Махи Бинбин - Marrakech Noir

“Have you had enough?” the billionaire asked.

“Yes, it’s delicious.”

“Good. I’m impressed by your appetite,” the billionaire said. “Your agent told me you could eat like a horse. That makes me happy. My father was like that, and my grandfather was as well. Cigar?”

“No thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“Smoking at my age is like unwrapping a present. I don’t let anyone tell me what to do anymore,” Hirschfeld joked. Then he burst out into an incoherent tirade about his four ex-wives who had tried to prevent him from smoking. He visibly enjoyed losing himself in such bouts of anger; his eyes shone with pleasure as he verbally got even. He tore his wives to pieces, but he did it with style. As if all the pent-up anger over the years had delivered the jackpot: passion, release, and relief. Before Marcel knew it, the two men were laughing together. The evening had somehow become enjoyable.

“But haven’t they helped you live longer by stopping you from smoking?”

Hirschfeld moved a little bit closer to Marcel, and his voice smoothed into an almost whisper: “Better a short and happy life than a long and unhappy one. They were bitches. I tied myself up in knots trying to keep them happy, while they were just planning to fleece me.”

Marcel couldn’t do anything else but change his opinion: there was a book in this man. Maybe even two or three. If they became friends, it could turn into something big. If Marcel could place his talent in the service of a man who had not only made it, but who had seen enough to be able to tell a truly remarkable story, then it would also help his own career as a writer.

“Luckily, I now have a wife who really loves me,” the billionaire said, his anger melting with a smile.

“Such luck is scarce. To fall for someone so late in life.” Marcel quickly realized that he had said something stupid. He had to correct himself fast: “I mean... not that you’re old.”

Hirschfeld leaned into him. “You speak from the heart,” he reassured Marcel, placing his hand on his own heart. “I like you. Because I’m old and my life is behind me, it allows me to see the time that I have left as a bonus. I don’t talk to people that often anymore. And people don’t talk that often to me. Do you know why? After a certain age, you don’t trust people anymore. I’ve had bad luck. Each and every one of my children — and I have twelve — are unreliable, opportunistic, and dishonest. They’re lucky in business and unlucky in life. If they call me it’s only to ask for more money... What did you do before?”

“I was on Mars,” Marcel answered.

“The planet?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good, there’s a nightclub here called Mars. Wasn’t it incredibly cold out there?”

“We were inside.”

“You weren’t there to write a book, were you?” Hirschfeld asked.

“Work.”

“Were you a part of the oil boom that brought our planet so much wealth?”

“It was a good time,” Marcel said.

“You must be happy to be home.”

“It’s okay. The money I earned turned out to be less than I thought.”

“And the damned inflation as well,” Hirschfeld said. “You couldn’t see that coming on Mars, of course.”

“You couldn’t see it coming on Earth either. Money didn’t interest me until I didn’t have it anymore,” Marcel admitted. “And then I became very interested. But I’d rather not talk about it. We’re in Marrakech and we’re having an interesting conversation. That is worth a lot to me.”

“Come with me.” Hirschfeld led Marcel to the window. There was a telescope on the balcony. “Part of the hotel service. Show me where Mars is.”

Marcel began to point the telescope. He gestured to Hirschfeld. “There.”

The man bent down to peer into the lens. Marcel saw that he enjoyed what he could see. “We’re looking at Mars in Marrakech,” the billionaire said, his tone full of awe.

When they went back inside, Marcel saw the woman who had brought both Hirschfeld and himself so much unhappiness. She was four years older. She had only put on a few pounds. She was beautiful, sensual, and sly — her name was Sarah, even if she didn’t look like a Sarah.

“Ghizlaine, ma chérie ,” Hirschfeld said. “You were going to bed early. Did you miss me?”

This new name matched the off-white silk nightdress that fit perfectly over Sarah’s copper-colored body, like a sumptuous art deco vase draped in silk. Yet the dress wasn’t vulgar; she could never come across as vulgar. She had learned over the years that a man would surrender himself entirely to a woman whose appearance was based on a sort of shock effect. It was impossible not to want to hold her, to want to love her, destroy her, and then resurrect her — if that was even possible.

When she had financially and sexually drained him, had utterly humiliated him by disappearing without a trace, just before he was to leave Marrakech — he’d even been followed by boys who kept bothering him after he had asked around for her in the neighborhood where she lived — Marcel became so damaged that just the mere thought of her made him sick. But in her renewed vicinity, there was nothing of that. It was just possible that somewhere in his heart there was room for forgiveness. He would once again have the chance to enjoy her delicious presence — that promise which emanated from her broke his resistance.

They once had to leave a restaurant in a hurry while quietly waiting for their main course because his agent had discreetly whispered that a man at the bar could not stand that Marcel was with her. “Such a gentleman is sitting with such an interesting lady. It might be better for you and her and the furnishings if you continue your evening at another address. I can recommend somewhere for you,” the waiter had told him.

Sarah was so beautiful. He was proud of her — his attention made her lively, and every time she’d disappeared with his credit card, she came back more richly clothed and more gorgeous.

“I can’t sleep without a good night kiss, just like the French writer you told me about,” Ghizlaine said to her husband. “I thought for a long time that I was the only one like that. It made me lonely.”

Proust had felt that way as well. She had done some more reading since he last saw her: the change wasn’t just on the surface. She couldn’t return to the working-class area she had left like a missile. It had become a strange planet for her.

“Is this the monsieur you’ve been talking about? The writer?” she asked, tilting her head to get a better look at him. “Don’t I know you? Haven’t I read a book of yours? I’d like to. And then talk to you about it. Preferably in the shade in the afternoon.” She didn’t walk toward him, she floated, as if a gigantic wind turbine blew her along. The refinement that hid her dark past as if it were a secret weapon had become even more intense.

“We have seen Mars. He’s been on the red planet,” Hirschfeld said.

“Extraordinary — an astronaut. Weren’t you afraid up there?”

“You take your fear with you — and it’s just as bad anywhere else,” Marcel replied.

“Philosophical.” She looked at him charmingly, as if to reward him.

“Ghizlaine,” Hirschfeld whispered, almost as an admonition, in a tone they’d invented especially for their relationship. It was a tone that excited them — a needy girl for a forceful man. That tone was stronger than a legal contract. That tone said everything. “In just a short space of time, I’ve become very fond of this man, and now you come and spoil it for us,” Hirschfeld teased. “Be nice to him. You could have been nice to the other one.”

“That man was not as nice as this gentleman.”