Seventy-six

The sales assistant at Les Cafés du Bresil had slipped a hardbacked envelope across the counter, identical to the one hidden in Bar Atomic’s toilet. It smelt of roasted coffee, having lain undisturbed for decades in a drawer at the back of the shop. The clerk showed no surprise that it was being collected at long last.

A little later, when Blaine opened it up at Baba Cool, he found a third postcard – bearing the image of a snake charmer standing in front of an ancient minaret. As before, he separated the card from the photograph, and found a line and a half of Bogart’s almost impenetrable scrawl.

Directions, which began at a place called ‘Koutoubia’.

As he sat there pondering the clues and what they might lead to, Ghita arrived.

‘I thought I’d find you here,’ she said.

Blaine showed off the postcard and explained where he had found it.

‘I don’t understand how clues could have been left unnoticed for so long,’ he said.

Ghita ordered a nous-nous.

‘We’re not a young country,’ she replied, ‘not like your America. Here in Morocco something has to be over a thousand years in age to be considered properly old.’

‘But Casablanca’s far newer than that.’

‘I know,’ Ghita replied. ‘And that’s why it’s an embarrassment to most Moroccans, and the reason why they’re happy to rip down the buildings without a second thought.’

‘But they’re jewels... Art Deco jewels.’

‘They may be to you. But to the locals they’re ugly, like a monstrous eyesore from the ‘sixties... An eyesore created by colonial oppressors.’

Blaine put the card away and, as he did so, his eyes lit up.

‘Did you know that Casablanca was once the gender reassignment centre of the universe?’ he said with a smile.

‘Gender...?’

‘Reassignment.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Ghita said.

‘Sex change... it’s where all the early sex changes were done. I met a guy – I mean a woman – called Rosario, who had her tackle chopped off here forty years ago.’

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘No it’s not.’

‘Then what is it?’

Blaine thought hard.

‘It’s a cry for help,’ he said.

There was a thunderous roar of applause from the back of Baba Cool, and all the tired old men hiding from their wives cheered. Some waved their fists in the air; others slapped their friends on the back.

‘What’s going on?’

The waiter, who was distributing fresh ashtrays, cocked his head back towards the oversized screen.

‘One-Zero to Morocco.’

‘Who are they playing?’

Disbelieving that anyone could be unaware of the match, the waiter replied:

‘Algeria, Monsieur. Our most bitter rival.’

Five minutes later, Morocco’s old adversary equalized and, a moment after that, Saed hurried in, a cardboard box in his hands. He was hawking baseball caps with the Moroccan flag glued unevenly to the front.

‘I’ve sold fifty this afternoon,’ he said. ‘I got them from a Chinese store in Derb Omar.’ He put down the box. ‘I’m the champion of champions.’

‘Because you’re good at selling hats?’ said Ghita.

‘No, not that. Because I’ve found out where they’re holding your father.’

Ghita froze, her eyes filling instantly with tears.

‘Where... where is he?’

‘In a prison high in the mountains.’

‘We knew that already.’

Saed took out a scrap of newspaper. There was something scribbled on the back.

‘You read it,’ he said, passing it to Ghita.

‘Why don’t you?’

‘I don’t read much. Been too busy selling hats to learn.’

‘It’s the name of the jail – beyond the Gorge of Ziz.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘A long way.’

Blaine held up his hands.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said. ‘What’s your plan... to turn up and ask sweetly for them to hand your father over?’

‘I’ll plead with the guards,’ said Ghita. ‘I’ll beg them.’

‘And you really think that’ll work?’

Saed put a second scrap of paper on the table. It was larger than the first, and looked as though it had been torn from a child’s exercise book.

‘I think this will help,’ he said.

Ghita looked at the thick unruly Arabic script.

‘It says: Abdelkarim Hamoudi the goldsmith will repay the favour owed by his grandfather. The password is the name of the Prophet’s steed.’

‘The Night Journey,’ said Saed. ‘The Prophet ascended to Heaven on a horse with wings...’

‘It was called Buraq,’ Ghita said.

Another chorus of cheering erupted at the back.

‘What is the favour the goldsmith is willing to repay?’ Ghita asked.

‘Am I missing something here?’ asked Blaine. ‘Who is the goldsmith?’

Saed seemed unusually serious for a moment.

‘When my father died he left me nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing, that is, except for three favours that were owed to him. The first was a favour owed from a fisherman down in Agadir. The second was one owed by a doctor in Oujda. And the third, it was owed by a man up in Tangier.’

‘But surely you can’t call in a favour if the person it’s owed to has died,’ Blaine said.

‘Of course you can,’ Ghita replied. ‘Or at least you can here in Morocco. This is a medieval country, you see – a place where the repayment of a favour is an almost sacred duty.’

‘A duty of blood,’ Saed added. ‘The man in Tangier knows that. I found out that the cousin of his wife is related to a man who works as a guard at the prison. If I demand the favour to be repaid he will help. He has no choice.’

‘Even if it’s breaking the law?’ asked Blaine.

‘Of course. You see, repaying a favour... having the burden removed from a family’s shoulders, is a great blessing.’

Saed reached over and touched Ghita’s sleeve with his hand.

‘I want to help you,’ he said.

‘But why?’

The boy grinned mischievously.

‘Because when you have saved your father perhaps you will remember me.’

Ghita leaned forward and pressed her lips to the shoeshine boy’s cheek.

‘You may be filthy and rough on the outside, but you have a heart of gold,’ she said.

The American rolled his eyes.

‘How are you gonna get to the mountains?’

‘You would have to drive,’ said Saed.

‘But you don’t have a car.’

‘I think I know where to get one,’ Ghita said.