Forty-three

That afternoon, six large delivery trucks pulled up outside the apartment building, and a stream of personnel staggered inside, laden with equipment and supplies.

Across the street, at Baba Cool, Blaine was sitting at the same table as before, sipping a miniature glass of coffee. He was pondering his circumstances, wondering whether he could ever fit back in to American life.

Inside the café, the television was reporting breaking news:

‘Our lead story today is that Mr. Hicham Omary, the well-known and charismatic CEO of Globalcom, was arrested by armed officers, and charged for being in possession of a massive narcotics stash. The haul, described by police as “monumental”, was taken away for examination, while Mr. Omary was refused bail. Speaking a short time ago, the Governor of Casablanca said that he was saddened by the news, that such a respected pillar of society should be involved in such illicit activities.’

Blaine blinked, and found Saed crouching beneath the table on his box.

‘Shoeshine?’

‘What, again? No, don’t need one. Anyway what was all that about with the meat cleaver?’

‘He was looking for my cousin.’

‘From where I was sitting he looked like he wanted you.’

‘My cousin... he looks like me.’

Blaine pushed out a chair.

‘Have a seat,’ he said.

‘Why don’t you go to Marrakech... all tourists, they go to Marrakech?’ Saed asked.

‘Because it’s Casablanca that I like.’

‘But no one likes Casa.’

‘Why not?’

‘They say it’s dirty, that it’s not beautiful.’

‘Well, I like it,’ Blaine replied. ‘Sure, it’s a little worn in. But you know what they say about beauty?’

‘No.’

‘That it’s in the eye of the beholder.’

Blaine’s attention moved from Saed, over to the building opposite, where the delivery trucks were moving away. He thought he saw Ghita coming out, but wasn’t sure.

‘Where is your Casa Trash friend today?’ asked Saed, reading his thoughts.

‘She’s no friend of mine! She’s awful!’

The shoeshine boy let out a shrill laugh.

‘I think you like her,’ he said.