The Final Bet

by Abdelilah Hamdouchi

  Alwaar took his time before asking the next question.

  “And Othman Latlabi, did he know about the will?”

  “No,” replied the accountant in a firm voice. “She was extremely vigilant on that point.”

  Alwaar closed his notebook and paused for a moment, wondering if there was anything else worth asking Sahili about. He then got up with his customary sluggishness and shook the accountant’s hand.

  “Thank you for the information.”

  “Is there some connection between Sofia’s murder and the will?” asked the accountant, confused.

  “The investigation’s still at the initial stages,” said Alwaar.

  Behind the door, Selwa jumped over to her office, her chest heaving. She sat down, pretending to be typing at her computer as Alwaar left the accountant’s office, hoping he’d go straight out the door.

  “Goodbye, Mademoiselle,” she heard him say.

  She lifted her head in a jerky motion and stood up nervously. She walked Alwaar to the door and opened it, mumbling something, wishing she could hide her face.

  “Goodbye.”

  She closed the door as soon as Alwaar set foot outside.

  He went over to his car, threw himself down into the passenger seat, and slapped Boukrisha on the back of his neck.

  “Our man’s still in the arms of his lover?” he asked in a speed he only needed once or twice a year.

  “I haven’t gotten any new reports. That means he’s still there with her.”

  Alwaar looked at his watch and saw it was nine forty. He had to make a final call on Othman.

  “In the name of God, the boat’s anchor and course,” he said, smiling and slapped Boukrisha on the nape again.

  Boukrisha knew exactly what he meant by this expression from the Quran. The car set off once again with a rattle. Alwaar took out his cell phone and dialed a number.

  “Who’s this? Assou? Is the target still in place? Good. Wake up and go arrest him and his gazelle. We’ll be there as soon as you get out of the building with him.”

  He flipped shut his cell and put it back in his pocket, looking out on the wide road.

  “What’s new?” asked Boukrisha, impatience eating him up.

  “The victim,” said Alwaar, as if he was giving a report, “willed her entire estate to Othman.”

  Boukrisha immediately looked away from the road and turned completely toward the detective.

  “And there’s the motive for murder.”

  “A golden motive,” said Alwaar, laughing.

  The car was doing fifty as they sped down Zerktouni Boulevard.

  Naeema’s cell phone rang. Othman was in the bathroom, while she was getting ready to go to the police station. She looked for her cell and found it on the table in the bedroom. Before getting the chance to say hello, she heard Selwa’s voice, choked and whispering as if she was standing in a tunnel.

  “Naeema, be careful, be careful! Don’t give the cops my name. They know about your relationship with Othman. A detective was just here at the office and I listened from behind the door. He came asking about the will. Whatever you do, don’t give them my name!”

  “Where are you calling from?” Naeema shouted, her voice trembling with fear.

  “From the office bathroom.”

  The call was suddenly cut off. Naeema stood there staring at the cell phone, not knowing what to do. Othman came out of the bathroom wearing shorts and a v-neck tee shirt that showed off his thick chest hair. He saw Naeema frozen in her spot in a state of shock.

  “Who called?” he asked, expecting some bad news.

  She tossed the cell on the bed and broke down in tears.

  “We’re in a trap, we’re in a trap!”

  He took her by the arms.

  “Who called? What happened?” he yelled out forcefully.

  “Selwa,” she said, sobbing. “The police were just at her office.”

  Othman swallowed with difficulty.

  “Do they suspect her?”

  “Not yet, but she’s afraid.”

  Othman’s sense of helplessness doubled. He took her violently by the arm and sat her down on the bed, making her look him in the eye.

  “Listen to me carefully,” he said gently, trying to calm her down. “Once the police know I’m the beneficiary of the will, they’ll think it’s a good enough motive for committing the crime. But the will’s confidential and until now, they don’t know Selwa told us what’s in it. Calm down and get a hold of yourself. When you’re at the police station, whatever you do, don’t give them Selwa’s name.”

  He hurried to get dressed, trying to calm down. He looked over at Naeema on the bed. She was burying her head under the blankets, crying.

  “You can’t go to the station crying like that. Please, don’t tell them anything about Selwa. If you do, they’ll burn us both together.”

  She didn’t lift her head from the blankets. Othman felt it was no use talking to her. He picked up his pack of cigarettes, went out the front door, and closed it gently behind him, as if he was trying to sneak out. Before he could head down the stairs, he heard the sounds of men moving quickly up toward Naeema’s apartment. He didn’t have any doubt it was the police.

  He backed up quietly but instead of going into the apartment, he ran up the stairs, only stopping once he found himself on the roof. He spun around and, for a moment, the idea of jumping to his death was tempting. He then looked around in every direction and climbed a short wall separating the roof from the next building. He looked down as he went and was struck by vertigo. The street below seemed bottomless to him. He heard someone scream out nearby and saw a maid carrying a laundry basket staring at him in fear. He ran past her to the stairs. He almost tripped as he raced down them, three steps or more at a time.

  He got down to the building door and pulled at it but it was locked. He turned to a narrow flight of stairs next to the concierge’s apartment and went down them, not knowing where they’d lead. At the bottom, he found a small iron door, pulled it open and all of a sudden, he found himself in the building’s garage. He looked over at the gate leading to the back alley and saw it was open. He ran to it like a sprinter with only a few feet to the finish line.

  After the bell kept ringing, Naeema finally opened the door. She was extremely weak and didn’t know Othman was gone. A crowd of police immediately pounced on her. If Inspector Assou hadn’t grabbed her by the arms, she would’ve collapsed onto the ground. He held onto her longer than he should have, seizing the opportunity to have this soft, beautiful woman between his arms.

  “Put her on the chair,” barked Boukrisha, knowing what was on Assou’s mind.

  Alwaar came into the apartment with his deathly slowness and immediately knew Othman was gone. He shot the cops in charge of the surveillance a furious look. He then went over to Naeema, who was slouched on a chair in the kitchen. Alwaar asked for a glass of water, poured some of it on the palm of his hand, and splashed it in her face. She let out a sigh and her head fell forward toward her chest. Alwaar grabbed a chair and sat down in front of her. He gently lifted her head with his hand under her chin.

  “Othman was here with you?” he asked in a calm voice, looking into her eyes.

  She nodded.

  Alwaar turned around, scanning the apartment.

  “Where is he?” he asked, feigning surprise and holding her chin tenderly.

  “He’s not here?” she asked slowly.

  “You didn’t hear him leave?” The detective jumped up suddenly and screamed in the faces of his men. “Search the building and the surrounding streets. Everywhere!”

  9

  Othman ran through alleyways for a long time, terrified he’d wind up back at Naeema’s building. He was feeling like he wasn’t heading anywhere in particular, but that he kept going round in circles. He only stopped after he found himself on Ibrahim al-Roudani Street, which was packed with people and cars. Cafés, businesses, and small stores lined both sides of the street. He
slowed down and began collecting his thoughts, repeatedly turning around to see who was behind him. He kept hoping he was in another place, far from the eyes that were no doubt watching him. At every moment, he thought the police would pounce on him, throw him to the ground, and cuff him. Sometimes he imagined he was hearing voices calling out to him and the sound of feet running behind him.

  He stopped on the edge of the sidewalk, waiting for a taxi. He felt his legs knocking together, barely able to hold him up. Suddenly, his stomach rumbled, announcing that he was going to have terrible diarrhea any minute. He was dripping with sweat and tried to move, but was frozen in place. For a few seconds, he forgot everything that had happened, but his heart skipped a beat when he saw an empty taxi. He waved at it wildly, almost leaping into the middle of the street. When it stopped, he pulled open the door and threw himself down on the back seat. Without the least thought, he told the driver to go to the city center.

  He got out at the roundabout on Mohammed V Street, not stopping to take his change from the driver. He felt strange because he didn’t have to go to the bathroom anymore. He walked up the street to a café that was dark inside. He went in and sat down at an empty table, hoping to get a hold of himself. He waved at the waiter and ordered an espresso. He noticed a guy walking around selling newspapers near the door and called him over. He bought four papers and looked up, trying to catch some light from the small bulb hanging from the ceiling. After the waiter came back, he started sipping his coffee without sugar, just as Sofia used to make it for him.

  He told himself he had to stay calm. As his feelings of fear disappeared, a headache started taking their place. He pulled himself together and flipped through the first two papers without paying much attention, as if all he was looking for was news to fix the disaster he found himself in: something announcing Sofia wasn’t really dead and that the crime didn’t actually happen.

  After his third cigarette, an idea came to him. He thought about leaving the city. But where could he go? He then thought about his family. The police would undoubtedly give them a taste of torture to make them confess where he disappeared. He remembered Naeema and his pain doubled. He felt in his pockets and realized he left his cell phone at her apartment. No doubt the cops had it now. Will she confess everything? Will she ensnare him in a trap? Naeema will cave, he thought. She’ll pass out as soon as Alwaar stares at her with his horrible eyes and breathes his disgusting breath in her face.

  Exhaustion came crashing down on him, and along with it a profound sense of loneliness. In positions like this, people need someone who understands them and will tell them to take it easy. He’d given up his last friend long ago. Sofia had driven him into isolation and separated him from everyone except her and her friends.

  He became incredibly depressed and was struck by an intense desire for some kind of company. Should he write a letter explaining everything and commit suicide? This idea overwhelmed him to the point that he began to compose the letter in his mind. He smiled feebly and a light dizziness hit him. If he kept thinking like this, he’d go crazy. Thankfully, someone yelling out roused him from this insanity.

  He picked up one of the newspapers and began skimming the headlines. On the second to last page, a picture of someone he knew made him pause. The man was about his age and had a serious look and a receding hairline that made him seem older than he was. Under the picture was the name Ahmed Hulumi. Othman was hit by a childish happiness. All of a sudden, he felt like himself again and could concentrate on what he was reading. He no longer felt emptiness.

  He pored over the article and read it closely as if his salvation was somewhere in it. It was an article of protest in which Hulumi called for the government to speed up looking into files of political prisoners who had disappeared. He also wrote about forced arrests, for which the state authorities don’t have any records, leaving their families searching for them for years. The seventies and eighties were a time when Morocco experienced political tyranny. The most horrific types of oppression were practiced, civil rights were confiscated, and many prisoners were killed, some buried in mass graves. Only now were people beginning to speak openly about that period.

  With every paragraph he read, however, Othman felt more frustration. Was he thinking he’d find something about his case in particular? Hulumi was a student with him at law school. Othman remembered him well. Hulumi was thin and always wore the same clothes. A group of friends always crowded around him like they were his bodyguards. He had a stern personality and would ignite the flames of protest, addressing students for hours. He was a political activist who never felt hopelessness. Othman wasn’t interested at the time in joining any group. Politics were never his thing.

  How luck would smile on Hulumi. He became a lawyer at exactly the time when everyone thought he’d wind up at the bottom of a grave. For most people, it went beyond luck that Hulumi was still alive.

  When Othman left the café, the sun was so bright he had to shut his eyes. He wished he had his sunglasses with him. He headed toward the nearest phone and dialed information a few times, but it was busy. On the sixth try, a hurried voice answered him with the phrase: “Maroc Télécom at your service.” He gave her the name of the lawyer and asked her in the gentlest tone he could muster to search for the address. The woman told him with the same haste: “Mohammed V Street, number seven.” The line suddenly went dead. He was only a few steps from Hulumi’s office.

  He had passed in front of Hulumi’s building several times without ever noticing it, but he remembered having a couple of glasses of wine at the bar next door. The building had a wooden door with chipped paint. As Othman walked in, he saw that the walls of the stairwell were exposed and the stairs shook under his feet. It was a building from the colonial period and clearly needed some work.

  Othman found the office on the second floor. The door was open. He hesitated and thought about backtracking, but closed his eyes and went in. He found himself in a narrow area with a window directly opposite another building. The place was totally silent. There was a door ajar and a dark hallway leading to the back of the office. He thought again about walking out.

  All of a sudden, a door opened behind him and a woman in her forties wearing masculine clothes and no make-up came out. She smiled at him and asked what he wanted. Behind her, Othman saw shelves of files and leather-bound books. He smiled at her.

  “Is this the office of Ahmed Hulumi?” he asked apologetically, as if he was in the wrong place.

  She pointed at the end of the hallway with the pen between her fingers. Othman thanked her with a nod and walked down the shabby hall. He turned to his right and saw a bathroom. He heard the sound of water flowing monotonously. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door with the tips of his fingers.

  “It’s open,” he heard a voice yell out. “Come in.”

  At that moment, he knew it was impossible to turn back. He turned the knob and pushed the door open. He didn’t expect the lawyer to recognize him. Othman raised his hand in a gesture to say hello. The lawyer waited for Othman to introduce himself, but he stayed fixed in his spot beside the door, ready to bolt.

  “Come in, come in,” said the lawyer hesitatingly, as if he was in the middle of something.

  There were a number of books and papers in a pile in front of him. The sun was coming in from the window that didn’t have any shades. There was nothing on the walls. In a corner, a number of magazines and newspapers were heaped up in neglect.

  The two men shook hands and the lawyer pointed to a worn chair for him to sit down.

  “Maybe you don’t remember me,” said Othman. “We were students together at law school. You were in the Arabic track and I was in the French.”

  The lawyer sat up straight in his chair, clearly interested. Despite what Othman said, the lawyer couldn’t remember a thing about their shared past.

  “Do you also practice law?”

  For a moment, Othman felt the lawyer was ridiculing him.
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br />   “No,” he said restlessly. “I actually just read an article of yours in a newspaper. It was great.”

  A wide smile appeared on the lawyer’s face. It was the kind of appreciation that filled him with delight.

  “Thank you,” said the lawyer. “We’re trying hard to shift to second gear in building democracy here. But there are those who don’t want to step on the gas too hard. And you, what do you do for work?”

  Othman stared into the lawyer’s eyes and the muscles in his face tightened. He thought for a moment about ending his visit at this point. The meeting wasn’t going anywhere.

  “I came to talk to you, to ask for your help,” he blurted out like he was shedding a heavy burden. “The police are looking for me right now.”

  The lawyer got up, walked around his desk, and sat in the empty chair in front of Othman.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m accused of killing my wife. . . .”

  “Did you do it?” asked the lawyer, cutting him off.

  Othman trembled and a deep silence took over.

  “No.”

  His face went pale like that of a corpse.

  “You said the police are looking for you,” said the lawyer, staring at him suspiciously. “Where were you before coming here?”

  Othman thought the lawyer already had a poor opinion of him. He waved his hand and sighed.

  “You’ve got to hear my story from the start so everything’s clear.”

  He then began talking quickly as if he was afraid of wasting the lawyer’s time. Othman told him about his years of unemployment and then how he heard about Sofia from her ex-husband and married her. At this point, he hesitated for a bit before revealing the age difference between them.

  “She was more than forty years older than you?” said the lawyer, almost letting out a laugh. “So she’s rich?”

  “She has a fancy restaurant in Ain Diab, Sofia’s. Maybe you know it? She also owns our villa in Anfa. Recently someone from the Gulf offered her four million for it but she refused. She also has huge bank accounts.”