Casablanca Blues (2013) Read Online Free

and cold,’ Aicha replied.
    ‘I know they don’t, and that’s why they’re poor.’
    At that moment, the sound of a massive engine revving broke above the strains of the musicians from Jajouka.
    Ghita’s eyes lit up.
    ‘Mustapha’s Ferrari...’
    A moment later, the two women were standing at the great iron gates of the Omary Mansion. Smoothing her gown after the gallop, Ghita regained her composure and straightened her tiara.
    Just before the car’s door opened, a little girl stepped in from the street. Standing between Ghita and the scarlet Ferrari, she was barefoot and dressed in rags.
    ‘Shoo! Get away at once, you nasty little thing!’
    The child didn’t move. Ghita motioned to one of the security guards, who stepped forwards and snatched the child out the way.
    ‘What an embarrassment,’ Ghita exclaimed under her breath.
    The Ferrari’s door opened, and a slim man with designer stubble and slicked back hair stepped out. He was moist with expensive aftershave, as though he had just been hosed down with it.
    ‘Your knight in shining armour,’ Aicha laughed.
    Mustapha stepped forwards and pressed his lips to Ghita’s knuckles.
    ‘I’ve been waiting half an hour for you,’ she said crossly.
    Mustapha smoothed a hand down over his lacquered hair.
    ‘And I have been waiting for you my entire life,’ he replied.

Fifteen
    Blaine stepped out of Rick’s Diner into the rain.
    In one hand was the poster and, in the other, the black bin-liner, and the satchel around his neck.
    He flagged down a cab, the brake lights reflected in the damp street.
    ‘Where to, bud?’
    ‘JFK. And step on it!’
    The door slammed, the tyres screeched, and Blaine found himself energized in a way he hadn’t been in years. He checked the flight details on his phone. Royal Air Maroc Flight 201, the red-eye to Casablanca. Leaning back into the tattered seat, he stared out at the droplets tumbling down the window.
    He closed his eyes and heard the sound of his grandfather calling him inside. The afternoon was filled with syrupy yellow light, the kind that only really exists in a childhood memory. His grandfather moved into the doorframe, raised a hand, and waved.
    ‘Got something to show you,’ he said. ‘A little surprise.’
    ‘What is it, Grandpa?’
    ‘A surprise.’
    Blaine took the porch steps in one, wrenched back the screen door with both hands, and charged into the house. There was the scent of banoffee pie from the parlour and the sound of vinyl crackling Billie Holiday’s
Summertime
.
    ‘What is it, Grandpa?’ Blaine squirmed. ‘What’s the surprise?’
    The old man turned round. He was holding a glass beaker half-full of water. In the glass was his smile.
    ‘Hold on a minute, son,’ he said, draining the glass and slipping in his teeth.
    Then, reaching down onto the bureau, he picked up a grubby fragment of grey paper, no bigger than a postage stamp.
    ‘When I was a young man I took a girl on a date,’ he said. ‘The girl was your grandma, and the date was the most important night of my life. It was on that night that I asked her to be my bride.’
    Blaine sat on his grandpa’s knee. He could feel the bones.
    ‘Where did you go – on the date?’
    Grandpa didn’t reply at first. His tired old eyes glazed over. Then, slowly, he said:
    ‘To see the most magical movie of all on opening night.’
    ‘Which movie, Grandpa?’
    ‘
Casablanca
– the finest picture ever made.’ Again, he paused, pushed his teeth back into place, and said: ‘I want to give you two things, Blaine. The first is this little bit of paper. I’m hoping you’ll look after it, and cherish it.’ Opening his palm, he revealed the grubby scrap of paper.
    ‘But what is it?’
    ‘My ticket stub from that night, from the première of
Casablanca
.’
    Blaine took it. As he held it up close to his eyes, his grandpa drifted off to sleep.
    ‘What’s the other thing, Grandpa?’ he said in a loud voice.
    Blaine’s grandfather