“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 will 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 jeweler there.”
His way of changing the subject.
Aatif had to accompany me into the jeweler’s, as I feared removing the niqab and causing unwanted interest. The man in charge was hefty, brusque. Aatif explained what I wanted to sell. The fellow held out his fleshy paw. I handed over the two rings. He screwed a loupe into his eye and gave the rings 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 open hand. The fellow dropped the rings back into it. We left.
There was another jeweler adjacent. This gentleman was more polite—a man in a shiny brown suit, with equally brown teeth. But he was also taking me again for a sucker. When Aatif whispered his offer—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 told Aatif, “Twenty thousand, final price.”
I shook my head and 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 these rings go at an absurdly low price. But then I saw a small, upscale 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 Jewelry—with its mosaic tiled décor, its mahogany counter, and a large mahogany 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 immediately stood up. He wore an old-school pinstriped double-breasted 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 immediately photographs of his younger self in front of a jewelry store on West Forty-Seventh Street in New York (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 for my rings. I reached up and pulled off the niqab. I could see him just a little stunned to discover that behind the veil was this Western woman.
“I presume, from the photographs, 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 shown my actual face. I turned to him and said that if he wanted to go outside for a smoke, that was no problem with me. He was happy to comply, bowing to the jeweler 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 get 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 considered this for a second. “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 your window shades while we discuss my proposed transaction?”
I could tell that he was deciding whether I was worth the risk. I also saw him glancing at the diamond engagement ring and gold-encrusted wedding band on my left hand.
“As you wish, madame.”
He stood up and went to the door, putting out a sign that read Back in Thirty Minutes. He lowered the shades that covered the door and his shopwindow, 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.
“The engagement ring is platinum. The diamond is one-point-one carats. 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 now at thirteen thousand dollars. The wedding band is an étoile 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,” I said.
“It’s my métier. And I am impressed with your knowledge of such things. Are you in the business as well?”
“Actually, I am an accountant.”
Pause. He put his fingertips together. Then 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 jeweler’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 cell phone and had a hushed conversation for several minutes. Oh, God, he’s calling the cops, I thought. 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 jewelry exchanges in New York 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. Mr. Abbou took it and made a small bow in my direction. I could also see him eyeing the watch on my wrist.
“Might that be a vintage Rolex Explorer from the nineteen sixties?” he asked.
“It’s the nineteen sixty-five 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 got off the phone he told me, “The most I can offer is fifty thousand dirhams.”
“Eighty.”
“That is impossible. Sixty.”
“And I am certain you have a rich client somewhere who has just been waiting for a watch like this and will pay you at least one hundred and thirty thousand.”
“Sixty-five.”
“Seventy thousand,” I said, addi
ng, “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 rear of his establishment. As we waited for the tea he asked me if I needed help with anything else.
“I need to get to Casablanca—but I need to get there without being seen.”
“Do you have any ID papers?”
“The man who drove me . . . he has been using the papers of someone else. And because I have been behind the niqab . . .”
“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, also dressed in a double-breasted suit. He too did a double take, seeing this Western woman in a djellaba with a niqab on the table in front of me. Mr. Abbou spoke in Arabic to him, explaining several 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 somebody who specializes in that sort of thing.”
Mr. Abbou smiled sympathetically.
“I am happy to send my assistant Mahmoud here with you to Casa, and 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 rear, looking like a well-heeled woman with a driver—you will fly through whatever checkpoints may be in force tonight. With a normal taxi driver—”
“Okay, fine, three thousand.”
“We will, of course, need to speak with your own driver and see if he will be 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 apologize. 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 he disappeared into a back room, Mahmoud not only kept an eye on the merchandise, but also on the front door. I asked him if he spoke French. He nodded.
“How long is the ride from here to Casablanca?”
“What quartier are you going to?”
The quartier where Ben Hassan lives, as he was my only option right now when it came to buying a false passport.
“It’s called Gauthier,” I said.
“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 almost direct most of the way.”
Mr. Abbou returned with several large bundles of bills, all with bank wrappers still around them. He placed them in front of me. I counted them thoroughly, separating them into two distinct piles, putting one of the piles in the pocket of my djellaba. Then I asked Mr. Abbou if he would mind if I used his shop for a fast meeting.
“No problem,” he said. “Would you like me to call your driver inside?”
“Yes—his name is Aatif.”
“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. Aatif waved away that privilege. 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 on two thousand dirhams to get you to Marrakesh.”
“Yes, and I also promised you twelve thousand for the goods that were stolen from your van. But I have 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 finally 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, suddenly, Aatif took my two hands in his own and said, “I finally got lucky.”
I laughed. “So did I.”
Turning to Mr. Abbou and using French for Aatif’s sake I told him, “Aatif needs a new merchant in Marrakesh to sell goods that he brings north from the south. The man he’s been dealing with is awful.”
Mr. Abbou asked Aatif for the merchant’s name. When Aatif mentioned 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 honored 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 gave 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 the watch on my wrist and realized it was no longer there. The last vestige of my father. My sole inheritance. Gone now for good. But being someone who appreciated life’s manifold ups and downs—“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, 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.
Mr. Abbou 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 cell 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.
I laughed. “I never thought I’d ever hear Hebrew being spoken in Marrakesh,” I said.
“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. “Very good doing business with you, monsieur.”
“And you, madame.”
He opened the passenger door of the Mercedes and ushered me out of his life.
Fifteen minutes later we had cleared Marrakesh and were on the autoroute heading north. It was agreed that I would take the backseat and, if stopped by the police or questioned at a checkpoint, Mahmoud would explain that he was my father’s driver, and that I had mental challenges, and so on.
But in the two and a half hours I was in the vehicle, we were never stopped. Sitting in the back, drinking in the air-conditioning, I fell into a subdued daze. There was one checkpoint on the outskirts of Casa. But the officer simply looked in, saw a besuited driver and a veiled woman in the backseat, and waved us on.
Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of the apartment building that Ben Hassan called home. I handed Mahmoud two thousand dirhams—despite his protests that his employer had told him I wasn’t to pay him—and asked him to wait for me outside for an hour.
“If I don’t come downstairs by one a.m., you can head back to Marrakesh. But if I do need you before then . . .”
“I’ll be waiting.”
The truth was, I knew that, without the false foreign travel document that Ben Hassan could provide, I had hit the end of the line. Still, just in case Ben Hassan was out for the night, or if the situation turned tricky, at least Mahmoud might be persuaded to drive me to Tangier. I would then have to find a black marketer for a way out of the country. My hope was that, by flashing ten thousand dirhams in front of him, Ben Hassan would come up with the necessary goods and even get me north onto the ferry for Spain by morning.
I got out of the Mercedes and loitered to the side of the front door until a young couple came out of the building. Before the door could slam behind them I raced inside and up those four flights of twisted stairs to Ben Hassan’s apartment. I rang the bell. No answer. I rang it again. No answer. So I held it down for the better part of a minute.
Then, out of nowhere, the door opened. Ben Hassan was there, looking as if I had just gotten him out of bed, his capacious caftan stained with sweat.
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