by Tahir Shah
A guard was standing to the left of the gate.
Rather than turn Ghita away as before, he signalled to a second guard in the security booth.
The gates opened electronically.
‘Welcome home, Miss Omary,’ he said.
They walked up the drive and over to the porch.
‘This is where you live?’ said Blaine, visibly shocked.
Ghita blushed.
‘If you’d like me to give it up, I will,’ she said.
‘No... no...’ Blaine stuttered. ‘I think I could become used to a lifestyle like this.’
They kissed and, as they did so, the front door opened inwards.
‘Welcome home, Mademoiselle,’ the butler proclaimed. ‘I trust you are well.’
‘I don’t think I have ever been this well,’ she replied, ‘and how are you?’
The servant appeared baffled. The Ghita Omary of old would never have enquired after anyone except herself.
‘I am very well indeed, Mademoiselle. Thank you for asking,’ he replied.
Ghita led the way through to the grand salon, pausing to greet the maids and other staff as they approached. She was trembling.
‘I feel so humble,’ she said, ‘so utterly unworthy of all this.’
Blaine kissed her on the cheek.
‘Believe me, you are worthy of it all,’ he said.
Ghita looked at her watch. Gone was the diamond-pavé Chopard, replaced by a Swatch.
‘The court’s acquittal went through last night,’ she said. ‘All our assets have been returned. But, best of all...’ she was cut off by the sound of the doorbell. ‘Best of all is this!’ she exclaimed.
Rushing back through the salon, she pulled the door open, and found herself in her father’s arms.
Neither would let go.
After the longest hug, Ghita remembered something important. She let go, kissing her father’s cheek as they parted.
‘This is Blaine, Baba, the most wonderful man in the world.’ She stopped, looked at the floor bashfully. ‘The second most wonderful man in the world.’
‘I believe it is you I have to thank,’ Omary said, extending his hand. ‘For saving me from... from limbo.’
‘He’s an angel,’ Ghita swooned. ‘A wonderful, silly, funny American angel!’
One hundred and twenty-seven
The thud thud thud of hobnail boots was loud and heavy on the flagstones of the isolation block. It grew louder still, before falling silent outside Cell No. 3.
The inspection hatch opened.
‘There’s a package for you,’ said the guard in a raspy uncaring voice. ‘Can’t imagine why they let it through!’
The prisoner took the package.
‘Would you turn on the light, so that I could open it?’ he asked.
The guard grunted, the one known to Omary as Bruiser.
‘Five minutes,’ he said, ‘then you’ll be back in darkness!’
Hamza Harass ripped the wrapping away, and found himself holding an ancient manuscript, furled in goatskin. Thanking God for sending him something to read, he opened the handwritten book eagerly at the first page.
Then he froze.
His expression went from one of fear, to one of true terror, and from that to extraordinary distress.
He collapsed, the book in his hands.
‘That’s your five minutes!’ roared the guard, switching off the light.
One hundred and twenty-eight
That evening, as they finished dinner, Ghita excused herself, leaving Blaine to explain to her father what happened to the priceless Silver Ghost.
‘I will be back in a little while,’ she said as she left.
Having heard the story of the attempted break-out, Omary took a sip of Saint-Émilion, savouring it as it went down.
‘The most magical thing in the world,’ he said, ‘is to have children and to watch them as they change.’ He paused, holding his glass up in the air. ‘I should like to toast you.’
‘Even though I’m partly responsible for ruining such a fine old car?’ said Blaine.
Hicham Omary waved the thought of it away with his hand.
‘That’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Just an object.’ Raising his glass a little higher, he said: ‘I toast you for the woman you have made out of Ghita – something I was unable ever to do.’
‘I love her,’ Blaine said quietly. ‘I love her more than she will ever understand.’
‘I know you do,’ Omary replied. ‘I can see it in your eyes.’
One hundred and twenty-nine
Fifteen minutes after leaving the mansion, the Maybach purred to a halt outside Singh’s Pawn Shop down near the port.
Thanking the chauffeur for opening the door, Ghita stepped out onto the kerb.
The shop was closed up for the night, but the lights were on in the room above. Ghita pressed the bell, her heart beating fast.
A face peered down from the window – the face of Ankush Singh.
‘Mademoiselle Omary!’ he called out. ‘I am coming.’
Downstairs, the shopkeeper pulled the shutter open, and turned on the lights.
‘I heard that your father was freed,’ he said enthusiastically.
Ghita nodded. Then she took a little cloth bag from her coat pocket and handed it to the pawnbroker.
‘You proved your friendship in a moment of terrible need,’ she said. ‘And no amount of thanks shall ever be worthy of your kindness.’
One hundred and thirty
The prisoner in Cell No. 3 was found dead the next morning.
The death was put down to a massive heart attack. He was buried in a cheap pine casket along with the manuscript he had been found clutching at the time of death.
The only family member present at his funeral was his son, Mustapha. Standing there in silence, as the coffin was lowered into the ground, he was unable to shed a tear.
One hundred and thirty-one
Three weeks and one day later, there was the sound of music at the Omary Mansion. Unlike on the evening of the previous party, no caterer had been hired, nor were there tiaras, diamonds, or swish limousines. The only people invited were real friends – a handful of old ones, and a few new ones as well.
Rosario was the first to arrive.
She was resplendent in a low-cut gown that she had bought in the flea market of Tangier some years before.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ she whispered to Blaine. ‘Wish me luck.’
He gave her a hug and asked if she would play something at the Steinway concert grand.
‘What would you like?’ she asked.
‘Surprise me.’
A moment later, the house was resounding to the lilt of As Time Goes By. And, as the fingers of the Argentine pianist caressed the ivories, the door opened again and Ankush Singh stepped inside.
Running up, Ghita led him to her father.
The two men hugged and laughed, and hugged again.
‘I thought you wouldn’t remember me,’ said the shopkeeper anxiously.
‘How could I forget?’ Omary replied. ‘After all, I see you every day in the mirror,’ he said, touching a fingertip to the scar.
Ghita looked at the clock above the mantelpiece and frowned. She seemed concerned.
‘What’s wrong?’ Blaine asked.
‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
Walking out into the front garden, Ghita made her way across the immaculate lawn to the great arabesque gates.
Standing on the other side of them was Saed.
He was dressed in a prim dark suit that was far too big, with a ready-made bow tie, and his hair wetted down.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Ghita asked.
The shoeshine boy’s eyes lit up.
‘For you to be my date,’ he said.
Taking Ghita’s arm in his, he walked back with her over the lawn, and into the house.
Introduced to Omary, Saed was praised for his getaway driving, and was thanked for all he had
done. Then he slunk into the kitchen, and helped himself to a bottle of cooking sherry.
That was where Blaine found him.
‘I believe I still have something of yours,’ he said.
Saed struggled to hide what was left of the sherry behind his back.
Taking the envelope from his jacket pocket, Blaine passed it over.
‘There was a time in all this that I half-wondered what was inside it,’ he said.
‘You never looked?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I trusted you.’
The shoeshine boy seemed grateful, almost moved.
‘Thank you,’ he mumbled under his breath.
They were about to rejoin the party, when Saed reached out and touched Blaine on the arm.
‘Wait. I want to show you,’ he said.
Tearing the edge of the envelope, he removed a dog-eared photo of two smiling people. It was a group shot of a mother, a father and their baby son.
‘My parents,’ he said.
Blaine held the picture into the light.
‘Where are they now?’
Saed’s gaze lost focus on the kitchen’s grey tiled floor.
‘In Paradise,’ he whispered.
The American put an arm around the boy’s shoulder and gave him a hug.
‘I’m going to make sure that you’re never on your own again,’ he said.
One hundred and thirty-two
Back in the party, Ghita beckoned for Blaine to follow her. Leading the way through into the library, she closed the door firmly and kissed him.
‘Now that you have saved your damsel in distress,’ she said seductively, ‘what are your plans?’
The American bit his lower lip.
‘Well, I guess I could go back to New York and sell drain cleaner for the rest of my life,’ he said with a smile. ‘Or...’
‘Or?’
‘Or I could do this...’
He got down on one knee.
‘Miss Omary, will you spend the rest of your life with a wonderful, silly, funny American angel?’
Ghita screamed, then hugged Blaine so hard that his ribs cracked.
‘Yes, yes, yes!’
The party rolled on and news of the engagement seeped out. It was toasted with Dom Pérignon.
Then the engaged couple danced to Rosario’s music, and laughed like they had never laughed before.
At a quarter to one the butler whispered in Ghita’s ear.
She seemed unhappy and even vexed. And, slipping out to the front of the house, she found a man standing there.
His shoulders were slouched forward. Some distance behind, on the other side of the street, another man was standing.
‘Mustapha?’ said Ghita. ‘What... what are you doing here?’
‘I’m so sorry. I can’t express it,’ he murmured. ‘I had to come to beg your forgiveness.’
Ghita dug her heels into the gravel.
‘You want to be forgiven for the fact your father almost killed me... that he so nearly did away with us all?’
‘I know it’s too much to ask. But I wanted to tell you something.’
‘To tell me what?’
‘That he ruled over me as a tyrant. Yes, I was spoilt rotten, but I was merely following his orders.’
‘And what orders were those?’
‘To get to know you... to marry you.’
‘But why?’
‘So that he could take over Globalcom,’ Mustapha said. ‘After your father’s sudden and mysterious death.’
Ghita cursed loudly, and breathed out hard.
‘Well I heard that it was he who has left us,’ she said without any emotion.
Mustapha touched a hand to his mouth.
‘Believe me, he will not be missed.’
Ghita fell silent. She peered into the darkness across the street.
‘Who’s that – that guy standing back there?’
Mustapha cleared his throat.
‘It’s Karim.’
‘Karim?’
‘He’s... he’s...’ Mustapha faltered. ‘He’s my boyfriend,’ he said.
One hundred and thirty-three
Later that night, Hicham Omary poured another round of champagne.
‘We have already drunk to my darling daughter,’ he said, ‘and to this mysterious American who has charmed us all. But now I have a toast that’s far more solemn.’ He raised his glass, the crystal reflecting the candlelight. ‘Let us drink to the city whose blood runs in all our veins – To Casablanca!’
There was a resounding cheer, followed by the ching-ching of Waterford crystal flutes chiming together. And, when the toast was done, Rosario took to the piano once again.
While she played, Omary glanced at the American as though remembering something.
‘It seems as though we share a passion,’ he said, his voice rising over the music.
‘Ghita?’ replied Blaine with a smile.
‘Another passion.’
The American shrugged, then frowned.
‘What?’
‘Come with me,’ Omary said, motioning for Blaine to bring his glass.
They left the others in the salon, went through into an anteroom beside the library. It was entirely empty, except for a wardrobe that covered the back wall, rising floor to ceiling.
Opening the double doors, Hicham Omary disappeared inside.
‘Follow me,’ he called out as he went.
Blaine had a sense of déjà vu.
Climbing into the cupboard, he stepped through into another room.
The lights came on automatically in what seemed to be some kind of museum.
The walls were covered in posters of Bogart and Bergman, and there were all manner of objects on display in a series of large glass cases.
On one side of the room were a roulette wheel and a pair of silver cocktail shakers, a dossier of papers marked ‘Top Secret’, and an antique movie camera. Opposite them stood half a dozen mannequins, each of them dressed in a long silky gown. There was a French police officer’s uniform, too, complete with its kepi, a fez hat, and a fake Luger pistol in a glass box.
And, in the middle of it all, as if in pride of place, was another mannequin dressed in an old raincoat and fedora.
Omary waved an arm over the collection.
‘I’ve been an avid collector for as long as I can remember,’ he said.
‘I never would have guessed it...’
‘What?’
‘That a Moroccan like you would have cared about Casablanca,’ said Blaine.
‘I’m a Berber,’ Omary corrected, with a smile.
‘So I’ve heard. Well, a Berber like you then...’
‘How could I resist it?’ Ghita’s father looked at the American hard. ‘This room is my secret homage to Casablanca – the city and the film, the fact and the fantasy.’
‘It’s the past,’ said Blaine.
‘And it’s the future.’
‘The greatest story ever told.’
‘A Moroccan story,’ Omary laughed, ‘and a Berber one, too.’
Blaine held his champagne flute up in a toast.
‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’ he said.
Finis
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