Casablanca Blues by Tahir Shah

Author:Tahir Shah
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Secretum Mundi Publishing
Published: 2013-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

Seventy-four

During a break between downpours, Blaine walked along Boulevard Mohammed V in the direction of the Casa Voyageurs railway station.

The main thoroughfare of French-built Casablanca, the street was once the preserve of the most fashionable shops, cafés and restaurants. For a company to have a headquarters there was a statement of influence and power.

But, despite the new tramway and a coat of fresh whitewash, most of the buildings were in a wretched state, symbols of the despised days of the French Protectorate.

Put up back in’ 34, the Shell Building stood in pride of place at a little crossroads, once named after General Patton. Like everything else with a French title, it had been subsequently renamed. In the postcard there had been a prim new streetlight there, the kerb around it striped in black and white.

Weaving between the parked cars and the mounds of soaking garbage, Blaine made his way to the exact spot where the open-topped limousine had stood in the photograph. A Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, its liveried driver was holding a door open for a lady in a wide-brimmed sun hat.

Unsure of quite what to do, Blaine went inside.

The building was empty, and was gutted of its original contents and fixtures. A guardian emerged from the shadows. He had been feeding milky bread to a nest of puppies.

‘C’est fermé,’ he said. ‘This building closed.’

The American held up a hand.

‘I was hoping something might have been left for me.’

The guardian winced.

‘Quand? When?’

‘About seventy years ago.’

Blaine realized how foolish the sentence sounded before he had even spoken it. He passed the guardian the postcard. Holding it into the light, he moved it close to his eyes. And, after a long wait, he seemed to smile to himself.

‘This picture... very old,’ he said. ‘Cars different now.’ He motioned to the passing traffic. ‘Small, ugly.’ He drew a breath. ‘This one... beautiful!’

‘I am hoping that an envelope or something might have been left for me,’ said Blaine.

‘Your name?’

‘Oh, it wouldn’t be in my name. If anything, it would be in the name of Mr. Bogart.’ He took a step back. ‘Monsieur BEAU-GART,’ he said, enunciating. He was an American gentleman.’

‘Your father?’

‘No, not exactly.’

‘Oh.’

The guardian appeared a little displeased.

‘Well, yes, kinda,’ Blaine corrected. ‘My father.’

A big toothless smile welled up on the guardian’s face.

‘Father, good,’ he said.

‘Well, do you know if anything was left for him – for my father, Mr. Bogart?’

The guardian shook his head and went back to the pups.

‘Non, Monsieur,’ he said as he went. ‘Il n’y a rien ici pour votre père.’

At Café Berry, across from the Shell Building, Blaine sucked down a black coffee and waved a hand through the suffocating smoke.

The waiter hadn’t asked whether he wanted it in a glass or a cup, but had served it in a glass – a sign that he was looking more like a local. After all, most Moroccan men take their coffee in a glass, especially those who while away their lives in run-down Art Deco cafés.

For fifteen minutes Blaine stared at the postcard without looking up once.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.