The Storyteller of Casablanca (11)

‘So it’s a kind of sanitised version of the original?’ I ask.

‘Well, yes.’ May shrugs. ‘But you wouldn’t be wanting to go into the real medina in any case now, would you? It’s just dirty and dangerous.’

I bite my lip, remembering the goat in the gutter and the toothless man selling his strange remedies, and say nothing.

We sweep towards the ocean and I crane my neck to look up at the tower of the Hassan II Mosque, the pure whiteness of its stonework dazzling and dizzying against the blue of the sky. Then we swing on to the corniche, passing the spot where I stood yesterday showing Grace the waves. The beachfront is lined with clubs and restaurants – including the Overseas Club, where we’ll be having lunch next week – but May continues on to the mall and pulls up in the multi-storey car park. The existing shopping centre is being replaced by something much larger – May says it’s going to be one of the biggest shopping malls in Africa – and the din of the vast building site reverberates on the hot, dusty air.

Once inside, it’s much more peaceful as we stroll through the arcades of shops. Canned music floats on the artificially chilled atmosphere and the skin of my arms prickles with goosebumps as we wander past shopfronts displaying brands that are recognisable the whole world over. The glitzy luxury is a little overwhelming and I find myself longing for the simplicity of the bakery on the corner of the Boulevard des Oiseaux in the heat of the sunlit city.

We pass a pharmacy and I pop in to buy some more hand sanitiser and bottles of baby shampoo and lotion. I tend to use them myself too these days, because they’re less harsh on my sore skin than other brands.

At last we settle at a table in one of the mall’s many coffee shops, ordering cappuccinos and Danish pastries.

‘Do you ever go to any of the cafés in the nouvelle ville?’ I ask.

May looks a little doubtful. ‘Occasionally. But you’re more likely to get hassled there. In any case, we’re usually either shopping here or socialising at the Club.’ She gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘I think we all have quite a romantic image of Casa in our heads when we first get here.’ She laughs. ‘That movie has a lot to answer for! But we very quickly find out that Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman are long gone and it’s a completely different city nowadays. You’ve seen enough of it yourself this morning to realise it’s now mostly urban sprawl, much of it fairly shabby and unattractive. The port has become far more important, commercially speaking, since the days of Bogart and Bergman – after all, none of us would be here otherwise, would we? Casa is just a big, commercial city these days. The romantic notions very quickly wear off, you’ll find, and then the familiarity of places like this’ – she waves a hand to encompass the bright lights of the shops, the piped music, the chilled air and a man in grey overalls who’s sweeping the already pristine white marble floor tiles – ‘becomes a comfort.’ She pauses to stir the froth in her coffee cup.

It’s not so much the Casablanca of movie fame I want to explore, although I don’t say so to May. It’s Josie’s world that’s captured my imagination. But it feels like something private and I’m not ready to share it with anyone else.

May takes a sip of her coffee and blots the foam from her mouth carefully with a paper napkin so as not to smudge her lipstick. ‘If you want a little more local colour then we could organise a trip to the Habous. But the best places to go to experience traditional Moroccan culture are the other cities, like Fez and Rabat. You and Tom should plan a few weekends away maybe. How’s he getting on in the new job, anyway?’

We move on to discussing husbands. May’s is something high up in insurance, associated with shipping, so she knows all about Tom’s role.

Once we’ve finished our coffees, I glance at my watch. I’ll need to be getting back for Grace shortly, although I’m sure Alia is a completely trustworthy babysitter. May insists on settling the bill and then drives me home.

‘Let me know if you’re planning a weekend in Fez,’ she says as we pull up at my front door. ‘I can give you the details of the loveliest riad right in the centre. It would probably do you and that handsome husband of yours the world of good to have a romantic getaway.’ She reaches over and gives my hand a little sympathetic pat.

I smile and nod, and thank her for showing me around. But, as she drives away, I can’t help wondering about that gesture and what she might have heard about us.





Josie’s Journal – Thursday 16th January, 1941

Maman took Annette and me shopping in the Habous this morning, which is a place where there are lots of different kinds of traditional shops all crammed together. Before we left the house, though, she told me to take off my necklace.

‘But why?’ I asked. I’ve worn the little gold Star of David ever since Maman gave it to me for my twelfth birthday last year. It belonged to her once, although she stopped wearing it when she married Papa. She’d noticed how I especially used to love it when she let me play with the things in her jewellery box while she was putting on her make-up and doing her hair, as long as I was very careful and put everything back neatly afterwards.

‘Because it’s best not to advertise things like that these days,’ was her reply. ‘We’re not a particularly religious family, in any case, so there’s no point looking for trouble.’