Day 5

Brian woke with a start. People and things were moving around him. It took him a few minutes to orient himself and remember why he was here.  Before he dropped the journals off at the FedEx office he took pics of 5 pages.  He was absolutely certain that no one had followed him.  The FedEx agent did not see what was in the box. He sent it to a friend in France so even if they found out who he was they would not know where the journals were.  Thanks to genes from his ancestors he tanned. He came to Morocco looking like any other pasty white guy. It amused him that saying “pasty white guy” marked him as an American. The Europeans don’t use that expression. The thrill of being the star of his own Bourne or Bond adventure was starting to wear thin. At first it was an adventure, mysterious and exciting. Complete with real bullets, real blood and real death. After cleaning his hotel room out he ditched everything but the bare essentials. He bought some used clothes from a peddler and changed out his clothing a piece at a time. He went in a building, changed a piece of clothing then left by a different exit.  His two most important but most disagreeable purchases were the djellaba, a man’s long robe, and a scarf.  Casablanca was filled with men dressed in pants and shirts. The robe wearing ones were in the minority and mostly older men.  He risked standing out more than fitting in. However, it served another purpose and that was to hide what he was carrying. He added a scarf so that his light skin didn’t attract attention from a distance.  There were plenty of light skinned Europeans around so he wasn’t exactly hiding. He was just increasing the odds that he wouldn’t be spotted from a distance.

Even though he was sure there was no one in the alley and no had seen him, the altercation or where he went afterwards, years as an MP told him that there is always a witness.  So, he assumed they were looking for him and chose prudence over panic.  If a street looked too full of tourists, he avoided it and chose a more native path. He figured if they were looking for him that they might “go where the white people are”. On the other hand, if they were good, they might go where the criminals go. He couldn’t be sure. He did the best he could and left the rest in God’s hands.

Two questions plagued his mind. Who were the blue turbaned men and what was so special about the journal. Was it stolen and sold to the book seller or hidden in his shop? He concluded it was hidden there because the man would not even touch the books and acted surprised that they were in his shop.  Dammit, Brian you idiot and he slapped himself in the forehead. The outburst attracted a lot of attention and calls for peace. It’s bound in pigskin. Of course he didn’t want to touch it.  This made it even more complex. Then why did the thugs want it. Weren’t they also Muslims?  Maybe it belonged to a foreigner and contained information the head-thug wanted.  That was the only explanation that made sent to him.  With a sigh, he acknowledged that he could still be wrong.

In his new garb, he decided that if asked he would say he was a pilgrim, seeking self awareness and the light that shines from within and without.   He sat with groups of older men and listened to what they said. Always staring off into the distance as if searching for a vision.  A few men asked him his story and he told variations of pilgrim, wanderer, hippie looking for enlightenment. And then he would encourage them to talk and tell him about the events in the city of the past few days.  Two men mentioned rumors about the shooting. He asked them about the men shot and found out that they were part of a small security force of a rich man in town.  They make a big show to impress, their outfits are out a fairy tale or a movie. But they’re serious about their job. There are enough to cause problems for some but not so large that the government pays much attention.  To the local police force they were a nuisance sometimes and a help sometimes.  As for the businessman himself, he was a local boy who done well for himself. He had a beautiful wife, a large house, almost a palace but sadly no children. He brokered deals both those inside and outside Morocco.

One really good piece of news was that none of the rumors mentioned 3 men.  Still, caution was the better path. He would not be like they biker on YouTube that celebrated his win only to fall and be passed by several other cyclists.

Brian maintained his casual look and displayed no jewelry, fancy sunglasses or electronics. He desperately wanted to study the few pages he had from the journal. So, he would go into a bathroom and intently study one page for a few minutes then leave.  He was able to find a McDonald’s with an exposed power plug where he could charge his phone, which he hid beneath his messenger bag.  Of course, everyone had a phone. That wasn’t the issue.  Hiding the phone under the bag was partially practice and partially a way to keep himself from getting distracted and losing awareness of the room.  He turned off the sound and removed the SIM and taped hit to the back so it could be traced and couldn’t go off at the worst possible time.  He walked. He sat. He waited. He napped. He contemplated the situation.  And he wondered at himself. Why was he willing to do this. Why not just hop a plane and head back to Idaho and get ready for the coming semester.  Because he felt alive, more so then he had in a year. And because he had something to chase.