The Blue Hour (24 page)

“With my husband paying the other half.”

“As I said earlier, when Paul contacted me out of the blue seven months ago—clearly in the wake of his little surgical procedure to secretly deny his new wife a child—I was flabbergasted. When I heard him sounding sad and guilty about being such a bad father to Samira . . . well, how can I put this? I saw an opportunity . . .”

“For revenge?”

“For payback.”

“By which you mean?”

“We communicated for several weeks by email and spoke twice on the phone. He sounded increasingly unstable and just a little haunted. Especially as he'd written twice to Samira who informed him by return email that she wanted absolutely nothing to do with him; that he couldn't simply drop back into her life after thirty years and think there was any chance whatsoever of a relationship. He had ignored her time and again when she'd needed him most. Whatever it was he now wanted from her—forgiveness, absolution—she was unwilling and unable to give.

“But Paul refused to give up. That's when he asked me directly if there was something he could do for his daughter. At which point . . . a plan fell into my head.”

My mind was racing. As someone who had spent much of her accounting career second-guessing malevolent tax inspectors and certain fraudulent clients, I did have an intuitive nose for a scam, a subterfuge, an ambush.

“You decided to set him a trap,” I said.

“I decided to give the man what he wanted . . . which, on a certain existential level, might be interpreted as being what Monsieur Paul also subconsciously thought he deserved. Payback for abandoning his daughter and not once offering assistance or even basic compassion and decency for his great friend whose life was, on a certain level, ruined by his thoughtlessness and callous disregard. I told him that his daughter needed an additional one million dirhams to buy her apartment . . . and that she couldn't afford a mortgage of that magnitude.”

“Was that the truth?”

“Put it this way—she wasn't asking for the money and her lover had given her enough to put down a deposit on a small two-bedroom apartment in this
quartier
.”

“Did you lead him to believe that, having given her essentially half of her apartment, he would repair his relationship with her?”

“Perhaps.”

“And let me guess—you also told him that, in order to borrow the money from you, he would have to come back to Morocco to sign the papers and give you the first payment?”

He laced his fingers together again, and gazed into its cathedral-like structure.

“Absolutely.”

“Since he never spent any time away from me while here, where did you meet him to sign the documents and get his first payment?”

“I had Omar drive me to Essaouira. We had a very pleasant lunch at Chez Fouad while you were off improving your French and walking the beach, if my memory serves me well. He signed the papers, and he paid over the first month's repayment. As you strike me as somewhat legally minded, I took the liberty of bringing along the loan agreement—which was notarized by a local notary whom I also arranged to meet us at Chez Fouad.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a three-page document in French and Arabic. I scanned it briefly, turning to the back page to see my husband's telltale cramped signature, right next to a notary's seal and corroborating signature. On the second page I found the piece of information I also needed: the terms of the loan. I could see that the 1 million dirhams would be paid back over five years, at an annual rate of 320,000 dirhams, in payments of 26,660 dirhams per month—around $2,700, or close to $32,000 per annum. As Paul only earned $100K gross from the university and maybe another $15K, tops, for his artwork, by the time he'd finished paying taxes, Social Security, and his share of the mortgage, he had around $40K to cover his car costs, his share of utilities and groceries, his cell phone, his health club, and contribute to the month away on the Maine coast we allowed ourselves every summer. That gave him very little left over from the five hundred a week he had to meet all these not extravagant expenses. And then to take on a loan that was going to cost him $2,700 every month . . . and all for nothing . . . it was madness.

I tossed the document back in front of Ben Hassan.

“You are certainly getting your revenge on your friend. And you will be making six hundred thousand dirhams out of this little loan.”

“
Madame
, I am not Société Générale or Chase Manhattan Bank. I am a businessman, and one who had to dig into his resources to finance his friend.”

“Now I know why Paul was so insistent that we spend these weeks in Morocco. You wouldn't give him the money unless he was in the country. Because that would mean you'd have him here, potentially ensnared. I bet you didn't even tell Samira that her father gave her the one million dirhams.”

“She just closed on the apartment last week, and won't move in for another month. Perhaps it was an oversight on my part not to mention that Paul had helped her.”

He was barely containing a smile as he said this.

“Bullshit,” I said. “You wanted him to confront her on her doorstep and let her slam the door in his face.”

“Perhaps. But do remember,
madame
, that the only reason he came running up to Casablanca was because you caught him out in his little lie.”

“And then he probably called you in a panic, asking you to smooth the way for him to see Samira. You gave him her address, and didn't warn her he'd be showing up, knowing what her reaction would be.”

“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” he said.

“How did you revenge yourself on Faiza's father and brothers?”

“That's for you to find out. But, again, Madame Robin, I must say that I am most taken and impressed by you. And my advice to you is very straightforward: Get up tomorrow, head for the airport, cut your losses, leave your husband to whatever destiny brings his way.”

“And if Paul doesn't pay you the monthly vig?”

Ben Hassan unlocked his fingers and stared directly at me, a stare as arctic as it was menacing.

“What will happen to your dear husband if he doesn't meet his legally binding commitment to me? I will have the great pleasure of watching Omar use a hammer to smash every one of his fingers.”

AS SOON AS
Ben Hassan uttered his threat, the temptation arose to toss the contents of my wineglass in his face. For several edgy moments I had to keep the glass fixed to the table and under control. Ben Hassan worked out what I was stopping myself from doing. He raised a finger, saying, “If you create havoc here—and shame me in public—there will be ramifications.”

“You're a gangster.”

“That is an interpretation. As is the fact that I am your only friend here.”

“A ‘friend' who tricked my husband.”

“Your husband is the architect of his own despair. He approached me. He begged for a way back to his daughter. I gave it to him.”

“While achieving payback at the same time.”

“He knew how much I would be charging him for the money. He accepted the sum. He knew that he would have to return to Morocco to sign the papers—and yes, now you know the real reason why you came to Morocco this summer. He accepted that too. I did warn him that finding a way back into Samira's heart would be challenging; that she grew up haunted by the absence of her father and the way he never once contacted her. She herself must have written Paul at least once a year until she was twenty-five. Even after that terrible rupture with her mother, she still held on to the naive hope that, somehow, he was going to be the good father and rescue her from her immense loneliness. In short, he was fully aware that, by trying to reengage with his exceptionally messy past, he was walking right back into a compromised and precarious situation. But he still chose to head across the Atlantic and into my open arms. And you, innocent you, who knows all about absentee fathers and men who are in endless negotiation with their various conflicted selves . . . you should now lose the maternal protectiveness that you cloak Paul in and let him play the adult for a change. But you can't do that, can you? Which is why you want to dash that glass in my face—and, in doing so, earn my displeasure . . . which, as I think you can sense by now, is not a wise thing to court.”

“Because you might smash my fingers? Or maybe I'll suffer the same fate meted out to Faiza's father and brothers?”

“I don't remember alluding to any fate being ‘meted' out to them.”

“But they are no longer with us, right?”

“I never said that.”

“Because I didn't ask it before. But I'm asking it now.”

“Why don't you ask Faiza about all that? Because that's where you're heading now, aren't you? In fact, let me expedite matters for you and give you her address in Ouarzazate.”

“Oh, you're a mind reader, are you?”

“Actually I am. I know you are simply someone who can't walk away, even if it means following the man who betrayed you into the vortex.”

He pulled out a notebook and an elegant silver pen, then scribbled away for a few moments before tearing the page out and handing it to me.

“Here is Madame Faiza's phone number and address. Of course, you already know the name of the hotel where Paul is staying.”

“Why haven't you dispatched Omar there to drag him back?”

“Because the next payment isn't due for another ten days. Of course, if you prefer to pay that now . . .”

“I don't have sixteen thousand dirhams on me in cash.”

“And I don't accept credit cards. Anyway he has ten days of grace. Meanwhile, you are still more than welcome to avail yourself of our extra bed tonight.”

“You can't be serious.”

“Just trying to be generous. The other option is an all-night bus that leaves the Central Station at eleven p.m. I know this because that is the bus which Paul boarded last night. It is a monstrous journey, via Marrakesh, of around ten hours. Or there is a flight at six fifty tomorrow morning on Royal Air Maroc. But a last-minute ticket is something on the expensive side. Around five thousand dirhams one way. The bus, on the other hand, is one hundred and fifty dirhams. Your call,
madame
.”

“You're going to call Faiza as soon as I've left the restaurant, warn her I'm on my way.”

“Actually, you're wrong there. I'm going to make no such call. I'm going to let the element of surprise guide things from now on. Like the look on Monsieur Paul's face when you surprise him at his hotel room. Or perhaps finding him in Madame Faiza's bed.”

“Whatever I discover, I am ready for it.”

“I love a forward-thinking realist. But before you dash off into the night . . . surely you will want to try one of the celebrated desserts they make here. The baklava is especially sublime. And the patron will no doubt offer us a very good
digestif
to accompany
le thé à la menthe
. You still have almost forty-five minutes before the bus leaves. It is a mere ten minutes by taxi from here to—”

I stood up, hoisting the backpack, uncertain what my next move should be.

“Going so soon?” he asked. “A pity.”

“Are you going to keep your word about not contacting anybody in Ouarzazate?”

“
Madame
, if I give my word I always keep it. Which is why, when I lend money, I always remind the client that they have my word that all will run smoothly as long as the money is paid back on time. If you do catch up with your husband, do tell him I will expect to see him on the first of August. Without fail. And if you think you can spirit him out of the country and somehow elude me . . . do please think again.”

Then, slowly pushing back his chair and gingerly elevating his mountain of a body to its feet, he executed a small, very formal bow and uttered two words: “
Bon voyage
.”

I stared at him, long and hard, trying to communicate the fact that he didn't frighten me. Truth be told, he terrified me.

“Until next time.”

Out on the street I didn't know what to do next. I needed to think cleanly, logically. I had forty minutes to make the bus. Finding a taxi seemed to be no problem. There were plenty around here. But the thought of ten hours on a bus heading south over the Atlas Mountains—and an all-night bus at that—filled me with dread. Yet my budget needed to be managed with care. So I decided, in the first instance, to hurry back to The Parisian and go online and find out whether a flight was available tomorrow at dawn and whether there was a way of ensuring that it wouldn't break the bank.

The café was a three-minute walk. I ordered a Perrier and told the waiter that I might have to leave within ten minutes. Then I opened up my laptop and, using assorted travel sites, discovered that, yes, the actual price of the ticket was 5,400 dirhams, but one last-minute site was offering it for 2,600 dirhams—just over $300. Not a bargain, but still cheaper than the official price. I booked myself onto it. The Perrier arrived. I informed the waiter I was no longer in a rush. I drank the fizzy water, allowing its soothing properties to act as an antidote to all the food consumed, and to momentarily balm my considerable distress.