The Storyteller of Casablanca (59)
When he’s not queuing at the Portuguese consulate, Papa still seems to be going to the mellah a lot. Sometimes he takes me to a café in the nouvelle ville afterwards for an ice cream. I can tell I’m providing camouflage again on those occasions (not that I’m complaining about the chance to eat ice cream), because inevitably some stranger comes up to us to ask the time or see if they can borrow Papa’s newspaper for a minute or two and one of those notes on blue writing paper is slipped over. I’m very good at pretending we’re just there for a run-of-the-mill father-and-daughter outing and there’s nothing suspicious to be seen. There are quite a lot more German soldiers around these days and once or twice we’ve seen men in long, dark overcoats getting out of cars with swastikas painted on the sides so I know they are members of the Gestapo. As Maman says, it’s high time we were getting out of here, although I will always be proud to know that my papa and I have secretly helped do our bit to fight the Nazis, and we have resolved that those who have died shall not have died in vain, as Abraham Lincoln would say.
A few days ago, Papa had just arrived back from the mellah and he asked me if I’d like to go the café again. We were just about to set off when there was a knock at the front door. Because I was standing next to it, waiting for Papa to fetch something from his study (i.e. to write an important note for us to take to the café, most probably), I opened it. I got the shock of my life to see none other than Monsieur Guigner, the vulture-man-cum-scorpion of Taza, standing right there on our doorstep in Casablanca. He grinned his wolfish grin and his teeth were just as yellow as ever. ‘Well, well,’ he said, leaning forward into the hallway and much too close to me for comfort, so that I could smell his disgusting breath. He definitely doesn’t brush his teeth often enough. ‘If it isn’t the younger Mademoiselle Duval again.’
Fortunately, Papa appeared at that moment and I could see he was very cross that Monsieur Guigner had turned up at our door. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, not even pretending to be polite.
‘That’s no way to welcome an old friend now, is it, Guillaume?’ replied Monsieur Guigner. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Papa. ‘Josie and I are just on our way out for a coffee. Won’t you join us, though?’ I could tell he was trying hard to find a way to get Monsieur Guigner away from our house. And so the Vulture Man came with us to the café, which completely spoiled our outing. He ordered a glass of pastis even though it was only 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Then he told Papa that he had been told to meet us here at the café all along, but he’d been curious to see our home in the Boulevard des Oiseaux so he’d taken it upon himself to call on us first. Papa looked even more furious at that.
I asked Monsieur Guigner how his friends were and asked if he’d been calling on them too, but he looked completely blank, which showed he was lying all along about knowing anyone in Casablanca, let alone living in the same street as us. Anyway, Papa discreetly handed over the sheet of blue notepaper and then downed his p’tit noir and said we must be getting back as Maman would be waiting for us.
Before we could leave, though, Monsieur Guigner put out a hand to stop Papa. ‘I don’t suppose you could lend me a little something to tide me over, could you, Guillaume? Times are hard right now and I’m going to need to cover a few unexpected expenses while I’m in Casablanca.’
Papa shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no. Times are hard for all of us.’
Monsieur Guigner showed his yellow teeth in what was supposed to be a smile, but his eyes were as chilly as splinters of ice. ‘Oh dear, that’s a great shame. I quite understand, living in that grand house and keeping your lovely wife and daughters in the manner to which they’re accustomed can’t be cheap. But what a great pity it would be, wouldn’t it, if anything were to happen to them?’ He fixed his cold blue eyes on me when he said that and very deliberately tapped the corner of the folded blue note on the table. Then, very slowly, he tucked it into the folds of his black robe, still not taking his eyes off me as he did so, and then at last transferred his gaze to Papa again.
My papa’s face was furious. But he couldn’t fail to understand the threat and I guess there was nothing he could do. Very reluctantly, he said, ‘I don’t have much money on me. Here, take this, it’s almost all I have.’ He took out his wallet and handed over a small sheaf of notes to Monsieur Guigner.
‘Why, thank you, Guillaume. That’s most kind of you,’ said the vulture, as if this had come as a lovely surprise. ‘But I’m sure you could spare some more if I was to come to call on you again at the house, couldn’t you?’
Papa looked utterly miserable and I could see he was struggling to decide what to say. But Monsieur Guigner took the note out again and very deliberately tapped the corner of it on the table once more in a way that was clearly a threat. So in the end Papa nodded. ‘Come to the café again tomorrow at 3 o’clock and I’ll see what I can do. But I’m warning you, if you call at our home again I won’t give you another sou.’
With a grimace of a smile, the vulture took the money and stood up from the table. ‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle Josie,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure, as always.’ He put a particular emphasis on the words au revoir, in a way that made my skin creep.