The Blue Hour (28 page)

“With Paul I believed I could think about adventure and culture and freedom. Freedom from all the trappings of modern American life. But Paul wanted all those trappings—the nice home, the gym membership, the summers in Maine, good food, fine wine—even as he bemoaned our materialist culture. And he knew I would deliver all that to him, because I had what he lacked—which was a sense of responsibility. And a real belief in
us
. Our life, our future together. Of course, I also made that pathetic mistake of thinking I could change him. So, yes, you're right. I hooked up with a disaster zone. Guilty on all charges. Despite all that, despite everything he's done, I still don't want to see Paul come to harm.”

She reached for what must have been her fifth cigarette.

“Do you want me to congratulate you on your directness, your openness?”

“I just want to know two things.”

“Go on.”

“Did you know about Ben Hassan talking Paul into taking out this loan for your daughter's apartment?”

“What loan?”

“Ben Hassan told me that Philippe gave Samira one million dirhams for an apartment in Casablanca.”

“Oh, please. The Frenchie has been reasonable about giving her a degree of child support. But . . . one million dirhams? That is beyond absurd. Samira lives in a fifty-square-meter apartment that she rents for two thousand dirhams a month—which is quite a bargain for the Gauthier neighborhood of Casa. You know she is a professor at the university there. Literature. Her specialty is Romantic melancholy. How apt. She did get her doctorate in France. At Aix-en-Provence. Her thesis was even published. So yes, I am very proud of her. And I so love being a grandmother to her wonderful son. But the fanciful idea that her Frenchman gave her a million dirhams for an apartment . . .”

I felt myself getting hyperstressed, because I was beginning to figure out the actual game that Ben Hassan was playing. I said, “But Ben Hassan also told me that when Paul contacted him, begging that he put him back in touch with Samira, he informed Paul that a quick way back into her life was by giving her the matching one million dirhams for the apartment she was buying.”

“And Paul naturally bought into this?”

“I'm afraid so. Ben Hassan showed me the loan agreement he signed. He's repaying one-point-six million on a one-million-dirham loan.”

“The first I've heard of it. If he had given that money to Samira—or went and bought an apartment for her . . . well, Samira and I are reasonably close now, so she would have told me. I mean, one million dirhams would buy her close to one hundred square meters in the Gauthier district. She'd be over the moon. So . . . it is clear that your husband allowed himself to be scammed.”

I picked up the glass of wine I had put aside. I took a long sip, trying to absorb what I just heard.

“So Paul going missing . . . ,” I said.

“That is largely due to you. I heard all about the secret vasectomy.”

“Paul told you that?”

“Hardly. It was Ben Hassan.”

“That bastard. And let me guess—he also called you last night or this morning, telling you I was on my way to Ouarzazate.”

“Indeed he did. I am sure he promised you that he wouldn't phone me. Just as I am certain you regret now letting him in on that little betrayal that Paul perpetrated on you. Again I am dazzled by how a bright woman like you—”

“Yes, I was naive. Naive because I was also so hopeful. Never a good combination, apparently. Just as I now know that Ben Hassan has deceived Paul. Lending him money on the basis of giving it to your daughter, and then not passing it on to her. Isn't that known as embezzlement?”

“That's a matter of conjecture. Did you read the loan agreement? Did Paul? I tend to doubt it. Do you know what I now think—having heard about Ben Hassan's newest vengeance game? Even though this is all speculation, I'd bet that after Samira gave birth to my grandson, Ben Hassan got in touch with Paul, informing him that he was a grandfather and that Samira desperately needed his help. He probably played up the fact that, having never answered any of her letters or emails over the years, Samira had written him off as a terrible man; a nonexistent father. But Ben Hassan told Paul that, if he would find her the money needed for her apartment, he would be able to reestablish his relationship with her and play a role in his grandson's life—and that he would also right the wrong that he perpetrated on Ben Hassan all those years ago. Of course, Ben Hassan being Ben Hassan, he probably sent that email as a way of seeing if he could play on Paul's guilt after all these years. Knowing my ‘friend' as I do, I am certain he felt that the account would not be closed until he found a way of ensnaring Paul. What he couldn't have known—until you told him last night—was that his email arrived right after Paul promised you a baby and had himself fixed in secret; an act that Paul knew, when revealed, would destroy everything between you. Ben Hassan's email allowed Paul to think: here was his chance at making good on past wrongs; here was a chance to reconnect with the only child he would now ever have.

“So maybe that's why Paul showed up on Samira's doorstep two days ago, thoroughly expecting her to greet him as the man who finally redeemed himself in her eyes. Instead she rebuffed him. Which had him running back to Ben Hassan—who comforted him and put it into his head that maybe if he headed south to Ouarzazate, I would be able to help him find a way back to Samira.”

“Ben Hassan did all this to break him. He got your father, your brothers. Now Paul. He was the last member of the quartet who cost him his career. And he has certainly revenged himself.”

“But he is still an obese man with a sad life. And someone who was denied his life's dream—to become a great painter. How does revenge fix that?”

I drained my glass. Faiza glanced at her watch.

“I really don't feel like talking much more,” she said. “I have a class to teach . . . not that I really want to be doing that either. Still, it is my work. And my work, as minor and inconsequential as it is, tucked away in the mouth of the Sahara, does give some form and shape to the day. So . . . I'd like you to leave now.”

“I just need to know one last thing.”

“Which is what?”

“Did Paul give you any indication he was suicidal?”

“Or would follow my advice and kill himself? Put it this way: I told him that he had ruined my life, that he had ruined his daughter's life, that he had ruined Ben Hassan's life. Then I let him know that I knew all about how he tricked you into believing he wanted a child with you. That really sent him into a spin.”

“And he said what . . . ?”

“He said: ‘I've fucked up everything.' Then I told him he had to leave. He started to cry. He begged for my forgiveness. I told him, ‘I'm kicking you out. Just as you kicked me out of your life years ago.' ”

“So you too had your revenge. Has it changed anything?”

She lit another cigarette.

“It's changed nothing. Nothing at all.”

She walked to the front door and opened it. “Leave,” she said.

“I'm sorry you're so bitter.”

“And you're not?”

Outside I found myself frantically searching for a taxi, the mid-afternoon heat now even more frightening in its intensity. My brain was spinning like the wheels on a slot machine—and turning up zero in the way of solutions. Except the absolute need to find Paul immediately—and to at least alleviate one of his fears by telling him he owed Ben Hassan nothing.

Did he keep a copy of the loan agreement? Was there a lawyer in Casa I could bring into the picture to break the contract and also sue Ben Hassan for fraud, while also pursuing the authorities to prosecute him for embezzlement?

Absurd thoughts. If, as Faiza indicated, Ben Hassan really had all those high-up connections, I knew that the best I could hope for was that, once Paul was back home, he never came near us.

A taxi passed by and halted when the driver saw my frantic waving.

I was back at the hotel five minutes later, scanning every passing corner of the city for a sighting of Paul. When I walked in Yasmina stared at me wide-eyed.

“Why aren't you with Monsieur Paul?”

“Paul! You found him?”

“He came back to the hotel.”

“He what?”

“He came back. Maybe three or four minutes ago. Left this here for you.”

She handed me an envelope with the letter
R
written in Paul's characteristic penmanship.

“Surely you saw him as you were pulling up in the taxi,” she said.

“Had he been there I would have seen him, I was looking everywhere.”

“But he just wandered out a minute ago. Maybe even less than that. Heading to the bus station. Carrying no bags, but telling me he was going south. You can't have missed him.”

“But I did,” I said, now frantic. “Was he on foot?”

She nodded.

I turned around. My taxi had pulled away.

“How do I get there?” I cried.

“It's a five-minute walk. Head to the main street, turn left, keep going until you see the station. It is opposite the Q8 petrol station. But hurry—the bus he's taking . . . I think it leaves very soon.”

Envelope in hand, I charged down the maze of alleyways, then bounded along the avenue Muhammed V, oblivious to the scorching afternoon, the pavements burning through my sandals, certain that up ahead I could see Paul's six-foot-four frame, his long gray hair bobbing with his bouncing gait. I was running faster than I have ever run, my eyes suddenly going foggy, the bus station up ahead, the bus there, me pushing myself against a heat so dense, so viscous, my equilibrium going sideways, but, oh, God, no . . . there he is getting on the bus, and I start to scream, “Wait, wait, wait . . . ,” and, no this cannot be, the bus door closes and it pulls away, and I am seeing people on the street in nearby cafés, hearing myself scream, signaling to the driver to stop, and the bus is now turning out of the depot and down the main drag of Ouarzazate. I reached the bus station around thirty seconds later, fell into the dirt, and blacked out for a moment, and people rushed over, and two men helped me to a nearby café table, and one of them rushed inside while the other kept my head between my legs, and the second man returned with a sodden cloth that he put around my neck. As he helped me back into an upright position, a flash flood of sweat rolled down my face. I was handed a chilled bottle of water, which I drained in moments.

The men kept asking if I was all right, if they could get anyone to help me, why was I running like that?

I still had the envelope in my left hand. I asked for more water. I opened the letter. Though my eyes were still having trouble focusing, I still was able to make out the following lines in Paul's even more tortured scrawl:

I have hit the wall. I am now heading to the end of the line. Don't pursue me. Let me do what I have to do.

I am beyond sorry. But forgiveness is not merited in this instance. Which is why I am now disappearing. Permanently.

You were the love of my life. I only see that now.

Farewell.

P.

I looked up from the letter and into the faces of the men all huddled around me, their concern and worry at my mental and physical state evident.

“Where was that bus heading?” I asked.

A voice said:

“Tata.”

“What's Tata?” I asked.

“A town six hours south of here.”

I shut my eyes.

“What time is the next bus to Tata?”

ONE OF THE
men who came to my aid was a taxi driver. He insisted on driving me back to the hotel and refused my offer of money for the ride. When I reached the front door, Yasmina came racing out and helped me into the lobby. She found me more water. She sent one of the cleaners for another wet cloth to put around my neck. She told me I should go upstairs and lie down. She would check on the flight to Paris, as there was still time to catch it.

“He left on the bus to Tata,” I said. “The next bus to Tata leaves in ninety minutes. I'm getting on it.”

“But Tata is a six-hour journey from here. And it is absolutely in the middle of nowhere.”

“He's threatening to kill himself,” I said, brandishing the letter. “If I get there tonight there is a good chance I can find him before—”

“
Madame
, one simple call from me to the gendarmes will see the bus stopped somewhere between here and Tata, and your husband taken into protective custody.”

What she said made sense. But I was operating according to a different sort of logic, in which I had convinced myself that if he fell into the hands of the authorities Ben Hassan was certain to be contacted. Given that he was still so set on revenge, who's to know what horror he would instruct them to concoct for Paul. Two days in a Moroccan jail would break him. No. Two hours would be enough to upend what little equilibrium he had left. Especially with Ben Hassan's ability to pull all sorts of evil strings. The stories about Faiza's father and brothers were still fresh in my mind. I could easily see Paul being “suicided” while in protective custody—and the officials (along with everyone else, from Ben Hassan to Samira to Faiza to the very kind woman behind this hotel desk) all corroborating the fact that he was in troubled mental health in the days leading up to his death by hanging in his padded cell; a suicide that Ben Hassan could easily effectuate for one thousand euros.