COMMENT: Iman —Munir Attaullah

The details of how we had arrived at this level of intimacy so quickly are not relevant here. Suffice it to say though I am no Richard Gere, years of experience in this field have taught me a trick or two

As Shakespeare put it, “There is no art to read the mind’s construction in the face.” Nevertheless, Darwinian Evolution has ensured we are all natural psychologists to some extent.

For, as social animals, we both lie and have to be adept at knowing when we are being lied to. Such abilities are an integral part of that wider package called ‘deception’ (and its countermeasures), without which survival in a hostile world may be impossible.

So, contrary to conventional wisdom (“always tell the truth”), the art of dissimulation is not a despicable trait but a vital social skill: for, if everyone always told the unvarnished truth the strains in society would be unbearable. Is the real trick then to know when to lie and when not to lie (and its corollary: when to speak up and when to keep quiet)?

Are such contradictions and subtle distinctions at the root of what we call ‘moral dilemmas’? Decide for yourself in the context of the tale I am about to narrate.

For unexpected personal reasons I could not travel from London to Tangier with the Godfather and our usual group, arriving there alone the following evening.

Normally we are met at the plane, our passports and luggage receipts taken, and we are whisked off in a couple of waiting limos while the tedious formalities are taken care of invisibly by the local hoi-polloi. The Godfather has been dishing out liberal doses of Ikramiyah (bakhsheesh, in uncouth lingo) for years to all and sundry at the airport. Is this a good example of the extra level of effectiveness that can be achieved by that current fetish economic gurus call the ‘private-public partnership’? Money talks.

I disembark to note with surprise that there is no waiting limo, so I walk across the tarmac to the airport building. Upon entering the building I see a tall, slim and strikingly good-looking woman with Madhubala-like features, dressed in a cream silk blouse and floral skirt, holding up a placard with my name on it. With a nod, I walk towards her knowingly.

I am greeted with a ravishing smile that, along with twinkling eyes, lights up her face. “Mr Attaullah? Welcome to Tangier. I am Iman from the Office of his Excellency, His Majesty’s Representative in Tangier. I am to take you straight to the official reception in honour of your group. May I have your passport and luggage receipt please?” she says.

The tone is warm and welcoming and anything but business-like; and the English near perfect, though with more than a hint of that lilting French accent I find irresistible. I am captivated. As she escorts me purposefully to the VIP lounge, having dispatched a flunky to complete the formalities, I ask myself if this is for real or is it some devious plot by the Godfather, who loves playing little games. He knows the type of girl I am a sucker for, particularly if she speaks English in addition to her native Arabic. And money talks.

“But I must first go home to shower and change,” I tell her, gently squeezing her hand in the process, as we set off later in her chauffer-driven car. The details of how we had arrived at this level of intimacy so quickly are not relevant here. Suffice it to say though I am no Richard Gere, years of experience in this field have taught me a trick or two.

By the time we had reached the Godfather’s estate, she had agreed to forget the reception and not only spend the evening with me but also stay for our regular nightly feature: the in-house disco party. But was it really me, or the opulent surroundings (along with the obvious prospect of a hefty Ikramiyah) that influenced her decision? Does it matter?

Before I go to my room to shower and change, I spend my obligatory 20 minutes in the Jacuzzi at the indoor pool area. As she sits in a chair nearby we exchange anecdotes while sipping chilled Clos de Mesnil. Later, when I go up to my room I leave her in the salon. Upon my return I see that the Godfather is back, for he and Iman are engaged in animated conversation (in Arabic), making introductions and explanations superfluous.

More champagne follows, and then everyone else leaves to change clothes, leaving me sitting alone next to Iman. “Look,” she says clasping my hand, “I have had second thoughts about tonight. It has been a long day, I am suddenly tired, and I have to go to office in the morning. Thank you for your lovely offer but I really should go home now.”

Taken aback I may have been, but I am never ever less than the perfect gentleman. “This is a blow but I understand. Perhaps tomorrow will be better anyway, seeing that it is the weekend.”

“Unfortunately, that will not be possible. I have to go to Rabat to see my parents.”

“Good to meet you anyway. I will call you in a couple of days then,” I say, as I see her off. When I relate all this later to the others, the Godfather murmurs commiserations while the others cannot stop laughing. The healing touch to my bruised ego comes later in the disco when the Godfather pointedly introduces me to the equally gorgeous Ilham.

But a shock awaits me the following night at the disco: there is Iman, all dressed up, sipping champagne. “I changed my mind,” she says shyly, as I give her a quizzical look. “I can see that,” I respond dryly. For by now I have a problem; several problems, in fact.

Was I the gullible victim of an elaborate setup by the Godfather? Or did the explanation lie in the simple fact that he fancied Iman for himself? Money talks, I remind myself. Either way, I mentally decide it is best to forget Iman. Covering all bases I come up with a deft move of my own. I decide not to display the slightest sense of surprise or curiosity over the whole episode.

After all, the Godfather is the boss. It is his party and therefore he can do no wrong. Besides, have I not myself many times in the past stolen another’s girlfriend? Anyway, by now I am quite smitten by Ilham.

The writer is a businessman. A selection of his columns is now available in book form. Visit munirattaullah.com