The Storyteller of Casablanca (73)

I put my schoolbook in the basket of my bike and cycled through the streets to the park. As I walked over to the bench beside the drinking fountain, where Miss Ellis had told me to wait, the swifts were performing their displays of aerobatics, soaring and swooping as they caught flies in the cooling air of the late afternoon against the forget-me-not blue of the sky. The colour reminded me of the flowers that grew beside the stream on the farm when we used to go for our horse rides. I wonder how Najima, Marguerite and Malik are doing these days. I hope they’re still safe in their peaceful paddocks, eating the daisies.

It was a quiet time of day and the park was almost empty. The only sounds were the dripping of water from the drinking fountain and the occasional calling of the bulbuls from the branches of the fig trees. The park is still suffering in the aftermath of the locust invasion. The trees are leafless and the once-green oasis is stark and bare. The tyres of my bike whisked up little clouds of dust as I wheeled it over to the bench and took my project from the basket. As I sat down to wait for the courier, I flipped through the pages of the book. The sketches and details of each of the harbours reminded me of that holiday we’d had – our last one as a family of four. With a sigh, I closed the book before the memories it evoked could overwhelm me. I ran my fingers over the cover, tracing the outline of my name and the A+ that Miss Ellis had written there with her fountain pen in the green ink she favours for marking students’ work.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t notice the figure approaching until she had almost reached the drinking fountain. At first, I thought it was an old, old woman, as ancient as the dreamseller, only dressed in more fashionable clothes. She was skeletally thin, bent almost double over the stick on which she leaned heavily as she took shuffling steps along the dusty path towards me. But as she neared the bench, she looked up and smiled. I’d have recognised those huge dark eyes anywhere.

‘Miss Josephine Baker!’ I exclaimed.

She sat down beside me, moving carefully, as if any sudden move might break her in two. ‘And you are Josie, my almost-namesake,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. I think perhaps we’ve met here once before, non?’

I nodded, hardly able to speak. Then I came to my senses and said how sorry I’d been to hear of her poor health and that I hoped she was recovering now.

‘Progress is frustratingly slow. They’ve opened me up so many times, I told the surgeon to install a zipper in me next time to make things easier for all of us.’ Her eyes regained a little of their old sparkle when she smiled. ‘But, as you can see, I’m just about back on my feet. I like to try and get out of the hospital for a little while every day, if I can manage it, to come and walk here and breathe the evening air.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I replied. ‘I hope one day you will be able to sing and dance again. And may I ask how your animals are?’

It was her turn to sigh then. ‘I’ve had to leave them in Marrakesh, I’m afraid. They wouldn’t let me have them in the hospital, and of course Glug-Glug and Gugusse would have caused all sorts of havoc and Bonzo would have been miserable there. But don’t worry, my staff are taking good care of them all and one day soon I hope I’ll see them again.’

We watched the drips from the drinking fountain for a few moments. ‘Look there,’ Josephine Baker said, pointing to where they’d splashed on to the dusty ground. A faint shimmer, like tiny stitches of green silk thread on a blank canvas, was just visible. She smiled once more. ‘You see, the grass is beginning to grow again. And if it can rise again from the dust, then so can we, n’est-ce pas, Josie?’

Another squadron of swifts swooped above us, so low that we could hear the sound of the scimitar-shaped blades of their wings slicing through the air.

Miss Baker roused herself. ‘I must be getting back to the clinic or they’ll be sending out a search party. They are so very bossy, those doctors and nurses, although I know they have my best interests at heart. But before I go, I think you have something for me perhaps?’ She nodded towards the schoolbook in my lap. I handed it over and she glanced at the cover. ‘An A+, hey? Excellent work, Josie Duval. No wonder your papa was always so proud of you.’

I was pretty surprised to know that she’d heard of my papa and me. How strange it is to be famous – even in secret – to someone who is so famous herself.

I sat for a while and watched as Josephine Baker shuffled away along the path back to the hospital. The stooped, wizened figure, with my schoolbook tucked under one arm, looked spectral against the bare twigs in the fading light and for a moment I thought, ‘She has turned into a ghost of herself.’

Maybe that’s what we’ve all become now. The war has taken thousands of lives. And even those of us who are still living have been turned into ghosts of our former selves.





Josie’s Journal – Friday 6th November, 1942

At last we have news that our berth has been confirmed. Our ship, the Esperanza, is due to arrive in port today. We sail for Portugal on Wednesday next week, which is the day after Annette’s birthday. I like the fact that the Portuguese have sent a boat whose name means ‘Hope’. Perhaps they understand it will be carrying not just refugees but a cargo of hopes and dreams as we look forward to our new lives.

So I have just a few days to finish packing and to say my goodbyes. I’ve put most things in the suitcases already. I’m only leaving out the clothes I’ll need. And I’ll keep my box of treasures and this journal in their hiding place until the last minute, so that I can carry them with me when I go and there’ll be absolutely no chance of them falling into the wrong hands.