Forty-two

A haggard landlord led the way through the long curved corridor of a dilapidated Art Deco apartment building, a stone’s throw from Baba Cool. It was so dark that he guided himself down the wall, running a thumb along the grooved line halfway between the ceiling and the floor.

Inching after him was Ghita.

‘It’s a good place,’ the landlord said deliberately. ‘Sometimes a little noisy at night, but well-built.’

‘How much is it?’

‘Eight hundred dirhams a month.’

‘How many rooms?’

‘Four. Five if you include the bathroom.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Ghita affirmed.

‘But you haven’t seen it yet.’

Ghita took out some money and handed it over.

‘You heard me,’ she said.