The Blue Hour (37 page)

“Doesn't she need her papers?”

“Not anymore,” he said. “She's dead.”

“She was so young.”

“Cancer doesn't care how young or old you are.”

He lit another cigarette.

“Anyway, when the police stop us, I will tell them that you are my sister.”

“And if they ask me questions?”

“They won't. Because you are behind the niqab, and they would have to think us terrorists to ask you to remove your veil. I drive these roads frequently. I can't say I know all the policemen, or that they know me—”

“But if you are from around here—”

“I live in a village many hours from Ouarzazate. If we were going through that
département
I wouldn't dream of passing you off as my sister. Everyone knew her. Everyone knows she's dead. But here . . . no problem.”

“But say they still question me?”

“Say nothing, I will tell them you are deaf and dumb.”

Five minutes later we were at the checkpoint. Two uniformed cops had their squad car half blocking the road. They greeted Aatif. They asked to see identification. He handed over the two sets of papers. One of the cops shined a flashlight in on me. I kept my eyes—barely visible through the slit of the niqab—fixed on the road ahead. The beam of the light snapped off after a moment. They asked Aatif to step outside the van. The next thing I heard he was answering their many questions, then opening the cargo door and letting them search within. The mounting terror I felt during these nervy minutes was immense. If the flashlight beam was turned on me again I knew I would go under. And reveal very quickly that I was the woman all of Morocco was looking for.

But within moments Aatif was back in the van, the officer was wishing him a good night, and we were driving off.

A fresh cigarette lit, Aatif exhaled a huge cloud of smoke, his relief tangible. Finally he said, “The first checkpoint behind us.”

WE SLEPT ON
the outskirts of a small village, around thirty minutes down the road from Tata. It was called Bou Tazart, a nowhere place, off a semipaved track from the main thoroughfare on which we were traveling. It was en route to the first stop Aatif would need to make early tomorrow morning. I didn't want to stay anywhere near Tata, so Aatif suggested we camp outside the village.

“I know a little area that is quiet and where no one will see us,” he said.

This area turned out to be a small plot of arable ground, shaded by a single meager tree. A few cows and goats grazed nearby. As before, Aatif wanted to reassure me of our sleeping arrangements. He took out the two bedrolls and lay one down on either side of the van. The bedroll was a thin cotton mattress, two light sheets, and some netting that he suggested I put over my face when I slept in case the sand fleas came out early. When I'd been in the oasis sand fleas had been an ongoing problem during the daylight hours. At night they vanished into the ether. But come sunrise they were out on the attack again. Which is why, as Aatif explained, it was essential to get to bed early and rise just before sunup.

“You don't need an alarm clock out here,” he said. “The sand fleas provide that.”

With light fading he moved to his own bedroll, positioned himself in what I presume was the direction toward Mecca, prostrated himself on his knees, and with his head touching the mattress, spent several moments saying his evening prayers. When finished he opened the back of the van and retrieved a small Styrofoam box, out of which came a small gas burner, a pot, two plates, two forks—and made us a simple dinner of bread and couscous with a few carrots. Over dinner—which we had on my side of the van—I asked him about himself. He told me he came from a village called M'hamid, around four or five hours from where we were by car. It was at the end of a paved road that started at Ouarzazate, then passed through an important Berber town called Zagora, before dead-ending at his village, beyond which was the Sahara. He also considered himself very much a Berber and therefore had decidedly mixed feelings about the government in Rabat.

“I deal with the police politely,” he said. “I deal with the functionaries who regulate our
département
. But I also like being able to sneak around them, not to let them run me. I am not alone in this sentiment. Which is one of the reasons why I said yes to getting you to Marrakesh. If you are on the run from them—”

“They think I did harm to my husband,” I said.

“That is not my business, whether you did or didn't.”

“I promise you, I didn't.”

“If you say that I believe you.”

“But what you need to also understand . . .”

Out came the entire story in one exhalation. I kept it short, and didn't get into the reason why Paul vanished—except to say that I had discovered a betrayal on his part. I also explained about Inspector Moufad in Essaouira who was determined to frame me at all costs. And the friend of my husband in Casablanca who had cheated him. And then the events in Tata and beyond.

Aatif listened in silence. When I finished he lit one cigarette off the other.

“That policeman in Essaouira . . . I've known people who have been persecuted by men like that. They decide you are guilty. They will run you to the ground and will change evidence and everything else to ensure they can win the conviction. They are not Berbers.”

I then explained my plan—to get to Marrakesh and sell these rings and get to Casablanca and use the cash to bribe that shady former friend of my husband to give me a false passport and get me out of the country.

“I want to be direct with you,” I said. “I don't want to hide anything. I want you to understand exactly all the risks here.”

“I saw your face on television before I came out to the oasis,” he said. “So when Jabalah told me it was you I was to bring to Marrakesh . . .”

A pause, then the smallest of smiles crossed his face.

“Now that I know we need to outsmart that police inspector . . . well, a game is a game,
n'est-ce pas
?”

The night sky was above us. It was astonishing. In the oasis I was being put to bed most nights at sunset. Here I got my first proper glimpse of the celestial show on display. The clarity in the desert was dazzling. Such density of constellations. Such a sense of heavenly potentiality. Even deep in the country, just ten miles from Buffalo, on a perfectly clear night, you still never could discern even thirty percent of what was apparent tonight. It was like discovering an entirely new component to the universe. And the realization that so much of this light might already be extinguished. My dad always said that looking up at a constellation underscored your insignificance. But tonight, seeing such immense radiance—in the light of recent events—was galvanizing. I looked to the stars and the stars told me: since nothing in the great cosmic scheme of things is important, everything that defines you is absolutely important. What else do you have but your life, your story?

“It is an amazing sky,” I told Aatif.

“Nice, yes,” he said, sounding less than overwhelmed.

“I wish I could believe in heaven, in some sort of eternal paradise. I thought about that when I saw you praying earlier.”

“It is important to believe in paradise. Especially when life is hard.”

“Faith is a complex thing.”

He thought about that for a moment. “No, faith is simple. And good.”

“Do you have children?”

I saw him tense.

“Sorry, have I asked the wrong question?”

He lit another cigarette. After several long drags he asked me if I would like tea—and told me that Maika had given him several days' supply of the tisane that had repeatedly knocked me out. This was most welcome news, as I'd wondered how well I'd sleep out here.

“A mug of that tea would be wonderful.”

He went off to fetch water from a big plastic container he also had in the back, then boiled it in a pot on top of the stove. Knowing how quickly the tea induced sleep, I told Aatif I was going to change into my nightshirt before drinking it down. Immediately he stood up and walked a good distance away. I retrieved the bag and quickly got into the freshly laundered nightshirt, then hiked away from Aatif, lifted up my nightdress, and baptised the sand. How strange to think that everything I had once taken for granted—like an actual toilet or the internet or even a phone—had been out of my reach for so long. And how I had adapted—because I had no choice but to do so.

As soon as I finished the mug of tea I wished Aatif good night. Crawling in between the two sheets, I placed the netting over my head and stared up at the luminescent heavens above. Just before sleep overtook me, I glanced over at Aatif. He had walked out into the middle of the nearby unpaved road to smoke another cigarette. He too was looking up into the great lustrous unknown. I saw him wipe his eyes. Was he crying?

But then the tea did its magic. The world vanished for a spell.

Aatif was right. The sand fleas were an automatic outdoor desert alarm clock. With first light came their pernicious arrival. At least ten of the wretched creatures were dancing on the net covering my face. It was just before 7:00. Aatif was already awake, making tea. He wanly waved hello.

“Sleep well?” I asked.

“Okay.”

“Where are we headed today?”

“We go back to the main road. I have stops in several villages. You will need to wear the djellaba and the niqab. There may be roadblocks.”

I did as I was instructed. I changed into them. By the time we hit the road I was already awash in sweat.

“First stop is Tissint—about an hour from here,” Aatif said.

We headed back to the main road. The sun seemed even more ferocious this morning. When I pulled down the visor to try to mitigate the blinding effects of the sun, Aatif reached over and opened the glove compartment, pulling out a pair of sunglasses in a plastic red frame.

“You can use these,” he said, handing them to me.

“Thank you so much.”

But when I pulled off the niqab to put them on, Aatif hissed at me, “Get the niqab on now!”

I looked up and saw why. We'd hit a bend in the road. Right up in front of us was a police roadblock. Fortunately there was a big truck in front of us, but I saw one of the cops glancing in our direction just as I got the niqab back in place. Did he see me? If so, was this the beginning of the end?

The police were being very thorough with the truck in front of us, demanding to see the driver's papers, opening up the rear of his vehicle, searching inside.

“If he asks you a question, say nothing,” Aatif whispered to me.

“If he makes me take off the niqab?”

“Say nothing.”

The inspection of the previous vehicle completed, we pulled up to the police car that had been parked across the road to allow only one vehicle through in each direction. Taped to one of the rear passenger windows was a poster in Arabic and French with my mug shot adorning it. The French words needed no translation:

Personne disparue—Recherchée par la police.

Aatif also saw the poster and gripped the steering wheel tightly as the young policeman—he couldn't have been more than twenty-two—stuck his head into the van and demanded identity papers. Aatif had them at hand. Meanwhile his older colleague was at the rear of the vehicle, opening it up and pulling out all the neatly stacked rugs and lace goods. The young cop seemed supervigilant, asking considerable questions, demanding the registration papers—which Aatif supplied—then also being thrown questions from the other officer about the goods in the back. Aatif answered these politely. But when the young cop got tetchy, Aatif's voice also rose and got just a little defensive. Then the older cop sidled up to my window and began to ask me some questions in Arabic. The fear coursing within me was massive. It was a good thing he couldn't see how much I was sweating right now. But I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead and, as instructed by Aatif, said nothing. The older officer now got cross with me, reaching in and tapping me on the arm. I turned to face him, but remained silent. Aatif now got heated, saying something angrily to the older officer. Whatever he told him, the cop backed away from me. Aatif continued on, gesturing to the back of the van, tapping himself on the chest, pointing to me. The young officer exchanged a glance with his older colleague, then they both disappeared over to the squad car with our papers. I quickly glanced at Aatif. He refused to look at me but was gripping the steering wheel, trying to remain calm. He looked over at the police car again and saw the poster with my photo on it. Now he closed his eyes, clearly regretting that I was here with him. I wanted to say something apologetic, but knew I had to stay silent. After an exceedingly long amount of time—and I could see the older officer on a police radio, reading in the ID card details (would the centralized system have noted that the woman whose name and personal details I had co-opted was actually dead?)—he finished his call and came marching toward us.