The Storyteller of Casablanca (41)

It’s an oasis of greenery and relative peace in the middle of the dirt and decrepitude of the city, a place where I can wander with Grace beneath shady trees and hear the songs of the birds. I suppose the fragile melody of that birdsong must always be there beneath the clamour and din in the city streets but, as happens so often in life, some voices get drowned out and we have to listen all the harder to be able to hear them. I think of what Monsieur Habib said about the refugees – they are all around, but we don’t usually open our eyes and ears wide enough to perceive them.

I find an empty bench and sit down, allowing myself a few moments to think about what happened yesterday.

I still don’t really know what prompted me to look at Tom’s phone. He left it on the counter in the kitchen when he went out to buy Sunday morning croissants from the bakery. I suppose the urge to check up on him was my insecurity getting the better of me. The fact that he never changes his passcode should surely tell me all I need to know – a sure sign that he has nothing to hide. But I still couldn’t resist a quick check of his messages. There was nothing there, apart from some texts from a couple of male colleagues he’s mentioned before, arranging a time for a game of tennis at the Club later that day. Just before I set the phone back down on the counter, I scrolled to the folder of photos. And it was what I found there that has been so strangely unsettling.

There were no incriminating pictures of him with other women, it wasn’t anything like that. Just one photo after another of what looked like a sunrise over the city skyline. When I examined them more closely, I discovered that it wasn’t only one sunrise, but dozens of them, all taken from roughly the same place on his early morning runs. Day after day, he’d been out there alone and he’d paused to watch the sun coming up over the roofs and towers of this dirty city. It had meant so much to him that he’d captured each of those sunrises on his phone. Somehow, the thought of him doing that made me want to cry. It seemed to me an act of intense loneliness. He wasn’t taking those pictures to share them with anyone else. He was just looking for a glimmer of hope, holding on to the promise of a new start that each day brings. It was a rare glimpse of his secret heartache. It made my heart break too.

Guiltily, feeling I’d intruded on something intensely private, I put the phone down and busied myself preparing a pot of coffee. And when Tom arrived back with the paper bag containing our breakfast, I didn’t mention the photos to him. But I did try to be better company as we sat and ate, telling him about a lunch I’d had with May, Kate and Claudine last week and asking him more about his work.

For an hour or so it felt as if we’d managed to find a little piece of flotsam to cling on to in our ocean of hurt, keeping our marriage afloat. But then he’d gone off to play his game of tennis and I’d retreated to Grace’s room, as usual, to sew and read, and we’d drifted apart once more as the silence and sadness descended on the house again.





Josie’s Journal – Thursday 8th May, 1941

The threat of me being sent to school has been rearing its ugly head once again because Maman says she’s sick and tired of waiting for our visas and it’s taking so long that I’m in danger of falling behind and she’s afraid I’ll find it hard to catch up when we finally get to America. But Miss Ellis told her that there is a problem with finding places for students at the Lycée right now, especially for my age group, due to the numbers of refugees living in Casablanca these days. She gave me a good report, though, and said my English is really quite remarkably good, thanks to all the reading I do. (I’m not meaning to be big-headed, just repeating what she said.) She has reassured Maman that I’m keeping up with where I should be at this stage, but she’s also suggested that she can come four afternoons a week now so that we can do a bit more maths, history and geography.

I was a bit worried that we might not be able to afford the extra lessons (although the private school would be even more expensive) but today I overheard a conversation between Maman and Papa that made me have some very mixed feelings:-

Maman said, ‘Guillaume, how on earth are we going to continue to afford the rent on this place? We never expected to be here this long and there’s still no end in sight.’

Papa said, ‘My darling, don’t you worry about it. I’m already planning ahead. I’ve written to Armand and told him we’re happy to proceed with the sale of the Paris house.’ (Armand is Monsieur Albert, who took over from Papa at the bank.) Papa went on, ‘He’ll be delighted – you know how much his wife loved it – and he’s offering a reasonable price given how uncertain things are in France right now. Really, it’s too good an opportunity to turn down. He’ll be able to transfer the funds quite swiftly, so we’ll be fine.’

I felt very sad to think of some other family living in our old home with all our things – and especially my books, which I knew I’d never get back now – but at the same time it was a relief to know we could stay in the nouvelle ville and not have to move to the mellah, where we might get trachoma like Felix’s mother.

I think Maman felt the same way too, because she said, ‘Oh, Guillaume, our wedding china and all the paintings and books . . .’ and it sounded to me as if she was crying.

But then Papa reassured her and I think he must have put his arms around her because her sobs became muffled. He said, ‘Delphine, I promise you we will replace it all when we get to America. This is only temporary. We just have to hold on a bit longer. Our life here really isn’t so bad, is it? I promise you we’ll be all right.’