The Blue Hour
“We’d be driving along at fifty miles an hour, and out of nowhere would come a loud glottal belch from the engine that was evidently on the verge of cardiac arrest. These eruptive internal combustion noises didn’t seem to faze the driver, a man named Simo: wiry, edgy, around fifty, with a pronounced hack cough courtesy of a ferocious cigarette habit. In the four hours it took us to reach Casablanca, he always had a cigarette on the go. When one was burned almost down to the filter, he reached fo...r the packet on the seat next to him and lit a fresh one off the remnants of the one that was about to expire.
Simo insisted that I sit in the backseat, where I had both windows wide open to rid the car of his incessant cloud of smoke, and to provide some ventilation on a torpid night when the humidity and the actual mercury level made the air seem as glutinous as maple syrup. Simo also made it very clear that, outside of driving me, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. When I asked him if he knew the address that Fouad had given him, he nodded.MoreLess
Simo insisted that I sit in the backseat, where I had both windows wide open to rid the car of his incessant cloud of smoke, and to provide some ventilation on a torpid night when the humidity and the actual mercury level made the air seem as glutinous as maple syrup. Simo also made it very clear that, outside of driving me, he wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. When I asked him if he knew the address that Fouad had given him, he nodded.MoreLess
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