Thirty-six

A water-seller was chiming his great brass bell outside the Marrakech Gate, the main entrance to Casablanca’s old medina.

He was dressed in traditional red robes, and straw hat decorated with pompoms, his chest crisscrossed with water-skins. Spotting a foreigner he made a beeline across the flagstones. But Blaine waved him aside, and pushed his way through the arch.

Lost in the shadows of late morning there were storytellers huddled in circles, and all manner of services and wares – shoe-shiners and lizard-sellers, rat-catchers, letter-writers, and stalls selling everything from underpants to imitation Rolexes, and from Reeboks to freshly stolen phones.

Blaine’s attention was drawn in all directions.

He paused to watch a snake-charmer, flute in hand, the cobra’s hood jerking back and forth as if about to strike. Nearby, lamb kebabs were roasting on a makeshift brazier, the heavy oily smoke hanging like a curtain in the bright sunlight. A group of acrobatic dwarfs were tumbling from each other’s shoulders. As he pushed through the crowd to watch them, Blaine felt someone nudge up hard against him.

Fumbling a hand into his pocket, he cursed. His money clip was gone. Scanning left, right, forward, back, he caught sight of a young man in a red hooded jacket darting through the crowd. He gave chase.

But, suddenly, he was gone.

Then he noticed a policeman at the end of the street. Dressed in a navy blue uniform, a white holster at his side, he was doing the rounds, taking favours in cigarettes and tea. Blaine rushed up.

‘I’ve just been robbed. A thief stole my money clip.’

‘Quoi?’

Acting out a hand slipping into his pocket, Blaine half-expected the officer to give chase.

‘Un voleur...?’

‘Yes, I mean, oui, oui, un voleur... a thief!’

The policeman shrugged.

‘C’est la vie,’ he said.

‘Aren’t you gonna do something?’

Again, the officer shrugged, a little more incredulously than before.

Standing there, wondering what to do, Blaine heard a young scratchy voice in English:

‘You must help him. Then he will help you.’

With a stream of people pushing by, Blaine peered downwards.

A boy in his early teens was squatting on a stool, a shoeshine box gripped between his knees.

‘Excuse me... You talking to me?’

‘Give him something. Then he will help you.’

‘Huh? You saw the thief?’

‘Yeah... a young guy... he was like twenty... medium height with kind of a beard and a red jacket with a hood.’

The boy pointed to an upper window of the building opposite, where a man of the same description was leaning out.

‘Him?’

Blaine nodded energetically.

‘Yes, yes, that’s him!’

Picking up his shoeshine box, the boy edged over to the cop and explained the situation in Arabic. But still the officer showed no interest. The boy rubbed thumb and forefinger together, then he winked.

Only then did the officer stir into action.

He hammered on the door, barged in, ran up the stairs, grabbed the thief, recovered the money, and was back on the street – all within a minute.

The money clip was handed back to Blaine. He counted it.

‘It’s all there,’ he said.

‘Give him something... for his time,’ said the shoeshine boy.

‘How much?’

‘Fifty dirhams.’

Blaine handed over the tip and the officer ambled away.

‘I’ve never given a bribe before,’ he said.

The shoeshine boy greased a comb back through his hair with a smile.

‘It’s not baksheesh,’ he said. ‘Just a way of saying thank you.’

‘How come you speak such good English?’ asked Blaine.

The boy thought for a moment.

‘Because of Dirty Harry,’ he said.