Forty

Following the call to his best friend, Blaine was hit with an adrenalin rush. It came from the sense of danger and from breaking free – free from the bedrock of hysteria he had inhabited with every other schmuck New Yorker.

As he stood in the hotel’s small lobby, cats circling round his ankles expectant for milk, he caught the scent of expensive perfume. It wafted down the staircase and was accompanied by the sound of high heels negotiating steps one by one.

The American turned, and found himself captivated by the sight of an elegant young woman, dressed in a bright orange slip, a feather boa furled around her neck. He recognized her at once, as the owner of the stiletto that had injured his ankle.

‘Hello, again,’ he said. ‘How are you enjoying Hotel Marrakech?’

Ghita stopped in her tracks, glanced round and struggled to look condescending.

‘To be a trend-setter one must sometimes endure a little hardship,’ she replied.

Across rue Colbert, the Marché Central’s fishmongers were lining up the catch, shooing away the droves of feral cats that prowled the green tiled roofs. They were doing brisk business, due to the fact that an Italian cruise ship had docked at the port, and the head chef was demanding fresh langoustines for a thousand hungry mouths.

Blaine strolled through the market, taking in the fruit stalls and the ones from which the beekeepers sold their honey in used jam jars. He was still thinking about breaking free, about cashing in a tired old life for a new one, when he spotted Baba Cool.

There was something gloriously sordid about it, something reprehensible, something only understood by men. Drawn forward by an almost magnetic force, he crossed the street and took a seat on the slender terrace.

Listlessly, the waiter meandered over. He slapped down a pair of ashtrays and a glass of tar-like café noir, a miniature mound of sugar lumps at the side.

From time to time, when the smoke saturation inside reached a peak, a cloud of dense cigarette smoke was belched out through the windows. The muffled sounds of an Egyptian soap opera could be heard emanating from the back wall. It was punctuated by indistinct conversation and by coughing, and by men moaning about their wives.

Blaine sipped the coffee and winced. This is the real thing, he thought, the real gritty Casablanca, the one worthy of Humphrey Bogart.

All of a sudden he heard a voice, a child’s voice, loud and guttural.

‘Go ahead, Punk, make my day!’

The American glanced out at the street. The shoeshine boy from the medina was standing there with his box.

‘Hello, Dirty Harry,’ Blaine said.

Before he could object, the boy squatted down under the table and got to work on his left shoe, polishing vigorously.

‘You like Clint Eastwood, too?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. I do.’

‘I learnt English from his movies.’

‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

‘School fills your head with worms,’ said the boy. ‘And I don’t want worms in my head.’

‘How are you gonna get a job if you don’t know how to read or write?’

‘I have a job.’

‘A better job. One with prospects.’

The boy moved on to the right shoe.

‘Prospects?’

‘A future.’

‘I have a future. A big one.’

‘How’s it gonna be?’

The boy stopped brushing and stood up. He was about to say something when a stylish woman in orange strode purposefully across the street, a feather boa around her neck.

‘Casa Trash,’ he said.

‘Casa what?’

‘Trash. Le snob.’

Blaine called out.

‘Hey! Hi... Wanna join me for a coffee?’

Sweeping her feathers to the side, Ghita squinted at the café with a look of utter horror.

‘In there? At Baba...’

‘Cool. It’s called Baba Cool.’

‘No woman in her right mind would be seen dead in there!’

Blaine stood up, pulled out a chair.

‘Why don’t you make a break with tradition?’ he said.

Dripping in self-importance, Ghita sat down.

The American held out a hand.

‘I’m Blaine,’ he said.

‘And I am Ghita Omary,’ said Ghita, without offering her hand in return.

‘And this... this is Dirty Harry,’ Blaine added.

‘Saed,’ said the boy. He jabbed a knuckle down at the stilettos. ‘Clean those?’

Holding up her hands in horror, Ghita managed a sneer.

‘Keep away from me, you dirty little rat!’

Another pair of ashtrays and cafés noirs was slid down onto the worn Formica table-top, and the waiter slalomed back into the smoke.

Then, from nowhere, a burly figure armed with a meat cleaver charged onto the terrace, swinging the weapon in Saed’s direction. Grabbing his shoeshine box, the boy darted out into the light.

‘I wonder what that was about!’ Blaine said in a shocked voice.

Ghita raised the glass to her nostrils, sniffed the coffee. She glowered, and put it down.

‘Thievery, no doubt,’ she said. ‘Boys like that are all thieves. It’s in their blood.’

‘He seemed nice, I thought.’

Stroking a hand through the feathers, Ghita replied:

‘The first thing you must learn about our country is that the lower classes are not to be trusted. They’re thieves.’

‘All of them?’

‘Oh yes, all of them.’

Blaine swished away a dark cloud of cigarette smoke that had billowed out from the café.

‘So what do you do?’ he asked.

‘Do?’

‘Your line of work.’

Ghita frowned.

‘I don’t do anything.’

‘You don’t work?’

‘Work? No, of course I don’t work.’

‘Well how do you fund an outfit like that?’

‘I come from a wealthy family.’

‘Have they always been wealthy?’

Clearing her throat, Ghita looked across at the American.

‘I am aware that you come from a place where there is an overwhelming need to fill silence with speech,’ she said coldly. ‘But you would do well to know that here in Morocco we regard silence as something golden, something precious... at least to the upper classes it is.’

Blaine struggled to remain composed.

‘Well, forgive me for intruding into your precious golden silence,’ he replied, ‘but I can’t remember the last time I met such an opinionated, conceited, self-infatuated misfortunate as yourself.’

Ghita pushed back her chair and stood up.

‘How dare you speak to me like that?!’

‘How dare I? Well I dare very easily, thank you!’

‘I’m going back to the hotel now and I hope very sincerely that our paths do not cross again,’ Ghita snarled, as she stormed away.

Blaine cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘I couldn’t agree more!’ he yelled.