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Flag of Morocco.
Late that afternoon we arrived ahead of schedule at Mohammed V International Airport, roughly 30 kilometers southeast of Casablanca, in the Nouasseur Suburb.
Hotel Casablanca.
The view from my room.
After a long mini-van ride to the Hotel Casablanca, I got my room, jumped into my civvies, grabbed a taxi, and zipped down to the “Habouse.”
This, in my opinion, dear reader, was the best souk in the city. It was the cleanest, and relatively free of touts and pickpockets. Unlike Saudi Arabia, North Africa was the land of brigands and thieves; demanding you stay alert and keep aware of your environment. Plus they had the biggest, meanest, most aggressive black desert flies I’d ever come across - making dinning at a sidewalk café utterly miserable – requiring competing with them for your food!
However, the brass, copper and leather goods at the Habouse were well worth the trip.
Returning to my hotel with some brassware and sheep hide cushions for my apartment in Jeddah, I shaved, showered, slipped on a polo shirt, sports jacket, slacks and loafers – then leisurely strolled to my favorite Moroccan restaurant. It was getting dark as the dinner hour approached.
The restaurant possessed heavy-wooden, elaborately-carved doors set in a huge, intricately-carved marble archway. Upon entering the dimly-lit interior was comparable to stepping onto a Hollywood set: Persian rugs and tapestries everywhere, low leather couches, cushions and circular brass tables, with incense burners and brass oil lamps, against a background of soft Arabic stringed music.
It always reminded me of “Rick’s Café Americain,” dear reader, and at any moment I half-expected Humphrey Bogart to step out of the shadows in his white tux.
My waiter wore a red fez with matching vest, and recommended the “Poulet Tajine,” a slow cooked, savory stew of chicken and plums. I accepted his suggestion along with the goat cheese salad, couscous, bread and a local white wine for two people.
Right after the wine arrived, as if on cue, a striking Moroccan woman, with dark hair, wearing a charcoal “YSL” silk blouse, with matching skirt and leather boots, plus a long, flowing, red silk scarf, entered the restaurant in a dramatic flourish.
She paused at the doorway – examining her surroundings – spotted me as I stood up, flashed a sparkling smile and made a beeline for my location. We embraced, kissing each other on the cheeks, and then settled in on the leather couch.
Her name was Saba, she was twenty-four, and I had previously met her on a layover last month. Telephoning her earlier from the hotel - I set up this rendezvous. Pouring wine for her - we clinked glasses - it was chilled and went down smoothly.
“I am so happy to see you again, my darling,” Saba said in Arabic as she squeezed my hand. “How long is your visit?”
“Three nights...” I replied in Arabic.
Saba was fluent in Arabic, French and English, dear reader. For my sake, she made me practice Arabic – correcting me when I screwed it up.
“Then it’s back to Jeddah?” Saba asked.
“That’s right...” I concurred. “Eight hours nonstop back to dreaded Jeddah.”
Saba smoothed back her rich, brunette hair, as she said, “And then no alcohol and no women, yes?”
I hadn’t the heart, dear reader, to tell her the truth: In Jeddah I was literally wallowing in sex and booze!
Heaving a sigh, to evoke sympathy, I lied and said, “Yes...exactly like a fucking monk.”
“My poor darling,” Saba laughed. “Do not worry...Saba will take your mind off terrible Jeddah.” Then she raised her glass in a toast, “Here’s to Casablanca...and nights filled with drink and love-making.”
“Saba...you’re the answer to my prayer.” Looking heavenward, I added, “Thank you Allah.”
Laughing - we clinked glasses again and drank deeply.
Our dinner arrived and we dug in with our hands, Bedouin-style, tearing off pieces of bread, dipping it in the stew and couscous - hand-feeding each other.
I remembered to tuck my left hand under my leg, dear reader. So I wouldn’t forget and use it – performing a terrible social blunder. In Middle Eastern society the left hand is used to wipe one’s bottom. Making it socially the un-clean hand – ergo one doesn’t eat with that hand in the company of Arabs.
After dinner, Saba led me down the street to a cabaret in a basement. It was a mean, smoke-filled room with small tables and chairs - occupied by fifty or so patrons crowded on all three sides of a cramped, parquet dance floor.
After setting me up on an over-stuffed, leather bench seat attached to the wall – Saba left me. As she departed, Saba ordered us a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a bucket of ice. While I waited, to nurse my loneliness, I poured a stiff Scotch-rocks.
After a half-hour went by, a five-man traditional Arabic ensemble or Takht - employing the oud, nay, qanun, jawzah and tabla – struck up an exotic Arabic tune with soul-stirring rhythm.
The Arabian “Takht” has been around for centuries.
Then a spotlight snapped-on: Illuminating a glittering Saba in a belly-dancer’s costume. Her red silk scarf was wound round her body - eventually she seductively removed the scarf - revealing a fantastic figure.
Her dance routine was highly skilled, polished and erotic - as she exhibited pure enjoyment of this traditional Middle Eastern art form. She’d been dancing at this club for the past two years.
As a teenager, dear reader, devouring books on the Middle East had always held a special fascination for me. Especially regarding erotic belly dancers I had observed in the movies. Always wanting to date one - at least once in my life - I’d totally forgotten the old adage: “Be careful what you wish for.”
After adequately working the dance floor, Saba moves through the Audience - laughing, teasing and taunting patrons with her red scarf. Eventually she works her way to my table – resting on a platform against the wall - wrapping her scarf similar to a turban on my head. Sheepishly I grinned as the audience cheered with approval.
After completing her performance, Saba disappeared to her dressing room, only to reappear ten minutes later and join me on my couch. She was still in costume, with her red scarf wrapped around her upper body.
After bumping back several neat, double Scotches, I casually suggested, in English, “Whoa...Saba. M-Maybe you should slow down and let that Scotch b-breathe a little.”
Giggling wantonly, Saba responded by bumping back another double, then arched her back, raised her arms and ran her long, red nails over the back of my head. It was at that moment I discovered her voluptuous breasts straining against the silk scarf, exposing erect, hard nipples.
Could it be Saba had removed her bra, dear reader?
As if reading my mind, Saba lowers her arms and takes both my hands - sliding them up under the scarf – on top her twin, amazingly-natural Moroccan wonders.
So much for letting the “Scotch breath,” dear reader - happily my fat fingers lightly massaged those perfect, warm “mangoes.”
It was approaching 2:A.M., when Saba and I climbed the stairs to her spacious, second-floor flat, and rolled drunkenly into her bedroom.
Her dark, Lilliputian-wisp of a Berber maid undressed both of us – then vanished. We stood nude on either side of the big brass bed, when Saba extended her hand and demanded “floos” (money).
This took me by surprise, because I had already paid her. Gently, I pointed this out to her, thinking the booze had made her forget. To the contrary, this simply made her angry – she again demanded more “floos!”
I then proceeded to get dressed, telling her perhaps we were both a bit too drunk, and should call it a night. In spite of this, she came to my side of the bed - stopped me - then ordered me to bed.
Reluctantly I complied – after which Saba stretched out on top of me and began making love in an almost passionate rage – biting my neck and shoulder. To stop the pain – I rolled her off of me onto her back.
Tenderly I caressed her face, neck and stunning breasts - which seemed to calm her down - as she arched her back and moaned.
Ultimately, Saba stretched out her right hand - as if reaching for something under a pillow. As I gently kissed her breasts - I ran my left hand along her right arm to feel what she’s reaching for. Upon making contact with the item Saba gripped under the pillow – I froze and muttered, “Saba...w-what the hell?”
In a flash, Saba whipped out from underneath the pillow a Damascus dagger - evilly honed, to a long, thin, needle-like point!
She stabbed at my heart! I barely blocked the thrust with my left forearm - causing her blade to go under my arm - slashing down my left rib cage!
I grabbed her right wrist with my right hand - keeping the blade away from me as I slipped behind her - while Saba struck and clawed at my face with her left hand. Her sharp nails leaving long scratches.
I raised my left fist – I’m about to SMASH her in the face! Enough is enough!
At the last instant, I froze, dear reader. Instinctively, what my grandfather and father - products of the Old West - had hammered me with took over: “Only a coward strikes a woman...even if she’s trying to kill you...there’s no excuse.”
Instead of clocking Saba, I locked her throat in the crook of my left arm. As she violently attempted to free her right hand in order to stab me - I steadily applied pressure on her throat – pinching off her windpipe and carotid arteries.
Ever so gradually, Saba ceased to struggle – in the end passing out.
I removed the knife from her grasp – went over to the opened French doors and pitched it into the night. Two stories below, I heard it clatter in the alley.
Afterward I entered the bathroom, flicked on the light, and checked myself out in the mirror. The long slash down my ribs wasn’t that deep – but it bled profusely. After washing it down with soap and water – using a washcloth – I taped two sanitary napkins over it to stop the bleeding. Following that I cleansed the scratches on my face, which was becoming swollen from Saba’s punches. She could really pack a wallop.
After drying off with a bath towel, I got dressed. Before I left that apartment, though, I gently rolled Saba over and placed my ear on her chest. Satisfied that her heartbeat and breathing were regular, I tenderly covered her with a downy comforter to keep her warm.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at her, I gently removed an errant strand of hair from her flawless face. She stirred and moaned – then fell silent.
Still in shock from this evening’s events, dear reader, it finally occurred to me that never before had I seen Saba drunk. Obviously the woman couldn’t handle alcohol – aside from this - where had all that rage come from?
I stood, and my parting words to her were this:
“B-Baby...you absolutely gotta s-slow down and let that Scotch breathe.”
As I hoofed it back to my hotel that night, dear reader, I pondered the risks I was taking at Casablanca. In future, I would never “bid” a line with a Casablanca layover again. So far, I’ve managed to avoid Morocco altogether.
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