s a little rigid of him.”

  “I wish I could make more money faster. When I am back in my village I repair bicycles, a second trade. But it maybe brings in three, four hundred dirhams a month.”

  Forty thousand dirhams. That was just under five thousand dollars. Which meant the house itself cost around twelve thousand four hundred dollars. Less than a very basic car back home. The sum standing between Aatif and his dream of a wife, a family.

  “You’ve never been married?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “That’s surprising,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “You are an extremely nice and honorable man—and there are few of that species out there.”

  His reaction to this was a touching mixture of embarrassment and pride.

  “You shouldn’t tell me such things,” he finally said.

  “Why not?”

  “It will give me a big head,” he said, all smiles.

  He lit up a cigarette. The smile quickly faded.

  “Ten years ago,” he said, “I proposed marriage to another woman from my village. Amina. She said yes. Then a man came through one day from Ouarzazate. A baker named Abdul. He owns three bakeries there. He meets Amina. One week later he returns and sees her father and proposes marriage. Of course the father says yes. Because he has money and I have none.”

  “I can see why trying to find that forty thousand dirhams is so important.”

  “I will never get it. Her father has given me a year to do it, no more.”

  “And the bank won’t loan you more?”

  “The bank . . . I have a cousin who works at the bank in Zagora, which is why I am getting the loan. But I make so little . . .”

  From the look on his face I could see that Aatif wanted to get off this subject quickly, that even speaking about all this was foreign . . . especially with a woman.

  We stopped at a village called Melimna, where an elderly woman loaded up the van with several dozen white linen tablecloths and napkins. She also insisted on cooking us a wonderful chicken tagine. I got to use a proper flush toilet for the first time in weeks. There were additional stops in Foum Zhguid and Alougoum—tiny, sandstruck villages, with a few local shops, a café or two, and many young and old men loitering without much intent. At each stop Aatif was greeted in such a warm and welcoming manner that it was clear that the women for whom he delivered their goods to market regarded him as an honest broker, someone they could trust. Again I could see everyone’s interest in the woman traveling with him, someone who clearly needed a lot
of water behind her niqab. At every stop I entreated him to score us an additional two liters, as I was seriously dehydrating encased in all those clothes. Aatif was most adept at explaining away my presence, and also telling everyone that a defect at birth had robbed me of speech or reason.

  By the time we left Alougoum on a sandy half-paved side road, it was late afternoon and I could no longer stand being imprisoned in this strict Islamic dress.

  “Surely we can risk me getting out of these clothes for a while,” I said.

  Aatif thought about this for a moment.

  “We are going to pull into Tazenakht—which is a town, not a village—by nightfall. I know a place beyond there where we can sleep for the night. Until then . . . this road is not very traveled, because it is not paved. The police rarely set up checkpoints here. So, if you must change out of those clothes . . .”

  He pulled over and went for another smoke as I got out of the niqab and the djellaba, slipping back into the linen pants and shirt that were still sweat-stained from yesterday, but were a complete liberation after the confinement in which I had been living for the past ten hours.

  Back in the van Aatif had a question for me: “You have no children. Is this your choice?”

  I paused before replying, explaining that I had discovered that my first husband was not someone with whom I could have had children, and that my second husband professed to want them, but then changed his mind. I was certain that Aatif would think I was clearly damaged goods, having been with two men who didn’t want children with me. But what he said instead surprised and disarmed me: “So you’ve had bad luck with men.”

  “Or maybe my choice of men—”

  “—was not worthy of you.”

  I was about to tell him that he was being far too kind—and to thank him for such a lovely comment—when, out of nowhere, we both heard the sound of a motorcycle approaching us from behind. Aatif immediately tensed, as did I.

  “Pull over,” I said urgently, thinking I could jump out and hide behind the vehicle until the person commandeering the bike passed us by.

  “Too late,” Aatif answered, as the motorcycle sidled right up by our vehicle in the process of passing us by. As it drew level I saw that there were two passengers—both with helmets, both in jeans and denim shirts, both Caucasian. Up close I saw it was a man and woman. The woman smiled as they drove by us. But seeing me she poked the guy—who was driving the motorcycle—and said something urgently to him.

  “Accelerate,” I told Aatif.

  But the bike had stopped directly in front of us, the man and woman had dismounted, and were pulling off their helmets. They both appeared young, superfit, well heeled. They waved at us to stop. Aatif looked at me, wondering what he should do.

  “I’ll deal with this,” I said.

  Aatif slowed the van down. I got out. The couple approached me.

  “Parlez-vous français?” the man asked in an accent that made it clear he was definitely French.

  I nodded.

  “Are you all right?” the woman now asked.

  “Yes, fine. Why?”

  “Aren’t you the American woman everyone’s been looking for?”

  “We’ve seen your picture everywhere,” the man said.

  I had a decision to make—deny this truth and arouse their suspicion. Or . . .

  “Yes, I’m that woman. And yes, this man is driving me to the nearest police station to let everyone know I am all right.”

  “What happened?”

  “That’s a long story.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right? We could come with you.”

  “That’s very kind . . . but no need.”

  I could see them glancing regularly at Aatif, trying to size up if he was dangerous or holding me against my will.

  “I would feel better if we accompanied you to Tazenakht,” the man said.

  “Again, my thanks for such a generous offer. But I can assure you—I am not in any danger here. On the contrary, this man has gotten me out of a great deal of danger.”

  They exchanged a glance with each other. I could sense that they were wondering if I was in a reasonable mental state, especially as I was clearly trying not to act nervous.

  “I can talk to your driver if you like,” the man said.

  It was time to end this.

  “Sir, your kindness is noted. But . . .”

  “Will you agree to meet us at the police station in Tazenakht?”

  Damn these Good Samaritans. Damn myself for taking off the niqab. I had to think fast.

  “I’ll tell you what: I’m sure there’s a café on the main drag of the town. Say I met you there in an hour? Then you’ll have the reassurance that I am all right.”

  “We should follow them,” the woman said in rapid-fire French that was not meant for my ears, but which I still discerned.

  “And I have to call Martin in Paris in thirty minutes. So we’ll go to the police station, tell them that we’ve seen her en route to Tazenakht, and put it in their hands.”

  “By all means tell the police,” I said. “The thing is, as I will be seeing them as soon as I pull into town . . .”

  The couple exchanged a look, and another telling glance at Aatif.

  “Okay,” the man finally said. “See you in Tazenakht.”

  “The café’s on the main drag,” I said, having no idea if this was true. “We can have a beer.”

  The man checked his watch. He clearly had a schedule to meet. Looking hesitant about leaving me they walked back to their motorcycle, donned their helmets, shot off into the horizon.

  As soon as they were out of sight I rushed back to the van, climbing back in, Aatif immediately discerning that the conversation with the French couple didn’t go brilliantly.

  “We have to get off this road,” I said. “Now.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  AATIF THOUGHT FAST. If we headed south back to the main road at Foum Zguid, we would hit something of a dead end, as the road east was nonexistent there. He knew this because his own village, M’hamid, was about thirty miles in a straight line from here. But the desert track passed through serious sand dunes that were treacherous. Vehicles got bogged down in them—and at this time of year, with temperatures around 110 degrees Fahrenheit, a horrible death was not out of the question.

  “Anyway, even if there was a direct road to M’hamid, it would be very hard to bring you to my village.”

  “Understood.”

  “But if we go west for Foum Zguid, the road brings us very far south. Then we would have to head north through Agadir. Big tourist town. Many police.”

  His solution: he had one more pickup of goods to make in the tiny village of Asaka, a few miles inland from here down a narrow desert track. He had a client there whom he was planning to visit in two weeks’ time. But she always had goods on hand. “I’ll tell her that I have a little extra room in my van. There is another track near to her house. We can sleep there tonight.”

  “Won’t the police perhaps come looking for us there?”

  “They will have been told by the French tourists that you were in a van with a Moroccan. If we are lucky they won’t mention the make of the van. But there are many vehicles like this in Morocco. You will have to go back behind the niqab. It’s the only way we can make it to Marrakesh. If we leave early tomorrow, the police in Tazenakht will probably figure we headed south. There may still be a roadblock, but my hope is if they see me driving a woman in a niqab it will fool them again.”

  Stepping behind the van I changed back into the niqab and djellaba. Then, with light receding, we drove slightly north before turning right down a desert track. Unlike some of the other unpaved roads on which I had traveled, this one was a treacherous uneven surface featuring many ruts and the sandy equivalent of potholes. We bumped along, our progress torturously slow. The landscape here was a return to the absolute remoteness of the oasis, only there was not the same sense of wide, open space. Rather, it felt as if we were travel
ing toward some cul-de-sac, from which there was no way out. There was a narrow barrenness to this route; a sense of heading to the end of the line.

  “I can see why the cops wouldn’t want to follow us out here,” I said.

  “Which is why we need to stay here until sunrise.”

  It took us almost an hour to reach the village of Asaka and its four houses. The one at which we stopped had a man in his fifties with a young wife and four children, all of whom seemed to be under the age of six. The wife was still pretty, but clearly beaten down by life. She barked at her children. She barked at her husband, who sat on a stool, smoking and looking quietly disconsolate. She barked at Aatif, berating him for something while getting her two oldest kids to load up his van with the djellabas she had made. When her husband offered tea, Aatif declined, pointing to the road and making some excuse about needing to get north soon.

  As soon as Asaka was behind us, Aatif steered the vehicle down a track so narrow, so hemmed in by sand on either side, that it was just wide enough for our one vehicle. We bumped along for around a quarter of an hour until we reached a small clearing by which there was a pump. We parked and set up camp for the night.

  “The water, it is not good for drinking,” Aatif said as he got one of the jerry cans of water out of the rear, a cargo area now so jammed with goods that there was little room for the spare cans of gas and water that he wisely carried with him. He used the clean water to make tea and couscous. I asked him if I could wash at the pump. He told me that I shouldn’t use more than four or five pulls, as water was so scarce out here that we had to be honorable and not use much of it. Especially as the next person coming along might be in desperate need.

  He put the couscous on to boil, then walked off. I stripped down and pumped the water. The first dispatch of liquid was revoltingly brown. The second a little more neutral. The third looked relatively clear. I had no soap, no toothbrush (I hadn’t brushed my teeth since that last night in Tata), no basin. Still, the feel of water against my bare skin was restorative. I got into my nightdress, my skin still wet.