Махи Бинбин - Marrakech Noir

“I’m sorry — profoundly sorry — to inform you that your son, Abdeljalil Rezzouk, died yesterday, around two o’clock in the morning, in a traffic accident.”

A pallor spread instantly over the old man’s face, but he didn’t say a word.

“The police found his body on the side of the road,” the chief continued. “The criminal had fled the scene — a drunk driver, presumably. An investigation is underway to determine the exact circumstances of the accident... You will be kept informed of the results, of course. Once again, I’m deeply sorry, cherif .”

“May I have the exact location of the murder, sidi ?” old Rezzouk asked when he’d recovered enough to speak.

“The accident took place...” the chief began, caught off guard by the question. “The accident took place... the accident took place on... Excuse me a moment, I’m going to look for it in the report.”

The chief opened a drawer, closed it again, opened another, took out a green folder, extracted a sheet of paper, and skimmed it. “The accident took place on the road that runs parallel to the wall of the Menara gardens,” he said. “Near the Larmoud District, to be precise. Do you know where that is?”

The old man parted his lips to speak, but nothing came out. He stayed speechless for a long moment.

The chief stood, placing a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of genuine commiseration. “May God have mercy on his soul,” he told Rezzouk.

The old man was paralyzed with grief and could hardly move.

“Now, you’ll have to go to the district attorney’s office with a copy of your national ID card. He’ll give you the authorization to collect the body of the deceased at the morgue in Ibn Tofail University Hospital — the civilian hospital, that is. If you don’t feel up to the task, you can designate a third party, a member of your family, preferably...”

The old man stood, sputtering his thanks. As he turned to leave, the chief called him back. He held out some banknotes, four or five of them, folded in half. The old man politely declined the offering; the chief insisted.

“It’s my contribution to the funeral,” the chief said. “And I assure you, sidi , I’m more than glad to help.”

Rezzouk finally accepted the money, less out of conviction than in deference to this chief who was so kind and respectful; the few cops the old man had previously dealt with were all washed-up brutes, totally insensitive to the hardships of ordinary people like himself. He must be an exceptional policeman, he said to himself as he left the office.

The funeral service was held the next day at Bab Ghmat Cemetery, one of the oldest in the medina. The coffin was trailed by a great procession. Practically all the men of Derb el-Boumba were there, women being prohibited from attending burials on Islamic soil. In addition to the imam and his chosen readers of the sacred text, dressed all in white, there were many strangers who had come out of this sense of Muslim solidarity — or maybe pure idleness. Rezzouk believed that the crowd was proof that his departed son had been greatly respected in the neighborhood.

Once the burial was over, the crowd dispersed. The old man remained at the foot of the grave: hunched over, eyes closed, palms held to the sky, he murmured a long prayer for his lost child, imploring Allah, the most merciful and compassionate, to forgive the boy his sins — those committed in words, in deeds, and in thought — to spare him the terrible trials of the last judgment, and to reserve a place for him in paradise, alongside His chosen prophet, His loyal companions, and His blessed faithful. As soon as the old man had pronounced the final amine , a young man approached him.

“My sincere condolences, s’di Rezzouk!” the young man said, clutching his shoulder in a formal embrace. “I am so very saddened by this painful event!”

The young man was tall and dark with gray, sparkling eyes and hair cropped close — so close that you could see his scalp. A long diagonal scar ran across his right cheek. The old man looked at him, trying in vain to put a name to his face. He was sure that he’d seen him before, two or three times, maybe more. But where? When? He had no idea.

“You probably don’t remember me, s’di Rezzouk,” the young man went on. “My name is Noureddine, Noureddine L’Guebbas. Abdeljalil and I were good friends a few years ago.”

“He was a good man, wasn’t he?” the old man replied, his voice choked by tears.

“A very good man,” Noureddine said. “And a loyal friend too!” After a silence, he added: “May his murderers be condemned to eternal Gehenna!”

The old man’s eyes widened as he looked up, suddenly alert.

“God knows I warned him,” Noureddine continued, “and many times over! But Abdeljalil wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Warned him?” the old man repeated, taken aback. “Of what?”

“Of the fact that he’d been — for some time already — in the crosshairs of the drug squad!”

“What? Why?”

“Abdeljalil refused to pay the current fee for the dealers in our category, a few hundred dirhams per week. And he tried to persuade those who paid it to stop.”

“Then my son didn’t die in a traffic accident?” the old man asked, stunned.

“No, s’di Rezzouk.”

“Do you know how he died?”

“I don’t know, s’di Rezzouk, but... but I heard that they smashed his skull against a beam in a jail cell.”

The old man’s heart tightened, his legs grew weak, and the world went dark around him; everything had taken on a look of sinister unfamiliarity. He collapsed at the edge of an old grave, his head in his hands, devastated.

“Are you all right, s’di Rezzouk?” the young man asked.

The old man raised his head with a sorrowful expression, his forehead creased with two deep lines. “Remind me of your name, young man?”

“Noureddine.”

“Would you like to help me, Noureddine?”

“Of course, s’di Rezzouk!” he answered, vaguely anxious, wondering what the old man was going to ask of him.

“I’ll surely need your help to uncover the circumstances of my son’s murder.”

“What can I do for you, s’di Rezzouk?”

The old man reached into his pocket and took out a Bic pen and a small notepad with yellowing pages. “For now, I’ll need your phone number.”

“What do you plan on doing, s’di Rezzouk?”

“I’ll bring charges. I’ll alert the press, the human rights organizations in Morocco and abroad. I’ll write to the governor, to the wali, the minister of justice, the prime minister! I’ll even write to the king! Yes, I’ll write to the king! Is he not our nation’s commander in chief?”

Noureddine suddenly became aware of the danger he might face if he got mixed up in this thorny affair. A real danger, perhaps even with fatal consequences. Resting a finger on his temple, he was silent for a moment, growing pensive. The risk was great, certainly, but that shouldn’t stop him doing something for the man who’d been his best friend in the underworld. So he gave his phone number to the old man and, just before leaving him, reiterated his condolences.

Now that’s what you call a true friend! Rezzouk thought to himself, following Noureddine with his eyes all the way to the cemetery gates. You don’t meet a brave man like that every day.

That night was a sleepless and cruel one for the old man. In the morning, he returned to the police station.

“What can I do for you, cherif ?” Chief Zeghloul asked politely.

“I want to know the truth about my son’s death!” Rezzouk blurted out in a rage. “The whole truth!”