Махи Бинбин - Marrakech Noir

It was not to be, however. The driver sped to the hotel as if he were being chased by people he owed money to, all while alternating Marcel’s name: Monsieur Marcel, Monsieur Marcel , the driver said, Monsieur Hirschfeld, Monsieur Hirschfeld , like he was a small child who had just learned the words. It was only a short way to the Mamounia from the airport, but the driver seemed to know an even shorter route. The buildings Marcel remembered from his last visit flashed by left and right, pushed back in the course of time by more recent, more prestigious buildings, like old masters surrounded by voluptuous young women. As soon as evening came, the lights would be turned on, and Marcel would be able to see just how big everything was — the lights gave the decadence contours. He’d once been a part of it. Before they came to a halt in front of the Mamounia, the driver asked: “Have you been to Marrakech before?”

Marcel bit his lip. “This is the first time,” he lied.

“You are a lucky man,” the driver said as he opened the door.

If only he knew.

He would need something to drink first, to calm himself, so that he could cope with his pending conversation with Mr. Hirschfeld.

The Mamounia Hotel impressed him. Mr. Hirschfeld was paying for the cost of his stay. The way in which the attendant met and escorted him confirmed to Marcel that Mr. Hirschfeld was an important guest.

“Mr. Hirschfeld receives for dinner in his suite at nine o’clock,” the attendant said.

“Can you tell me where I have to be?”

“You will be collected.”

He installed himself in his room. He hung up his suit, shined his shoes, and quickly ironed a shirt. In the city evening fell, the time for people to drift to the old center, the hum mixed with the excited chatter of the exotic birds. From his room he could see the Koutoubia Mosque with the Atlas Mountains behind it. The city was seething. Sitting here inside, protected from the cacophony, made him feel small. He felt isolated, not really a person. He should have been out there, anonymous, just wandering, no real objective except the longing to be entertained and to meet new people. The city was good at that, giving the feeling that anyone could be friends with anyone else. “Who am I kidding?” Marcel asked aloud, trying to pull himself together. “I’m not welcome here. If I take one step outside the door, I’ll suffocate. Everywhere I go...” It was pointless thinking about it. It was history. Marcel breathed air in through his nose. Air he was addicted to.

Three rather insistent knocks on his door awoke him. The three miniature bottles of whiskey he had thoughtlessly knocked back had done their work a little too well. It was five minutes to nine and he had an erection. He wanted to have sex. He missed his wife. He was going to be late and wouldn’t make a good impression on a billionaire that way. For a rich person, time is a fetish.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Marcel shouted in his best French as he pulled on his blue suit. It had been a long time since he had slept so deeply in the daytime. He couldn’t tell from the face of the attendant who led him to Hirschfeld’s suite if anyone was irritated with him. But did it matter? People fell asleep. It would have been much worse if he had stayed asleep.

With a knock on the door, they were allowed in. The attendant handed him over as if he were a parcel — only they didn’t scan him. The spacious room proved to be an antechamber. There was a gigantic cage in which a Brazilian parrot was enjoying some nuts. It was being spoiled, and yet the bird did not seem to be at ease. It didn’t move and looked suspiciously at the new guest. Max Hirschfeld’s parrot doesn’t like strangers, thought Marcel . And I don’t like his parrot.

He was allowed into the next room. The attendant left him alone. They did that, of course, to heighten the effect — this man could only function by creating distance, by giving you the feeling that you were small. And the longer he was left alone, exposed to the décor around him, the deeper the realization that he had come a long way to meet this man. What an extraordinary meeting this will be! Marcel knew he couldn’t give in to the depression that was hanging over him, throwing a blanket of melancholy over everything. It was the last thing he needed at the moment. He was contractually bound, by all sorts of clauses, to exude energy and enthusiasm. The billionaire must have zero doubts about him.

Suddenly, the billionaire stood in front of him and thrust an enormously big hand toward Marcel, fingers outstretched like a ship. Hirschfeld was bigger and more agreeable-looking than Marcel had expected. The corpulent, somewhat sickly looking figure was actually a friendly man, who moved easily and looked at him with welcoming eyes. His feet were in comfortable brown loafers and his face was well polished by the Moroccan sun. No sign of arrogance.

“Marcel Ophuis,” he said, shaking the billionaire’s hand.

“Hirschfeld, but call me Max. May I call you Marcel? Formality is for people who are on their way to the top, but we’re there already. You as a writer, me as a newspaperman.”

Rich people and people of standing found it difficult to relate to ordinary people. Not because they didn’t understand them, but because they didn’t know the context well enough, and they were afraid of making a mistake, of being confronted with their ignorance of ordinary things. This man was one of the few rich and successful people who had something of an ordinary life. That made him human. Marcel was immediately fascinated by him.

“Haven’t they offered you anything to drink?” Hirschfeld asked. “The scoundrels. Please, sit down.”

They sat close together. He found the intimacy, which Hirschfeld seemed to take as a matter of course, not unpleasant. It was important to leave a good impression and Hirschfeld understood that. Marcel was silently grateful that his agent had insisted that he accept the job. He sat opposite a true mensch.

“We’re going to do it right. A biography has to have a face. Everyone makes mistakes, but few have the courage to admit them,” Hirschfeld explained. “I’m able to say that I wouldn’t have been who I am today without those mistakes. That’s what the book has to be about.”

“You already have an idea. That’s good.”

“I’m an open book. People have always underestimated me. And do you know why? Because they didn’t know any better. And I made use of that. I regret some things...” the billionaire admitted. And to make it immediately clear that he meant what he said, Hirschfeld rattled off a number of names that Marcel had read about in preparation. The bottom line was that a lot of Hirschfeld’s wealth had fallen into his lap because people had thought that he would mess it up. “They underestimated me, the idiots. Underestimated. And instead of giving me respect every time that I showed that I could do it, they gave me an even bigger commission, just to see how I would mess that up. But I didn’t. I won and won and won.” The last comment came out embittered.

So there was a pain that could be lived off for a lifetime. Pure kerosene was needed to keep on flying and to cross time zones. Hirschfeld’s drive to make something of himself reminded Marcel of his colleagues on Mars, always trying to show the world that they were decent, that they were doing the right thing, that they were good people. It was a glimpse of a damaged man. That could be used to fill a very good book. He was a success in everything, but still he always had the feeling that it was thanks to the stupidity of others.

Hirschfeld clapped his hands. In no time, all sorts of dishes were placed in front of Marcel. Exquisitely flavored Moroccan food with a well-seasoned choice of spices. While Marcel ate, Hirschfeld watched him intently. Marcel’s agent had warned him about this: Hirschfeld couldn’t stand thin people. Marcel had to eat.