Eighty-four

Ten miles south of Settat a police officer stepped into the road and flagged down the Silver Ghost. He was wearing reflecting Ray-Ban aviators and a pistol on his hip.

‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ said Blaine as he slowed the car, ‘I was below the limit.’

‘Drive a nice car and, believe me, it happens all the time,’ Ghita said. ‘Pull over and I’ll speak to him.’

The officer saluted, and then asked for the car’s documents.

‘What are you stopping us for?’ Blaine asked in English.

‘Une infraction.’

‘Infraction? What does that mean?’

‘That you were going too fast,’ said Ghita.

‘But, I wasn’t.’

‘Quatre cents dirhams,’ said the officer, as he began to write a ticket.

‘Don’t worry,’ Ghita whispered. ‘It’s a little game. Just give him this,’ she said, passing him a folded-up bill. ‘Slip it down his sleeve.’

‘What?’

‘His sleeve, it has to go down his sleeve.’

‘Why?’

‘Because then he can’t ever say he actually took a bribe.’

The policeman handed back the car’s carte grise and, as he did so, Blaine stuffed the fifty-dirham note deftly into his sleeve. He expected an outcry, or to be arrested for attempting to bribe an officer of the law. But, as if he had pressed the right button on a giant automaton, the patrolman stepped back, saluted, and waved them on.

‘That worked like magic,’ Blaine said as he accelerated.

‘Of course it did. A little bribery keeps the system working smoothly,’ Ghita told him. ‘It’s a good thing. Without it how would the poor police survive?’

‘By spending their salary perhaps?’

‘Oh no... no, no, no,’ Ghita replied. ‘They get a pittance. It’s not nearly enough to live on. The bribes just top up their wages. And the officers out on the highway share what they make with the others at the police station.’

‘So everyone gets a cut?’

Ghita nodded.

‘I can’t think of a fairer system,’ she said.

They drove on in silence for a good many miles, the nut-brown farmland giving way to the baked red clay of the desert escarpment. The road snaked down towards the plateau below. As it did so, the landscape gradually opened out revealing the Berber heartland of Morocco.

It was vast and flat, like the bottom of the ocean, interlaced with boulders and with scrub. There were shepherds tending raggle-taggle flocks and withered old men clinging to donkeys. Walking alongside, their wives were laden with buckets and great bundles of sticks.

‘I had no idea Morocco was this beautiful,’ said Blaine. ‘To tell you the truth, I hadn’t ever thought about it. Because all I ever think about is Casablanca.’

‘Casablanca’s not Morocco,’ Ghita replied.

‘So what is it?’

‘It’s a tiny little splinter of a huge continent – of Africa.’

‘It’s so vast,’ the American said. ‘This landscape rolls on forever. I can see till the end of the world.’

‘You’ve got to remember something,’ Ghita said, ‘and when you return to New York, you must tell people about it.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That Morocco is not just another Arab country. It’s a crossroads – between Africa and Europe, and between Arabia and what lies west, beyond the Atlantic. But...’ Ghita said, her voice touched with an undertone of pride, ‘beyond all else it’s Berber.’

‘What’s Berber?’ Blaine asked, glancing over at her.

‘The original people of this kingdom were the Berbers. They come from different tribes with different customs and dialects, but they are Berber first and Moroccan second.’

‘Are you one... a Berber?’

Ghita adjusted her scarf.

‘Yes, of course I am,’ she said. ‘From a well-known family.’

‘Well-known for what?’

‘For their bravery and their sense of honour and...’

Ghita was about to say something else, when another police officer jumped out from nowhere, and flagged them down.

‘I can’t believe this!’ snapped Blaine.

‘Don’t worry, I have another fifty-dirham note,’ Ghita said, folding it up small.

A minute later the bribe had been delivered, and they were on their way again, the Silver Ghost gathering speed as it cut across the red desert.

By the time they reached the turn-off for Habiba’s village, they had been stopped half a dozen times and had paid something each time.

The road divided and subdivided, and was soon a patchwork of repairs, ruts and deep potholes. Blaine navigated between them as best he could.

‘Take a left here,’ Ghita cried out.

‘But it’s a dirt track. It can’t lead anywhere.’

‘Trust me. I know it’s up there.’

The Rolls-Royce advanced down a narrow track, lined on either side with cacti and thorny scrub. After a mile of little fields they reached a farmstead.

A pair of gruff old dogs lurched out from the long afternoon shadows, and made for the tyres. Then a multitude of children surged out from the ramshackle homes, whooping and jumping at the sight of a car.

‘Keep going up here,’ Ghita said, ‘then turn left at the end.’

‘When was the last time you came here?’

‘About ten years ago. But it hasn’t changed at all. All these people are Berbers – the best people on earth.’

‘You’re just saying that because you are one of them,’ Blaine grinned.

Ghita returned the smile.

‘What nonsense!’ she said.

Blaine steered the Rolls up a steep incline and through a tremendous herd of sheep.

‘Now where?’ he shouted, amid the bleating and the dust.

‘Up there, towards the brow of the hill.’ Ghita pointed to a tumbledown adobe home in the distance. ‘That’s it.’

Long before the car reached the end of the track, a woman had emerged from the house. Her face was weather-worn, with a square jaw, a faded pink scarf tied down tight over her hair. She was crying, her hands flustering to wipe away the tears. Running to the car, she began kissing Ghita even before the door was open.

When Ghita got out, the two women hugged, kissing each other on the cheeks, cooing greetings and hugging all the more. The American was introduced. He shook hands, smiled broadly, and was swept inside.

The farmhouse comprised three cramped rooms – a small bedroom, an even smaller kitchen, and a living-room in which guests were received.

Before he could say a word, Blaine was ushered to a long banquette, and encouraged to sit. Refusing to be seated, Ghita followed Habiba into the kitchen. They spoke excitedly in the high-pitched lilt used to pass on gossip and urgent news. From time to time there was a loud exclamation.

After a considerable time, the two women came out from the kitchen. Ghita took a place opposite Blaine on a second banquette, while Habiba sat at the edge on a wicker stool, and began the laborious business of preparing mint tea.

The tea was poured in silence, passed out, sipped, and thanks were given to God.

‘Isn’t she surprised to see you?’ asked Blaine softly.

‘No, no, not at all. She said that she was expecting me, that she had seen me coming in a dream.’

‘Where’s her husband?’

‘He died a year ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. She’s thrilled – she despised him. I half imagine that she poisoned him.’

‘And where are her kids?’

‘Her son’s gone to Meknès to work in the brick kilns, and her daughter has recently married a doctor near Marrakech.’ Ghita paused. She sipped her tea, and then she said: ‘Habiba insists that we stay the night with her. Not to do so would be very rude.’

As soon as a second round of tea had been poured, Habiba led Ghita into the kitchen again, for more gossip. Anxious to stretch his legs, Blaine went outside and walked behind the house.

The sun was slipping below the ochre-red horizon.

As he stood there, awed by the natural beauty, he imagined his grandfather standing beside him. He could smell the old man’s aftershave, Old Spice, and feel the warmth of his skin.

‘What am I doing here, grandpa?’ he said. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

His grandfather touched him on the arm.

‘You’re following your heart,’ he answered, ‘and a man who follows his heart can never go wrong.’

The sun vanished and, gradually, the pink glow dissipated, shadows melting into dark. Blaine listened to the chorus of dogs in the distance, and to the bats darting through the evening air.

When it was pitch-black, he went back inside, and found the little house illuminated by candles. Ghita and Habiba were still chatting, hardly drawing breath as they rooted through the past.

At length, an olive tagine was brought out from the kitchen. Bubbling and squeaking with heat, it was set down, and spoons were passed out. Only when the guests had feasted sufficiently did the host taste the dish.

After the meal, a long silence prevailed, and then Habiba ambled into the kitchen to prepare more tea.

As soon as she was gone, Ghita got up, and sat down beside Blaine.

‘She’s told me something.’

‘What?’

‘You remember I said that my father regarded her as our most trusted friend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, three years ago he was frightened that someone – I don’t know who – would try to bring his empire to its knees. So he came here without telling anyone, and brought a box with him. He asked Habiba to look after it, and to give it to me were I ever to come.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘I don’t know. Nor does she – she’s never opened it.’

‘Where is it?’

Ghita motioned to the dirt floor.

‘She buried it under there.’

Before dawn Habiba was up, drawing water from the well. Then, at first light, she took a tray of bread a mile and a half across the fields to the communal oven, and brought it back once it was baked.

The two women had slept the night in the bedroom, while Blaine stretched out on the banquette. He woke to the scent of fresh-baked bread, eggs, and an endless supply of sweet mint tea.

Through half-open eyes, he scanned the room, wondering where to find the bathroom. He hadn’t relieved himself since the truck stop.

‘There’s a squat toilet in the little lean-to at the back of the house,’ said Ghita, reading his mind.

The American raised an eyebrow, surprised that she had adapted so readily to the reduction in luxury.

‘This is what we call the bled, the countryside,’ she said. ‘It’s sacred to all Moroccans, whether they’re from here or from the city. Its simplicity reminds us that we are all equal.’

After breakfast, Habiba fetched a shovel from the barn and set about digging up the sitting-room floor. She refused to allow Blaine to help her, insisting that it was her duty, a solemn duty she had undertaken to Mr. Omary.

It took half an hour to excavate the wooden box.

The sides were stained red from the dirt, and the top was battered where the shovel had struck it hard. Reaching down, Habiba removed it, praised God, and passed it to Ghita.

‘Open it up!’ said Blaine enthusiastically.

Ghita paused to mumble a prayer, and then prised off the lid.

Inside were three thick bundles of hundred-dollar bills, each one the size of a brick. Beneath them was a letter and locket.

Ghita ripped the envelope open and scanned its text.

‘My darling daughter,’ she read, ‘as I have always told you, Habiba is one of our family, and the bond we share with her is more highly valued to us than with anyone else we know. I am writing this letter at a time of grave danger. I can feel that forces here in Casablanca are conspiring against me. I don’t know who they are, or what their motive is, but I fear them. For this reason, I have entrusted this box to Habiba. I am certain that at a time of catastrophe you will seek her out. Inside, you will find enough funds to see yourself through turbulent times, and the locket your mother wore every day of her life.’

As she reached the end of the letter, Ghita’s eyes welled with tears.

‘Baba, wait for me,’ she said, ‘I am coming!’