Disclaimer: The movie Casablanca and any characters that appeared in that movie obviously don't belong to me. However, Maya, her family, and her misadventures do belong to me.
Capítulo 1: El bebido
Un día regresaremos.
One day we'll return.
Maya Bat-Zvi was drunk.
It had never happened to her before. Not on the holidays, not after her grandfather's death. Granted, she was only twenty, but where the laws in Spain were lenient with regards to alcohol consumption, her padre was not. So the first time she consumed a medium-sized glass of tequila in Casablanca, her eyes had become heavy and her sight blurred. All she could feel was the piano, playing a melody she couldn't quite place.
She rested her head on her folded arms, and felt the fabric tighten across her broad shoulders. The drink had forced to the forefront of her mind memories of Spain, and the war there. Franco had defeated the Republicans, but after the war had to reunite a fragmented Spain, which he had not been able to yet do.
Her father Zvi had moved to Madrid from Zuromin, a small Polish town near Warsaw, so that he could follow his cousins to America, but hadn't counted on falling in love with Rachel Zimmermann, from Warsaw proper. They had stayed in Spain and had so far been safe from Nazi interference there, but when Zvi had heard of the burning of Zuromin and the massacres of the Jews in Warsaw he grew wary of the Spanish government and realized that if the Nazis could break into France, directly to the north, nothing would stop them from entering Spain. And so he, with his wife and daughter Maya, had left Spain for Morocco, for he had heard of sympathetic Arabs and Christians there.
And so there the family lived, with Zvi, Rachel, and Maya working as booksellers in the souk, the Arab marketplace. For although Zvi had not been rich, he had revered the written word and thus possessed many different works in Hebrew, Spanish, and French.
Upon their departure, the family had somehow transported the library to Casablanca and set up a bookstand, where they traded and sold books. Surprisingly, the business was doing well, and over the months had been converted into a sort of library. The family had not counted on the number of people leaving Casablanca who could not find room or afford to keep their books as they left. So those people would sell their books to the Benzvis, as the family was known. As they stayed in Casablanca, the more attached to the city and more reluctant to leave the family became. The business was doing well, and so long as no-one discovered the family's religion the three were safe. Because there was enough money for the family to get by, Zvi didn't allow Maya to work on Saturday nights or Sundays, and encouraged her to explore the city on her own while her father maintained the shop.
After only a few months in the city, Maya had discovered Rick's club, a fancy establishment about a mile from her family's lodgings. While she by no means fit in with the décor or the clientele, Maya had snuck in to observe and had on more than one occasion been offered a drink, often by an older man with pity in his eyes. She had never accepted an offer for fear that her reputation would be placed in jeopardy. But on this night she had brought her own money and bought her own drink, in the dress that she and her mother had made. She had told her parents that she was going to visit a club, just to see if the gossip in the souk was true. While her father was a little reluctant, Rachel encouraged Maya to enjoy her youth, noting that, at twenty, there was not much time left before she would need to start looking for a husband.
And now here she was, more drunk than the boys at the universidad on a Friday night. Completely without shame and regard for her father's lectures. Maya tried again to pick up her head, and this time succeeded, her head clearing a little. She shook her head, but this only made her head hurt and her stomach lurch. She swiveled around in the chair, beckoning to the bartender. "¿Donde está el baño?" she asked. The bartender cocked his head, confused. "¿Donde está el baño?" she asked again. The bartender shook his said and said slowly "I do not a-speak Spainish. Do you need help?" She nodded. He motioned to a person behind her, a woman wearing a black skirt and white shirt who came to stand next to Maya. "Emilia will help you, she a-speaks your language." And with that he moved towards the other end of the bar.
"Can I help you, madame?" asked Emilia in Spanish. Not the rapidfire Castilian Maya was used to, but Spanish just the same. Maya said, "I just wanted to know where the bathroom is." Emilia pointed to a room just to the left of the bar. "There it is, madame, and should you need help you may find me here." The words came together in Maya's mind and so all she understood was "there" and "madame".
She pulled herself to her feet, stumbling, and managed to walk slowly the twenty feet to the washrooms. As soon as she entered a stall she fell to her knees and voided the tequila and her dinner. Padre, I should have listened to you, she thought as the toilet flushed and her head pounded. She got up and looked in the mirror. My hair…and my face…I look like I have not bathed in days…She shook her head again, loosening the rest of her auburn hair so that it fell over her shoulders. That's a bit better. She opened the door, and stepped outside.
When the pounding in her head subsided, Maya started to make her way towards the doors in the back. She stopped a few times to get her bearings, but made it. As she approached the foyer someone opened the door and a rush of hot air hit Maya. Between her headache and stomachache, and the lightheadedness that had started after she had vomited, Maya couldn't breathe. She saw black and white spots, and remembered no more.
After a time, Maya came to. She was sitting outside, under an umbrella. She looked around, and suddenly remembered where she was. She tried to stand up, but her legs were shaky. "Hey there, don't you be trying to stand up yet." Maya started, but became calmer when she saw a man walking toward her with a glass of water. His skin was dark, like the Africans about whom she had read in her father's collection. He looked about thirty or so, not much older. He was taller than she, and had broad chest, shoulders, and an average waist. His face, while not exactly attractive, was creased with a frown. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat, placing the glass on the table. "Drink up," he said. "It's good for ya." Maya stared at him. "It's just water," he said. With her barely passable English, she understood him, through his strange accent, and drank the water. She knew she shouldn't accept from a stranger, but he seemed kind, and something about him reassured her and prompted her to trust him.
"Never had that much to drink, huh?" he asked suddenly.
"What?" she asked, surprised.
"Have you ever been drunk?"
"Oh. No."
He sighed. "I would be more careful next time, if I was you. There's all sorts of people here could take advantage of a pretty girl like you if you're not careful." She blushed, but didn't reply. He looked at his watch, and stood up. He walked to the road, and waved his hand. Out of nowhere came an automobile, driven by a sleepy-looking man. The black man bent over and said something to the driver, and then came back to her and guided her to the car. She got in, and he started to walk away. Maya started again. "Wait!" she said. He turned around. "What is your name?" she asked.
He looked at her for a second, but then replied, "It's Sam, ma'am."
"Thank you, Sam."
He shrugged. "It's nothing. You take care of yourself."
"I will."
He turned back around and walked back inside the club. She pulled the door closed and sagged against the leather seat. The driver turned around. "Where to, miss?"
She closed her eyes. "422 Street of Flowers. Please." The driver started the engine, and took her home.
Sam.
