Lost in Morocco

Providence rarely spares me a moment’s charity, so it seemed only right that it was my turn. But fortune, it seems, can be a fickle thing.

*****

“Where is it?” He had an accent. I couldn’t tell where from exactly, maybe somewhere in Europe. Holland? Switzerland? His voice was calm and measured, conveying absolute authority.

I stared at the Stranger standing opposite me. He was much taller than me, his skin pale and hair neatly combed. He wore an expensive black suit, chic and impossibly crisp. It was over a hundred degrees outside but this guy looked like he’d just stepped out of a refrigerator. His hands were neatly clasped in front of him. I don’t think I’d ever needed a drink so desperately.

“Where is it, Mr Ellis?” He spoke slowly, deliberately.

How could he know my name? Who is he? I knew what he’d come for though.

It wasn’t like I’d been extravagant, I paid the rent and bought myself new shoes. I had to. I’d worn holes in the last pair, enough to let water in. It rarely rained in Marrakesh, but in an overcrowded city where mules and camels were still used to carry goods, it didn’t do to dwell on what the puddles might consist of, especially when it was squelching inside your shoe. As much as I could mentally justify my modest spending, I knew the Stranger wouldn’t care.

“Mr Ellis, my patience is wearing thin.” Yes, I could hear the impatience in his voice.

I should’ve spent it all, enjoyed being a big shot for a while if I was going to die anyway. I was sure he was going to kill me.

My eyes flicked towards the money’s hiding place. I couldn’t help it. His eyes followed mine and the jig was up. I sighed. I didn’t want to die.

“There!” I blurted. I felt a sudden urge to use the bathroom. “There’s a loose board. Under the rug.” He knelt and reached down, never taking his eyes off me completely. “Yes, there, you’ve got it.”

He rifled through the cash in my hidey-hole as I felt an increasing sense of dread. He looked confused and angry. He stood, brandishing a handful of the notes. “What’s this?”

“It’s all there.” My stomach clenched. “I mean, I spent a little, but I’ll pay it back. Every cent.” Oh why did I have to spend any? I’m so stupid!

I looked around, already knowing there was no other exit from my dingy little apartment. There was no escape. Ironic, since running away was how I came to be here in the first place.

*****

My life in the US was not a happy one, and it got to the point that I just had to get away. I gathered what little money I had, drove straight to Logan, and took the next international flight with an open seat. Morocco, as it happened, and within a few hours I was over the Atlantic feeling light and free.

I’d only planned on a holiday, but I never went back. For six years all I’d done was survive, trapped living day-to-day on the meagre salary of an English teacher. I didn’t feel free any more. Running away had solved nothing; I simply took my unhappiness with me. What was the line from that movie? ‘No matter where you go, there you are,’ and all I really wanted now was to go home, back to the country I loved. I just hadn’t realised I loved it.

But home was out of reach. I didn’t even have enough money for a cab to the airport.

So I maintained the subterfuge: I continued to congratulate myself on being free, ignoring the growing hollowness inside. What choice did I have?

*****

Finding the bag was when I began to hope.

I had to renew my passport and that meant a trip to the embassy in Rabat. It almost wiped me out financially, but I allowed myself one extravagance. I took the high-speed Al Boraq train to Casablanca. I’d have to switch to the rumbling old Al Atlas from there, but, for now, I could settle into a comfortable seat, and relax.

I woke with a start as the train jolted into Casa. I’d slept through the entire journey. The carriage had already emptied, the previous occupants now impatiently crowding by the carriage doors. I stretched and yawned. That was when I saw the bag. The doors opened and everyone rushed from the train, clearly leading busier lives than me. I sidled across to the empty seat next to the bag. There might be a reward for returning it to its rightful owner. I smiled. Things were looking up.

It was a typical shoulder bag made of camel leather, ubiquitous in Moroccan marketplaces. Simple. Unremarkable.

I peered inside and immediately saw it was stuffed with banknotes. My heart pounding, I took another quick glance. Yep, there was no mistaking it, that really was a big wad of cash.

If I handed it in, it would simply ‘disappear’, the contents lining the pockets of opportunistic station attendants. No, I would have to find the owner myself if I wanted that reward.

I kept the bag closed until I got to my apartment, the door locked and the heavy old curtains drawn. I don’t think I’d ever closed them before, and moving them now created a cloud of dust, a smattering of dead flies falling to the floor.

Only then did it feel safe to inspect the bag’s contents properly.

*****

“You’re running out of time, Mr Ellis.” Serious. Intense. Scary. “Don’t make me ask you again.” He dropped the money to the floor like it was so much trash.

My mind was reeling. If he wasn’t interested in the money, then what? Why was he here?

His face twisted angrily and he took a couple of menacing steps towards me. He was yelling now. “You’re wasting my time! The book. Where’s the book?”

*****

The book? Yes, there were other things in the bag. I’d forgotten all about them.

A satellite phone. I turned it on. There was only one number saved in it. No messages. I realised that if I dialled the number I could probably track down the bag’s owner, get that reward. But the thought pained me as I felt the distance between me and fate’s twenty thousand dollar bounty growing larger and more tenuous.

There was a mysterious and complicated-looking hand tool of some kind, and a smooth, pink stone about the size of a dime.

And there was a little black notebook. It was well made, with a cover I couldn’t help running my fingers over. Worn from heavy use and packed with other notes and photos, it was all held together with a white rubber band.

Of course I’d tried to read it, but I could make neither head nor tail of it: curious symbols and marks, perhaps a code of some kind or ancient writing like hieroglyphics. I really couldn’t say. There were a few curious notes in French, but whilst I could read the words I didn’t understand what they meant:

‘The actual yield is massively in excess of the theoretical mass. It defies all logical predictors. It’s utterly astounding!’

I was briefly intrigued, but when I couldn’t figure it out my interest waned. I put these things back in the bag, tucked it away, and paid it no further attention. I was entirely focused on the money. What I’d do with it if I kept it? How this windfall could change my life.

There wasn’t a moment passed that I hadn’t thought about it, and the ever-growing mental shopping list now far exceeded what twenty thousand dollars could possibly buy.

*****

I snapped back into focus.

The notebook. Where did I put it? “I don’t remember.” I stammered, and then I did. It wasn’t hidden. I gestured towards the coffee table. “Bottom shelf. The bag.”

The stranger reached for the bag and checked the contents, and, seeming satisfied with his cursory inspection, removed the rubber band from the book and thumbed through it. He visibly relaxed and a slow smile spread across his face. “Thank you. I trust you have no objection to me taking these?”

He carefully placed the book into a black leather valise along with the tool. His head turned to me, an eyebrow raised.

My intestines squirmed uncomfortably. I shook my head. “Take it.”

The stranger nodded and smiled warmly, as if graciously accepting a generous offer. Like I had a choice.

He took the sat phone and called the only contact. I could hear the faint sound of ringing from the other end.

Outside, the azan began; must be about a quarter to eight. Moments later another mosque joined in, then another, and soon this chorus was all I could hear. I didn’t understand the words, but it was a part of living in Morocco that I never tired of, a reminder that I lived in the mysterious East. It would normally have a soothing, almost meditative effect on me, drowning out the sounds of the city: car horns, racing engines, barking market traders, and arguments in the street about, well, everything.

The ringing stopped. It was replaced by the buzzing of a voice, but I couldn’t make out the words, I could only hear the stranger’s side of the conversation.

“It’s me. Yes, I have it, the port key too.”

Port key. The tool, maybe? What’s a port key?

“An American. No, he’s not part of this. Yes, but he doesn’t understand it. Of course. I’ll make sure he understands.” He hung up, dropped the phone in the valise with the other items, and locked it, then looked straight at me, saying nothing. I hardly dared to breathe, until he broke the silence once more. “I have to leave now.”

So this was how it would end. I closed my eyes, and waited for the inevitable. A few moments later I heard fingers snapping loudly in front of my face.

“Try to stay with me, Mr Ellis.” I opened one eye slightly. The stranger seemed amused. I opened my other eye.

“This never happened, Mr Ellis.” There was no amusement conveyed in his tone now. “You shall not speak of this. Not the bag. Not the book. Not me. Is that clear?”

I nodded, then cleared my throat. “And, the money?”

He looked at the cash strewn across the floor. “The money is nothing, the book is everything. Keep the money. It’s yours.”

Keep the money. Is that what he said? I couldn’t quite believe it. Twenty thousand dollars!

His hand moved to his waist, shifting his jacket aside, and settled on his hip. The gun was clearly visible in a holster slung beneath his left arm. “I’m trusting you, Mr Ellis. Say nothing.” He paused, seeing the effect his words made on me. I nodded. “Don’t make me find you again.” He gave me a meaningful look, then buttoned up his jacket, opened the door, and strode from the room.

I’m not sure how long I stood there, not daring to move, but I eventually dropped to my knees and scooped the money back into the camel leather bag and slipped my passport in with it. It was all I needed. The pink stone was still in the bag, and something made me take it out and grip it tightly in my left hand. I was still holding it tightly as I stepped outside.

The azan was over now, replaced by the usual sounds of evening bustle. Food stalls had moved in to the Djemaa El Fna for the evening trade, lit with smoking oil lamps and fluorescent tubes, and the mouth watering scent of street food being prepared suffused the warm night air. I inhaled deeply, enjoying it one last time before hailing a cab.

“Airport.”

I didn’t look back.