Fifty-two

The roof of Hotel Marrakech was flat, tiled in red bricks, and covered in a spider’s web of junk.

There were rusting old bicycle frames and rotting bamboo deck chairs, crates of empty gin bottles, strands of lead piping, threadbare furniture, and a line of refrigerators from the days when home appliances were the size of a family car.

On the south side of the roof there was a small area free from clutter. It was just big enough for a wrought iron table and chair, and an ice bucket arranged on a stand that doubled as an ashtray.

Blaine sat there all afternoon, his gaze locked on the postcard, his mind conjuring fantasies of a lifetime ago.

As his concentration strayed, he found himself wandering the streets of wartime Casablanca. He could picture himself clearly, strolling down the grand boulevard – what was then Avenue de France. The dazzling winter light bathed it all, reflecting off the gleaming Art Deco apartment blocks, the shops below them emporiums of wonder and delight.

And he could picture Bogart passing him, cigarette in hand, grey fedora tipped down low on his brow.

Blaine peered down to the street below and closed his eyes.

He wished he could wind back the clock’s hands, slip into the black-and-white postcard world, a realm of unending possibility.

By the end of the afternoon, he knew every detail of the picture – every shadow, every straight line and curve. He admonished himself for falling victim to an old man’s story. Then, slipping the card into his shirt pocket, he went down to Cinema Rialto, where the early evening screening of Casablanca was about to begin.