Day 1

Brian was hot, tired and hungry. More hungry than tired. He had skipped breakfast this morning to search the city.  He found a used bookseller at the bazaar here in Casablanca.  Thousands of dusty books, mostly in Arabic or French, a few in English, and a tiny fraction in other languages. He was intently looking for a few choice books to buy. Not based on the language or the subject but on another characteristic that makes a book unusual and rare. He was looking for the scribbles in the margins.  He was looking for the story that went with the story.

He had rifled through hundreds of books, his stomach was nagging him and frontal cortex was starting to remind him that this was a silly hobby. He found 3 that looked like they had some markings, he wondered closer to the front of the vendors place, the gurgle in his stomach was a firm sign to stop. He sat down to look through his find to see if any were worth buying.  The first was a total disappointment. The second started out good but fizzled. What he thought were scribbles in the third turned out to be a child’s play with a stamp or stencil. Dejected, he sighed, and prepared to get up, in the “V” of books on the bottom shelf, he could saw what looked like a battered book pressed flat against the back of the shelf. He dug it out only to discover it was 2 books. More accurately, it was two journals beautifully bound in pig skin. Page after page of beautiful Arabic script, were interspersed with drawings of buildings, insects, columns of numbers, floor plans. He couldn’t read a word but he was excited. He calmed him by thinking of a bad in Afghanistan then he rose and looked for the proprietor.

The sellers of fruit watch their stalls like a hawk always on the alert for the street urchins who want a free snack or the cheap businessman who does not want to be bother with paying for a cheap snack. The orange may not be very valuable but it also does not bring great profit to the owner so each piece must be sold. They’re heavy to load and carry.  Sometimes fortune smiles on the fruit seller and sends a bus of tourists. He can sell his fruit for 3 and often 5 times what he charges the regulars. The shoe vendor, the jeweler and the progressive owner of the tourist shop who sells “local” junk made in China or Greece all keep a close eye on their shop.

However for the seller of books, especially used books, valuable though they be, does not have to be quite as diligent.  The street urchins to run by and snatch a book to satisfy a thirst for knowledge or a hunger for wisdom.  The businessman and the sage seek carefully with prudence.  And books are harder to hide than an orange or a fig. The foreigners take the most time.  They want to learn a language and assault him with needless banter in an effort to get practice and are always looking for books on the cheap; books they would never read.  He loved books.  He read books.  His father taught him to do his best to avoid mistakes and to take the most direct path to peace and prosperity by letting other people make the mistakes for him.

This customer, Brian, was not like most of his customers. Obviously a foreigner, from where he could not tell.  It was obvious to him that he was not a local. He did not have the look of the Chinese or any of the similar featured South Asians. He moved different.  He walked into the shop like he knew what he was doing. He gave a polite nod, but no words. He methodically started at one end of stacks and went books by books patiently like a miner. So the shopkeeper relaxed. Read, did his books, drank some coffee and went to the bathroom.

After 2 hours of nothing but the typical street noises the shopkeeper was roused from his semi-meditative state by Brian’s approaching footsteps.  He found something.  Brian held out the two journals and asked “Combien coûte?”  Hmm, the grammar was off but the accent was right.  He was about to take the books for examination and valuation but recoiled when he saw that they were made from pigskin.

“Where did you get these?”

“In the tenth aisle.  How much do you want?”

The books were well bound, but otherwise non-descript. But how did he end up with the foul skin of pig in his shop? Was it greed or practicality that got the better of him or maybe hunger.

“20” he said emphatically.  “For each”, he added.

Brian put on his best dejected face and let his shoulders drop in disappoint. He turned as if to put the books back, then reached into his wallet and took out 30.  He noticed that the man did not want to examine the books. He turned and pushed both the books and the 30 at the man and said “How about 30 for both?”  He pushed the money just a little closer to the man than the books. The seller took it.  Brian put the two books in his messenger style bag, the shopkeeper noticed it looked locally bought, clean but not fancy. Brian said “Good day” in good Arabic with an accent he couldn’t place.

Brian left the premises and would not allow himself to show any emotion until he was out of the store and around the corner.  He had scored. He let out a delighted laugh that echoed down the stuccoed path between two buildings. He laughed at his find. He laughed at his laughed.  He had found the kind of treasure that he and Debbie had always sought. He vividly remembered her finding a book and giggling in embarrassed laughter. She had found a book that seemed to trace the life a man from boyhood to adult.  It was an anthology of Edgar Rice Burroughs.  The margins on the first few pages where crudely decorated with vines and alligators.  As the book progressed the former owners illustrations got better and the subject matter more mature. A toy truck, a bicycle, a car, a girl’s face, a girls braid, a space ship.  Deb’s embarrassed giggles were forced from her when she came to a spot that had a penis on the left and a vagina on the right. Soccer goals, foot ball goals, a car followed.  Then a rifle, a machine gun, military patches, a fighter, a ship. The last 30 pages were pristine.  A few tears slowly coursed their way down her cheek, like that water drop scene in Jurassic Park as she closed the book.  He saw the tears and exclaimed “What happened?  30 seconds ago you were giggling like a school girl caught doing something naughty?”  She ignored the question. “I think this was a man’s whole life. I think he was a soldier of some kind.  And he’s dead.  Maybe his parents, or siblings or girl friend saw no value in this old book of ERB stories and got rid of it by yard sale or donation. But he put his whole life here, not with words but with pictures.  I just think it’s beautiful. ” It was their first day together and it’s kicked off this addictive hobby.

His laughter was abruptly cut short. Two men, that had that look, stepped away from the wall. One in front of him, one behind him.

“Give me the books!”

“I bought these and they are my books.”

“Infidel dog, give me the books. I will not ask politely again!” The man in front pulled out a gun as did the one behind him. The one behind him poked him in the head with his gun. The one in front aimed right below the solar plexus.  As the man in front reached for Brian’s bag the man in back cocked and pressed his gun harder into Brian’s head. What came next was a total surprise. Brian slapped the leader in the face and stepped to the right. The leader fired his weapon but Brian was not there to a be a target. He caught his partner square in the chest. The shock caused the new target to squeeze the trigger and fired into the face of the leader.  Brian was not trained to do that. He had never seen that done. He had no idea why he did it. When he stepped to the side he didn’t just stop and watch the fireworks like they do in the movie.  No, he stepped and move a calm and brisk pace. He heard the two shots and heard the bodies fall but he did not stop to see the results. As he rounded the corner, he gave a quick look back. Both men looked dead. He was closer to the central tourist area and calmly walked into a restaurant and found a bathroom. There was a little blood spatter on the back of his shirt and the strap of his messenger bag. This place still used the old fashioned perfumed, pumice based powered soap. he spot wash his shirt and strap so it didn’t look so obvious. Patted it dry and went into the dining room.  He sat down and ordered an espresso and pastry.

The adrenaline was wearing off and he was starting to feel queasy heading toward sick. He’d had this feeling many times before so he knew what to do.  As a wrestler, he would always have this post competition. At first he would panic and wondered if something was wrong with. He went to nurse or doctor they usually have at the competitions.  He felt so week and sick that he was sure there must be something wrong but he learned to sit himself down and get quiet. He would focus his mind on the mountains were he and dad hiked and camped or the prairies where they hunted for deer and coyotes.  That stopped the panic but did nothing for the queasiness.  Friends told him he low blood sugar and he needed food. So he’d gobble a granola bar or candy bar. That just made him vomit.  He learned to combine the practices. He would sit quietly,  eat and drink something very, very slowly. In 15 minutes he would be ready to go again.

As the energy and peace began to spread, his emotions and frontal cortex were having an argument. The journals were not rare old books or anything valuable. Why argue with armed men?  And where in the hell did that move come from?  The closest he could think of was something he saw Steven Segal do in ??? But that was a movie, he knew the difference between movies and real fights. But the two biggest questions that his mind and emotions were arguing about were “Why am I just sitting here?” and “The 2 armed robbers knew he had the books. They didn’t want money. They didn’t ask for his bag. He said books. So what is so valuable about these 2 journals?”  The bookseller was just outside the core bazaar area where most tourists shopped and gathered. He had walked into the restaurant slowly and calmly as if he had all the time in the world to avoid drawing attention to himself.  There was too much noise in the market area for anyone, but those on the fringes to hear.  Moments later police were running through the area including a few people dressed the way the 2 attackers were dressed. So, sitting calmly, in the open surrounded by other similar looking tourists gave him the cover he needed. But he couldn’t stay here too long.  As he reviewed the events in his mind he remembered that the two men must be part of the security force employed by a powerful local businessman. Hated by many who thought him a thug and underworld figure that brought shame to Morocco and worse, perpetuated the idea, held by many westerners, about the association between Islam and terrorism. Fortunately, the two thugs that saw him killed each other.  But if they find the bookseller and question him, they’ll know about Brian.  As for the second question, the only way to find out is to get a translation.  He couldn’t do that here nor could he risk asking anyone. Who knows who’s on the payroll.

It was time to move. He felt good. He went into the heart of the bazaar, bought a prayer shall, a hat, a new bag, and a tunic and long shirt. Instead of going straight through the bazaar from the restaurant to the other side he made a 90 degree left and left the bazaar at 9 o’clock. He headed toward the business side of Casablanca. At the first place that looked like it had a bathroom, he swapped bags.  He went further and changed pants.  He went another few blocks, put on the had and shirt, his transformation was complete.  He looked less like an American or European and more like a local. The last stop was at a FedEx place. He got a box, left and found a good place to pack the box with the 2 journals. He addressed it to a friend in France that would be his last stop.  He dropped the box at FedEx and paid in cash. He then worked his way back to his hotel.

To his dismay more hoodlums were hanging around the entrance to the hotel.  During his long walk he had time to ponder this possibility. He traveled light so there was not a lot of stuff in his hotel room. He had noticed that the hotel staff smoked and played soccer in the back. He found a entrance that opened into a long hall. It was filled with boxes of food and hotel supplies. To the right was the kitchen to the left was there was a service elevator. He took the elevator up to the seventh floor. His room was on the sixth. He quietly came down the stairs to see if anyone was watching his room. Fortunately no. He got in his room and separated the essentials from the nice to have and left the room. He through the nice to haves in the dumpster and kept the essentials in his new messenger bag.  During his long walk, he found a news paper from 2 days earlier. He left the key, a tip and a note on the newspaper saying that he had checked out late at night but couldn’t find a desk clerk.  The room was paid for so there was nothing else to settle.

Brian would have a hard time describing what was going through his head and heart. He started to journal. At first he hesitated thinking if he was found the journal would provide evidence of his culpability. Instead he decided to journal his thoughts and feelings and make vague references to the specifics or refer to places back home as code words for what happened here.  He wrote from his gut without editing. After thirty for forty minutes he would read what he wrote and try to take a third party perspective. One thing he discovered that shocked him is that he was enjoying the hardship and the danger. He was having the adventure that every kid wants to have.