Twenty-eight

A line of conical tagines was bubbling with steam at the Marché Central.

Nearby, in the covered area, a horse butcher was cleaving a steak for an elderly French client, one of the last of the pieds noirs. Weighing the meat in his hand, he slapped it on the scale and grunted a price. Across from him, the oyster stall was doing brisk business, the shells served up with a lemon wedge and a sprinkle of salt.

Blaine strolled through the arcades, taking in the bustle. His old life in Brooklyn seemed like a million miles away. As he took it all in, he became absorbed by the vibrant cultural colour, and found himself overlaying what he saw on the black and white scenes of his own obsession. Casablanca may have been filmed entirely on a Hollywood back lot, but to Blaine it was inseparable from the actual city that bore its name.

Strolling out from the market, the American gazed up at the buildings, all crumbling and worn. The peeling paint gave a sense of faded grandeur, as if the old Casablanca, the one from the movie, was lying just below the surface, waiting to be discovered.

At the end of a narrow street, just past the little Garage de la Bourse, Blaine came to a cinema, The Rialto. Peering up at the façade was like setting eyes on a lost sweetheart.

Without hesitating, he stepped inside.

The swing doors were shut, light flickering under them. At the booth he bought a ticket – spewed from the same machine that had been used in New York on première night.

And then, in a moment touched by magic, Blaine pushed through the swing doors, half-imagining he was in a dream.

Alive on the screen before him was the smoke-filled scene of Rick’s Café Américain. Waiters in starched white jackets were weaving between the tables with cocktails and cigarettes. A croupier was spinning the wheel and dealing cards and, in pride of place at the upright piano, was Sam.