Michael Walsh's As Time Goes By: A Novel of Casablanca (book review)

Note: This a major revision of one of my first Epinions reviews. I wasn't too happy with either my original version or the rather low "turnout" hits-wise, so I decided to rewrite it almost completely. 

Part One: Confessions of a Rank Sentimentalist 

I love this book. 

As a guy who has read hundreds of novels and non-fiction works, I can be classified as a certified (and, some might add, certifiable) bibliophile, and most people would say, "Hey, he reads and reviews lots of books...doesn't he love them all?" 

Obviously, if I buy a book -- I rarely borrow books, and I haven't checked out any from the Miami Dade Public Library system in over 20 years -- I have to at least like it, so maybe I do love most of my books. I rarely say, point blank, that I love a book. 

I can, however, honestly say that I love Michael Walsh's As Time Goes By: A Novel of Casablanca. 

Not only am I a fan of the movie that is the well-spring from which Walsh derived this combination of prequel-sequel, but, unlike most of the books that I've bought over the years, I still remember how I found out about it, how much I paid for it, and that I walked 19 blocks from my house to the International Mall within hours of seeing Katie Couric interviewing the author on the Today show on a cool October morning in 1998. 

I rarely ever get excited about a book the way I did when As Time Goes By was published that fall of '98. I used to get a rush when I'd hear that Stephen King or Tom Clancy had a new novel out; indeed, I'd go to Waldenbooks (this was before I had either Juno Web or America Online) with my Preferred Reader discount card and my credit card or wad of cash and get a new Clancy offering in its first day on the shelves. Now I am less anxious and order new books from my fave authors online. 

I know people that know me will point at my love for Casablanca and say that I am such a big fan that I'd have walked to the mall as I did, and they would be right. I did feel a twinge of I hope this novel isn't as hokey as Scarlett seemed to be as I walked to the mall, but the siren call of a book that not only told the continuation of the Casablanca story but also filled in the blanks about Richard Blaine's past was just too hard to resist. (That I would later be involved in a somewhat bittersweet, confusing, and complicated romance of my own has nothing to do with my feelings about the novel, though the situation did, indeed, enhance my understanding of the Rick-Ilsa-Victor triangle.) The added factor that Walsh had married the fiction of Casablanca to the real-life assassination of a Nazi leader is also crucial to the success of this novel; had the story just focused on the romantic aspects, chances are that I'd have consigned As Time Goes By to the back shelves of my book collection. 

Part Two: A Brief Review of As Time Goes By

As Time Goes By: A Novel of Casablanca was ex-Time magazine music critic Michael Walsh’s second novel, and it serves as both prequel and sequel to one of the most popular movies of Hollywood’s Golden Age. Unlike Scarlett, Alexandra Ripley’s sequel to Margaret Mitchell‘s Gone With the Wind, As Time Goes By was neither widely praised nor reviled, perhaps because there was not as much media scrutiny for Walsh’s exploration of the lives of Ilsa, Rick, Victor Laszlo, Louis Renault, Sam, and all “the usual suspects” after the fade-to-black in Casablanca. 

Walsh was no fool when he undertook this project. Indeed, in his afterword, he says. “Everyone knows Casablanca. Everyone loves Casablanca. Therein lies both the challenge and the danger of writing a novel of Casablanca.” 

Walsh’s approach is to treat the movie as a centerpiece sandwiched between the two timelines depicted in the 38 chapters of his novel. His prose is crisp and fast moving, echoing the tone of the Epstein Twins’ screenplay while expanding the story both backward to Rick Blaine’s past in New York’s seedy underworld and to a perilous mission in Victor Laszlo’s Nazi-occupied homeland, Czechoslovakia. 

Purists -- and I know there are always going to be Casablanca fans who feel this way -- will probably say the movie was fine without a sequel (forgetting or ignoring the two failed TV series based on Casablanca), but this book is a pleasure to read. Particularly worth noting is how Walsh blends Casablanca’s fictional characters and historical reality. At the heart of As Time Goes By is Victor Laszlo’s involvement in Operation Hangman, the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, the Nazi “Protector of Moravia and Bohemia” and architect of Hitler’s “final solution.” Although the inclusion of the Casablanca cast is fiction, the details of the operation and of its tragic aftermath are historically accurate. 

Another bonus is Walsh’s literary talent. His narrative captures the pace of its source perfectly, and his ear for the characters’ voices is almost uncanny. Readers who allow themselves to fall under this novel’s spell will hear the voices of Claude Rains, Paul Heinreid, Ingrid Bergman, and especially Humphrey Bogart in the exchanges between characters. There are also many “inside gags” for knowing Casablanca fans within the pages of this wonderful novel, such as the inclusion of “As Time Goes By” composer Herman Hupfeld, into the storyline. Like the movie it plays homage to, As Time Goes By is romantic, witty, and dramatic. 

The Lisbon plane soared away from the dense, swirling fog of Casablanca, up and into the night. Below, the airport was plunged deep into the North African darkness, its only illumination the revolving beacon that perched atop the conning tower. The sirens of the French colonial police cars had faded into the night. Everything was quiet but the wind.

Almost lost in the mist, two men were walking together, away from the airport, away from the city, and into an uncertain future.

". . . of a beautiful friendship," said Richard Blaine, tugging on a cigarette as he walked. His hat was pulled down low on his forehead, and his trench coat was cinched tightly against the damp. Rick felt calmer than he had in years. In fact, he tried to remember when he had felt this certain of what he had done, and what he was about to do.

The shorter man walking beside him nodded. "Well, my friend, Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund are on their way to Lisbon," said Louis Renault. "I might have known you'd mix your newfound patriotism with a little larceny." He fished in his pocket and came up with ten thousand francs.

"That must have been very difficult for you, Ricky," he said. "Miss Lund is an extremely beautiful woman. I don't know that I should have been so gallant, even with money at stake."

"I guess that's the difference between you and me, Louie," Rick replied.

Ilsa Lund? Had it been only two days ago that she had walked back into his life? It seemed like a year. How could a woman change a man's fate so much so fast. Now his duty was to follow that fate, no matter where it might lead him.

"Anyway, you were gallant enough not to have me arrested, even though I'd just given the letters of transit to the most wanted man in the Third Reich and shot a Gestapo officer. By rights I should be in your hoosegow, getting ready to face a firing squad. Why the sudden change of heart? I never let you win that much at roulette."

The little man, smart and well turned out in his black colonial policeman's uniform, trod so lightly beside Rick Blaine that even in the stillness his footfalls were inaudible. Over the years, Louis Renault had found it preferable to leave as little mark on his surroundings as possible.

"I don't know," Renault replied. "Maybe it's because I like you. Maybe it's because I didn't like the late Major Heinrich Strasser. Maybe it's because you've cheated me out of the favors of two lovely ladies who were in dire need of my services in obtaining exit visas, and I insist on proper retribution. Maybe it's because you won our bet, and I'd like a chance to get my money back."

"And maybe it's because you're cheap," said Rick. "What difference does it make? You lost, fair and square." He finished his cigarette and sent the glowing butt sparking against the tarmac. He searched the sky, but her plane was long gone. "So did I."