Everybody Comes to the Blue Parrot
Casablanca - July 1938 – Later That Evening
So this is the Blue Parrot, Guillermo thought as he surveyed the large but unexceptional tavern. The live namesake that had squawked at them from a hanging perch by the entrance had raised a murmur of expectation from his tour group. Now that they were inside, the only exotic touches he could see were a couple of flyspecked, tile-framed mirrors and a few bedraggled potted palms. Even the spinning of the overhead ceiling fans was half-hearted.
The bottles of whiskey and gin lined up behind the counter were encouraging. Their own hotel, adhering to strict Moslem principles, served only coffee and tea. But the good-time girls posed along the adjacent wall—half of them in flowered sundresses and the other half in bangle-studded choli tops and wispy, see-through skirts reminiscent of dirty French postcards—they were merely depressing.
Guillermo heard the faint lilt of a reed flute competing with drums, tambourines and an oud, but the whisper of static told him the Arabic music was coming from a radio. The belly dancers at their hotel were considered folk artists. One could clap along, but one could not touch. If any of these ladies had enough talent to keep a beat, he suspected that a few francs would allow one's appreciation to be carried to some sleazy upstairs room. So much for Madame Bertuska's extra special treat.
Then he caught sight of her, and his whole evening changed.
The booths off to one side were veiled behind curtains of wooden beads. At the center table, across from a young American-looking couple and half-hidden by a fat gentleman in a fez, sat his mystery lady shuffling cards. Oh, her hair was different—pulled back from her face with two silver combs and coiled at the nape of her neck. When she leaned forward, her high-collared, white silk dress revealed her slim figure. Instead of wary, she now appeared in charge as she dealt hands to her three companions. But despite the changes, he knew it was she.
What is she doing in this seedy place? Is she a rich tourist slumming it? How can I meet her? What will I say?
Guillermo looked away and fumbled in his breast pocket for his cigarettes. As he lit one, he noticed Madame Bertuska. Her cheeks were growing pink as she eyed the line of prostitutes, the rough-looking men conspiring over beers at the back of the room, the Spanish sailors lounging against the bar, and the drunk snoring by the rear door. Two of the married men were staring longingly at the bottles of hard liquor, but neither made a move. Madame Olga, the professor's wife, had pursed her upper lip. The spinster twins, Erna and Malina, merely gawked.
Out of nowhere, Guillermo felt a clap on his back so hard, he almost bit off his cigarette filter. Jakob. His friend gave him a grin, then ambled across the room, fiddled with the knob on the oversized radio, chose some French dance music, and asked the floozy in the pink-and-yellow dress to take a spin.
The old bear was never out of his element. Why can't I be more like him?
Guillermo stole a glance at his mystery woman, then sauntered to a greasy side table. With elaborate nonchalance, he settled himself on an awkward, little, wrought iron chair at an angle that allowed him to study her out the corner of his eye.
Had the four cardplayers come to the Blue Parrot together, perhaps setting out from their fancy hotel to find the real Casablanca? Or had they met here by chance? To decide how to approach her, he needed those answers. But for the moment, being near her was enough. He pretended to savor his smoke as his sideways gaze caressed her sable hair, her ivory cheeks, her delicate hands.
Then Madame Bertuska bustled up to him.
"Mr. Ugarte, I'm so sorry. This place has changed considerably since I was here last. I doubt they even serve proper meals. But never fear. The evening need not be wasted. If we return to the Riad D'Or, I'm certain the kitchen can fix us up a nice cold supper. I have a couple of decks. We can play duroc."
Guillermo took a long drag on his cigarette. Then he favored his tour guide with his most genial smile. "I'm quite comfortable here, thank you. And I mustn't leave Jakob. No telling what mischief he'll get himself into. Don't trouble yourself. We'll find our way back."
"So." Unexpectedly, Madame Bertuska winked. "Just make sure you come in time to pack before checkout at eleven."
As Madame Bertuska rounded up the rest of her flock, the fat man in the fez took notice. He folded his hand hastily and wiggled his way down his bench and out of the booth. As the wooden beads rattled back together, the Chinese goddess calmly fanned out her cards face up in sets of five and two. Guillermo heard the man across from her groan as she deftly swept his little pile of francs into her purse.
Guillermo stubbed out his cigarette in his table's already overflowing ashtray. He closed his eyes as his resolve wavered between lighting another and seizing his chance. Abruptly, he pushed back from his table and stood, then quickly turned to grab his chair to keep it from toppling.
An image of Frieda rolling her eyes loomed in his mind. Decisively, he turned away from it and forced himself to stroll to the center booth. I see you're playing cards. Need a fourth? I see you don't belong here. Mind if I steal you away?
Reaching the point of no return, Guillermo grabbed a handful of beads to pull them aside. One strand broke, and the little wooden beads clattered on the tile floor.
At the sound, his mystery woman looked up. She stared at him a moment. Guillermo thought he saw some odd flicker of expression, almost of recognition. But that was ridiculous. He was imagining things.
"Excuse me," he mumbled in German. He repeated the phrase in French, tried Spanish, then stopped—at a loss for which language to use.
"You are three times excused," his Chinese goddess answered in proper Oxfordian English. "Never mind the beads. Signor Ferrari is at fault for his lack of upkeep. The somewhat large gentleman trying to convince your comrades to stay—he owns this establishment."
Her coral lips curved slightly. Then she looked down again at the cards she was shuffling. Guillermo realized she was giving him time to respond, but his mind had gone blank.
She slid the deck across the table so the cards could be cut. Hastily, the young man put his hand over the young woman's with the familiarity of a husband with a wife. "No, dear. We really must be getting back."
They're leaving. Say something! Guillermo pleaded with himself. What if his mystery lady left with them?
The young woman dipped her chin to throw her man a pretty little moue of appeal. "Just one more. She's won eight times in a row. The odds are—"
"That I'll win again," the mystery lady finished the young woman's sentence. "I was born in the year of the cat."
Guillermo saw the young man shoot her a look that said he thought something more than an auspicious birthday was involved. How dare he!
"But, darling . . ." the young woman pleaded.
The young man lifted her hand off the deck and entwined her fingers with his. "Sweetheart." Then he edged down their bench, pulling her after him.
The mystery woman reached for her deck. "Masalaam," she murmured as the husband hurried his wife away.
We're alone. Guillermo swallowed hard. "I—I'll play."
"Pai Gow for two?" she answered without looking at him. "I would advise against it."
Quickly, Guillermo slid himself onto the bench the couple had vacated. "Because you're uncommonly lucky and you always win? Because you were . . . born in the year of the cat?" The exotic phrase came slowly off his tongue.
She glanced up and flashed him a brilliant smile. "No. Because I cheat."
Guillermo leaned back with a nervous laugh while his eyebrows knitted together. Surely, she was joking. How should he respond?
She turned her head, and Guillermo followed her gaze to the front door through which Madame Bertuska was just disappearing. Signor Ferrari scowled at his fleeing customers and lumbered over to the bar. Irritably, he snapped his fingers at the three prostitutes who had not yet coupled off with one of his patrons. One of them bent down to the radio and found some Arabic music again. The other two padded to the center of the room and started to shimmy. Jakob and a couple of the sailors began clapping to the beat of the drums.
"Signor Ferrari won't accept that he can't have it both ways," the mystery lady said. "The Blue Parrot cannot be the hub of all illicit activity in Casablanca and still be a must-see for the respectable, middle-class tourist."
Middle-class tourist. That meant him. "But you're here," Guillermo said without thinking.
She clicked open her white silk purse and tucked her deck inside. "Who said I was respectable?"
Guillermo's chin dropped a little, and without meaning to, he let his gaze slide again to the center of the tavern where Jakob was giving his Hungarian interpretation of the belly dance between the two harem costumed hookers.
"No, not that!" The Chinese woman giggled—and for a moment, she sounded like a child. "No. There are many things I do for money. But that is not one of them."
Guillermo passed a hand across his jaw. He exhaled slowly, amazed at how relieved he felt. She had meant the Pai Gow. That wasn't so bad. "You gamble—for a living. That's . . . interesting. I've never met—"
But she was looking at Signor Ferrari again. "Excuse me." She slipped off her bench and out of the booth, taking her purse with her.
Guillermo sat motionless a moment. Then he slapped a hand to his forehead. What was wrong with him? He'd accused her of being a card sharp. That hadn't been what she'd meant. Why hadn't he offered her a drink? Why hadn't he asked her to dance?
Frieda's voice wafted up from his subconscious: Guillermo Ugarte, man of inaction.
Gloomily, he scanned the room for his mystery woman. She had opened her purse and was handing something to Signor Ferrari. It looked suspiciously like she was giving him his cut of her winnings. Troubled, Guillermo watched the fat man pocket her offering, then fold his hands on top of his enormous stomach. Whatever he said next, the Chinese woman didn't like it. Guillermo saw her throw her head back to give Ferrari a piece of her mind. In answer, he smiled, draped an arm around her shoulders and whispered in her ear. She shook her head. He whispered again. Hesitantly, she nodded.
As she turned her head toward him, Guillermo looked down to inspect his fingernails. Then he reached in his breast pocket for his cigarettes.
In a moment, the music switched back to jazz—a slow, swing number. Just as he'd succeeded in lighting his match on the third try, he heard the rustle of the wooden beads. He looked up to see his mystery woman gazing at him with solemn, fathomless eyes. "Would you like to dance?" she asked.
Guillermo stared at her so long, his match burned his fingertips. Distractedly, he shook out the flame and relegated both the match and his cigarette to the table's ashtray. "If you don't mind."
Guillermo was barely aware of gliding out of the booth, rising to his feet, and stepping toward her. All he could see were her eyes. Their color was as deep and dark as his own, but their shape was an exquisite almond he'd only seen in photographs. She was a couple of inches taller than he, but he was used to being shorter than his dance partners. He could see in her eyes that it didn't matter. When he reached out to cup her shoulder and clasp her hand in the prescribed manner, she moved closer. He inhaled sharply—an intoxicating scent he couldn't identify. Then he wrapped his arms around her. As they began swaying to the melancholy saxophone, she laid her cheek on his shoulder. Beneath the bittersweet melody, he could hear her heartbeat.
"I like you," she whispered. "If only we could have met in the year of the cat."
