One hundred and two

Next morning, an army of painters in scruffy overalls were at work on a great hulk of Art Deco might, on Boulevard Mohammed V. They were slopping thin white emulsion hurriedly over its façade. Another team were busy painting the next building, and yet another the one beside that.

Every few yards there stood a worker eagerly sweeping the street, or an electrician struggling to make sense of an outdated junction box.

It was as though a wind of renaissance was blowing in.

Walking down the boulevard, Blaine marvelled at the revival. As he did so, a newspaper seller on the street corner near Marché Central caught his eye. He jabbed a thumb at a passing pickup truck and winked.

The vehicle was pristine and new, its back filled with bundles of perfectly pressed red flags.

It pulled over.

A squad of men clambered out and got to work hanging the flags.

‘His Majesty is coming,’ he said with urgency.

‘When?’

The news vendor shook his head.

‘No one ever knows. That information is a secret.’

‘Are we celebrating something?’ asked Blaine.

‘Yes, of course we are!’

‘What?’

‘The tramway. It’s just been finished. They’re testing it now. It’ll be like the old days,’ said the newspaper seller. ‘When Casablanca was famous all over the world.’

His eyes glazed over.

In the short time that Blaine had been away in the mountains, a tram stop had been built opposite the Marché Central. It was complete with electronic ticket machines, turnstiles, and prim steel benches.

As he watched, a tram glided forward without the faintest sound. Unlike before, it was filled to bursting with people, all of them smiling. When it stopped, more squeezed on, but no one got off.

Blaine found himself chatting to an elderly woman with a poodle in her arms. She was French, a pied noir, one of the old-timers who hadn’t left.

‘Look at them,’ she said disapprovingly.

‘Who?’

‘The people.’

‘They seem very happy.’

‘Of course they are. They’re allowed to ride for free.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because the tram’s not officially open yet. So they ride up and down. It’s like a game.’

‘Free entertainment,’ Blaine said.

‘They should be working,’ the woman scowled. ‘But all they can think of is wasting their time. It’s a disgrace.’

The American cocked his head at a giant red flag in the distance, a large green star in the middle.

‘The King’s coming,’ he said.

‘I know,’ the woman replied, brushing a hand over her dog. ‘That’s why everyone’s working so hurriedly. You see, in Morocco everything’s left to the last minute. They have a saying... “Why do today what you could do tomorrow instead?”’

A little further on, Blaine saw a smart gold sign being hoisted into position on the outside of the repainted Shell Building. It read, ‘Hotel Imperial’, and it looked like something out of Miami’s South Beach. All that was missing was the lady in the hat and the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost.

Blaine thought of the burning wreckage, a haze of flames and the stench of smouldering horsehair from the seats.

The guardian was standing outside.

‘When does it open?’ Blaine asked.

‘Next week.’

‘That’s quick.’

‘The owner is in a hurry,’ the guardian replied anxiously.

‘Because the King is coming?’

He nodded, then looked at the foreigner sideways.

‘But how do you know about that?’ he said.