Read Online Lulu in Marrakech by Diane Johnson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diane Johnson
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his brother, the taxi driver; he could have driven us.”
“ ‘Brother’ in a manner of speaking, probably. They often call each other ‘brother.’ Rashid’s real family is still in the Western Sahara, in the camps. He’s a Saharawi, poor bastard. He sends them all his money.” I loved Ian’s English pronunciation of “bahstard,” one of those irrelevant stabs of love that would insinuate themselves at inappropriate times.
We talked a little more about this, then he said good night and went off to his own room. I stayed awake a long time, and when he had to have fallen asleep, I got up and Googled “Western Sahara” to learn more about depressing refugee camps where displaced Africans and Algerians have lived their whole lives, something like the Palestinians. Then I sent a message to Taft—“Sheila”—about the fire and asking him to confirm about Aladdin, asking for instructions.
12
Fight in the cause of Allah / Those who fight you / But do not transgress limits / For Allah loveth not transgressors.
—Koran 2:190
T wo days later, Ian, Robin, and I drove up to the site with investigators to see the useless heap of ashes and tottering, charred rafters to which the strong smell, not quite ammonia, would cling forever. An investigation, or investigations, had been mounted at once into the causes of the fire, to figure out whether it was deliberate, an accident, or an act of terrorism—there were various scenarios. Ian walked around and around the ruin, like a dog getting ready to lie down, but the investigators only took a sample of rubble and some photographs. The Moroccans were determined to find evidence of arson or terrorism, and there remained a question as to whether anyone had been inside. It began to look like that had not been the case—they were reassured so far not to have found human remains.
The principal investigator was a Commissioner Doussaq, from the OCP, Office Cherifien des Phosphates—a stout man in khakis and the white cap of a camel driver, who drove a car without license plates. “The Moroccan police are much more sophisticated and competent than I may have expected,” Ian said of Commissioner Doussaq at dinner later.
“Their history as a police state,” said Robin Crumley. “In authoritarian regimes, the police are always efficient.”
With Commissioner Doussaq I made yet another faux pas. I had come along for my own reasons and was dying to ask an expert about what they believed had detonated the ammonium nitrate. I had hastened to read up on the possibilities—it can be exploded by being mixed with fuel oil, put under pressure or confined in a close place, exposed to extremely high temperatures, or set off by a rocket or dynamite. Anyway, I asked the commissioner which he believed it was: “If the gas was only ammoniac, would anyone—as I was, in fact—be affected enough to lose consciousness?” I was saying. Standing behind the commissioner, Ian shook his head slightly, but I didn’t immediately understand this was an embarrassment. The commissioner stared at me and then looked at Ian, as if to say, do I have to answer her? But, instead of knowing enough to shut up, I persisted. “But if oxides of azote…”
“Miss Sawyer has been following our talk,” Ian said, smiling. “I’ve explained that she was probably not harmed by the ammonia smell.”
The commissioner’s expression turned almost to gladness; the little lady was only concerned for her health. Still too thick to understand that I was overstepping polite female behavior, I plunged on with questions about the storage conditions.
“Mademoiselle s’intéresse à la chimie,” he said to Ian, approvingly, tolerantly. “They study everything these days.”
Afterward, Ian said for me to meddle in the investigation was impossible; it was improper even to talk to the Moroccan inspectors. He used a gentler word than “meddle.” He may have said “get involved.”
“No matter how modern they are,
“ ‘Brother’ in a manner of speaking, probably. They often call each other ‘brother.’ Rashid’s real family is still in the Western Sahara, in the camps. He’s a Saharawi, poor bastard. He sends them all his money.” I loved Ian’s English pronunciation of “bahstard,” one of those irrelevant stabs of love that would insinuate themselves at inappropriate times.
We talked a little more about this, then he said good night and went off to his own room. I stayed awake a long time, and when he had to have fallen asleep, I got up and Googled “Western Sahara” to learn more about depressing refugee camps where displaced Africans and Algerians have lived their whole lives, something like the Palestinians. Then I sent a message to Taft—“Sheila”—about the fire and asking him to confirm about Aladdin, asking for instructions.
12
Fight in the cause of Allah / Those who fight you / But do not transgress limits / For Allah loveth not transgressors.
—Koran 2:190
T wo days later, Ian, Robin, and I drove up to the site with investigators to see the useless heap of ashes and tottering, charred rafters to which the strong smell, not quite ammonia, would cling forever. An investigation, or investigations, had been mounted at once into the causes of the fire, to figure out whether it was deliberate, an accident, or an act of terrorism—there were various scenarios. Ian walked around and around the ruin, like a dog getting ready to lie down, but the investigators only took a sample of rubble and some photographs. The Moroccans were determined to find evidence of arson or terrorism, and there remained a question as to whether anyone had been inside. It began to look like that had not been the case—they were reassured so far not to have found human remains.
The principal investigator was a Commissioner Doussaq, from the OCP, Office Cherifien des Phosphates—a stout man in khakis and the white cap of a camel driver, who drove a car without license plates. “The Moroccan police are much more sophisticated and competent than I may have expected,” Ian said of Commissioner Doussaq at dinner later.
“Their history as a police state,” said Robin Crumley. “In authoritarian regimes, the police are always efficient.”
With Commissioner Doussaq I made yet another faux pas. I had come along for my own reasons and was dying to ask an expert about what they believed had detonated the ammonium nitrate. I had hastened to read up on the possibilities—it can be exploded by being mixed with fuel oil, put under pressure or confined in a close place, exposed to extremely high temperatures, or set off by a rocket or dynamite. Anyway, I asked the commissioner which he believed it was: “If the gas was only ammoniac, would anyone—as I was, in fact—be affected enough to lose consciousness?” I was saying. Standing behind the commissioner, Ian shook his head slightly, but I didn’t immediately understand this was an embarrassment. The commissioner stared at me and then looked at Ian, as if to say, do I have to answer her? But, instead of knowing enough to shut up, I persisted. “But if oxides of azote…”
“Miss Sawyer has been following our talk,” Ian said, smiling. “I’ve explained that she was probably not harmed by the ammonia smell.”
The commissioner’s expression turned almost to gladness; the little lady was only concerned for her health. Still too thick to understand that I was overstepping polite female behavior, I plunged on with questions about the storage conditions.
“Mademoiselle s’intéresse à la chimie,” he said to Ian, approvingly, tolerantly. “They study everything these days.”
Afterward, Ian said for me to meddle in the investigation was impossible; it was improper even to talk to the Moroccan inspectors. He used a gentler word than “meddle.” He may have said “get involved.”
“No matter how modern they are,
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