Eighteen

Dawn broke over Africa, its light brighter than anything Blaine had ever witnessed. Squinting through the half-shaded window, he peered down, catching a first glimpse of the Dark Continent. Beside him, Bogart was strapped into the empty seat, the tread of the boot-print a little less obvious than before.

What an adventure! Blaine thought to himself. First time to Africa and on a journey in search of true love.

He looked down at the parched landscape below. His grandfather’s picket-fence smile was overlaid on the canvas of desert. The old man would be pleased – pleased that a little ticket stub had led to an obsession – and that the obsession had in turn led to adventure.

Flight 201 descended fast through a clear blue sky, banked sharply over water, and flew in low over a vast metropolis – all gleaming and white like a distant paradise. There were straight boulevards edged with pin-prick palms, dazzling villas and apartment blocks laid out in radiating lines. And there was a sense of order, as though the city below the metal wings was inspired by something divine.

‘Casablanca,’ whispered Blaine to himself. ‘At last...’

His eyes welling with tears, he touched a hand out to Humphrey, and gave thanks to the universe.

The tyres touched down with a thud and a trace of smoke.

All the passengers leapt up. In a maelstrom of movement, they fought each other for their cases and their abundant packages of duty free.

Taking his lead from the others, Blaine grabbed Bogart, and elbowed his way down the aisle. Before he knew it, he had clambered down the staircase, and was treading with uncertain footsteps over African soil, or rather, cement.

In the terminal building, an immigration official drew deeply on his filterless cigarette, exhaled and asked:

‘Combien de temps restez-vous au Maroc?’

Blaine jabbed a finger at his passport.

‘American,’ he said. ‘You speak English?’

The official stubbed out the cigarette, and blew out a last lungful of smoke.

‘What is your age?’

‘Twenty-nine... my date of birth is in the passport.’

‘How long you stay in Casablanca?’ he asked in a voice deepened by a fondness for Gauloises.

‘Um, er,’ Blaine faltered. ‘Not quite sure. I got a one way ticket. You see, it’s a last minute trip.’

‘What the name of your hotel?’

‘I don’t have one. Not yet.’

The official lit another cigarette despondently. He flicked through the empty pages, clicked down the stamp, and slid the passport back across the counter.

‘Welcome to Casablanca,’ he said.