“But why didn’t he just report the pasha to the police?” the proprietor asked.
“In those days, no one trusted the police, least of all a simple worker, a son of the people like Labatt. And then, to turn against the pasha... few would have dared.”
“What a vile era,” the proprietor lamented.
“But he couldn’t bear to keep such a dark secret. He must’ve told someone. He claimed to have evidence, to have gotten it all down. His confidant spoke out in turn, and the rumor spread. Chief Madani got wind of it, and since he was in cahoots with the pasha, he warned him. The painter was discreetly arrested — and tortured, no doubt — before they finished the job by hanging him and making it look like a suicide,” the chief concluded. “They searched his house from top to bottom, looking for papers that would incriminate the pasha. They were desperate to find a notebook, a letter, a few words scribbled on a scrap of paper, but no one thought twice about the paintings — the daubs that lined the walls! That’s where he’d made his accusation in the most precise detail. Even then, you had to know how to look for it.”
“But how’d you get the idea to go nosing around that riad? How did you know?”
Hamdouch smiled. “Riad Boulboul? Boulboul doesn’t ring a bell to you? The talking bird in The Thousand and One Nights? As soon as I knew that the place had belonged to Moulay Mimoun, I understood the origin of the story about the magical bird that would reveal everything one day. Labatt had mentioned boulboul, and by word of mouth, the reference to the riad had been lost; people preferred to find magic in it rather than a simple physical address. But me, I’m a rational thinker. Cartesian, my wife used to say, God have mercy on her soul.”
“So, what’ll happen to the ex-pasha? And to the ex-chief?”
Hamdouch shrugged. “Nothing. Well, not much. Moulay Mimoun has always been protected in high places, and in any case, he’s very old, he’s become senile and forgotten everything. What judge would want to reopen the investigation? You can’t send a doddering old man to prison. As for Madani, he’s retired. If Moulay Mimoun got off, there’s no reason to bother with his accomplice... an âme damnée, as the French say — a damned soul. You know that expression?”
“No,” Driss sighed. “I’m a little sad to know that justice won’t be served.”
“Ah, but in a certain sense, it has. The reputations of these two scumbags are ruined. They’ll end their lives in shame, detested by everyone, even their loved ones, waiting to go straight to hell.”
“They’re both... how did you say it? Ânes damnés.”
“Bravo! S’si Driss, you’re a quick learner. You’ve still got to work on your pronunciation, though,” the chief teased. “It’s âmes, not ânes... a matter of souls, not donkeys. Though Madani did always come off as an ass to me; one wonders how he managed to have a career. My guess is by doing favors for the powerful. Just like in this sad case.”
The chief took a long sip of his tea and then pointed at the proprietor. “There’s still one piece of this mystery I have to solve. The painting wasn’t here when I first came in. Why did you hang it in front of my table a few days later?”
Driss Bencheikh shook his head, grabbed a chair, and sat down beside the chief. “Well, you should know that Brahim Labatt was my mother’s cousin. I inherited this painting, in a sense. I knew it contained a secret because it was his last work, and nothing like what he normally painted. It couldn’t be random... it had to mean something. I never believed that Brahim had killed himself, but I couldn’t figure out what happened. When you started coming here for lunch every day, I seized my chance. A policeman’s brain like yours would surely get to the bottom of it.”
The chief remained silent for a moment, then raised his glass in the direction of the painting.
Driss did the same and, with tears in his eyes, murmured: “To the artist!”
Translated from French by Katie Shireen Assef
A Noisy Disappearance in an Ill-Reputed Alley
by Allal Bourqia
Derb Sidi Bouloukat
1. The Mayor in the Heart of the Labyrinth
News of Spanish film director Enrique Aldomar’s disappearance spread all over Marrakech one October afternoon. To be precise, after four days without his family and those who knew him having heard from him. The mayor of Marrakech had already been informed of the director’s disappearance before it circulated among the media and general public. The mayor was right in the middle of preparing the massive celebrations marking the nine hundredth anniversary of Marrakech’s founding. The upcoming anniversary coincided with two other incidents that had also occurred over the last few weeks — prompting the mayor to view them in a new light due to the disappearance.
The first incident was the fire that had broken out in the Cinema Mabrouka, destroying half the theater. The second incident was the theft of Mohamed Ben Brahim’s statue. Ben Brahim was a prominent Marrakech poet and his statue had recently been placed in Moulay Yazid Square in the casbah. While thinking about these two incidents, no meaningful conclusions came to the mayor’s mind — except that a horrible coincidence had befallen him and the city he was entrusted to run. It’s nothing to cry about, he told himself, as if the next few hours would be enough to solve the three mysteries, or as if he were certain that the director who had suddenly disappeared from a small hotel in Derb Sidi Bouloukat would show up unharmed. He remained locked in his office for the entire afternoon, doling out orders to his subordinates, a task he thoroughly enjoyed.
After receiving a phone call from one of the highest-ranking officials in the country, the mayor couldn’t sleep that night. The call had put him in a state of high alert. He realized that he was facing a test he couldn’t run away from. Marrakech seemed to be nothing but an enormous trap. He turned on his computer and began to read about Aldomar. The search engine delivered a stream of information replete with details about the director and his cinematic world. The mayor stared at the many pictures of Aldomar, wanting to imprint the man’s face in his mind.
The following day, the newspaper headlines were obsessed with what came to be known as “The Case of Enrique Aldomar’s Disappearance.” The articles raised difficult questions: How does a famous director disappear in Marrakech, where cameras capture images of famous people from the moment they set foot on Moroccan soil? How did Aldomar disappear in a street known for its prostitutes, homosexuals, drug dealers, and counterfeiters?
Shortly before his disappearance, a national newspaper reported that Aldomar had refused to participate in an international film festival taking place in Marrakech. Aldomar claimed that the festival was tacky and without any artistic merit. In a tone that was somewhere between sarcasm and disapproval, the reporter had asked: Did someone want to teach Aldomar a lesson for his disrespect toward a world-class festival and the liberal values that it represents?