The Storyteller of Casablanca (51)

I tugged at the sleeve of the short policeman who was holding the notebook and smiled my sweetest and most innocent smile. ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ I said, opening my schoolbook and holding it out to him. ‘My papa is trying to help me with a project that my teacher has made me do, even though we’re supposed to be on holiday. You see, I have all these questions to answer about the geography of the harbour. Papa has promised me an ice cream when I’ve finished but it’s taking ages finding it all out. I don’t suppose you might be able to help us?’

There was a completely stunned silence from all three of them for a moment. The man holding Papa’s notebook looked at me and then leafed through a few pages. His colleague reached over and took the schoolbook that I was holding out to them and then he started to laugh.

‘It’s just a kid’s homework,’ he said. His partner was still suspicious, though, and glared at me in a most unfriendly manner.

I made my smile even sweeter. ‘Look, m’sieur, I have to count all these cannons and also the boats in the harbour. I don’t suppose you might have those figures to hand? It really would be the hugest help if you did and then we can go and get an ice cream much sooner.’

‘Are you joking?’ the short policeman asked. ‘You seriously want me to give you that sort of information?’ He was sort of spluttering the words because he was so angry and outraged.

I frowned, pretending to look puzzled, and then opened my eyes as wide as they’d go, as if realisation was dawning. ‘Oh, monsieur, I understand what you must be thinking! Of course, you must imagine I’m really a spy, on the lookout for strategic facts and figures that I’m collecting in my schoolbook.’ I was mentally crossing my fingers and counting on Lord Peter Wimsey’s wise advice to work.

The short policeman’s face was an absolute picture. And Papa’s turned an interesting shade of pale green.

I took my book back from the taller man and pointed to the open page. ‘Strategic facts like this . . .’ I began to read what I’d written: ‘The Portuguese arrived in Mogador in the 1500s and built the fortress at the entrance to the harbour. The islands offshore, which provide shelter from the ocean currents, are known as the Purple Islands because a dye can be made using the mucus from the glands of carnivorous sea snails, called murexes, that inhabit the islands, which the Romans used to use to colour the robes of their emperors.’

The tall policeman was laughing again now, even though the shorter one was looking extremely cross. ‘Come on, Régis, let’s give the poor kid a break. Holidays should be about having fun, not having to do schoolwork. You and I both remember what it’s like.’

The shorter one shook his head, but I could see he was wavering a tiny bit. ‘We should confiscate both of these’ – he waved the notebook in the air and grabbed my schoolbook from my hand – ‘and destroy them.’

I managed to look very disappointed then and my chin was trembling as I said, ‘Oh no, not my project. After all my hard work. I’ll be in terrible trouble with my tutor.’ A big tear fell from my eye and I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

That seemed to do the trick because he gave his colleague a very exasperated look and then handed me back my book.

‘All right, all right, you can keep your homework, I suppose. But I’m going to destroy this.’ He flapped Papa’s notebook in the air. ‘If it fell into the wrong hands this information could be misused. And also, while we can see you’re simply helping your daughter with her homework and you’re clearly not spies’ – he shot me another annoyed glance – ‘not everyone is as reasonable as we are. There are some who will shoot first and ask questions later.’

I gave him my most angelic smile and restrained myself from pointing out that if someone was to be shot at such close range they would therefore most probably be dead, in which case there wouldn’t be much point in asking them any questions at all.

Instead, I thanked the policemen and the nicer one wished me good luck with my project. They marched smartly off to go and destroy Papa’s notebook and I turned towards the harbour and started counting boats.

‘What are you doing, Josie?’ Papa asked. His voice sounded a bit weak and when I glanced up at him he still looked a little green.

‘I’m counting boats. For my project. And then I think we could probably both do with a little refreshment at a café, don’t you? That way, we can work out what else there was in your notebook that I haven’t already written down and we can try to remember the details. After all, two heads are better than one, as the saying goes. Wouldn’t you agree, Papa?’

He just stared at me for a while and then he reached out his hand and stroked my cheek very softly, saying, ‘Ma p’tite, what an extraordinary child you are.’ Once again, just like when we were in the cave, there was so much love in his expression that for a moment I could hardly breathe. But we had work to do, I reminded myself sternly, and so I returned to my counting.

When we’d sat down at a café and Papa had taken a large gulp of brandy to calm his nerves (I find chocolate ice cream has a similarly soothing effect), we worked out that I’d collected pretty much all the information he needed. The only thing that was missing was which ports had a telegraph line. He could remember that he’d seen them at El Jadida and Safi but not Oualidia, and so I added that information to each of the relevant sections. There was no sign of a telegraph line in the port there at Mogador either, so I noted that down in my schoolbook too.