The Blue Hour (16 page)

“Yes, they can be dangerous. What happened next?”

“He asked me if there was a way out of the building that would permit him to avoid passing the front desk.”

“Did he say why he wanted to sneak out the back door?”

“No.”

“I suppose he didn't want anyone to see what he'd done to himself.”

“I wouldn't know. He seemed very . . . unstable. I was worried that, after injuring himself, it mightn't be a good idea for him to go out. But he said he had to see a friend.”

“Did he tell you the name of the friend?”

“The man who runs the café. He asked me again if I knew a way out the back of the hotel. When I told him I didn't want to get into any trouble he gave me this”—reaching into the pocket of her apron she brought out the crumpled $100 bill—“I was shocked when he insisted on giving me so much money. I told him I didn't want his money and that M. Picard would be furious with me if he discovered that I had helped him sneak away . . . especially with the state of the room. But he told me that M. Picard would get money from you to pay for it—and the one hundred dollars was a gift to me for helping him out and not saying anything. But I really can't keep it.”

She proffered the creased portrait of Benjamin Franklin, making me wonder if Paul had a stash of American dollars he wasn't telling me about.

“Of course you're keeping the money. I will give you an additional three hundred dirhams if you show me the back way out of here.”

“But the police . . . they will get very angry with me . . . maybe get me into trouble . . . if they find out that I have helped you.”

“They didn't know you helped Paul. They won't know that you helped me. Anyway, I will be back in an hour or so. You are absolutely sure that Paul didn't tell you where he might be going?”

She shook her head many times.

“What did he take with him?”

“Take with him? Nothing. Once I bandaged his head he stood up and said he could walk, and gave me the money. I asked him to wait in the room for several minutes, then returned when I was certain it was safe for him to go.”

“Where's that secret way out of here? Will I be able to get back in myself?”

“Please,
madame
, if they catch me aiding you—”

“I will take the blame,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the cash and thrusting it upon her.

“You and monsieur are being too generous,” she said.

No, what we are being is very American, I thought. Thinking that money can buy our way out anything. Mira looked at the cash. A week's wages for opening a door. I could see her hesitating.

“I will come back in twenty minutes,” she finally said. “Ahmed is on a break right now, and he often goes out the back for a cigarette. When he returns on duty to the front desk I will come for you. We won't have much in the way of time, because he could call for me. But as long as you are ready when I return . . .”

“I'll be ready,” I said.

Mira nodded and left. I went over and poured out a glass of Moroccan whisky. The mint tea not a balm tonight. I quickly repacked the backpack with things I didn't want left behind in the room: my laptop, my passport and journal, Paul's diary. I recounted all the remaining cash that had been kept in the mug on the desk in our other room. There was close to 8,000 dirhams—around one thousand dollars. My great hope was that, once I got over to Chez Fouad, I would find Paul, hiding in some corner of the café that Inspector Moufad hadn't discovered. With some coaxing and kindness (and me pushing aside my considerably maimed pride for a day or so), I could get us back to the States and Paul into the hands of a good shrink—who would help him negotiate the aftermath of my leaving him.

I finished the mint tea. I resisted the temptation to look further through Paul's diary. I tried to control the hurt and anxiety coursing through me. A light knock on the door. I opened it. Mira put her finger to her lips and motioned for me to follow her. I hoisted the backpack. We both scanned the corridor. It was clear. We crept along like cats. At the end of the hallway was a small door. I had to take off my backpack to follow Mira and squeeze through it. There was a narrow stairway, the steps crumbling, the walls here reeking of damp. Down and down we went, entering some subterranean warren. We reached another door. Opening it the stench of sewage hit my nostrils. It was vile, overpowering. Reaching into her apron pocket Mira brought out a candle and a disposable lighter. Holding a flame to the wick she whispered:

“Don't say a word, don't make any unnecessary noise.”

We were in a tunnel, with wet muddy walls and a damp dirt floor. The height of this burrow couldn't have been more than six feet. Paul must have been forced to painfully crouch down all the way along its moist, odorous passageway—further pain after the self-inflicted pain. I sucked in my breath. I put my hand over my mouth and used my thumb and forefinger to pinch my nostrils shut. I followed the candle being held in Mira's hand. It took us a very long and unsettling five minutes to reach its far end. The walls seemed to be sweating, as trickles of liquefied dirt commingled with insects, worms, and . . . oh, God, no . . . a rat that ran right out in front of us and made me gasp. Mira—who was completely unfazed by the sudden emergence of this filthy rodent—put her finger to her lips. I kept wondering if one wrong move, an accidental bump into its delicate substructure, would cause the entire tunnel to collapse, burying us alive. That's always been a recurring nightmare of mine—to wake up and find myself suffocating after having been entombed in an avalanche of snow or mud. My horror at being in this tiny passage was magnified many times over by the thought that I had endangered a young girl, who couldn't have been any older than fourteen, by insisting she bring me along the same escape route that Paul had convinced her to also guide him through.

We reached a metal door. Mira tried to open it. It wouldn't budge. She rapped on it harshly with her tiny knuckles. After a moment it creaked open. A small hand reached in and pulled Mira through. Then the same hand reappeared. I took it and was hoisted around the door's rusted frame and found myself face-to-face with the owner of the hand: a young man around fifteen, with a sly, challenging look on his face. He said something to Mira in Arabic. She answered back in a way that made it clear to him that she wasn't impressed with his wiseass comment. Switching to French she told me:

“This is Mohammed. He thinks he is my boyfriend. He is not. He wants one hundred dirhams for opening the door and guiding you up to the street. I have told him thirty dirhams. We've agreed fifty. You pay him half now, half when you return.”

Then she barked something at Mohammed, which made him tense for a moment before that flirtatious look returned to his face. Mira saw this and rolled her eyes—and then raised her finger close to his face and said something that, from its tone, sounded half like a warning, half a threat.

“I've told him if he plays any games with you—like asking for more money—he will have to answer to me,” Mira said. “Now I have to go back. You must assure me that if anyone finds out you disappeared for a few hours . . .”

“I will never tell them of your involvement in my disappearance. That is a promise.”

“
Merci, madame,
” she said, sounding very formal.

“I can't thank you enough.”

“There is no need to thank me,
madame
. You and your husband paid me well for my silence.”

With a formal nod—and a last withering glance at Mohammed—she pulled open the rusted door and disappeared back into the underworld. Mohammed motioned for me to follow him. We were in a basement, above which was loud music and the sound of rhythmic chopping. When I looked quizzically at this sound, he said in very rudimentary French:

“
Mon père est boucher
.”
My father is a butcher.

His establishment was evidently right above us. And he was dismembering something as Mohammed held out his hand for the first installment of his payment. The twenty-five dirhams turned over to him, Mohammed then guided me through a basement that looked like a makeshift abattoir. Garbage pails and industrial-size Dumpsters filled with the remains of carcasses. Dried congealed blood on the concrete floor. All the associated stenches that accompany the left-behinds of dead animals. Mohammed smiled when he saw the effect that the aroma of his father's basement had on me. I clamped my hand over my face as we went up the stone steps into the back of the shop. When I emerged from behind the counter, Mohammed's dad—a man around forty with a hangdog face, bad teeth, a bloody hatchet in one hand—looked bemused to see me coming up from the lower depths of his basement. He nodded a polite hello, then barked something at Mohammed. When Mohammed barked back—and also rubbed his thumb and forefinger together—his father seemed placated. He even offered me mint tea.

“
Mille mercis, mais j'ai un rendez-vous,
” I said.

But where was I now? Though I knew the souk well after more than two weeks here, the fact remained that it was so densely structured, so labyrinthine in design, that you inevitably found yourself down a dark lane which you had never encountered before. Much like the alley I now was ushered out into. It was full of ominous shadows and no markings to tell me where I might exactly be. Mohammed pointed to his father's shop and said, “
Je reste ici.
”

“
Mais où suis-je?
”

“
Essaouira.
”

“
Mais où?
”

“
Vous cherchez où?
”

I told him that I was trying to find a café owned by a man named Fouad. Mohammed looked at me blankly.

“
Vous ne connaissez pas Chez Fouad?
” I asked.

Mohammed gave me another bemused shrug.

“
Aidez-moi,
” I implored, getting worried that Fouad might think I wasn't returning and would vanish before the midnight deadline he set.

Mohammed held out his hand again, indicating more money was being demanded. I decided not to argue—and started reaching into my pocket for another ten dirhams. But before I could hand him the ten-dirham note, his father emerged from his shop, running toward him with one of those mallets (soaked in blood) that is used to tenderize meat, shouting loudly, clearly terrifying his son, who ducked behind me. When his dad reached us he grabbed his son by the shoulder and shook him furiously, castigating him in a free flow of Arabic. I sensed he had caught sight of him demanding further money from me—and took offense at his boy's shilling for more cash. I tried to intervene on Mohammed's behalf, explaining that I had asked him for directions to a certain café, that it was I who offered to pay for his service to guide me. Mohammed, now in tears and sobbing, translated my words into Arabic. Though it took a few very tense moments for his father's anger to subside, he seemed to buy into this story, shaking Mohammed once more and telling him something that Mohammed then translated into broken French.

“My father he says . . . you lie to protect me.”

“Tell him I'm not lying.”

And then, all but acting out my words, I pointed to myself as I explained:

“I asked your son to bring me here”—I gestured to the alley ahead—“to a café owned by a man named Fouad.” I mimicked handing him money. “I offered to pay him for his service. Your son never asked me for money”—again gesticulating between myself and Mohammed and pointing to my pocket and back to him and shaking my head to emphasize he never insisted on payment.

It was quite a pantomime performance. But the butcher finally believed me. Gripping his son by his shoulder he pointed to the far distance and barked another order to him. Mohammed translated. “My father tells me to bring you to Fouad's café.”

“But where is it?”

Mohammed posed that question to his dad. Another angry torrent of Arabic poured forth—but halfway through this tirade I started to realize this was this gentleman's way of giving directions. At the end of this rant—replete with gesticulations indicating right and left turns—the butcher then looked at me and became unfailingly polite, touching his heart with his right hand, executing a little bow, and (from what I could glean by his countenance) begging apology for his son's behavior.

I shook my head and touched Mohammed on his right shoulder in a manner that was both maternal and protective, then asked him to tell his father, “Your son was most respectful and courteous. A great credit to you,
monsieur
.”

That seemed to finally placate the butcher. He bowed gravely to me, then swiped his hand forward to indicate that Mohammed should get a move on with me.

We headed down the darkened alley. As soon as we turned a corner Mohammed stopped and started to cry. The cocky kid had been reduced to a sad little boy with an unforgiving dictator of a father. I tentatively put my arm around him, wanting to comfort him, but assumed he might just push me away. To my surprise he buried his face in my shoulder and sobbed. How I wished I could have lifted him out of his life and brought him to a place that was happier and less threatening. How I wished I could have lifted myself out of my own life.

When Mohammed subsided he said one word, “
Merci
.” Then he led me down several other byways until we reached Chez Fouad. I knew full well that I would not be able to find my way back without his help, so I handed Mohammed fifty dirhams and asked if he could wait here until I was finished.

“
Mon père sera fâché
.” My father will be angry.

“
Je vais parler avec ton papa. Je vais tout régler
.” I will talk with your dad. I will make everything all right.

Mohammed nodded and found a stone step on which to sit as I approached the café. When I looked back in his direction he was perched on this stoop, looking forlorn, not knowing what to do with his time. I could not help but think of men I'd seen everywhere in Essaouira, sitting on brick walls or by carts stuffed with goods, quietly despondent, inert in the midst of life's chaotic flow. I didn't want Mohammed to end up like one of those men, yet sensed he was facing a future in his father's butcher shop and a lifetime of animal carcasses in the basement.