Shadows of Marrakech

Philip Brebner

Description

Running a bed and breakfast in Riad Waqi, an old courtyard house in exotic Marrakech, is not the escape it seems for Ramzi, a disillusioned Scottish scientist. He cannot decide who are more exasperating, staff or guests, especially when one of the visitors, Paul Gallisot, a young Frenchman, is murdered in the city. Up for a challenge, Ramzi turns detective and makes his own investigations into the killing, at a time when Morocco prepares for the festival of Eid and the ritual slaughter of sheep in the nation's homes. Paul Gallisot's childhood links to North Africa, his enigmatic wife Nicole, and their relationship with Tahar, who is suspected of being involved in the Casablanca terrorist attacks, lead Ramzi down a path as challenging as the labyrinth of the historic medina of Marrakech. As Ramzi makes headway, he meets the unorthodox Dr Rashida, is bewildered by Inspector Haddad, endures the prejudice of Paul's sister, is confided a mystery by an American, Bob Spasoff, and in his role as hotelier, plays havoc with Riad Waqi's guests. The search for motive and murderer progresses from a traditional exorcism to a journey across the Atlas to the disturbing Blue Rocks near the ancient oasis of Tafrouate. There comedy turns to tragedy as he tests out his suspicions. As Ramzi uncovers the truth behind Paul Gallisot's death, he realizes people are unknowable-and that life defies scientific logic.

Informations

• Publié par: eBook Versions
• Date de parution: 29 mai 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781843962427
• Langue: English

Extrait

Published by
Thames Street Press

Copyright © 2014 Philip Brebner

Author s website
www.philipbrebnerbooks.com

Philip Brebner has asserted his
right under the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988 to be identified
as the author of this work.

ISBN-13 978-1-84396-242-7

A CIP catalogue record for
this ebook edition is available
from the British Library.

Cover design by Andy Fielding
www.andyfielding.co.uk

ePub ebook production
www.ebookversions.com

All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or
introduced into a retrieval system
or transmitted in any form
or by any means electronic,
photomechanical, photocopying,
recording or otherwise without
the prior written permission
of the publisher. Any person who
does any unauthorised act in
relation to this publication may be
liable to criminal prosecution.
With thanks to
my agent, Andrew Kidd.

To Maria Jo o,
Philipa Leonora, with love.
SHADOWS
OF
MARRAKECH


Philip Brebner





THAMES STREET PRESS
Contents


Front Cover
Copyright Credits
Acknowledgement Dedication
Title Page

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Glossary
Also by Philip Brebner
One


Near where Ramzi livedin Marrakech stood a neglected house with a well that people wereforbidden to open. According to legend a jinnee built it for the Black Sultan,who gave it to a holy saint, Sidi Mohammed ben Azouz, to use as a shrine forhis cult. The saint knew the Sultan wanted to make mischief, and that thejinnee still dwelt in the property, but he accepted the gift. Arriving withthe keys, a slave welcomed him. In reply, the saint chanted an incantation, andthe slave changed into the jinnee and fled inside. The saint chased it to thewell, and the jinnee dropped down to escape. Smart as a whip, the saintblocked up the well and barricaded the doorway, but as he left the jinnee put acurse on the saint s family to prevent them from ever inhabiting the house, orusing it as a shrine, or putting in a fountain, or digging a new well.
Thehouse, which was many centuries old, fell into disrepair. Yet it had such amagical reputation that the pretender to the Moroccan sultanate, Al Hiba, senthis soldiers to take possession of it in 1912 and make an ally of the jinneeimprisoned in the well. But a month later the French colonial power thrashedAl Hiba and his resistance movement. Ramzi suspected he might have stoppedbelieving in jinn after that.
Once,Ramzi had been skeptical of jinn. Lately, after what happened to Nicole, everytime he passed the passageway leading to the house, he recalled that tale, andwondered if it was mere superstition.
Thehouse stood near the shrine of Sidi Bel Abbes in a residential quarter in thenorth of the medina, Marrakech s historic walled city. But these were nothouses in the Western sense. Called riads, these homes had their rooms builtaround a courtyard. Enclosed on all sides, with no vista and no horizon, it only opened to the sky, to a spiritual place. Every riad looked different. There were small palaces with courtyards planted with citrus or pomegranate trees and jasmine and bougainvillea. There were modest abodes and tragic hovels. As they all focused inward, it was rare to find a window ontothe street, and built cheek-by-jowl, it made it impossible to mark one from theother. As for the dusty lanes, the majority swerved and swung, leaving astranger disorientated. Some alleyways were too tight to fit a donkey withpanniers, others collapsed into tunnels. And there always existed the fear ofan unexpected dead-end.
Ramzibought his riad from a couple whose North African dream turned into anightmare. He had overheard them playing the blame game at the next table in arestaurant where he was dining alone.
It sbecause you kept changing the layout of the bathrooms that we ended up withhot-flushing toilets-
And who was the one who kept hacking away at the kitchen so it would fit an American fridge? And made the wall smash into the neighbours salon during their son s gala circumcision? Honestly! The Iman with the scalpel had such a fright the poor boy nearlylost the lot.
Yeah,all for the fridge we couldn t afford. Which is hardly a surprise after you hadthe roof terrace retiled because you wanted herringbone rather than hexagons-
Interrupting,Ramzi had struck up a conversation. First thing next morning they showed himthe property. It dated back to 1760. The street level had risen since thehouse was built, so once inside he needed to descend a few metres to thecourtyard.  In the classic style, four orange trees framed a fountain. On onewall, giving to the salon, towered a double door carved with Islamic geometries that were painted in soft colours; even in the museums of Marrakech it would be hard to find a portal of equal splendor. The other courtyard rooms had simple matching doors that made entrances like keyholes. Octagonal columns carried a gallery that gave access to the upper quarters. The price was right, the papers in order, and the place became his.
Andso he met Hisham. Paid by the previous owners as the riad s caretaker, thesleek, bright-eyed young man had a degree in economics, but professional jobswere few and far between. On the morning Ramzi picked up the keys, Hishamappeared dressed in a white shirt, black trousers and polished shoes, andpresented a single page c.v.
I amapplying for the position of riad manager. There are the renovations tofinish, and as you intend to run it as a guest house-
But Ithought I d be the manager?
Hisham asked Ramzi if he knew a reliable builder. Did he know how to register the riad with the chamber of commerce and the tourist board? Hisham reeled off a list of chores: collecting clients from the airport, making restaurant reservations and organizing trips, arranging repairs, shopping for essentials, out-sourcing laundry, paying bills…
You re killing me. When can you start?
I alreadyhave. The builder s waiting outside.
Within hours Hisham began creating a website, phoned a friend at a travel agency, conjured up a housekeeper, Latifa, and put Ramzi in touch with an accountant, Abdelfattah.
At last the day came when Ramzi laid out his collection of rare rugs and kilims on the sand-coloured floors of the white rooms, and adjusted the furniture. Outside, Hisham screwed a brass plate on the front door: Riad Waqi . They were in business.
Two


January in Marrakechwas a quiet month for tourists. A young Frenchman, Paul Gallisot, was the onlyguest, and he cut rather a sad figure as he ate breakfast alone on the roofterrace.
Afterinitial formalities, Ramzi kept out of Paul s way until, on the third day, hefound Hisham striding up and down the courtyard. Paul had greeted him thatmorning with his customary Bonjour! but he had pronounced the wordwith what could only be described as bloated o s.
Yesterdayour guest upset Latifa, and now he s making fun of my French, Hisham said.Ramzi assured Hisham he must be mistaken; his French, like most educatedMoroccans, was fluent. Still, Ramzi decided to go and have a diplomatic word.
To hissurprise, Paul greeted him with the same round o s. Despite Paul s young age,twenty-seven according to his passport, Ramzi wondered if this strangepronunciation might be the telltale sign of a stroke. But as Paul continued,Ramzi realized his French slipped into a type of dialect. He said he dforgotten to ask Hisham if he could arrange a trip up to the Ourika Valley. Picturesque and set deep in the High Atlas, the excursion always proved a hitwith visitors, and Ramzi promised to arrange a grand taxi for thefollowing morning.
Merci,ti es tr s aimabe .
Those werehis exact words. Yet, when he met Paul three days ago, the young man had spokeneducated French. Now it sounded less nasal, more guttural like Arabic. He nolonger addressed Ramzi as vous but informally, as tu, andpronounced ti es instead of tu es . And the l in aimable had been annihilated.
 Theafternoon before Paul was due to return to France, Ramzi paid a routine visitto the accountant in Gu liz, the new town built outside the medina walls. Theoffice was on the third floor of a block built in colonial times, the signFIDUCIAIRE ABDELFATTAH fixed beside an air conditioner cantilevered over thestreet.
There wasno lift, just grey stairs that led to a tidy office with a picture of the HolyMosque in Makkah on the wall. The window revealed the tops of trees sprinkledwith spring buds and beyond them a cinema, Le Colis e . After shakinghands Abdelfattah sat behind the desk and made a long play of polishing hisglasses, before opening the Riad Waqi file, and launching into one of his diatribes.
Taxdodges, tax breaks, social security payments, Ramzi found it bewildering.
And thatbrings me to the case of the missing bank statements.
Amystery: that s just what I need.
This is aserious matter, Monsieur Ramzi. If a man puts a cord around his neck, Godwill provide someone to pull it.
So how doI duck the executioner?
Visit thebank and ask for copies. And be careful to check they ve been stamped.
Anothersermon followed. Enlightened, if not uplifted, Ramzi wrote the quarterlycheque.
Good: nomistakes this time, Abdelfattah said and opened a pot on his desk. Take asweet before you leave.
The tasteof tamarind still in his mouth, Ramzi reached Bab Doukkala, the majesticgate