Those sad, retrospective words …

I am guilty of not staying in touch with old friends. Now I am paying a bitter price.

In December 2015, when I had finalised plans to come to France, I tried to find an old mate, an Englishman named Andrew Robertson. I knew him in Casablanca between 1977 and 1980. We both taught English, he at International House and I at The British Centre.

Just as a fun thing, we formed a little band with an Englishwoman and a Moroccan. Andrew played bass and I played rhythm guitar. We rehearsed in his flat and drank and smoked and listened to Steely Dan. We played little gigs from time to time at the Churchill Club, near the beach.

Thirty-five years later, I decided to make a big effort to track Andrew down and I managed to get his email address. I was in a day-dream at the prospect of catching up with him again, maybe even playing a rusty old number or two. His wife, Jan, responded to my exploratory email …

 “Wow ! The 1970's. Almost another life! Still good to hear from you, though I'm really sorry to have to tell you that Andrew died just over a year ago - from cancer, age 66 years. And I know he would have been thrilled to have heard from you - we wondered from time to time about you when we were musing on Casablanca days.”

The elation I felt reading Jan’s opening words was short-lived. It was a crushing blow to learn of Andrew’s death.

Even more cutting was that he had a daughter living in Melbourne and had been out to visit her in 2010. We could easily have caught up

Now that I am living in France, I decided to try to re-establish contact with a Moroccan friend from those Casablanca days. I looked for Ahmed Bensemami on Facebook. Nothing. I tried just the surname Bensemami.

I found only one profile, a young man from Casablanca who bore a striking resemblance to my friend. I sent him a friend request with  a speculative message saying I knew a man named Ahmed Bensemami in Casablanca in the late 1970’s. I said he’d married a woman named Fouzia in 1980.

 I asked the young man if he happened to know him.

I wasn’t really expecting to hear back. But very soon I got an acceptance of my friend request.

I again asked if he knew Ahmed Bensemami. I was overjoyed to get this response …

 “Hi Tony, I know you because they told us about you, Ahmed and Fouzia are my parents.

“My parents talked many times about you and the friendship you had with my dad, that you were married to a Moroccan named Soumia I think.”

I was almost beside myself. What luck!

I sent this message …

“Oh my God I can’t believe it. I am now living in France. Can you give me your father’s phone number or email address? I am very emotional.  It has been such a long time and I’ve thought about this over many years.”

Then came Mohamed’s reply …

“ I am feeling very emotional too. This is something we don’t expect. I am sad to announce that my father and mother both died of cancer in 2012.

“My father would've been so happy to find you back after all these years, he long searched for you, he even thought of contacting Oprah to help him find you.

“One day I remember finding a black and white picture of you in our house when you had a slightly long hair.”

These words cut me to the core, with knives sharpened by guilt and regret.  If only I had made an effort to re-kindle our friendship all those years ago. If only …. if only…