Twenty-three

Upholstered in beige calfskin, the Maybach 57 floated down the Corniche, and passed the city’s historic lighthouse. On a patch of communal ground opposite was the Italian circus, its elephants being scrubbed down by the clowns.

Ghita was too busy seething to take in the sights. Her expression was quite vacant, as if she had just been informed that a firing squad was to end her life at dawn. The limousine glided down past the great Mosque of Hassan II, through the underpass, and along the edge of the old medina. The ocean swell was heavy for the time of year, the waves crashing down against the barricades.

All Ghita could think was that her father was up to something, a ruse to hold a surprise party of some kind. She could feel it in her bones, that there was to be a high to counter the low. There would be a reception with laughter and more champagne, or a jaunt to Monte Carlo on the family’s Gulfstream, or diamonds, or emeralds – a grand roll call of luxury and delight.

As the Maybach neared the Casa Port Railway Station, a uniformed officer flagged it down. Before the officer could deliver his much-practised line about exceeding the speed limit, the chauffeur lowered the window and slipped a crisp green fifty-dirham note into his glove. The whole operation took less than thirty seconds, and was executed as elegantly as a ballerina’s pirouette.

The chauffeur turned right, away from the ocean, up a palm-lined avenue, towards the old Art Deco heart of Casablanca. The scent of calfskin, the faint hum of Mozart, and the silence of German engineering, were a world apart from the harsh reality of the streets, streets which lay the thickness of a window-pane away.

Indicating left onto Boulevard Mohammed V, the limousine accelerated, then it slowed to no more than a crawl. Ghita felt a lump in her throat, a lump that was fast growing in size. She scanned the kerb for balloons, for well-wishers and old friends.

But all she could see was a tapestry of misery and neglect.

‘What orders did my father give you, Mehdi?’ she asked.

The chauffeur eased the car to a halt.

‘To leave you here, Mademoiselle, by the side of Marché Central.’

Ghita smiled, then she grinned, her face tightening with angst.

‘It’s all a joke, isn’t it?’

The chauffeur didn’t reply. He opened his door, walked calmly around the car, and unloaded the Louis Vuitton portmanteau, wincing at its weight. Then he opened Ghita’s door, back straight, staring into the middle distance as he had been instructed always to do.

Warily, a Jimmy Choo high heel stepped out onto the kerb.

As her body followed the foot, Ghita felt a pang of fear run down her spine. It was as though she were the last of an all but extinct race, about to be hunted by poachers in a hostile and unforgiving land. She began to sob, but the driver had been instructed not to fall for any tricks. And, besides, he was revelling in her anguish. In a long career of driving the wealthy around town, he had never known a passenger more odiously pampered than Mr. Omary’s daughter.

‘What shall I do?’ she asked him.

The chauffeur turned his palms upwards and shrugged. He strode back to his side of the car. Just before he got in, he touched the peak of his cap in respect.

‘Good luck, Mademoiselle Omary,’ he said.

Ten seconds later the Maybach limousine was gone.