The Storyteller of Casablanca (7)
‘Grand, I’m pleased to hear that,’ she replies. ‘I’m phoning to let you know I’ve managed to get some of the girls together for a lunch at the Club next Wednesday. I hope that still suits? Kate will be coming and she’s happy to talk to you about that quilting project you mentioned. She’s delighted to have another crafter on board. And sometime before that it’d be good to go for a drive around the city, like I promised, to show you where things are. We could have a cup of coffee afterwards, maybe? Would you be free tomorrow morning?’
‘That’d be lovely,’ I say, and I mean it. Distracted as I am these days, I know when I meet people I can come across as a bit distant and stand-offish. The person I’ve become isn’t someone you’d naturally warm to, very unlike the warm, carefree woman I used to be. I am truly grateful to May for the effort she’s making to include me and help me adapt to the expat life here. It’ll be good to meet her friends too, to get involved in things outside this house. And I know that will please Tom. I imagine how I’ll tell him about these arrangements over supper tonight, presenting them to him like a gift. For a moment his expression will relax into a smile at this sign that I’m making an effort, getting into some sort of social life. But then the silence will fall between the two of us again, he’ll reach for the bottle and pour himself another glass of wine and the darkness of his preoccupations will resettle itself on his face like a flock of crows coming back to their evening roost.
Even though I expect the lunch will be something of a trial, I’m looking forward to meeting the other wives. Perhaps they’ll know something of the history of Casablanca, be able to tell me more about what the city would have been like in Josie’s time.
I hang up, having arranged that May will call by at eight-thirty tomorrow morning. Alia knocks softly on the door. ‘Mrs Harris, may I clear the tray now?’
‘Please do. And Alia, please call me Zoe. Mrs Harris makes me think my mother-in-law must be in the room.’ To my ears, my voice sounds forced, trying too hard. There’s that sense of awkwardness again at having a housekeeper when I would probably manage just fine without any help in the house. After all, it’s not as if I have a job to go to, now that I’ve joined the ranks of expat ladies-who-lunch. But Alia is a real blessing, with her delicious cooking and the way she keeps the house so much tidier than I would. I’d completely trust her to babysit Grace, too, and in fact I find her calm, unobtrusive presence even more of a comfort after she rescued me from my foray into the outside world. It’s reassuring having her here, making my days not quite so lonely.
‘Very well, Mrs Zoe,’ she replies. I smile. That seems to be about as far as she’s prepared to compromise, but at least it’s a little less formal than Mrs Harris. ‘And would you like me to clean in here today? The dust is bad when the chergui has been blowing from the desert. Even with the shutters closed, it still manages to find its way in.’ She runs a finger along the beading framing the wall tiles to show me.
‘Thank you very much, Alia, that would be great.’ She leaves to fetch her bucket of cleaning things and I gather up the inlaid box and the notebook, heading back upstairs to get out of her way and read some more.
Josie’s Journal – Monday 6th January, 1941
Papa has gone to queue at the American consulate, which is where you have to go to get given a visa. But first you have to have the correct forms and write down who your sponsors will be when you get to America. He’s already filled those in, but we haven’t heard anything for months now. Maybe it’s because all the offices were so busy with all the refugees arriving from Europe and then they closed for Christmas. Papa has gone to see if he can speak to someone to find out. Then Maman and Papa will go for an interview and we’ll all have to have our medical examinations and after that we get our visa. Once we have the American visa we’ll be able to apply for our transit visas for Portugal and then finally our exit permit for Morocco. It was hard enough getting our permis de séjour to let us stay in Casablanca while we’re trying to get everything else arranged. With all these permits, it’s no wonder poor Papa’s hair really is falling out. He now has a definite bald patch on the top, which I noticed the other day when I was coming down the stairs and he was standing in the hall below, reading the headlines in his newspaper.
When we left Paris we didn’t apply for any permits. It happened quite quickly. Papa came home from the bank one day and told Maman to pack as much as she could. The Nazis had entered France and it was time for us to leave. It was all such a rush that I scarcely had the time to feel anxious.
We went on the train to Marseille and I quite liked that part of the journey. I held on tight to my book, and it was comforting reading the words of those familiar stories. After a while, I put La Fontaine away safely in my bag, and watched the French countryside rolling past outside the window. I pretended we were going on our summer holiday to the C?te d’Azur, just like we’d done the year before. I ignored Annette, who was sniffling into Maman’s shoulder because she didn’t want to leave édouard. And I ignored the people crowded into the corridor outside our compartment, because that side of things made me feel a bit scared and I knew I had to be brave. But I also knew that sulking and moping, like some people I could mention, wasn’t going to help.
Even Annette pulled herself together a little when we reached Marseille. It was pandemonium. Everyone was scrambling to try to get to the port. Papa paid two men to find us a taxi and bring our luggage. That’s where I think the trunk went missing, even though the men assured us they’d delivered everything to the correct ship so that Papa would give them a tip.