Casablanca Blues (2013) Read Online Free Page A

stirred from his doze, confused.
    ‘Huh? What? Oh... yes, the other thing...’
    The old man put on his glasses and strained to look at the TV Guide. ‘The other thing is that we’re gonna watch it together.’
    ‘Watch what?’
    ‘
Casablanca
of course! It’s just about to start!’

Sixteen
    There had been toasts, and more toasts, laughter and even tears.
    Hicham Omary had thanked his friends for honouring him at his daughter’s engagement. He had lavished praise on the impending union, and regrets that his wife was not alive to witness it all. As the Jajouka musicians struck up, and the guests began to dance, Ghita and her fiancé slipped away into the rose garden.
    ‘I was thinking of Australia for the honeymoon,’ Mustapha said.
    ‘The Great Barrier Reef?’
    Ghita smiled.
    ‘You read my mind!’
    Mustapha was about to reply when his mobile rang. Without thinking, he took the call, his brow beading with sweat, a hand cupped over his mouth.
    ‘Hi sweetie... How are you? Yes, yes. Can’t talk now. OK. Until tomorrow. Me too. Yes, OK... I promise.’
    ‘Who was that?’
    ‘It was, er, my... my... cousin... Karim, I mean
Karima
.’
    ‘And we didn’t invite her? Why didn’t you tell me?’
    ‘Oh, she’s not a close cousin.’
    ‘But you’re meeting her tomorrow?’
    ‘Just for a coffee. She needs some help with something.’
    Ghita moved closer, until her lips were less than an inch from her fiancé’s ear. In a voice as cold as crushed ice, she said:
    ‘If you ever lie to me about another woman, my darling, I shall hunt you down and tear out your heart.’

Seventeen
    At ten minutes to ten, Hicham Omary went up to his private study and took a call from his senior editor, as he did every night of the week.
    He might have taken it on his mobile, but he wanted a little space and solitude. And, besides, he was tiring of the great and the good of Casablanca society.
    The editor had gone over the news agenda for the main bulletin of the night. It was a formality, one that even Omary – as owner of the channel – was not expected to change in any way.
    Putting down the receiver, he paced over to the window, and watched as Ghita strolled through the crowd. She was showing off a colossal diamond set on a band of Russian gold.
    Beside her was her beloved Mustapha, whose good looks were matched only by his confidence, and by the size of his father’s bank balance.
    There was a knock at the oak door and Hamza Harass, father of the groom to be, swept in. In his hand was a Cohiba cigar, a luxury he clung to despite a chronic heart condition.
    ‘Thought I’d find you in here,’ he said.
    Omary mumbled something indistinct. Stepping across to a bookcase lined with leather-bound volumes, he pushed a secret button made of brass. It was mounted to the underside of one of the shelves, and transformed the unit into a well-stocked bar. Omary poured two tumblers of Glendullan. He handed one to Harass, his closest friend, a man with a seat on his company’s board.
    They clinked glasses.
    ‘To a union between our families,’ said Omary, peering towards the window again.
    ‘You certainly know how to throw a party,’ Harass replied.
    ‘I didn’t do anything. Just found the band.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘And I wrote a few cheques as well.’
    ‘They make a wonderful couple. So in love.’
    Omary cupped the single malt in his hand, warming it.
    ‘I worry about her – I worry about Ghita,’ he said.
    ‘Look at her, you’ve given her everything. She’s elegant, beautiful, intelligent.’
    ‘But she’s not street-wise,’ Omary sighed, taking a gulp of his Scotch. ‘She’s never been touched by the real world. Never taken a taxi let alone a bus, never had to rough it – never even gone shopping for food, or anything, except for luxuries and designer brands.’ Omary fell silent, and sighed again. ‘She has never starved,’ he said.
    ‘And is there shame in that?’ Harass asked.
    ‘Perhaps not. But