Casablanca With Mad King Ruprecht the Fish.
Created | Updated Feb 13, 2003
Morocco, 1941.
With the coming of the Second World War many eyes in imprisoned Europe turned hopefully or desperately to the freedom of the Americas. This was a difficult concept to reconcile in as much as the most sensible course of action to my mind would have been to turn hopefully or desperately into a Nazi.
Lisbon became the great embarkation point; but not everybody could get to Lisbon directly and so a torturous roundabout refugee trail sprang up. Paris to Marseille - usually via the expedient of some suspicious onion sporting fellows who's vulgar taste in striped attire was matched only by their misguided belief that being forcibly crammed into a barrel and hurled from a bridge into the Seine was the only way a gentleman ought to travel.
Across the Mediterranean to Oran, then by train or automobile or foot across the rim of Africa to Casablanca in French Morocco. Here, the fortunate ones; through money or influence or luck or indeed a large stick punctuated with rusty nails, might obtain exit visas and scurry to Lisbon - and from Lisbon to the New World. Once there, they could then be mugged, murdered or taken in complex confidence scams content in the knowledge that they had finally reached civilisation.
But the others wait in Casablanca - and wait, and wait, and wait.
So whilst you wait, why not sample the charms and delights of Ruprecht's Cafe Americain.... only two minutes from this refugee camp.
My star had fallen from grace somewhat in recent years and through a series of catastrophic circumstances, disastrous investments and grisly crimes that I shall not speak of here, I had found myself an exile from my beloved country and running this cheap, tacky gambling establishment in the Godforsaken anus of Africa. I had been tried in my absence. I had been convicted in my absence. I was going to make pretty damned sure that my public execution by electric chair would also be conducted in my absence. So I had immersed myself in the broiling cosmopolitan world of Casablanca, observing the rich and varied peoples from afar with a cold, calculating and cynical eye.
World weary and pessimistic I stood apart from the throng, watching the pointless traffic of society, analysing deep beneath the rind and extracting the very pith and marrow from humanity. In many ways that is exactly what Ruprecht's Cafe Americain stood for - taking the pith out of humanity at a discount rate that anyone could afford.
The day that I had heard of the double murder of two German couriers bearing valuable transit letters from Oran had seemed at first to be much like any other. People were killed on a daily basis in the war torn French territories, but when I discovered that said letters were personally signed by Charles de Gaulle himself and would guarantee safe passage to whomsoever had them in their possession, I suddenly detected that there was something extremely Vichy going on. It was not long before that fawning and goggle eyed black-marketeer Ugarte had entered my private offices carrying these very visas and enquiring whether I should be so good as to keep them safe whilst the entire Vichy Gendarme turned the city upside down in search of them.
The optimist inside me decided that this would be the last place in which they would be found. My internal pessimist confirmed that this would probably turn out to be the case.
I reasoned that the safest location in which to ensconse these incriminating documents was beneath the lid of Sam's piano where no man would dare approach. The piano had been a gift from Paris, designed to span the bottomless gaping void that existed between Sam and Beethoven, and though it was perhaps expecting miracles that he regularly keep up with the band it would have been polite if he were to at least stay in touch occasionally. In any case, I was confident that no Nazi stooge would dare venture near the accursed instrument - a quick tuneless rendition of 'As Time Goes By' would certainly see to that.
Later that night I was to be visited by three Hollywood stereotypes, each one more terrifying than the last. I was informed that I should expect the first at around midnightand sure enough Capitaine Louis Renault, Casablanca's Chief of Police, had squeezed his impressive bulk betwixt the saloon doors and waddled determinedly in my direction.
Renault was probably the most corrupt city official in the entire history of corrupt city officials; a gambler, a womaniser and a proponent of creative mathematics who had proven the entire field of public service spending to be not so much of an exponential curve but in fact totally and utterly bent. We had reached a working understanding during my years in Morocco - I allowed him to win regularly at the roulette table and he strived not to break the furniture or attract small objects in orbit around his monumental frame. Here was the breed of rapscallion that always kept a hip flask of brandy about his person in case he were stung by a venomous scorpion - which he also always kept about his person.
Renault had warned me that the Cafe Americain was to be frequented tonight by Major Heinrich Strasser or the Third Reich, who had commuted all the way from Berlin to witness the arrest of the murderer cum visa thief who was causing such a sensation about the town.
No sooner had Renault concluded his tale of foreboding that the doors swung ajar and in goose-stepped the very object of our concern. Displaying an arrogance typical of his breed, Strasser annexed the bar in the name of the Fatherland, invaded several tables whilst placing the blame on Poland and struck one unfortunate couple repeatedly about the face with his leather driving gloves, assuring them all the time that he was merely adhering to his orders.
Strasser had greeted me in the traditional warm German manner and after regaining consciousness I had been informed of the true purpose for his visit. It had transpired that one Victor Laszlo; agitator, demagogue and enemy of the Reich; was arriving in Casablanca on his way to America and would be seeking to access travel permits to board the aircraft to Lisbon. Laszlo was to be detained at all costs and returned to the concentration camp of Dachau, where his propaganda machine would no longer present a risk to the stability of Nazi Germany.
These were indeed terrible tidings. My own experience of the camp system had been nightmarish to say the least. The food was unfit for human consumption, the accommodation cramped, squalid and rife with disease, and those machine gun towers could get damned chilly in the middle of January. Despite this I was not about to make the mistake of becoming involved in the fate of Laszlo, preferring instead to adopt a stand of neutrality and watch the whole debacle unfold from the comfort of the underside of a Blackjack table.
I sincerely hoped that the entire gruesome act would be played out in the city streets, the airport or, for preference, somewhere in the vast expanse of the Sahara Desert - anywhere in fact but on my own front doorstep.
After all, this was Ruprecht's Cafe Americain - not a place of entertainment.
Had I known from the outset how deeply I was to become embroiled in the affairs of Victor Laszlo I would have sold my Cafe and signed up for the Wehrmacht on the spot. Laszlo himself had turned out to be a suave, sophisticated, amiable, intelligent and smooth talking gentleman and as such had become the sworn enemy of all present within fifteen minutes; but for myself the real problems began as I looked upon the demure and moist eyed vision of womanhood at his side. I knew that perfect face like the dorsum of my own carpal integument - it belonged to none other than one Ilsa Lunn, the only woman in this tired, dreary world that I had ever loved.
Ours had been a fast and furious romance set against the occupation of Paris in the summer of 1940. Technically, it had been I who had been fast and Ilsa who had been furious but in those final desperate days we had experienced far more important traumas that had conveniently masked these aggrevious biological failings.
Together we had planned to flee for the coast, but on that fateful day of escape my entire world had been torn out by the libido. Ilsa was a good woman as women go and as good women go she went - straight back into the arms of Laszlo, the husband of whos existence she had carelessly neglected to inform me.
As I stood alone on the station platform sorrowfully reading Ilsa's final letter of apology I recall thinking aloud whether this was the end of civilisation as we knew it. A passing guard had helpfully indicated that it was merely a final letter of apology and then gone on to enquire whether I was boarding the bloody train or not, at which point I had sworn myself to the bachelors life, vowed never again to have dealings with the gentler sex and, after a brief fracas with a sarcastic French railworker, boarded the train for Marseille.
And now, out of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she had walked into mine, once again making me acutely aware of the need for a larger and clearer 'Please Mind Your Head' sign over the main entrance. Meticulously I had adhered to my batchelorhood, coldly casting aside any female who had ventured too near in my affections. If the urge to marry ever rose within me I had a special arrangement whereby a lady in facepack and curlers was sent to my room to burn my toast and refuse me conjugal rights. But one look from Ilsa Lunn had changed all that in an instant and I had embarked upon a tangled web of deception and intrigue that culminated with my escorting the runaway couple to the airport and the plane to freedom.
Utilising superior cunning I had convinced Ilsa that I would be the one to board the plane and travel at her side to the New World. I had convinced Laszlo that it would be he destined to escort Miss Lunn to America and continue his work in the cause of emancipation. I had convinced Capitaine Renault that being shot through the heart at point blank range amounted to an extremely poor career move. I had convinced myself that I had at least a rudimentary notion of what in the hells I was doing.
So, leading the globular Vichy collaborator at gunpoint toward the runway I oversaw the signing of the troublesome travel visas in the name of Mr and Mrs Laszlo. Admittedly, this entire ad hoc scheme was being contrived as I went along but now I clearly saw that Ilsa, that most beloved of my near Mrs, belonged on that plane with Victor. Despite her protestations to the contrary I pointedly indicated that she had no conception of what to look forward to in the event of remaining here with me. A cursory estimate of the odds foretold at least a ninety per cent likelihood of us both being invited to reside in the nearest concentration camp.
As I continued, those alluring blue eyes began to well with tears of vexation. Dear, sweet Ilsa - a rhododendron by any other name would be infinitely simpler to spell. Inhaling deeply and steeling my resolve, I blundered on.
Explaining that deep inside we were both aware that she belonged with Victor, I ventured that Ilsa constituted an integral component of his work; the very source of his energy and vigour. Given that Laszlo's work largely consisted of blowing up Germans via the medium of plastique filled Weiner schnitzel this was perhaps not to be encouraged - good Weiner schnitzel was exceptionally difficult to come by. Despite this misgiving I thought better of clouding the issue with my own personal politics and intimated that should leave the ground without Ilsa aboard then she should hav cause to regret it.
Obviously this may not occur right from the offing, the following diurnal cycle or even within the immediately forseeable future - but happen it would, soon, and for the expected duration of her corporeal allocation.
At this point the thought did cross my mind that Ilsa's remaining apportionment of life amounted to a statistical foregone conclusion were she to remain in Casablanca, and that this allotment would expire well in advance of any emotional leanings toward regret. The thought of the odd brief nocturnal wriggle prior to this cessation of breathing privelages also crossed my mind, accompanied by an alarming display of vulgar hand gestures. Fortunately, whilst crossing, these ignoble ideas were promptly quashed by the spiky wheeled juggernaut of reason and a semblance of decorum was hastily re-established.
In a final bid to send the old girl packing to the land of the free I deemed it necessary to highlight the insignificance of our plight when measured against the great ineffable scheme of creation. Indicating that aspirations to nobility were well outside my remit, I hazarded that such qualities were unnecessary to identify that the problems of three diminutive persons failed to equate to an elevation of small pulse vegetables in this crazy world. Of course, this was our elevation and these were our small pulse vegetables; but far be it from me to put the kibosh on such a damnedly fine exercise in rhetoric.
At last I observed that my arguement had been heeded and that Ilsa had finally yielded to reason. Fixing her with a closing loving stare and a brave winsome smile, I through in the incontrovertible one liner, 'Here's looking at you kid.' It was a disastrous climax I admit, to have tossed out such a feeble and immemorable testimony to the true love of my life at the zenith of our ultimate conversation. It was particularly galling as in the field of great one liners I was widely regarded as one of the worlds foremost tossers, albeit in my absence as to presumably spare my modesty.
And so it came to pass that Ilsa Lunn, at great speed and with not so much as a rearward glance, bolted into the arms of Victor Laszlo who stood waiting in the cargo hold of the last aircraft to Lisbon. As Capitaine Renault and I stood mournfully in the gloom there awakened within me a flame of honour and pride at having sacrificed my own happiness for the furtherment of others. A wide grin spread across my features and I began to wave joyously as the happy couple secured themselves aboard and drove home the bolts of the sliding fuselage door. As the plane began to taxi down the runway, only then did I discern the red stencilled lettering along the door that had previously remained unseen within the hold.
'LUFTHANSA FLIEGERKORPS. Privat Flugzeug die Geheime Staats Polizie, Berlin, Deutchland.'
All things considered I had probably just comprehensively buggered a beautiful friendship.
With the coming of the Second World War many eyes in imprisoned Europe turned hopefully or desperately to the freedom of the Americas. This was a difficult concept to reconcile in as much as the most sensible course of action to my mind would have been to turn hopefully or desperately into a Nazi.
Lisbon became the great embarkation point; but not everybody could get to Lisbon directly and so a torturous roundabout refugee trail sprang up. Paris to Marseille - usually via the expedient of some suspicious onion sporting fellows who's vulgar taste in striped attire was matched only by their misguided belief that being forcibly crammed into a barrel and hurled from a bridge into the Seine was the only way a gentleman ought to travel.
Across the Mediterranean to Oran, then by train or automobile or foot across the rim of Africa to Casablanca in French Morocco. Here, the fortunate ones; through money or influence or luck or indeed a large stick punctuated with rusty nails, might obtain exit visas and scurry to Lisbon - and from Lisbon to the New World. Once there, they could then be mugged, murdered or taken in complex confidence scams content in the knowledge that they had finally reached civilisation.
But the others wait in Casablanca - and wait, and wait, and wait.
So whilst you wait, why not sample the charms and delights of Ruprecht's Cafe Americain.... only two minutes from this refugee camp.
My star had fallen from grace somewhat in recent years and through a series of catastrophic circumstances, disastrous investments and grisly crimes that I shall not speak of here, I had found myself an exile from my beloved country and running this cheap, tacky gambling establishment in the Godforsaken anus of Africa. I had been tried in my absence. I had been convicted in my absence. I was going to make pretty damned sure that my public execution by electric chair would also be conducted in my absence. So I had immersed myself in the broiling cosmopolitan world of Casablanca, observing the rich and varied peoples from afar with a cold, calculating and cynical eye.
World weary and pessimistic I stood apart from the throng, watching the pointless traffic of society, analysing deep beneath the rind and extracting the very pith and marrow from humanity. In many ways that is exactly what Ruprecht's Cafe Americain stood for - taking the pith out of humanity at a discount rate that anyone could afford.
The day that I had heard of the double murder of two German couriers bearing valuable transit letters from Oran had seemed at first to be much like any other. People were killed on a daily basis in the war torn French territories, but when I discovered that said letters were personally signed by Charles de Gaulle himself and would guarantee safe passage to whomsoever had them in their possession, I suddenly detected that there was something extremely Vichy going on. It was not long before that fawning and goggle eyed black-marketeer Ugarte had entered my private offices carrying these very visas and enquiring whether I should be so good as to keep them safe whilst the entire Vichy Gendarme turned the city upside down in search of them.
The optimist inside me decided that this would be the last place in which they would be found. My internal pessimist confirmed that this would probably turn out to be the case.
I reasoned that the safest location in which to ensconse these incriminating documents was beneath the lid of Sam's piano where no man would dare approach. The piano had been a gift from Paris, designed to span the bottomless gaping void that existed between Sam and Beethoven, and though it was perhaps expecting miracles that he regularly keep up with the band it would have been polite if he were to at least stay in touch occasionally. In any case, I was confident that no Nazi stooge would dare venture near the accursed instrument - a quick tuneless rendition of 'As Time Goes By' would certainly see to that.
Later that night I was to be visited by three Hollywood stereotypes, each one more terrifying than the last. I was informed that I should expect the first at around midnightand sure enough Capitaine Louis Renault, Casablanca's Chief of Police, had squeezed his impressive bulk betwixt the saloon doors and waddled determinedly in my direction.
Renault was probably the most corrupt city official in the entire history of corrupt city officials; a gambler, a womaniser and a proponent of creative mathematics who had proven the entire field of public service spending to be not so much of an exponential curve but in fact totally and utterly bent. We had reached a working understanding during my years in Morocco - I allowed him to win regularly at the roulette table and he strived not to break the furniture or attract small objects in orbit around his monumental frame. Here was the breed of rapscallion that always kept a hip flask of brandy about his person in case he were stung by a venomous scorpion - which he also always kept about his person.
Renault had warned me that the Cafe Americain was to be frequented tonight by Major Heinrich Strasser or the Third Reich, who had commuted all the way from Berlin to witness the arrest of the murderer cum visa thief who was causing such a sensation about the town.
No sooner had Renault concluded his tale of foreboding that the doors swung ajar and in goose-stepped the very object of our concern. Displaying an arrogance typical of his breed, Strasser annexed the bar in the name of the Fatherland, invaded several tables whilst placing the blame on Poland and struck one unfortunate couple repeatedly about the face with his leather driving gloves, assuring them all the time that he was merely adhering to his orders.
Strasser had greeted me in the traditional warm German manner and after regaining consciousness I had been informed of the true purpose for his visit. It had transpired that one Victor Laszlo; agitator, demagogue and enemy of the Reich; was arriving in Casablanca on his way to America and would be seeking to access travel permits to board the aircraft to Lisbon. Laszlo was to be detained at all costs and returned to the concentration camp of Dachau, where his propaganda machine would no longer present a risk to the stability of Nazi Germany.
These were indeed terrible tidings. My own experience of the camp system had been nightmarish to say the least. The food was unfit for human consumption, the accommodation cramped, squalid and rife with disease, and those machine gun towers could get damned chilly in the middle of January. Despite this I was not about to make the mistake of becoming involved in the fate of Laszlo, preferring instead to adopt a stand of neutrality and watch the whole debacle unfold from the comfort of the underside of a Blackjack table.
I sincerely hoped that the entire gruesome act would be played out in the city streets, the airport or, for preference, somewhere in the vast expanse of the Sahara Desert - anywhere in fact but on my own front doorstep.
After all, this was Ruprecht's Cafe Americain - not a place of entertainment.
Had I known from the outset how deeply I was to become embroiled in the affairs of Victor Laszlo I would have sold my Cafe and signed up for the Wehrmacht on the spot. Laszlo himself had turned out to be a suave, sophisticated, amiable, intelligent and smooth talking gentleman and as such had become the sworn enemy of all present within fifteen minutes; but for myself the real problems began as I looked upon the demure and moist eyed vision of womanhood at his side. I knew that perfect face like the dorsum of my own carpal integument - it belonged to none other than one Ilsa Lunn, the only woman in this tired, dreary world that I had ever loved.
Ours had been a fast and furious romance set against the occupation of Paris in the summer of 1940. Technically, it had been I who had been fast and Ilsa who had been furious but in those final desperate days we had experienced far more important traumas that had conveniently masked these aggrevious biological failings.
Together we had planned to flee for the coast, but on that fateful day of escape my entire world had been torn out by the libido. Ilsa was a good woman as women go and as good women go she went - straight back into the arms of Laszlo, the husband of whos existence she had carelessly neglected to inform me.
As I stood alone on the station platform sorrowfully reading Ilsa's final letter of apology I recall thinking aloud whether this was the end of civilisation as we knew it. A passing guard had helpfully indicated that it was merely a final letter of apology and then gone on to enquire whether I was boarding the bloody train or not, at which point I had sworn myself to the bachelors life, vowed never again to have dealings with the gentler sex and, after a brief fracas with a sarcastic French railworker, boarded the train for Marseille.
And now, out of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she had walked into mine, once again making me acutely aware of the need for a larger and clearer 'Please Mind Your Head' sign over the main entrance. Meticulously I had adhered to my batchelorhood, coldly casting aside any female who had ventured too near in my affections. If the urge to marry ever rose within me I had a special arrangement whereby a lady in facepack and curlers was sent to my room to burn my toast and refuse me conjugal rights. But one look from Ilsa Lunn had changed all that in an instant and I had embarked upon a tangled web of deception and intrigue that culminated with my escorting the runaway couple to the airport and the plane to freedom.
Utilising superior cunning I had convinced Ilsa that I would be the one to board the plane and travel at her side to the New World. I had convinced Laszlo that it would be he destined to escort Miss Lunn to America and continue his work in the cause of emancipation. I had convinced Capitaine Renault that being shot through the heart at point blank range amounted to an extremely poor career move. I had convinced myself that I had at least a rudimentary notion of what in the hells I was doing.
So, leading the globular Vichy collaborator at gunpoint toward the runway I oversaw the signing of the troublesome travel visas in the name of Mr and Mrs Laszlo. Admittedly, this entire ad hoc scheme was being contrived as I went along but now I clearly saw that Ilsa, that most beloved of my near Mrs, belonged on that plane with Victor. Despite her protestations to the contrary I pointedly indicated that she had no conception of what to look forward to in the event of remaining here with me. A cursory estimate of the odds foretold at least a ninety per cent likelihood of us both being invited to reside in the nearest concentration camp.
As I continued, those alluring blue eyes began to well with tears of vexation. Dear, sweet Ilsa - a rhododendron by any other name would be infinitely simpler to spell. Inhaling deeply and steeling my resolve, I blundered on.
Explaining that deep inside we were both aware that she belonged with Victor, I ventured that Ilsa constituted an integral component of his work; the very source of his energy and vigour. Given that Laszlo's work largely consisted of blowing up Germans via the medium of plastique filled Weiner schnitzel this was perhaps not to be encouraged - good Weiner schnitzel was exceptionally difficult to come by. Despite this misgiving I thought better of clouding the issue with my own personal politics and intimated that should leave the ground without Ilsa aboard then she should hav cause to regret it.
Obviously this may not occur right from the offing, the following diurnal cycle or even within the immediately forseeable future - but happen it would, soon, and for the expected duration of her corporeal allocation.
At this point the thought did cross my mind that Ilsa's remaining apportionment of life amounted to a statistical foregone conclusion were she to remain in Casablanca, and that this allotment would expire well in advance of any emotional leanings toward regret. The thought of the odd brief nocturnal wriggle prior to this cessation of breathing privelages also crossed my mind, accompanied by an alarming display of vulgar hand gestures. Fortunately, whilst crossing, these ignoble ideas were promptly quashed by the spiky wheeled juggernaut of reason and a semblance of decorum was hastily re-established.
In a final bid to send the old girl packing to the land of the free I deemed it necessary to highlight the insignificance of our plight when measured against the great ineffable scheme of creation. Indicating that aspirations to nobility were well outside my remit, I hazarded that such qualities were unnecessary to identify that the problems of three diminutive persons failed to equate to an elevation of small pulse vegetables in this crazy world. Of course, this was our elevation and these were our small pulse vegetables; but far be it from me to put the kibosh on such a damnedly fine exercise in rhetoric.
At last I observed that my arguement had been heeded and that Ilsa had finally yielded to reason. Fixing her with a closing loving stare and a brave winsome smile, I through in the incontrovertible one liner, 'Here's looking at you kid.' It was a disastrous climax I admit, to have tossed out such a feeble and immemorable testimony to the true love of my life at the zenith of our ultimate conversation. It was particularly galling as in the field of great one liners I was widely regarded as one of the worlds foremost tossers, albeit in my absence as to presumably spare my modesty.
And so it came to pass that Ilsa Lunn, at great speed and with not so much as a rearward glance, bolted into the arms of Victor Laszlo who stood waiting in the cargo hold of the last aircraft to Lisbon. As Capitaine Renault and I stood mournfully in the gloom there awakened within me a flame of honour and pride at having sacrificed my own happiness for the furtherment of others. A wide grin spread across my features and I began to wave joyously as the happy couple secured themselves aboard and drove home the bolts of the sliding fuselage door. As the plane began to taxi down the runway, only then did I discern the red stencilled lettering along the door that had previously remained unseen within the hold.
'LUFTHANSA FLIEGERKORPS. Privat Flugzeug die Geheime Staats Polizie, Berlin, Deutchland.'
All things considered I had probably just comprehensively buggered a beautiful friendship.
