Casablanca Blues (2013) Read Free Page A

Atlas.
    Inside the gates, a band of musicians from Jajouka were playing, brought in by bus from the Riff. Armed with tambours, fiddles, and with simple wooden pipes, they had been the only choice that Hicham Omary had successfully made. Their music reminded him of his own Berber ancestry, and of carefree summers in the hills in Morocco’s north.
    The platinum spotlight of a television crew blinded the guests as they entered and ran the gauntlet of welcome.
    Inside, against the scent of roasting lamb and of pungent white lilies, Hicham Omary and his daughter mingled. There was much grinning, many superlatives, congratulations and kisses.
    As father and daughter gave welcome, an army of waiters glided between the guests, with trays laden with food, and with flutes of vintage Cristal.

Eleven
    The door to the street swung open wide.
    Blaine stumbled out, the last cardboard box filled with his possessions clutched in his hands. Balanced on the box, like an imperial crown, was his precious fedora. Tucked into the band was his most prized trophy of all – the stub of a cinema ticket from
Casablanca
’s première night.
    With care, he placed the box beside all the others just outside on the pavement, put the hat on the back of his head, and did a count.
    There were fifteen boxes in all, packed tight with a lifetime’s collection of
Casablanca
memorabilia. Beside them was a single vinyl suitcase a little the worse for wear and, next to that, half a dozen framed posters, each one an original, of the same legendary film.
    Blaine scanned the street for the truck that the doorman had ordered for him. With no sign of it, he picked up his oversized satchel and a plastic bin-liner with a few stray clothes, and went back inside to check.
    ‘Hey, Al, he’s still not out there.’
    ‘OK. I’ll give ‘em a call.’
    The doorman’s bloated finger hit redial and his ear was assaulted by a shrill musical recording.
    ‘I hate the Beach Boys,’ he said.
    Blaine tapped his watch.
    ‘He should have been here half an hour ago.’
    There was a loud grumbling sound outside, as if it were about to rain. The doorman peered out at the sky just as the dispatcher came back on the line.
    ‘Yeah this is Al at Atlantic Avenue. We ordered a van to go to...’
    ‘To storage in Jackson Heights,’ Blaine whispered.
    ‘To Queens. Yeah. That’s right.’ Al hung up the phone. ‘Any minute now,’ he said.
    Blaine gave a thumbs-up and went out to the kerb.
    He did a double take.
    All the boxes were gone.
    The only thing left was a poster of Humphrey Bogart, with the word
Casablanca
ornamented in red along the bottom edge. The glass had been shattered, and there was a diagonal boot-print across Bogart’s face.
    In the distance, slaloming away down Atlantic Avenue, was a garbage truck.
    Blaine’s hands gripped his cheeks. He couldn’t make a sound. Then, slowly, the vacuum in his lungs filled with air.
    ‘Screw you, you bastards!’ he screamed. ‘And screw you Mr. Rogers! And you Mr. Seldon, and you too, Laurie! Screw the whole damned lot of you!’

Twelve
    Poised on the marble steps that led down to the terrace, Ghita surveyed the guests with her best friend, Aicha.
    They were both dressed in couture gowns, every inch of visible skin laden with cut jewels and gold. Ghita’s neck was hidden beneath a fabulous sapphire and diamond necklace, a matching tiara weighing down her chestnut hair.
    ‘You’ve got the whole zoo here tonight,’ said Aicha, sipping her champagne.
    ‘And to think that this is just the engagement,’ Ghita added.
    ‘Sweet of your father to roll out the red carpet.’
    Ghita turned to face her friend, a glint of annoyance in her eye.
    ‘And what’s wrong with that? As I’ve told him so often, he mustn’t be shy about blowing a little small change if he wants to be respected by society.’
    A waiter swanned up, a silver tray of canapés in hand. Aicha took one.
Foie gras
on a bed of Beluga from the Persian side of the