OOM: Marrakech, Morocco, 1938
[March 8th, 1938]
It's the second day, and that means it's time to hit the souks North of Jemaa-el-Fna.
No more exploring and playing around, or trying to find interesting ways for Indy to encounter snakes - the second day means business, means detective work. The souks mean antiques. Antiques means the idol.
It’s different here, not like the square, not designed to be open. Close rows, stalls almost right on top of each other, a market spreading into streets and alleys. This way for copper, that for gold, for ivory, for ceramics, for textiles. It’s a high-pressure environment both for buyers and sellers: if you want to make a profit you have to be able to talk faster and smoother than the guy less than a foot away from you; if you want to make sure you’re not swindled you have to be sharp, and attentive, and have a good eye for detail. Regardless of what side of the table you’re standing on, you have to be merciless.
Veronica drinks it all in.
There are different approaches she could take, and she’s been considering them. While Indy slept on the plane she listened in on the other passengers’ conversations, and read over notes she’d copied by hand from webpages on the region from her time (notes she subsequently burned once they were off the plane). She filled an old-fashioned spiral-bound notebook with cryptically-written thoughts to herself, like a football coach trying to sort out the next play, all the while keeping in mind the narrative guidelines she’d picked up from rewatching the movies. This was Indiana Jones, after all. Things were probably going to work a certain way.
She just hoped it didn’t involve fire pits or truck bombs.
In the market she bunches her period-appropriate skirt, a brief moment of nerves and frustration (Pockets, she thinks, clothing should always have pockets.) then brushes out the wrinkles. She looks like a tourist and she knows it: her clothes may match the time but not the place. This, however, was intentional. All part of the plan.
“Right,” she says, turning to Indy. “Time for Phase One.” The capital letters are audible.
“What’s that?” he asks.
“Ask questions.” A grin. “This is the part I’m good at.”
So they do. Veronica never attempts to use anything less than loud, ballsy, American English, and leaves all of the translating to Indy. Her questions are straightforward and, well, honest, enough so that Indy gives her a couple You sure you know what you’re doing? looks - she ignores him.
“Have you seen a golden idol?” is asked, over and over. She describes it in detail to each antiques dealer they encounter, which by noon is already easily dozens. The clever ones tell her no, but isn’t this one similar? and wouldn’t the lady like it? it will bring her fortune and happiness. The cleverer ones tell her no, but not today, perhaps tomorrow, they’ve seen something like it, they can get it for her if she is willing to pay a little more.
In return, she tells them actually, it belonged to her grandfather, and someone stole it, and she’s here to get it back. No, she’s not looking to pay. If she finds out who has it, well, there are laws, and things - her family’s well connected, see. They have friends in Morocco who will help make sure it’s returned intact. No questions asked. No profit.
All of this delivered with a perfect smile.
Most of the dealers back down at that point, backpedalling, saying oh no, oh no. Must’ve been mistaken. Now that they look more closely, that’s not it at all. They send her on her way.
Veronica and Indy stop for lunch, eventually.
“I’m not sure we’re getting anywhere,” he says, halfway through his meal.
“I’m not sure either, yet,” she admits. “But I’ll let you know when we walk back past. If anyone’s still glaring, we’ve got ourselves a lead.”
“Is this still Phase One?”
“No, this is Phase Two.” She flashes him a grin. “Making enemies. We’re both good at that.”
After lunch it’s back to work. More questions, more apparently dead ends. Word’s spreading, she can tell, people are quicker to change the topic, trying to get her to buy something else entirely. And she does pick up a thing or two, to keep the balance and to maintain the image that she’s in the money - besides, she feels obliged to bring back at least a few souvenirs.
But the day wears on, and still the market seems nearly endless. There’s no success, nothing that Veronica feels she can really latch onto, and she begins internally cursing this plan which relied so much on a gamble and her ability to predict human nature. If only these guys kept records of their trinkets on their PDAs, or sent e-mails to each other about their French Nazi sympathizer friends. She’s out of her element.
It’s hot, although the sun’s lowering: Veronica can feel the sweat trickling down her back. Some of the owners of the smaller stalls begin closing down for the day, and she feels an intense pang of frustration. Just a few more, and maybe they’ll start again tomorrow. But that’ll ruin it, she knows. This plan is based on not letting their opponent think things through.
“Things are winding down, here,” Indy points out, raising his eyebrows at her.
“Yeah, I know.” She sighs. “Just a few more, okay?”
It’s tough to force the smile back on, but she does, and approaches the dark-skinned man behind the next stall: a sizable affair covered in trinkets, tiny statues, bracelets, artifacts Veronica can’t put a name to.
“Hi,” she says, charming as she can, “I’m -”
”I know who you are!” he cuts her off instantly in heavily accented English. Scowling, and waving a finger in her face, he continues, “This is a place of business! You cannot come here and expect to get something for free! Everything here has been acquired fairly through business means! You are spreading slander!”
Bystanders, distracted by the shouting, are staring. Veronica stutters, “I just -”
”I will not talk to you! Go away!”
True to his word, he crosses his arms on his chest and glares until they depart.
Veronica waits until they’ve rounded a corner, out of sight, and then she turns to Indy and beams. “Bingo.”
“You think so?”
“You better hope I am, Doctor Jones.” She grabs a youngish boy, scurrying past, and grabs his hand in hers. There’s a faint clink of metal. “Ask him who that guy was.”
Indy translates, and the boy replies, looking slightly shocked and fearful.
“Huh.”
“Got it?”
“Yeah, you can let him go.”
Veronica does, and the boy looks down at his hand. Seeing the coins now held within, he grins like a watermelon and takes off down the street at top speed.
Indy tells her, “The guy’s Ibrahim Fawaz. Kid said he works for Saad Hassim.”
“Right.” Veronica nods. “Let’s go somewhere where we’re a little less well-known.”
They wind their way through the alleyways of the North Market until they’ve returned to the Market Square, where the day stalls are departing to make way for the evening entertainments. It takes a few tries but Indy eventually finds someone who’s heard of Hassim, and who can point them in the right direction. The address the man describes is just a few blocks away, so they decide to head over after a quick stop at the hotel, which gives them a chance to grab a quick dinner, and Veronica the opportunity to change.
It’s fully dark when they head out again. The Market Square is as busy as ever but they leave it behind, and after a few minutes of walking the crowds have thinned to nothing and the press of commerce is remembered only as the sound of many voices on the wind and that distinct smell of people on the air.
They’re a bit more alone, here, which allows Indy to ask, “What makes you think it’s this guy?”
She shrugs. “That guy didn’t want to lose his cut. I imagine that thing would have been a pretty big sale, and if he - or whoever he passes things along up to - had to hand it over for nothing? Well, that’s going to cut into your profit margins.”
“So basically... this is a guess, based on the fact that he got annoyed with you.”
“Yup.”
“But don’t people get annoyed with you all the time?”
She punches him on the arm.
The building, when they arrive at it, is quite large, and rather nicer than some of the others in the area. It even has a guard on the door, smoking a cigarette but not appearing unalert. Veronica and Indy walk past without changing their pace, pretending to talk about something inane, not paying attention to the building. Once they’re past and out of sight, they become serious again.
“I think it’s time for Phase Three,” Veronica says to Indy, in a hushed voice. “This is the part that you are good at.”
He glances at her. “Yeah? What’s that?”
Her grin, all teeth, is like a half-moon in the dark. “Thrilling adventure.”