Rabat, 1960
‘It is thirty dirhams, mister,’ the stallholder said, ‘but for you I will give a very special price: fifty dirhams!’
At least, that was what Donald thought the man had said. Though his Arabic was coming on, not bad, in fact, he couldn’t always understand the ordinary locals, who spoke too fast for him. With the sympathetic Moroccan officials who were surprised a foreigner could speak their language at all, things were much better.
The stallholder grinned and held out the cloak to him. ‘It is a very good quality material, the best,’ he said, ‘and it is a very special cloak, for a special man.’
‘Is that so?’ Donald said, as he felt the cloak.
He hadn’t
…
