A Simple Thank You: A Memoir

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Prologue

Our story starts not with a place, but with a person. A prince amongst men. A man with no equal. My best friend. Let me lay this out for you, ladies and gentlemen. This is a story about travel. About friendship. Murder. Corruption. Wealth. About events that are completely incomprehensible to the likes of you and me. Nearly fifty years later, I still have to remind myself that this time of my life was not a dream. That I did not imagine Maurice. For in the deepest depths of my mind, I could not have created stories such as those that I will tell you.

These stories are real. I promise you that. After all, nothing boggles the minds of men more than the simple truth. Fasten your seatbelts, you’re in for a bumpy ride and a journey you will never forget.

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PART ONE IN THE BEGINNING

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Chapter One

Where Our Story Begins

Our story begins with your typical all-American college. You know the type, where there are more trees than students. That’s where I decided to get my business degree and coincidentally, so did Maurice. This was probably more unusual on his part, as he had the entire of the US to choose from, and I needed to stay with my family to help out my parents.

It feels like fate that out of all the colleges in America, Maurice should choose the same one as me. Despite the close-knit quarters the campus had to offer, I didn’t actually run into

Maurice until Spring Break, months after I had started my classes.

Thirteen guys, all from my graduating year, descended on Bermuda during Spring Break

1963. As you can probably guess, this resulted in absolute carnage. The boys who had been relatively respectful back on campus, turned into creatures who only wanted girls, alcohol and the sun. When you’re in a group of men thirteen strong, somebody is going to have to rise and lead the masses, or nothing will get done. Our leader, by popular demand, was

Maurice. Everybody was happy to do whatever he asked because wherever Maurice was, the party followed. On the first evening, Maurice set the precedent for the entire trip. We all went to a bar across the road from our hotel, to have drink, whilst we waited for our thirteen scooters to be prepped for the rest of the trip. Before you make fun, it really is the best way to travel around Bermuda. Maurice said he would pay for a drink for everyone and a cheer erupted from our group. Once the drinks were no more, the group dispersed outside to wait for the scooters, leaving Maurice to pay the bill. I thought it was rude how nobody had said thank you to Maurice or offered to buy him a drink in return. So, I took it upon myself to do

so. I approached him whilst he was stood at the bar, wallet in hand, and asked if I could buy 4

him a drink. A huge grin crossed his face, “Yes, thank you!” We chatted for a short while but Page

went our separate ways after that. Little did I know that this seemingly meaningless event,

would change my life forever.

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Chapter 2

In Which There is a Chance Meeting

I returned to college and got on with my studies. I was busy with classes and working for my dad, so I didn’t see much of Maurice at all after that Spring Break. Then completely by chance, over Labour Day weekend, in 1967, I received a distress call from a friend saying that her pocketbook had been stolen and she couldn’t get to the airport to head back to college. Would I mind giving her a lift to the airport? I reluctantly agreed, always a sucker for a damsel in distress. I had been planning to rest up during my weekend off from work, but you know what they say about best laid plans! As I pulled up at the airport and my friend got out of the car, I heard a voice shouting, “Gary.” The last syllable of my name was so stretched out it became like an ‘ee’ sound! The voice wasn’t familiar to me, but I bet you can guess who it was. Maurice was standing outside the airport doors, a suitcase in his hand, waving and smiling like a lunatic. His white teeth seemed so stark against his dark coffee skin. Although that could just have been because of how wide his smile was. “What are you doing here Gary?” He enquired, sticking his head inside the passenger window of my car. I explained to him that I was helping out a friend. His smile became even wider when I said this, expanding more than I thought possible. “That sounds like the Gary I’ve be told about.”

Maurice replied and pulled his head back out of the window with no further explanation. The next thing I knew, I heard the trunk of my car opening and a suitcase being thrown carelessly inside. The passenger door then flew open and Maurice dropped into the seat beside me. I ended up taking Maurice back to his apartment. We talked about everything that had happened to us after graduation and our plans for the future. As it turned out, we both

planned to travel around Europe next summer. Then Maurice asked a question. A very

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important question. The question that set this whole thing into motion. “Why don’t we go together?”

“There’s no way I can go with you Maurice. You have far more money than me, I wouldn’t be able to keep up.” I had heard rumors of Maurice’s family’s wealth since our first meeting in Bermuda and nothing I had seen had proven this to be inaccurate.

“Well, Gary.” He began. I found myself smiling at the way he elongated my name.

“How much money do you plan to take with you?” ‘

Almost embarrassed by my answer I responded, “Three thousand dollars.” I had spent the summer working my way around Route 66 and this is what I had managed to save up, in addition to working for my father.

“Well that’s settled then, I’ll take three thousand dollars too! The second either one of us is broke, we’ll head home. What do you think of that?”

I eyed him suspiciously and asked him, “Why would you want to do that? Why do you want me to go with you so badly that you’d choose to travel with so little money?” I could tell Maurice had been waiting for me to ask this question, as his eyes lit up with excitement and his black eyebrows inched further up his forehead.

“When we got back from Bermuda Gary, I asked my friends about you. You’re unique. Did you know you were the only one to say thank you and offer to buy me a drink in return on that trip?” I shook my head, still not understanding what this had to do with Europe.

“I bought hundreds of drinks on that trip and not one person, except for you, was kind enough to offer to pay me back. It’s not money that’s the issue here Gary, I have plenty of that. It’s people’s expectations, their morals. Everybody these days is a taker. They squeeze you dry.

But not you. No, not you.”

“And what exactly does this have to do with Europe Maurice?”

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“Oh, yes, well I don’t want to travel with people who take things from me and expect me to be their financier! Have I mentioned I had one friend who took my Mercedes and never bothered to give it back? Can you believe that? No, I think travelling with you would be nice.

It would be a change for me. I can promise you one hell of a time if you say you will!” At this point in the journey we had pulled up outside Maurice’s apartment building. “Look Gary, you don’t have to decide now. Think about it. We’ll meet up on Saturday and talk about it then.” Maurice went to the trunk of the car to collect his suitcase. As he walked off through the doors of his building, he shouted back to me, “Bring a date!”

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Chapter Three

In Which We Make Our Plans

Of course, the evening went exactly as Maurice had planned. I met him outside his apartment building and Maurice told me to follow his car. He hopped into a sporty little Mercedes and I followed, feeling slightly ashamed of my dad’s truck. On our way to wherever Maurice had decided we were going, we reached a toll booth. I pulled up to the window only to be told that the car in front had paid for me. The same thing happened when I followed Maurice into a hotel parking lot, my parking had already been paid for by the ‘gentleman in front’. This would be the start of an ongoing competition between Maurice and I to see who could pay first. The prize? Our pride. Little did he know, I had a plan! Upon entering the restaurant, I pretended to go to the restroom. Instead, I went to the front desk and told them to make sure the cheque came to me. Feeling smug, I went to our table and joined the conversation with

Maurice and our dates. We had a very enjoyable evening, which flew by so quickly. My date spent the entire evening flirting with Maurice, but that was just fine by me. When we decided to call it a night, I gestured for the waiter to send over the cheque. He smiled at me and walked away in the other direction. That seemed odd to me, but I presumed he would be back soon. Instead, a very finely dressed gentlemen walked over to our table. “I see you’ve asked for the cheque?” He phrased it like a question, but it clearly was not. “Well, I’m very sorry sir but this gentleman…” he waved his arm in Maurice’s direction, “… has already paid the cheque. When he made the reservations, he also paid for the evening.” With a smile and a slight bow at Maurice and I, he turned on his heel and walked away. Maurice smiled his all-

knowing smile, as we walked out to the car. As you can imagine, this perpetuated my

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competitive streak. He’d escalated the game, and I wasn’t going to let him get away with it that easily.

During our evening, I had agreed to go to Europe with Maurice. I’d finally decided that the worst thing that could happen is that we didn’t get along. In which case, we could go our separate ways. If Maurice wanted to ‘slum’ it with me, that was his choice. When we left the restaurant, Maurice left a huge tip for the staff.

“Don’t forget the little people Gary,” he chortled.

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Chapter Four In Which the Countdown to our Trip Begins

That evening eased me into hanging out with the rich, with Maurice. He did not show off, but was unashamedly who he was. His huge, often overwhelming, personality overcame any of his negative aspects. If you would have asked me at this point if there was a single negative about Maurice, I would not have been able to identify one. He was absolutely perfect in his own way.

We spent the build up to our trip getting to know each other better. We went to see so many concerts, comedians, basketball and baseball games. We spent three out of the four weekends of every month together. We just clicked and became instant best friend, brothers. He took me to the most expensive fancy restaurants, and I took him to the lowly Hoff Brow House. I tried my best to at least match his spending, but it was impossible. I needed to come up with an idea to blow his socks off. To show how much I was a ‘giver’ like he said. I just didn’t have the means to be quite as much of a ‘giver’ as Maurice was. I finally had an idea to reciprocate his generosity. I invited him to spend Friday night dinner with me and my family.

This is something he hadn’t had since leaving Iran… a home-cooked meal, surrounded by family. My mother and father loved him instantly. He was able to charm anybody he met, especially women of a certain age. And if Maurice was able to make my dad like him, in such a short time, believe me, he could work his magic on anybody at all!

Our year continued on just like this. Weekends away with Maurice doing crazy, fun things and Friday night dinners with my family. My parent’s house became a second home to him, and he got to spend time with people who loved him, which I could tell he craved. Maurice

was one of those people who made it his business to make sure everybody loved him, or at 11

least wanted to be him. Boy, did that year fly by. Before I knew it, I was packing my bags Page

and getting ready to embark on the journey of a lifetime.

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PART TWO

TRAVELLING

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Chapter 1

Where Our Travels Begin

Letting your Jewish mother pack your suitcase is never a good idea. I can personally attest to that. Thank God they didn’t weigh suitcases when you left America back in the 1960s, or I would have never been let on the plane! Coming home would be an entirely different story.

80lbs of luggage later, the majority of which would never see the light of day, and I was finally on my way. My big adventure. Europe, with my best friend Maurice.

Our first stop was Dublin, which if you ask me, was far too quiet and uneventful. We stayed on my Uncle’s farm. It was exactly as you would expect. Slightly crumbling and very, very cold. We did some sightseeing, some driving. The 60s weren’t the best time to be sight- seeing in Ireland, as there was a lot of conflict in the country. It was a regular occurrence to see tanks and armoured cars cruising the streets, making sure everyone was home before the curfew. Despite this, we made the best of our time there. The most memorable part of our time in Ireland, aside from the bitter weather, was that we got to kiss the Blarney Stone.

Legend has it folks, that kissing the stone brings you eloquence, persuasiveness and skilful flattery. Being typical young men, we both wished for this to help us with women. Europe needed to watch out because Maurice already had these traits by the bucket full. If you want to find out if it worked for us, keep on reading. Next, we we’re off to our second destination.

I couldn’t wait… London here we come!

We were headed to Flora’s house, Maurice’s sister. She lived on, what could be argued as,

the most prestigious street in London at the time. The Street with No Name. This is

legitimately what it was called. Home to ambassadors from all over the world, and Flora. A 14 Page

one-of-a-kind street, for a one-of-a-kind woman. It was the only street in the world named in this crazy way. I remember chuckling to myself at this. I was floored by the sheer size of her house. It was exactly the opposite of my Uncle’s farm in Ireland, yet Maurice hadn’t complained once when we’d been there.

I did not get to meet Flora right away, however. Instead, myself and Maurice decided to throw ourselves into the London nightlife. I was told to dress up in my best clothes, only black-tie would do where we were headed. Unfortunately for us, ‘black-tie’ was not something we had packed, nor had we anticipated needing on our trip. The best we could manage was black trousers and white button-down shirts. Feeling a bit self-conscious about my lack of appropriate clothing, we set off into London.

We arrived at a club with a line two hundred and fifty people, and two hours, long. Women in exquisite gowns and men in expensive suits waited around the block just to get in. To say it was the most exclusive club in London, would not have been an understatement. I had never felt so under-dressed in my whole life. Nor have I felt so under-dressed since. If you visited

The Revolution nightclub in the 1960s, it would not have been unusual for you to spy the likes of Elizabeth Taylor or the Kray brothers. Often bands of such calibre as The Beatles,

The Rolling Stones and Elton John would play there. It has been said that playing a gig at

The Revolution was the start of many high-profile music careers. It was the first of its kind.

Before this, England had only pubs… which had no dancefloors, people would just stand around drinking, oftentimes on the sidewalk, or ‘pavement’, as they say across the pond.

I’m not going to lie; my heart sank when I saw the line. I was just about ready to turn around, when Maurice strode off towards the great wooden door, directing a, “Don’t worry,” my way.

He bypassed the street full of people waiting, not so patiently, to get inside. With all eyes on

him, he pounded his coffee-coloured fist against the dark wood. A gentleman opened the

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peep hole and asked Maurice, rather brashly, what he wanted. Maurice puffed out his already broad chest and said, “You tell David, that Maurice is here.” Barely a minute later I heard a voice over the loudspeaker inviting Maurice’s ‘party’ to the front door. The door swung wide open and immediately we were surrounded by opulence. There is no other way to describe it.

An expanse of red velvet and gold finishes. The sheer volume of people within the walls made it seem as though the club was living. Breathing. Containing a stage, a dancefloor, a restaurant and a casino, there was something for everybody. We were shown to a table on the front row, smack-bang at the centre of the stage. Waiting for us were two bottles of the finest champagne. At this point, I knew I was in out of my depth. I took in my surroundings and sank into a chair. Turning to Maurice I asked, “How did you do this?”

He looked at me, his deep brown eyes sparking, the biggest grin on his face. He sipped his champagne and replied, “Gary, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you the shorter version”.

Maurice had this way of captivating people. He was able to monologue and leave people in awe of the story he was telling. It was the way he spoke. You’d feel like he was letting you in on his biggest secret.

“The story begins with my sister, Flora.” Maurice began, gesturing in the general direction of her house with his muscular arm. “She came over here from Iran, over ten years ago, to open a boutique. She eats at the restaurant next door to here all the time. She knows the people there well. One day, she notices this handsome gentleman looking at her across the room. Their eyes keep meeting, until eventually Flora decides to go over to him and start a conversation. Now, he introduces himself as David. Tells Flora he’s come to London from

Iraq to make his own way in life, after being disowned by his father for not wanting to go into

the family business. His father, as it turned out, was an unbelievably rich man, owning the

bottling rights to Coca Cola for the whole of Egypt, amongst many other things. Doing

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business in various countries, under various names, he really was a tycoon. There was ‘rich’ and then there was him. David says to Flora that his dream is to open nightclubs in London.

He wanted an empire of nightclubs, for the rich and famous, and decided that London was the best place to start because there’s only pubs here. Flora leaves the table at this point and asks to borrow the staff phone. She goes outside and makes a call to our dad in Iran. When she returns to the table, some minutes later, she looks David in the eyes and tells him that she wants to make him a deal. She will give him a hundred thousand dollars, for a fifty percent share of his business. She wanted to be equal partners. He shakes her hand, and that was that.

They’ve been partners for over ten years and own twelve establishments, including the best- known casino in the whole of England, The Grosvenor Casino. That’s why they let me in when I told them who I was. That is why we get the special treatment here.”

Almost as if on cue, David sauntered up to the table with three exceptionally stunning, scantily clad women draped over him. A redhead, a blonde and a brunette. They gazed around the room, an air of indifference about them like a smokescreen. They were used to the atmosphere here. Used to the attention. David greeted Maurice as an old friend. Maurice introduced me and filled David in on our big plans to drive around Europe. At this point, I was completely dumb struck. Look at this from my perspective, if you will. One of the most accomplished entrepreneurs was stood at my table and Maurice was chatting to him as though this was a completely normal occurrence. Of course, I didn’t know at the time, that this was

‘normal’ for Maurice. David then offered to us, what felt to me, like the world. He told us that we could have any drinks we wished, any food we wished, any women we wished. He wanted us to have a good time there. More specifically, he wanted Maurice to have a good time there. You see, David knew that Maurice could put on a show. Draw all the attention to

himself. Make the men want to be him, and the women want to be with him. By doing this,

David knew that anybody who set eyes on Maurice, would also have a good time. Maurice 17 Page

was then given £500 to gamble with. “Go put on a show!” David whispered. In addition to the £500 chip, David threw some keys on the table, “Use my penthouse if you want. It has a bar, one hell of a view and a new round bed.” He said, winking at us before swaggering away.

Within minutes Maurice had a crowd of onlookers watching him play roulette, in awe. It was a rollercoaster ride. First, he was up by about five grand, then he was down, then he was up again. The crowd riding the wave with him. Raucous cheering erupted when he was winning, intent silence when he was losing. Nobody could play the room like Maurice. Meanwhile, I watched from a distance, eating my steak, drinking my champagne and trying to let this insane night sink in.

Almost an hour later Maurice asked me to follow him up to the top floor of the building. We arrived at a huge double door with an armed guard stationed at each side. I expected the guards to approach us. To ask us who we were at least, but they let us walk straight by, into a private room. Before us sat six men at a circular table playing poker, each of them was sweating excessively, their faces various shades of red. The room was stark. It had only the table and a small bar area in the far corner. We walked silently over to the bar and perched on the stools; half hidden in the shadows of the room. Maurice lent over to me and whispered, gesturing with his head at the table of men hunched over their cards, that this game would be worth over one million dollars. That each hand could be worth anything from twenty-five thousand dollars to a hundred thousand dollars. My mouth hit the floor. Not only could I never imagine having that much money in the first place. But to try to imagine gambling it away? These men were straight up crazy-rich. Not only were they crazy rich, but they were

helping to make David and Flora even richer, as two percent of each pot went straight to the

club. They were the only guaranteed winners here, making anywhere between £500 and 18

£5000 per hand. Page

Sipping another glass of champagne that Maurice had placed into my hand, I couldn’t take my eyes off these men. The tension in the room was like nothing else. Every move they made was deliberate. Every yawn, every sigh, every drink. I was watching something very few people would ever have the chance to. As it was a cash game, the mountain of money dominated the table. Have you ever seen that amount of money in pound notes? Believe me, it’s an astonishing sight. I turned to Maurice to express this sentiment, but he had vanished from beside me. In fact, he had vanished from the room all together!

When I managed to drag myself away from the poker game, a couple of hands later, I found

Maurice in the casino surrounded, once again, by engrossed men and women. I gave him a wave and went back to our table and had another couple of glasses of champagne. Once

Maurice felt he had fulfilled David’s wishes to put on a show, we decided to go home. Both unsteady on our feet, from the non-stop expensive champagne, Maurice decided to find

David’s chauffer to take us back to Flora’s. Stumbling out of the Rolls Royce and up the stairs to Flora’s front door, I felt like I was floating, high on then night’s events and beyond excited for the rest of our trip. If our first real night was like this, I couldn’t wait to see how the rest of our travels would unfold.

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Chapter Two

Where I First Fall in Love

The next day I met Flora and immediately fell head over heels in love. She was older, worldlier and completely unattainable. She had the same coffee coloured skin as her brother,

Maurice, but much darker eyes. Mahogany hair flowed around her shoulders and fell to just above her waist. She was a vision. Unlike any woman I had seen before. Despite all this, we fell into easy conversation. She offered to take me shopping, my wardrobe was what could possibly be described as ‘unfashionable’. I obviously acquiesced and we set off into the city.

Walking around the teeming Oxford Street and Piccadilly Circus with Flora was an experience in itself. She held herself in such a way, with such confidence, that the crowded streets seemed to part for us. For her. She told me of her marriage. Of her wedding in Iran.

The regret clear in her eyes. Disguising her discomfort, she laughed about how her father paid a one hundred-thousand-dollar bribe in order to get one of her uncles out of prison for the day of the wedding. It was a magnificent affair, with fruit flown in from Lebanon and flowers from Switzerland amounting to the royal sum of roughly one million dollars. I was so grateful for Flora’s company when shopping. I ended up with some pretty nice clothes. When it came to pay the bill, it turned out Maurice had already paid it for me.

Flora decided she wanted to show me her boutique, so that’s where we headed. She told me to look around and see if anything took my fancy. I pointed out a gown that I knew my mother would love. It’s intricate emerald beading on a deep green bodice would make her

look like a queen. Flora’s boutique was more like an art gallery. The clothes that she chose to

sell in her store were works of art. The finest satins and silks from all over the world. An 20 Page

explosion of colour and class. I wasn’t surprised when I noticed the Iranian ambassador in the store. I was surprised, however, to see that he was causing a scene. Having backed his

Mercedes up to the front of Flora’s boutique, and thus blocking anybody else from entering the store and simultaneously blocking the entire sidewalk, he was shouting to Flora to bring out his packages. Eight large wrapped packages, each with NO CUSTOMS/DIPLOMATIC

IMMUNITY scrawled across them in bright red marker, later and the Ambassador was still unhappy. He was supposed to take nine packages back to the Princess Farah. Flora explained to him that one of the dresses was not quite finished up to the princess’s standards, so it would be shipped when it was ready. She told him that she had already telegrammed the princess regarding this. The Ambassador unwillingly accepted this explanation, jumped in his car and screeched away. The smell of burnt rubber filling the air. The un-finished dress will show up later in our story, if you bear with me.

Later on, whilst eating lunch with Flora and Maurice in a beautiful quaint, glass-fronted cafe, we were surprised by a commotion taking place on the street outside. A huge group of people were crowding around a cherry-red 1968 Cadillac Convertible, a rare sight in the UK believe me! The long body and crazy amounts of chrome made it stick out like a sore thumb. Flora leaned into me and said that she had always wanted a Cadillac, she loved cars. Especially this one. Elvis had this one. She asked if I would be able to procure this exact model on her behalf once back in the States. Unsure of whether or not she was joking, I explained that it would cost nearly twenty thousand dollars to buy one and get it shipped to her in England. “No problem,” Flora grinned. Now reader, you need to remember that twenty thousand dollars in the 60s is the equivalent to about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars nowadays. I felt as though I had stepped into another world. A world where money was no object. Where

anything was possible. Let me tell you this, that feeling was incredible.

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Chapter Three

Where We Leave London

The next day Maurice and I set off to a dry dock to pick up one of Flora’s cars, which we would be borrowing for the remainder of our trip. We would then head to the port and catch a boat to Antwerp, Belgium. On our way there we stopped off in Dover to see Maurice’s younger sister, Sharit, who was at a boarding school in the area. We decided to take Sharit out for lunch a lovely little coastal café. Whilst Maurice was eating, gazing doe-eyed at a young, leggy blonde in the corner, and simultaneously chatting to his sister, I snuck off to pay the bill. He never mentioned the act of my paying the bill to me, but he must have noticed.

His sister certainly did at any rate, as the story made it all the way to Tehran, to Maurice’s father. This, of course, was not known to me at the time, but Sharit rang her father from her school that evening and told him, “Dad, Gary beat Maurice to paying the bill today! I’ve never seen him so happy. It’s like he’s got the brother he always wanted.”

It turned out that Flora had also told her father the same thing, that I was good for Maurice and that I pulled my weight which his other friends never had. This would have been nice to know at the time, but Maurice was a very proud person. I would have loved to be able to read him as well as his sister could. Once we had dropped her off back at school, we continued on our journey to pick up our new mode of transport.

Prior to leaving America, Maurice had explained to me that the cherry-red Mustang we

would be driving, was unregistered. The licence plate and the registration documents did not

match. This was how Flora avoided the extortionate entry tax rates abroad. Knowing this had 22

made me nervous, it didn’t seem to affect Maurice in the slightest. This was just something Page

that his family did to make life easier and save them some money, not that they needed that!

Renting any car in France, that wasn’t made in the country, was also extremely expensive due to this same entry tax, unless you wanted to drive around in a Peugeot (and Flora didn’t strike me as the type). I had decided that since Maurice wasn’t going to act upon the mismatched documents, I needed to. I went to a junkyard back in Rhode Island. Got a used, but decent looking registration plate. Then I high tailed it down to the registration office, got a blank form and filled it in with the new information, forging the registrar’s signature as I went.

Until this point, this was the boldest thing I had ever done. Being from Rhode Island, I already knew just how to pull this off. Then all I needed to do was pack the plates and documents in my already over-flowing luggage.

Maurice was already beginning to have an influence on me. Flora used this car purely for when she went to Europe, so it was easy to get a Green Card for insurance. When it wasn’t being used, it was stored in the dock. It was never driven in the UK. Now, I’m ashamed to say that I struggled to start the car to drive to the port. My driving experience was vastly limited so far, and the 1967 Mustang had a tricky anti-theft device, that I tripped. As a result of my error, we were late to the dock and the boat had left without us. Standing at the dock, looking out to sea we could just see the boat disappearing into the distance. Panic struck me instantly, I didn’t want to waste any of our trip. I wanted to be on my way to Belgium where I should be. Racking my brain to think of a possible solution to this problem was useless. I came up with nothing. At this point, I turned to Maurice to ask if he had a plan. I realised that he wasn’t there. Scanning the port, I saw him about fifty yards away at a phone box. He was lent against the wall behind him, like nothing is wrong. He stayed this way for about thirty

seconds and then casually makes his way back over to me. “Don’t worry.” Maurice said.

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He pointed out to sea, and you wouldn’t believe it, the boat had turned around and was making its way back to shore. I looked at him in confusion. Maurice then took great pride in telling me how he solved our ‘little problem’.

“Did you know Gary, that you can make a call to the ship as long as it’s still within five miles of the shore? Well you can and I told the Captain that I’m Princess Soraya’s brother and that I’m supposed to be meeting her in Belgium shortly and if I was to miss my boat, the princess would be most unhappy.” I shook my head in disbelief at his cheek, but also at his confidence. He knew this plan would work because the Princess Soraya was very much loved in Europe. The Shah of Iran’s most beloved wife who, unfortunately, was unable to produce an heir to the throne. And so, with great regret, the Shah had needed to find another wife who would be able to fulfil this duty. Princess Soraya therefore found herself rich, and inopportunely without a husband. She consequently spent all her time, and money, helping children from many different countries. Opening hospitals and orphanages. She was treasured by everybody. So, Maurice had decided to use this knowledge to his advantage, as only Maurice could.

When the boat docked, for the second time that day, four uniformed men in full 3-piece black suits and white gloves, disembarked. They introduced themselves to us as the Captain’s staff, they had been sent to help us get our car onto the boat. Putting the car in neutral and taking the handbrake off, they pushed the car up the ramp and into the hull of the boat. Once aboard the boat we we’re escorted to the Captain’s quarters for shrimp cocktails and champagne.

Maurice and the captain deep in conversation, myself smiling and nodding when asked a direct question, trying to comprehend what had just happened. It was like being in the middle

of a movie. That’s why I wanted to write this story. While we were enjoying our lunch with

the Captain, somebody on the boat fixed our car. Once docked in the South of France we 24

drove off into Brussels, Belgium, where our mail was waiting for us at the Hilton Hotel. This Page

was another one of Maurice’s tricks when travelling. In order to make sure you get your mail, this is especially important when you’ve left your girlfriend back home, you get it posted to fancy hotels that you pass on your way. When you pass by the hotel you call in and ask for your mail, saying that you had planned to stay at the hotel but met some friends on your way so would no longer be staying there.

It didn’t quite happen this way for us, when we went to pick up our mail from Brussels. On our approach to the hotel we notice news vans, reporters and hundreds of people blocking our entry. The longest red carpet I had ever seen ran from the pavement into the front doors to the hotel. After fighting our way through the crowd, we approached the desk to ask for our mail.

I had tried to avoid stepping on the immaculate red carpet leading from the pavement to the front desk, but Maurice, in typical Maurice fashion, had the audacity to stroll straight down the middle. The attendant efficiently went and got our mail from the safe in the back. We said thank you and I turned to leave. Maurice, I realised, was still speaking to the man behind the counter. I managed to catch the end of the conversation. “There must be some mistake, I have a reservation. I’m supposed to meet my sister Soraya here this weekend.” The attendant blushes and explains that there must have been a mistake, that Soraya is not coming until next weekend. But that a room can be arranged for him, if he so wishes, “At a discounted price, of course”. Maurice accepted the generous offer and asks why all the news vans were outside.

The attendant tells him that the King and Queen of Belgium are dining with the King and

Queen of Denmark in the hotel restaurant. They were being filmed by television cameras for some kind of public announcement. Maurice asked if somebody could give a note to the royal diners, asking if it would be okay if ‘Soraya’s brother’ and myself could dine in the restaurant, which is closed to the public. It was agreed that we could dine there, so long as we

ate in the far corner of the restaurant as, according to Maurice’s note, we had a ‘gruelling’

journey from England. The royals sent over a bottle of champagne and we raised our glasses 25 Page

to them, not wanting to disturb their meal, much to Maurice’s disappointment, as he wanted to go and thank them personally. Thank God he listened to me! We ate quickly and went up to our room. I don’t know about you, but at this point my mind was reeling. We had stayed in the most prestigious part of London, turned a ship around and dined in the same room as

royalty. What had I gotten myself in for?

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Chapter Four

In Which Were Typical Tourists

The next week or so after Belgium was pretty mundane, or as mundane as it could be travelling with Maurice. Our next stop was Amsterdam, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. As we strolled beside the water, Maurice catching the eye of every young lady who walked past, I began to think that this was pretty much how I had envisioned our trip panning out. Walking along the canals, spotting the rainbow of houses, the colourful people.

Amsterdam hasn’t changed much since then. We settled into the ebb and flow of the city, visiting museums, gardens, taking bicycle rides and partaking in the ‘cannabis culture’ of the

60s. I’d almost forgotten that Maurice led a life very different to my own until, after a night of heavy clubbing, he suggested we go to the Red-Light District for the remainder of the evening. This district, for those of you who have not had the pleasure to visit, is a part of

Amsterdam where there is a very high concentration of prostitutes. They sell their wares from windows surround the area, their bodies lit up by a red glow, silhouetting their varied bodies against the stark backgrounds. It was not at all what I expected, the streets were mostly extremely narrow with tall buildings lining either side, women of all different types flirting with the men and women who passed. Maurice made his choice in a matter of minutes, a beautiful blonde with legs for days. I, on the other hand, spend the rest of the evening wondering around the maze of streets being too picky or too nervous to make a decision.

With over two hundred choices, I didn’t even know where to begin!

The next day we decided to split up and do our own thing. I had decided, since speaking to

Maurice about Princess Soraya, that I wanted to visit an orphanage and volunteer to help out

for the day. I had envisioned myself walking up to an imposing gothic stone structure. This is 27 Page

not what happened. The orphanage was so modern and light, having been built only a few years before, funded by the lovely Princess Soraya. I felt like I should do something exciting with the children, so got permission from the manager to take some of the children out to the park to play. I spent so much money on sweets and ice creams. It was the best money I have ever spent, until this day. The feeling that I was left with, after spending time with the children, was beyond anything I’d felt before. This is what I’d hoped that travelling would be like.

The last thing we did before leaving Amsterdam and The Netherlands, was go to watch the

Grand Prix. Well, I say watch the Grand Prix but what would be more accurate is that I watched cars and Maurice watched the pretty ladies. The whole event was fascinating. I’m so glad I managed to see the racing on this trip… at least this had afforded me with some

‘typical’ tourist stories to tell when people asked about my travels.

Amsterdam would be the first, and last place I felt like a ‘normal’ tourist. After this, Maurice

came into his own and the trip became one hell of a wild ride. Hold on tight!

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Chapter Five

In Which Parisian Drama Unfolds

Next stop… Paris! The city of romance, culture and art. Little did we know, it would not be the relaxing tourist stop we had anticipated. Let me tell you something, Paris was going to become an adventure all to itself!

Driving into the city we saw armed troops everywhere. Crawling like insects. A sea of camouflage clothing. We parked the car and walked into the throng of people to investigate.

As you’ve probably guessed by now, Maurice likes to get into the thick of things. There was no keeping him away from the unfolding drama. After asking what felt like hundreds of people, we finally found a person who spoke English well enough to explain what was happening. As it turned out, students all over France were rioting. Protesting against the

‘oppressive social norms’ of the time. Paris was the worst hit of anywhere in the country. The riot was later credited with pushing France into more modern era of thinking. However, at the time, believe me folks, it was scary! Riot police formed barricades to prevent the students doing too much damage. The students retaliated, with force and because of this Maurice and I found ourselves struggling to find a place to stay. Martial Law had been declared so no-one could enter or leave the city. As a result of this, the hotels had been taken over by people who could not leave Paris after work. There was not a hotel room to be had. I asked Maurice what we’re going to do. We were stuck in Paris with no place to say.

He looks at me, smiles and says his signature phrase, “Don’t worry.” And off he walks into the crowd. I follow at his heels, eager to see how he could possibly get us out of

this situation. He eventually stopped in front of The Ritz, the most expensive hotel in Paris at 29

the time. Of course, the first thing we did was pick up our mail. The second thing, Maurice Page

addressed the hotel receptionist and says, with incredibly confidence, “You have a suite reserved for the Shah of Iran, the Queen’s Suite. That’s for us.” He showed identification and was handed the keys.

As we walked to our room, our shoes sinking into the plush red carpet, I couldn’t help but look at Maurice. He belonged here. He walked around like he owned the place and when he threw open the double doors to our room his reaction was the exact opposite of mine. Where he seemed to drink it all it, my jaw hit the floor. Let me tell you, for a boy from Rhode Island, what I saw was unimaginable to me. The first thing that hit me was that this suite was bigger than the house I grew up in. The closet, bigger than my two-car garage back home. It had two gigantic master bedrooms, with en-suites and baths the size of cars. I had never seen so much fabric in my whole life. It draped every decadent surface, making the room appear as a palace. Maurice walked the length of the living area, to the table where an ornate bowl of fresh fruit was sitting, alongside a bottle of champagne. He took a bite of an apple, poured himself a glass of champagne and sank into one of the sofas. All the while, grinning at me.

I should have been able to relax upon entering the room, but all I could think about was how would we afford this. I had $800 to my name at this point in the trip. Maurice, as far as I was aware, had very little left too. I turned to Maurice, still relaxing on the plush, velvet sofa, and asked how much all this had cost.

“Nothing.” He replied, his eyes fixed on mine gauging my reaction. I walked over to the window, took a deep breath and braced myself against the polished wood of the sill.

“How in the Hell did you manage that?” Was all I could choke out, my mind trying to reach for possible explanations and failing miserably.

Maurice strolled over to the window and put his arm around my shoulders, “We are 30

now guests of the Shah of Iran’s current wife and his sister.” He said, as if this provided Page

adequate explanation. When I didn’t respond he continued, “They are here on a shopping trip and Flora is here to advise them. She’s actually staying right next door.”

My ears pricked up at the mention of Flora. Although it had only been a matter of days since I last saw her in London, I was ready for another fix. Puppy love, folks!

My good mood only lasted a few minutes as it began to dawn on me just how low we were on money. I didn’t want to freeload off other people, especially not Flora. But I also didn’t want to cut our trip short. What a dilemma! In the end I decided it was best to mention my concerns to Maurice, after all we still had so much of our trip left. It took me a little while to build up the courage to speak to him about this. I didn’t want to cause any arguments.

I finally approached him a couple of hours later. He was getting changed ready to go out that night. He was swapping his casual cream slacks for some back ones, his polo shirt for a button-down. I noticed his dark hair, almost shoulder-length, resting smartly on his collar. He always wore it swept back from his face. It dawned on me in that moment just how different we were. Where he was angular and sharp, I was slightly softer. My mousey brown hair, cropped much shorter than his, was almost the same colour as my complexion. I’m not saying

I wasn’t good looking; I know that I was. But in a different way. A more approachable way.

Girls looked at Maurice and saw a challenge. Girls looked at me and saw a possible husband.

Whilst all these thoughts were rattling around my head, Maurice turned to look at me.

“Everything okay Gary?” He spoke the words slowly, like he could tell something was wrong. I told him of my concerns. That I didn’t want our trip to be cut short and that I didn’t want to freeload off his family. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” He smirked at me and continued, “Right after Paris, I’m going to send a telegram to my dad. The same one I always

send.” He chuckled to himself. “It goes like this: Dear dad. No mon. No fun. Your son. To

which I always get the same response: Dear son. Too bad. So sad. Your dad.”

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“How on Earth does that save you?” I hear you asking. Well, I’ve got to tell you, I was thinking the exact same thing. Maurice must have read my face pretty accurately because he lowered his voice, looked straight into my eyes and whispered, “Don’t worry. While we’re here everything is taken care of by the Shar of Iran’s wife. We can eat, we can drink, we can party. You have a bit of money left over too. I promise you, after Paris, I will sort this. I will get your money and we’ll be rocking and rolling again.” And do you know what? I believed him. He had the power to sell sand to the Saharans. So, for better or worse, I believed him.

But something still bugged me. I did not want to take advantage of Flora’s kindness. The last thing I wanted to do was sponge off her. I needed her to respect me. To think of me as an adult, not a dependent. Maurice responded to my concerns in the level-headed manner to which I was accustomed. He explained that it was not his intention to ask his sister for help.

That we had originally planned to find our own hotel, but due to the unfortunate circumstances, we were unable to do this. Flora was our only means of finding somewhere to stay. It turned out that Maurice wanted to ask Flora for help, even less than I did. Who could argue with that? Of course, Maurice was right again. I questioned why I had ever doubted him.

The next day we lunched with Flora. God, I had missed that woman. She was such a breath of fresh air. She was just like her brother, throwing a huge tip on the table as we left the restaurant.

“My father says always to remember the little people Gary.” Flora winked at me.

I managed to convince her to take me shopping again, as we had such a successful trip last time. We had the most marvellous time. I picked up my first velour suit and I finally felt like

I was dressing the part. Maurice’s expensive tastes were beginning to rub off on me. Flora

invited Maurice and I to tea with the Shar’s wife, Empress Farah, that evening. I dressed in

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one of my new outfits and we made our way to a downstairs sitting room to meet the Empress

Farah, her sister and Flora. Boy, I thought our room was nice. You should have seen theirs!

Upon entering I addressed the ladies of the room and said, “Salamat,” by way of greeting. I always like to learn some basic phrases of from the countries I intend to visit. I was absolutely floored by the Empress’s beauty; she was far more lovely than most actresses.

Presuming I spoke Persian, Empress Farah chatted away to Maurice and Flora. I smiled and nodded politely at various intervals so as not to be rude. I did manage to catch that Maurice said I owned Goodyear Tyres (not just the Goodyear store that my father owned), he was the master of little un-truths. I was not too happy about this, folks, I did not like misleading people. I asked Maurice about this later on and he said that he wanted me to be treated with the same respect as him. It turned out; he was looking out for me. When the Empress Farah directed a question directly to me in rapid Persian, I realised that I had to come clean about knowing very little of the language. Thankfully, she found it funny and Maurice translated the rest of the conversation. Empress Farah explained, through Maurice, that she was impressed I had learned a few words of the language. Maurice explained to her that I was interested in Iran and because this was during a time when 99% of Americans could not point out Iran on a map, the Empress was keen to discuss her country with me. With the help of my good-pal Maurice, we talked for an hour about Iran. She was very proud of her country and was excited to be able to educate somebody about its rich and turbulent history. We got on so well that Maurice and I were invited to visit the Shah of Iran in the future, which was incredibly exciting for me! We chatted away until late in the evening, laughing at each other’s stories. It was so relaxed I couldn’t believe I was dining with royalty… again! This road-trip just kept getting more and more surreal.

Late that evening, we decided to go out drinking and blow off some steam. Boy, did I need it!

Paris was still dead and under Martial Law, but we managed to find some places to get drunk 33 Page

and have fun. We spent the evening moving from club to club. We danced with some beautiful women and had a wonderful time. We decided to go back to the hotel. Maurice found the Mustang parked up where we left it and jumped into the driver’s seat, I got into the passenger seat and we sped off. At this point, let me tell you, I realised that I really needed to piss. All the alcohol had caught up with me. Unfortunately for me, we were on The Avenue des Champs-Élysées when I was caught off guard. Remember, that the city is still on lock- down and it was very early morning. The road was completely vacant, there was not another soul in sight. In my drunken-state Maurice convinced me to stand up on the hood of the car to take a piss. Do not ask me why I did it, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you. The next thing I know I’m stood on the hood of the Mustang, taking a piss in the middle of The Avenue des Champs-Élysées. Maurice starts driving the car towards The Arc de Triomphe. I swear to you, this is true, and it could only have happened to me. As crazy as this night was, I needed it. I needed a bit of normality. Away from the money and expensive hotel suites. It grounded

me for the rest of our trip. Next stop… Denmark!

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Chapter Six

Where Maurice Reminisces

Knowing that we were heading towards the land of The Midnight Sun, blonde women, and slightly looser morals made us eager to get on the road. We drove on through Germany, as fast as we could, stopping only for food and gas for the Mustang. Bear in mind, Ladies and

Gentlemen that myself and Maurice were Jewish. We did not feel comfortable spending more time than necessary in Germany considering its pretty recent history at the time. Other than this, the twelve-hour drive seemed to go in a flash, the roads were quick and smooth making the ride easy on us. It was our longest drive by far and I enjoyed every second of. I managed to top 120 miles per hour in the Mustang, it was a crazily exhilarating experience. We talked and laughed the entire way, sharing stories about our pasts and our wishes for the future.

He asked all about my life back home, my family, my dreams, my dad’s store. The more I spoke about myself, the more wondered about Maurice. He usually kept his cards very close to his chest. You only knew what he wanted you to and never anymore. It made me feel incredibly special as he began to open-up about his upbringing as our trip progressed. The first story he told me was about how he ended up at college in America.

Keeping his eyes straight ahead he spoke slowly and deliberately, “I told my dad I wanted to speak to him about something important, so he asked me to meet him at the casino for supper.

This was part of his routine, Gary. Supper at the casino. Every day. I told him that I wanted to go to college in the USA. Then he stopped eating his food, put his knife and fork down and

looked me in the eyes. He asked how long I would be there for and I told him it would take

four years for me to do a business degree. Now, Gary, his face never changed throughout this 35 Page

entire conversation. Not once. He’s a very hard man to read, my father. Then he picked up his pen and wrote 1.2 million on a napkin and told me to give it to my uncle in New York City.

‘That will take care of you.’ He said, ‘But I want something in return.’ He wanted me to be up at 6am the next morning, dressed and ready to go on a ride. ‘Upon returning, I want you to meet me for one final supper before you go.’ So obviously, I get up and ready the next morning and wait on the steps in front of his house. Did I tell you about his house, Gary? It’s crazy! Designed on the Cannes Casino and build especially for my dad. Anyway, so I’m stood there on the steps and it’s so early. One of his members of staff picks me up in a black

Bentley. I get into the back and the member of staff, Imran, explains to me that we’re taking a ride around my dad’s estate, or as much of it as we can fit in in one day. One million acres,

Gary. My dad has over one million acres of land.”

“I didn’t return home until 8pm that night, when I went to meet my dad at the casino.

He asked me how my day went, and I only had one reply. Long. Then, Gary, he grinned at me. ‘Son, I wanted you to realise before you leave that the land you saw today is ours. There are opportunities for you when you return. Have a good time in the US, you have a lot to look forward to when you get back.’ So, Gary, when you ask me what I’m going to do with my life, the answer is that I don’t know. I will always be in my father’s shadow. If I took two hundred men and stood them one on top of the other, they would still not cast a shadow as big as my father’s. I’m still figuring it all out Gary. And look at what we’ve got ahead of us!”

The road unwound in front of the car, the sun beginning to set on the horizon and for the first time ever. I began to feel as though I knew Maurice. I began to see the truth behind the confident act he portrayed to the rest of the world.

At the border of Denmark, I witnessed Maurice make his first, and only, mistake of the trip.

Since our car was unregistered, we had to be polite, inconspicuous and respectful at the 36

borders. However, for reasons unknown to me, Maurice started mouthing off at the officials Page

and we ended up having our car pulled over and searched. This was the last thing we needed at the time; I was on edge but tried to stay polite. I thought that hopefully by being polite it would compensate for Maurice’s attitude that day. I spent an hour physically keeping

Maurice away from the officials, all the while he was muttering curse words in at least two different languages under his breath. The stern officials searched every inch of our car, even resorting to dismantling our spare tyre. It took an hour and I’m sure they looked angry that they didn’t find anything. It could have been my imagination, but their faces seemed awfully red when they had to put the car back together again.

We arrived in Denmark an hour late, feeling the pressure from our close call at border control.

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Chapter Seven

In Which There Are Turtles

Besides the incident with the border officers, our stay in Denmark was definitely pleasurable.

Due to the delay caused by our friends back at the border, we had trouble finding a hotel room. Unsure of what to do we began asking around the locals to see if anyone knew of good hotels in the area that might have a vacancy. As luck would have it, one local recommended that we tried a boat called the St Lawrence, which was dry-docked in Copenhagen. This turned out to be a fabulous decision. The boat had its own club onboard which provided us with endless entertainment in the evenings.

We stayed in Denmark, aboard the St Lawrence, for a week. Maurice and I went to visit the

Tivoli Gardens on second day in the country, after getting our bearings the day before. If you haven’t heard of the Tivoli Gardens, I would beseech you to search the internet for photographs of this amusement park. If you’re lucky enough to have been there, you will agree that the photographs do not do it justice, but you’ll get an idea of what it’s like. Only open throughout the summer months, the gardens have breath-taking displays of flowers, dancing fountains, foods from all over the world and even some rides. To make it even more spectacular, in the evenings everything in the park lights up. It looks even more out-of-this- world at night than it does in the day. Fairy lights hanging from every building, the fountains lit from within, streetlamps lighting the pathways. It is like something from another world.

We spent three evenings here, Maurice flirting with the ladies as usual. All I could think about was that I would love to bring someone special here, in the future. This place had such

a magical energy to it that it just felt right that you should be there with someone you loved.

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It is rumoured that Walt Disney agreed with me, as some people suggest he based much of

Disney Land off this place.

I felt extremely lucky to have found the St Lawrence and the Tivoli Gardens. But, ladies and gentlemen, I also got lucky in another sense of the word in Denmark. Obviously, I had witnessed Maurice meet and woo women so easily. For me, it was slightly more difficult. I’m not bad looking, it’s not that. In fact, like I’ve already said, I think I’m relatively good looking. But Maurice had this confidence about him. He could go up to anyone, prince or pauper and charm them. Completely captivate them. He’d tell the most bizarre stories to the women that he’d meet, and they would believe him. You always believed Maurice. He often told people that I was a Texan millionaire and he’d been hired to show me around. Or that he was an escaped Persian slave, “Yes, they still have slaves in Persia,” he’d say, with the most serious look on his face. But my favourite story of Maurice’s involved turtles. Yes, you read that right. Turtles.

It normally went something like this… A couple of young women would be stood at a bar, any bar. It doesn’t matter. It always went down the same way. Maurice would stroll up to them and take a seat on a barstool. Not too close as to be intimidating, but close enough that they know he’s there. I’m usually at his side, trying not to draw too much attention to myself.

He smiles at them, that typical Maurice grin and asks to buy the two ‘lovely ladies’ a drink.

I’m telling you; no-one can resist that smile. Of course, the ladies let Maurice buy their drinks. Then, before they get a chance to speak, he launches into his story. The turtle story.

“Well ladies, I’m in [enter any country/town, it wouldn’t matter] because I’m in the turtle business. You ladies know anything about the turtle business?” Of course, the ladies smile

and shake their heads… usually giggling to themselves. “Well, I don’t really like to brag

about it, but it’s very lucrative and has me travelling all over the world. My job is to procure 39

the highest-grade turtles for racing. I’m away from home a lot and it can be very lonely Page

[Maurice usually does his ‘puppy dog eyes’ here]. How would you like to keep a lonely turtle salesman company tonight?” Yes, folks, this worked.

Anyway, the story he used on the night I got ‘lucky’ wasn’t this one. In fact, it could be argued that this story is even less believable. He strolled over to a redhead at a bar in

Copenhagen. It was a small bar, mostly full of young men and women travelling the world. I lost him to this redhead within minutes of us stepping foot into the dingy, poorly lit entrance.

I followed and sat a couple of barstools away, so as not to disrupt his flow. Then, I heard him say, “… an oil prince from Persia. I have three wives already, but none as beautiful as you.

You are something else.” His accent was suddenly ten times stronger. Familiar with the ending of this story, his brother had four wives already, so he needed to find his fourth wife, I turned my attention away. I had learnt from Maurice, that you don’t have to be the most handsome man in the room to end up with a gorgeous woman. But you do have to be confident and interesting, and quite possibly the funniest.

Taking heed of what I had learnt, I turned to the lady sitting next to me. She was dressed all in black and had the palest blonde hair which fell straight to her hips. When I asked her if she would like a drink, I noticed her piercing pale blue eyes and, I’m sorry if you think I’m being crude, her mountainous breasts stuffed into her corset top. Doing all I could to keep my eyes up, I focused on her face. It was gently lined; she was older than me. Before I could stop myself, I started with the turtle salesman story and we ended up talking and laughing for hours. I was thanking my lucky stars I had listened to Maurice, when she began hinting that she would like to come home with me. She caught me off guard, however, when she said that if I would like her to join me for the evening, she must go and tell her husband, who was in a

club across the street. While she was informing her husband of our sordid plans, I told

Maurice that I would be leaving and taking the car. He didn’t mind as, with a wink, he told 40

me he didn’t think he would be coming home that night. Slapping me on the shoulder he said, Page

“You’re one in a million Gary, go have some fun!” The elongated ‘ee’ sound resonated in my head as I noticed that the redhead from earlier was obviously keen on the ‘oil prince from

Persia’, as she was still hanging off his every word.

The busty blonde and I, who’s name I hadn’t managed to catch yet, made our may back to the

St Lawrence. Who knew it would be so difficult to drive with a woman such as this sat so close, but not touching? Sexual tension filled the car like a thick fog. We parked the car and made our way back to my apartment, still not touching. As soon as the door closed behind us, her hands were all over me and I was pushed back against the door. It didn’t take long before our clothes were scattered all over the floor and we were under the covers. Without going into too many details, it was a night I would never forget. She taught me things that came in very handy in my future relationships. God bless that woman. God bless Denmark.

The next day we deliberated on where to go next. We ended up spending the next few nights in Norway and did much the same things as we had in Denmark. Maurice and I both agreed we liked Denmark more. Not only was the atmosphere more alive, but the women were far more fun too! We decided not to back track to Finland and upon looking into visiting Russia we found that Maurice, who was Iranian, could not enter without a Visa. Our next thought was Germany. Although we both had some reservations, being Jewish, we decided to push

through our anxieties and see what it had to offer us.

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Chapter Eight

In Which I Learn About Iranian Corruption

Maurice had a friend who was living in Germany, so that’s where we decided to head. Our drive through Germany was fun! The Autobahn, the German highway system, had no speed limit. We finally got to test the limits of the Mustang. The deep guttural rumble of the engine was our soundtrack. On this journey, the longest one yet, we got another chance to tell more stories. The deep groan of the car was the perfect accompaniment to Maurice’s low, brusque voice.

Maurice’s opening up about himself was becoming more frequent. This made me incredibly happy. He was trusting me with things only his close family knew. This would cause problems for me later. However, un-aware of the fourth-coming drama, I listened intently to him. Just like last time, his eyes were fixed on the road ahead… unwavering. “Did I ever tell you about when I decided Iran wasn’t for me Gary?” Maurice began. My shaking head prompted him to continue, “Nearly fifteen years ago, when my dad was building his house.

You know, the one that looks like the Casino Cannes? Well, my dad hired many builders for the job. It was a huge job. In order to build the new house, they had to tear down the old one.

Not long into the job, one of the men ends up at the emergency room, he’d stepped on a nail in wooden panel they had removed from the structure of the old house. This happened more than once, Gary. The workers would remove the wooden panels and beams, full of old nails, and throw them ‘nail up’ on to the ground behind them. They didn’t seem to learn their

lesson. Now, I get fed up and decide to speak to the workers myself. I got them all together 42

and explained, in their own language no less, that they needed to place the boards nails down. Page

I even demonstrated this! I walked away feeling accomplished, you know. The next day, the workers are back to their old habits and returning to the hospital regularly for shots because they kept standing on the rusty nails! This is when I decided Iran wasn’t the country for me.”

He turns and laughs, an incredibly belly-laugh and I find myself joining in. Only Maurice could take something so trivial and base his entire life around it.

Hours of insignificant talking, and unbelievable scenery, later and Maurice decides to open- up again. This story took a much more serious note. It concerned the corruption currently taking place in Iran. It was already clear to me, by this point, that Maurice had a love/hate relationship with his home country. This conversation would help me to understand why this was. “There’s a lot of corruption in my country. The simplest example I can give you Gary is this… If the Shah wants something simple doing, say building a road. He calls up his friend and advisor and asks how much it would be to do this. His advisor then calls his friend, who works in construction. The construction worker quotes ten million dollars. The advisor then calls back the Shah and says it would cost fifteen million. Not a bad pay cheque for a ten- minute phone call, eh Gary?! This is just one example. You could apply this philosophy to everything that is going on in Iran, somebody is always being cheated.” Maurice sighs and continues, “The Shah is not a bad man, Gary. I wouldn’t want you to think that. In fact, he is a very good man. A decent human being. But, try as he might, he is not capable of running the country.” He stops here, as though he is trying to find the right words to continue. He quickly becomes lost in thought. I decided to prompt him to carry on with the story.

Learning about Maurice’s past and his country was like a drug to me, I needed more!

“Maurice?” I question, softly so as not to startle him back into the present. He looked at me

for a couple of seconds, I swear it was like I could see the fog clearing in his eyes. “Sorry,

Gary.” He responds, blinking. “Anyway, like I said, the Shah is a good man. Please do not 43

think otherwise. But he is a weak leader. My family know this, as does a lot of the Page

intelligentsia in Iran. They try not to acknowledge it though. They do not want to accept that he may fall as King of our country. This could cripple Iran in such a turbulent time. His head is mostly in the clouds. He had never had a ‘normal’ life. He knows nothing of the problems facing the poor in my country. You’ll never believe this Gary, but on his eighth birthday he asked his dad, the previous Shah of Iran, for a baseball. He was given a solid gold bat and ball, that nobody could play with. You see what I mean, Gary? He does not walk among us.

He does not know what reality is.”

“He’s a womaniser and a gambler and he can afford to be.” Maurice continued, “He cares deeply for his country, but he cannot run it. Period. He likes to be surrounded by ‘yes- men’, who will cater to his every whim. He plays King and only makes superficial decisions for the country. Anything more involved, his advisors make the decisions. He has a man in the Secret Service whom he relies on greatly for important decisions. This man is both brutal and corrupt. He is despicable human being.” Maurice rolled down the car window and spat into the wind, the look of disgust painted on his tanned face. “Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, Gary. Remember that. Do you understand now why I have such conflicted feeling about my country Gary?” I nodded slowly. Trying to absorb the information Maurice had shared. Iran was corrupt, I understood that. The Shah was a good man, but a bad leader. I understood that too. What seemed to hit me the most was that I was one of very few Americans, who had such an insider understanding of Iran. The way Maurice talked about it so stoically scared me. Like it was just to be accepted that his country was like this and you couldn’t do anything about it. This thought would haunt me for the rest of my journey. Things were not always as they appeared to be.

Maurice continued on with this story, I was more than glad, I couldn’t get enough of these

anecdotes. “Did I tell you that we grew up almost next door to the Shah? I know him well; 44

we’ve met many times. He holds my father in very high esteem, not because of his wealth, Page

but because of his brain. The Shah believes my father can see into the future. His luck in business is beyond that of any other in Iran, if the Shah believes my father has some kind of hidden magical talents, so be it. A third of the royal guards are Jewish because my father told the Shah that Jews would lay their lives down for him. He is good to them; he gives them a freedom with no persecution. He trusts my father so wholeheartedly that their taxes aren’t worked out the official way, like everyone else’s. The Royal Tax collector comes to my father with a figure of how much tax is needed to ‘balance the government’s budget’ and this is what my father pays.” This was matter of fact, statements of the truth. Just like any other story one would tell of their next-door neighbours.

“I lost respect for him as soon as I was able to understand how my country was run. I remember a time when The Shah was overthrown, I wasn’t very old. It was an operation carried out by American and Britain to strip the Shah of his power and make Iran democratic.” At this point Maurice let out a low laugh, he knew that would never happen. “It was 1956, I think. The Shah fled the country. The thing that he was the most worried about,

Gary, was his treasure. His palace was full of gold, priceless antiques, paintings and government papers. When the Shah got wind of the coming trouble, he arranged to have all of his possessions hidden in my father’s attic, of all the places in the world! I was woken up one night by Royal Guards marching up the stairs, carrying these priceless treasures. To a Jew’s attic, no less! Of course, no one ever thought to look in a Jew’s attic for the Shah’s things. It wasn’t long before the Shah was back in power, with all of his possessions surrounding him,”

I looked at Maurice in awe, I knew his stories were real, but dear God, they were unbelievable. I truly believed Maurice had opened up to no-one like he did with me, during

this trip. This made me feel incredible!

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Chapter Nine

Where I Face Some Sobering Truths

Our arrival in Munich was signalled by the blur of trees shifting into large grey buildings. We approached Moritz’s house, Maurice’s German friend, in the early evening. The red sun descending low into the sky, encasing the heavy stone building into shadow. I learned a lot about European hospitality, staying with Moritz and his family. His mother and father, both sets of grandparents and his brother’s family all lived in this house and every one of them welcomed us with open arms. The house was much larger on the inside than it appeared from the outside. It was what the European’s call a ‘terraced house’, meaning that the houses are attached together in a long row. In this instance, the row of houses snaked far into the distance.

Moritz had to attend school through the week, so Maurice and I planned a visit to The

Dachau Concentration Camp. We felt like this was important to do, given our heritage.

Driving up to the camp gave me a horrible feeling. It seemed like the air was thicker there, before you even stepped out of the car. The whole experience of being there is so all consuming, that you can barely take it all in. The first thing I noticed, walking up to the foreboding iron gates with Maurice, was the atmosphere. It was like the air had been sucked out of the atmosphere. We shared a look at each other, both experiencing the same sensation of dread, and continued on through the gates. We spent the entire day there, keen to experience and learn everything we could about the camp. It seemed like a rite of passage for

us to know as much as we could about what our people had faced here… The crimes, the

atrocities, all of the lives ended. Let me tell you this, folks, the experience of visiting a site 46 Page

such as this, never leaves you. It is often something I think back to and all those feelings of sadness, anger and fear come rushing straight back to me. I swear, I could smell human flesh decaying after all that time. I could see it hanging flaccid on the fences. Maurice couldn’t. He said I must have imagined it.

We returned to Moritz’s home that evening, both of us still in quiet contemplation about visiting the concentration camp when we stepped through the old wooden door and into the hustle and bustle of a busy family. It was a Friday evening, which is the start of Shabbat in the Jewish religion. Shabbat begins at sundown on the Friday until sundown on the Saturday, which is the Jewish day of rest. Moritz’s father was a very strict Jew, which meant that every week his family practiced this tradition. Sitting down for Friday night dinner with the family was just perfect for me. There were so many people seated around the table that the atmosphere was buzzing. The children, Moritz’s nieces and nephews, laughed all the way through dinner and then fell asleep in their chairs, their faces glowing in the candlelight. The family was merry from the rich red wine that had been flowing. When the food was finished and the wine drank, Moritz’s dad retired to the living room, gesturing for Maurice and I to follow him. Maurice declined politely, preferring to rest in his room and read the books he had purchased at Dachau today. I followed Moritz’s father into the living room and watched as he sat in a plush burgundy wingback chair, illuminated only by the candles on the dresser next to him. He nodded at the identical chair next to him and I sat down, sinking into the chair. We sat in silence, tumblers of whisky in hand, until Moritz entered the room. He perched on the arm of his father’s chair and addressed me, “I’m here to help him tell the story. His English isn’t so good.”

His father started talking, Moritz helping out here and there with difficult translations. He

told a story so graphic, so unbelievably sad that I found it difficult to comprehend. His voice

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was gruff, with a strong German accent. It never wavered. Moritz’s father was an incredibly brave man. This is the story he told, in his own words.

“The story starts with my family trying to stay out of sight. We needed to be invisible

when that madman came to power. It was easier said than done. That bastard, that

Hitler, had ways and means of finding people. We could not leave our home, I would

not. My business was here, my family. I believed that the German people would be

civilized, they wouldn’t turn on us. Eventually we were taken to Dachau which was

only ten minutes from our home. I counted my blessings that my wife and I were in

the same camp. That sometimes didn’t happen. Families were torn apart for no reason.

In the end, it didn’t really matter that we were in the same camp. I never set eyes on

her until we were freed. You see this tattoo on my arm, this is all I was to them. A

number. My life. Reduced to a number. You never realise how important your name

is until it gets taken away. You start forgetting who you are.

“I escaped once. Spent six months planning it. It didn’t work out. I held on to the

underside of a truck for dear life. But it was winter. It was so cold. I’ve never

experienced cold like that since. That was my mistake. Winter. I ended up in the

woods, but couldn’t stay there over-night. The ground was frozen solid. It was

snowing. I would have died. I knocked on the doors of my old neighbours, asking for

refuge and was chased away from each one. It wasn’t their fault. They were scared for

their families. The Nazis would have killed their families if they were found to have

helped me. Eventually I had to return to the camp. It was my only option, other than

death. And I couldn’t do that to my wife.

“I was put in solitary confinement for six weeks. I was lucky they didn’t kill me. The

guards had instructions to beat me three times per day. Like clockwork. I owe my life

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to a Polish man, who came and delivered milk and butter through the fence. He risked

his life for us. I couldn’t be more grateful. That is a true hero. I was able to bribe the

guards with the butter to not hurt me as much. Of course, they still did. But the

beatings were not as bad. They used to beat us with a trenchant, when I have them

butter, they would hit me less. They’d hit the wall to make it sound like they were still

beating me. Some days the Polish man could not come. I was always scared that I

wouldn’t survive these days. I nearly died more times that I could count. I needed to

survive for my family. That’s what got me through. Thinking of my wife, and our

lives together. I prayed so hard, every day. I promised God, that if I got out of there, I

would never break any law. Neither would my family. We would be good people. I

would become a man of God, a pious Jew. I later found out that the Polish man had a

tree dedicated to him in a forest in Israel, devoted to non-Jews who risked their life

for us. It doesn’t seem enough though, does it? The man risked his life every day. It’s

better than nothing at all, I think.

“A few years later we were freed. I fought for my life every single day, for a long

time. As did all the other men and women there. You would think that upon being

released everybody would be so excited to return home, that people would have been

dancing in the streets and singing. But the people were starved. I don’t mean hungry. I

mean starved. It took years to build our lives again. We had to start over. But I’ll tell

you this Gary, it makes you appreciate what you have. Every day is a blessing to me

now.”

I could almost see tears in his eyes. Almost. This man brought a whole new meaning to the

word ‘strength’. To go through something like what he had and be able to speak about it so

candidly was unbelievable to me. As looked into his eyes, I suddenly realised I needed to get 49

out of that room. I felt feverish and claustrophobic, despite the size of the room. I thanked Page

Moritz and his father and told them that I needed to take a walk. I quickly stumbled out of the room and down the hall. My hands were shaking as I opened the front door and waked out into the street. I turned left, away from the centre of the town. That’s when I felt the tears coming. Stinging the corner of my eyes like needle points. I choked them back, pulling out a cigarette and taking the biggest inhale. Sitting on my haunches, on the curb of that unfamiliar town, the story of Moritz’s father weighed heavily on my shoulders. The story rattled around my head over and over. I’m not sure when I’d started walking again, but I’d walked at least two miles from the house before I realised and turned to walk back. An hour later I arrived back at the family home. I had decided there was nothing I could say to Moritz’s father about the story he’d just told. Nothing I thought of seemed right. He didn’t need my sympathy. I decided that I would just respect him. The man deserved to be respected. That felt right to me. I also made up my mind that I would travel to Israel at some point in my life. I had to see the Gardens of the Righteous, where the milk-man’s tree lived on.

My time in Germany with Moritz’s family had a monumental impact on my life. It encouraged me to learn more about my people. I felt as though my life had been incredibly sheltered until now. My eyes had been opened. I needed more. This epiphany influenced the

rest of my life, as you will find out.

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Chapter Ten

Where I Fall in Love… Again!

This was my first fourth of July out of the US. It was a big deal for me, so I was glad when

Maurice wanted to celebrate the holiday with me! We set out in our casual clothes looking for a party. Moritz tagged along, he wanted to see what all the fuss was about. We decided our best bet was to go to the Hofbräuhaus, one of Germany’s oldest beer halls. Every time we had passed the hall the atmosphere always seemed lively and you could guarantee you would bump into some travelling Americans there too, which was an added bonus on this occasion.

We walked into the Hofbräuhaus in the early afternoon. We didn’t leave until three o’clock the next morning. We had the best time, singing, drinking and partaking in Maurice’s favourite pass time… chatting to ladies. The majority of people in the bar were American, we joined up with a group of around twenty men and women from the States. I spent most of the evening talking to a group of students from Michigan State, who were all studying the humanities. They were what would be considered now as hippies, or alternatives. They spoke of folk music, coffee shops and festivals. This was my first encounter with people such as these. Despite our differences, I had a blast! By the early evening I was so drunk I could barely stand, all that beer had finally taken effect. I even noticed Moritz getting into the swing of things, he was in a corner of the bar kissing one of the hippy chicks! I was ready to sing and dance! One of the students took out a guitar and everyone gathered round singing songs by Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash and Elvis Presley. I found myself on top of a table,

spinning around with a girl whose face I’ve long since forgotten. I remember looking down 51

and seeing Maurice smiling up at me. That huge, contagious grin. I felt myself grinning back. Page

Holding the girl tighter as we pirouetted clumsily. Throughout the evening the music mellowed out, as the student, Maurice and I became more tired and subdued. The energetic dancing turned into something slower, more mellow. I have no idea whether the girl I ended up with, was the girl I started off with… but there you go. That’s the sign of an evening well spent, right?

I did have time to meet a lovely young lady whilst in Munich, other than the one from the previous night of course. Moritz’s took us out a couple of evenings later to a bar in the

University of Munich student district. All three of us dressed in casual clothes, you don’t dress up to go to a student bar! Moritz’s appearance contrasting myself and Maurice’s drastically. We were like night and day. Boy, I had thought myself and Maurice looked extremely different, but we could have been twins beside Moritz. He had white blonde hair and the fairest complexion I’d seen. He stood out like a sore thumb walking between Maurice and I into the nightclub. Maybe that’s why the girls in the club took a shine to him straight away. Who knows? Within twenty minutes of walking into the club I had lost both of my friends to beautiful women. This was unfortunate for me, as I didn’t speak much German, so had a hard time trying to occupy myself. I decided to go and sit at the bar and drink. It seemed like the best idea at the time. Perching on top of one of those ridiculously high bar stools, I asked for a ‘bier’. I took the beer from the bartender, giving her the money. Without looking up, I muttered, “Danke.” Remember, I always try to learn the basics of the languages in order to be polite.

“That’s a good German accent you’ve got there, for an American obviously.” The bartender half shouted across the racket of the club to me. Looking up I saw that she was one

of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. This is no exaggeration, ladies and gentlemen.

The image of her face, and later on her body, would be ingrained in my mind for the rest of 52

my life. Her seafoam green eyes stared into mine. I couldn’t look away. Before long, I Page

realised I hadn’t answered her! Panicking, I asked why she was bartending. Hoping I didn’t come across as rude. She leaned in closer, saying that she was working her way through

University and trying to support her sick mother whilst doing so. The sadness in her voice seeped out at the mention of her mother. I wanted to be supportive, I really did, but all I could think about was how close her neck was to mine, a mix of perfume and musk hit me like a brick. I still hadn’t seen more than her eyes, and some of her neck, at this point. I decided to look up and give her my sympathy for her mother. She smiled a sad smile and nodded.

Turning away to serve somebody else at the other side of the bar.

I scolded myself for being so awkward. I should have used one of Maurice’s stories to get her to stay talking to me. Although, she didn’t seem like the kind of girl who would fall for that.

Drinking the remainder of my beer, I decided I needed to actually look at the girl I was obsessing over. I caught her laughing with another patron of the bar, her skin was coffee coloured, her hair almost black. Her eyes. Her eyes. I had to tear myself away from them again. Her young, fresh face lit up as she was joking with other customers. The smile never reached her eyes. She was so inherently sad. I was drawn to her, like I’d never been drawn to anyone before. I felt as though I was being pushed to her… crazy right? I needed to get her attention, I drank the last drop of my beer and signalled for her to come over. She walked with a kind of ethereal grace, like she was floating.

“I’ll have another beer please.” I said, smiling at her. She walked over and placed it in front of me, holding her hand out for the money. I put the money in her hand as delicately as I could, my fingertips grazing her skin. Her eyes met mine and I swear the sadness went way for a moment.

“Where are you from? I noticed your accent.” I said to her, my fingertips retracting

from her skin and placing themselves on the table.

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“Russia. I was born in Russia.” She replied, seeming to take note of the look in my eye. The longing to know more about her. “I speak five languages though, including Russian and German, obviously.” My mind was blown! Who speaks five languages fluently? Not even Maurice, a self-professed man of the world, could speak five! I told her that I was impressed, she must be incredibly smart. Seeming to like a compliment on her intellect, rather than her appearance (which was also, incredibly impressive as I have already told you) we chatted for a long time. She kept taking breaks to go and serve other people at the bar. I remember feeling unjustifiably jealous. Here was this woman I had just met, and every time she spoke to someone else at the bar my brain was screaming, “NO, COME BACK. PAY ME

MORE ATTENTION!” I tried my look at the end of the evening and asked her on a date the next day. She said she would play hookey from classes and join me for in picnic in the park that afternoon. Let me tell you, I fell asleep smiling that night, dreaming of how tomorrow’s date might end up.

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Chapter Eleven

In Which I Have the Best Sex of My Life

We met in the Englischer Garten, a park at the centre of Munich. As the name suggests, it is based around English landscaped gardens. The day was scorching hot, I had already sweated through my shirt when I met my date under an old oak tree. I was thankful for the shade. It had taken me until this morning to realise that I had no idea what this woman was called. I had never asked her name! It turned out her name was Viktoriya, she laughed when I had to ask. Thank God! I had dodged a bullet there. We decided to take our picnic in to the woodland area and find a clearing in which to eat. As luck would have it, we found the perfect spot by a stream. We sat with our toes in the cool iridescent water. The next hour flew by in a flurry of laughter, sandwiches and too much beer.

We laid down on the picnic blanket Viktoriya brought. The beer and heat had made us both lightheaded and happy. Looking up at the cloudless sky, with this unbelievably beautiful woman, who happened to be incredibly smart and kind, next to me I felt like I was in heaven.

What more could a young man want. I was just thinking about how fortunate I was when

Viktoriya turned to face me, her skirt riding up her tanned leg a little. Her t-shirt slid up to reveal her navel. Turning to face her, I couldn’t stop my hand from reaching out and caressing the smooth skin of her hip. Her breath caught and she pulled herself flush into my body. Let me tell you folks, this day was going better than I had dreamed of last night! She leaned in, kissing me gently at first and then harder and harder. Then, without any warning,

she stood up and removed every stitch of clothing (thank God for the secluding clearing) and 55

stepped into the water. Turning back to look at me with a sultry smile, she held up her hand Page

and gestured for me to follow. That was the quickest I have ever undressed in my life. This is not something I would have dreamed of doing back home, being stark naked in a park! At midday no less! Don’t misunderstand me, I’d been with my fair share of ladies before

Viktoriya, but never like this. I followed her deep into the water, her shoulders submerged the water lapping over her still visible breasts. I swam over to her and picked her up. She wrapped her legs around my waist, kissing me deeply. Then, we moved together, completely in synch. Our bodies were one. I couldn’t tell where I ended, and she began. We stayed like that for a long time, breathing heavily, our bodies intertwined until the final shivers of sex ran through her, arching her back and sighing into my neck.

We held each other for a long while after that. Enjoying the ripples of the water on our bodies. We talked of our lives and dreams for the future, she wanted to be a clothing designer or artist and move away to live in a big city. My dreams were of a different variety. I needed to learn more about my heritage, my history. I couldn’t plan beyond that. As the sun began to set and the sky turned a feverish red, we emerged from the lake and dressed. Our bodies drying quickly from the heat of the day. We said our goodbyes and went our separate directions, exchanging contact information and promising that we would keep in touch. It would be over a year before I would hear from Viktoriya again, when she wrote to ask for my help securing a job at Flora’s boutique. She had a bright future ahead of her and working with

Flora in London would just be the beginning of that. As luck would have it, she ended up marrying Flora’s, then, ex-husband! No harm was done, everyone involved was happy. I was

invited to the wedding, which I respectfully declined.

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Chapter Twelve

Where We Head to the Top of the World

Our next stop would be Austria. More specifically, The Alps. Maurice and I were both anticipating that our trip up north would be both relaxing and refreshing! I had wanted a quiet, calm drive, but Maurice had other plans. It wasn’t long before the conversation turned to the topic of prostitutes. Maurice did not understand why I had yet to partake in such a past- time. The discussion soon became very heated, Maurice often gesturing so large that he removed both hands from the wheel and I had to grab hold of it quickly in order to keep us on the road. Maurice’s main point being that, “Hookers are people too!”

My stance was that, “I know they are people, that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to pay to have sex with one of them.”

You could tell Maurice’s life had been way different to my own by the fact that he found my argument completely unfathomable. The conversation ended at an impasse, each believing that they were right and the other wrong.

As though to prove the strength of mine and Maurice’s friendship, we carried on chatting about other things like the cross words had never occurred. This was when Maurice decided to tell me of Flora’s struggles in her marriage. I had got the sense that she wasn’t happy when we spoke, but I had no idea of the extent of it. I’m pretty sure it was me who started talking about Flora first. I was still head-over-heels for her. Let me tell you folks, fifty years later, I

still get a twinge in my heart when I think of her.

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“They’re unhappy, you know. Flora and her husband. They don’t speak much. I don’t think they even like each other anymore.” At this information, some part of me lit up with the unrealistic thought that maybe I had a chance. I immediately berated myself. Flora was way out of my league. Needing more information, anything to keep talking about Flora, I asked

Maurice why he thought that.

“They hardly even live in the same country! It’s Flora, Mina [her maid] and little

Daria.” Daria was Flora’s three-year-old little girl, whom Flora loved more than anything in the world. When I had met her, briefly as we stayed in London, she was just as pleasant and well-mannered as her mother… In addition to being the spitting image of her! Between Flora and Mina, the little girl was well cared for and nurtured. Despite the fact she hardly ever saw her father. The conversation then took a tangent away from Flora, Maurice was more interested in speaking about Mina (whom I suspected he had a bit of a crush on, despite her being older). “Flora owns Mina. Can you believe that? My parents bought her from a poor family, promising her a better life and they gave her to Flora as a present.” He must have seen the look of shock flash across my face, did my beloved Flora have a flaw? It turned out not,

Flora’s ‘slave’, as Maurice affectionately, and jokingly referred to Mina as, was free to come and go as she pleased. She was not actually tied to Flora in any way, but chose to stay because she and Flora were friends. Mina was treated like family. She never wanted for anything.

Steering the conversation back to Flora, I enquired as to how often Flora saw her husband.

“A couple of times a month, maybe.” The fact that they saw each other that little, shocked me. As husband and wife, you would have thought that they lived together. But they

didn’t. They had separate houses, separate lives.

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“I think Flora would like to live more like I do.” Maurice confessed. “But she has the businesses that she built herself, she has Daria and Mina. Her life is in London. Sometimes I think she feels trapped.” Maurice looked saddened by the thought of his sister not being happy, they had a really close relationship. “Trapped to her life, to her husband, to London.”

Maurice paused after this, debating whether or not to continue his train of thought. “He’s a womanizer, her husband. I always knew it. He doesn’t treat Flora right. Who knows what he’s off doing when he’s not with her? It wouldn’t surprise me if he was with other women. I don’t know why they’re still married; I suspect it’s because of my father’s feelings about divorce. She works so hard, selling dresses to all these famous people, and their wives, for tens of thousands of pounds. She doesn’t need him.” This clearly made Maurice really angry, he hit the steering wheel with his fist.

“It shouldn’t be like that.” I agreed, “Flora should be put on a pedestal, she shouldn’t be someone’s second choice.” I’m pretty sure I confirmed, right then, to Maurice that I was in love with his sister. I don’t think he would have even minded if anything happened between

Flora and I, which it never did, we both loved her in different ways, but love it was. And I was Maurice’s closest friend, he loved me too. We looked at each other for a moment, understanding crossing both our faces. Not long after that we swapped drivers and Maurice took to the passenger seat. He propped his head against the window, staring at the scenery that passed. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep, his deep breaths fogging up the glass. This showed to me how comfortable we had become together, I’m not sure anyone else saw this

side of Maurice, other than Flora. I felt like I was sharing the best secret.

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Chapter Thirteen

In Which I Lose a Bet but Gain Something Else

We arrived in Vienna, took all of our things into a hotel room and headed out for lunch. We found a small public house that seemed inviting enough. As we were settling down at a table

Maurice looked at me, dead seriously and said, “I want to make a bet.” Intrigued, I asked what the terms of the bet were. “If the next person who walks through that door is a man, you pay for the hookers. If it’s a woman I pay for them.” He said it with an air of conclusion.

Maurice had already decided that I would join in with his favourite pass-time this trip. It seemed to be that I would be putting the inevitable off if I kept saying no. Once Maurice had set his mind to it, it was going to happen. “Fine.” I replied, already sensing that I would regret this decision. Maurice wanted me to lose the bet, and so I did. I’m not sure how he rigged the odds, but he needed me to lose. He wanted to pay for a hooker for me. He wanted to prove a point. When the elderly gentleman shuffled through the doorway, cane in hand, back stopped at a right angle you could see the glee spread over Maurice’s face. He quickly checked himself and returned his face to a neutral look. He had won. That night would be my lucky night.

We returned to the room after lunch and relaxed there for a while. Maurice left to make a phone call using the hotel phone and returned a little while later with a beautiful blonde on his arm. “This is Katarina, your date for the evening.” He practically shoved her into the room with excitement and strode off down the corridor. Katarina was the exact contrast to our

hotel room. Her red vest and purple velvet skirt seemed almost too bright against the drab, 60

beige materials of the room. Page

“Hey handsome,” she said by way of introduction, with a strong Austrian accent. I smiled in response. I had no idea what to do in this situation. I could have killed Maurice for, firstly, convincing me to do this. And secondly, for not telling me how to do this! It turned out, I didn’t need to know what to do. Katarina sort of pounced on me, pulling my clothes of and getting down to business.

Let me tell you, I did not enjoy my first time with a ‘professional’. I was clumsy and had no idea how I should treat her, what I was allowed to do and what was forbidden. Once we had completed the transaction, if you will, we got dressed and perched on the edge of the bed. I defaulted to my defence mechanism when I’m uncomfortable, talking. During the conversation I learned that she was not your ‘typical’ hooker, whatever that might be. She was actually well-educated and had $35,000 in the bank. She told me she was saving up

$100,000 so that she could move to America, rub shoulders with the elite and marry the richest, oldest man she could find. She figured it would take her another ten years or so. I laughed at the time, but I wager my house that she’s in NYC now having achieved her dream.

Maurice returned to the room a couple of hours later, after Katarina had left me with a business-like handshake. He sat down next to me on the bed and asked how it had gone, that cheeky grin returning to his face. I told him about it all, including Katarina’s big dream to live in NYC and marry rich and old. He seemed very impressed with Katarina’s story, which he decided was in fact just a story. Maurice shared with me that normally hookers say they’re only doing it to support a sick relative, which he believed was hardly ever the case. “You’re one in a million Gary, trust you to not enjoy your first time with a professional!”

Maurice’s face then took a serious turn. “Gary…” He said to me. “Could you maybe lend me

some money? I’ll pay you back, of course, with interest!” I was so confused at the prospect of

Maurice asking me for money.

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“Why do you need to borrow money? You’re rich!”

“I did some bad gambling in London. I couldn’t help it. It’s in my blood. I’m Persian for Christ’s sake!”

“You never told me.” I said, quietly. Maurice and I both knew I would lend him the money. It was never a question of that, I was just upset that he felt like he needed to hide it from me. I had a sneaking suspicion that every time I was with Flora in London, Maurice would be gambling. I had hoped I wasn’t right. Turns out, I should have probably trusted my gut.

“Gary, I’ll pay you back, with interest. Just let me ask my father for some money again. I promise you he’ll send it straight over.”

“You can stick your interest!” I replied, emphatically. Maurice smiled and slapped me on the back.

“Thanks, Gary! Now, where are we going tonight?”

“Hang on a minute, Maurice.” I interrupted. “I’ll lend you the money, but I don’t want you to gamble with it.”

“Fine.” Maurice said, his face told me a different story. My stipulation was not fine, he would struggle. So far on our trip he’d managed to hide quite a lot of his gambling from me. Our little conversation that evening, told me that there was much more going on that I had no idea about.

Maurice had seen a poster for an event that night, it was ‘black-tie’ though. That would be an issue. We hadn’t got any tuxedos with us. Can you imagine lugging a tuxedo around Europe?

I don’t think so. The concierge at the hotel we were staying in was very helpful and managed

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to acquire two tuxedos for us, for a nominal tip of course. They arrived shortly, in a taxi no less.

Dressed to impress, Maurice and I set out to the event. Vienna was like a fairy-tale. All of the building throughout the city-centre were like castles, with spires and gargoyles. The streets were narrow and on each side of us were these towering fortress-like buildings. We arrived at the address on the leaflet. A gated manor house, with huge grass lawns sweeping around the driveway. The gates were open, inviting the finely dressed guests in. Maurice and I gave each other an impressed look and set out up the driveway. Huge hedges lined the road up to the house, giving away to a magnificent fountain right in front of the steps up to the front door.

The manor was absolutely packed, full of handsome, and clearly very rich, men with their wives glittering in expensive, disco-ball like gowns, which could have been designed and made my Flora, they were that remarkable. Roulette tables were dotted around the room, men crowded around them, impatiently waiting for their turn. Their wives stood around the edge of the room in groups, rolling their eyes to each other about how their men were behaving.

Maurice went straight over to a group of young wives and immediately immersed himself in conversation, making wild gestures which, for some reason, made the women burst into flirtatious laughter. Left to my own devices I stood alone, not daring to approach the ladies and equally not daring to approach the men at the roulette tables. I only wished I had thought to bring a book. I was out of my depth here.

The highlight of my evening was when I wiped ash from somebody’s cigarette from a roulette table as I passed, earning myself a fifty-dollar chip from one of the players. Maurice, who was in a good mood after entertaining the young wives for the evening, asked if I would

lend him more money so he could have a ‘little’ gamble on the roulette tables. I obviously

declined, reminding him of our earlier conversation. Maurice, who was clearly disappointed

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at my answer, plastered his famous smile on his face and said, “Come on then Gary, let’s go home.”

Maurice regained his cheerful attitude on the walk home, dancing, laughing and joking the entire time. He told stories of his conversation with the wives from the party that would make you blush! The women he spoke to clearly weren’t satisfied with their relationships, let’s leave it at that. He threw his arm around my shoulders and said, “You’re one in a million

Gary,” with the biggest grin on his face. Even then, the way he said my name would make me smile… ‘Gareee’. We chatted of our next adventure, where we would be heading in the next couple of days. Excited for what Czechoslovakia would hold! Little did we know, we would

experience a little bit too much excitement there.

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Chapter Fourteen

Where We First Experience Absolute Terror

We drove into Czechoslovakia with no problem at all. It was a very desolate place. The barren landscape made me miserable. It reminded me of a No Man’s Land. We occasionally passed desolate towns with small groups of people moving slowly through the streets.

Maurice and I didn’t know what to think. We drove in silence. The people we passed all looked at the car with shocked expressions, we figured it was because they had never seen a car like our Mustang before. We couldn’t have been more wrong.

Sporadically, an individual would shout something at us in a language we couldn’t understand. An uneasy feeling washed over me like a tidal wave, I felt all the colour drain from my body as I saw the tanks coming over the horizon. The giant military vehicles crawled along the dusty road towards us like ants. Their speed, or lack thereof, made me feel even worse about the situation. It seemed much more ominous, don’t ask me why, I couldn’t tell you. We decided to spin the car around and head back for the boarder. Something wasn’t right, we both felt that. Arriving at the boarder again was a different experience than our previous boarder visit. We were asked to leave our vehicle by military officers, with guns strapped across their broad chests. They escorted us to a waiting room without saying a word.

The waiting room resembled, very closely, a dentist’s office. Rows of chairs ran parallel to each other across the room, anchored into the floor. They were covered in that sticky sort of

plastic you tend to get in waiting rooms, that could be easily cleaned. I didn’t want to think

about what substances had been cleaned from the chairs. The officers were stood at intervals 65

around the outside of the room, guns in hand, faces unmoving. These were not the kind of Page

people you should mess around with, let me tell you that for free! But, despite the current situation, I couldn’t resist taking photographs of the tanks to show my family back home. I took the photograph from out of the waiting room window, which earned me a very stern look from one of the officers stood in the corner of the room. He strode over, took the camera out of my hands and placed a set of handcuffs around my wrists. The shock of what just happened prevented me from protesting, it happened in one fluid motion. I don’t think that would have got me very far anyway. I sat there, for the next four hours in handcuffs, next to

Maurice who wasn’t handcuffed. The silence was deafening.

After sitting in silence for the next four hours, the unexpected happened. A convoy of buses showed up at the border, full of Americans. Amongst them was Shirley Temple Black, the famous child actor turned Ambassador for Czechoslovakia. She strode into the waiting room in a navy pantsuit and white button-down blouse. She looked every bit the part, demanding to speak to whomever was in charge there. One of the officials spoke into a walkie-talkie.

Moments later, a man appeared, dressed similarly to the other officials except for the smirk on his face. Arrogance exuded out of his every pore.

“You asked to speak to me?” He directed this to Ms Temple Black, peering down at her.

“Yes, I did.” She replied indignantly and waltzed out of the room, the haughty officer in charge, followed at her heels. She returned a few minutes later, the officer looking like he’d received a good dressing-down. He muttered some words at the guards around the room and one came over and undid my handcuffs. “Follow me,” Shirley Temple Black instructed.

She then led Maurice and I towards one of the buses. At the bus she told us that we needed to

get into our car and leave that instant. She explained to us that she had recognised the Rhode

Island licence plate on the Mustang and knew that we would need some assistance. We

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thanked her repeatedly, climbed into our car. We both exhaled for what felt like the first time in days and followed the convoy out of the country.

We entered Yugoslavia, our second communist country, not long after leaving

Czechoslovakia. Everything seemed to be either black or brown there. Houses, clothing, cars.

We stuck out like a sore thumb in our bright red mustang, earning us stares from all the locals. We stopped in one small town, I cannot recall its name anymore, to refuel the car and get a bite to eat. After we had filled up the car, we parked it on the street and walked the short distance to a small café. We took our time eating and drinking.

When we returned to the car to continue our journey, it was surrounded by twenty or so armed Civil Defence soldiers. They buzzed around the car, seeming to be searching it thoroughly (we had left the top down because of the heat). Maurice puffed out his chest, squared up his shoulders and walked up to them. It was at this point that we noticed their guns were all propped up against the edge of a nearby building and that the soldiers were smiling and laughing.

As I walked up one soldier slapped me on the back and said, “Your car?” I told him that it was, explaining that it was Maurice’s sister’s car seemed unmanageable. The soldiers were actually interested in the car. Their faces shone with glee like little children at Christmas time. I bet it was the first time they had seen a car like that in real life. Seeing the soldiers behave like this was unreal to me. It was one of my favourite parts of the trip. We spent the next hour pointing out the features of the car and explaining, as best we could, the mechanics of it. We left the soldiers with huge grins on our faces, feeling like heroes. What an experience!

We continued driving, hoping to find somewhere we wanted to spend the next couple of

days, when we happened across a whole bunch of people entering a meeting hall type 67 Page

building. Deciding we needed a drink; I pulled the Mustang up in front of the hall. Upon entering the hall, Maurice and I walked over to the bar and tried to order a drink. The language barrier caused problems for us and we ended up with a Coca-Cola each. We sat down at a vacant table and I pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and began smoking. I did not smoke often, but enjoyed a cigarette every once in a while, and here seemed like as good a place as any. Maurice nudged me, eyes darting around the room. It took me a short while to understand that he wanted me to look around the room too. Sure enough, all eyes were on me. Or more specifically, my cigarette. Not knowing what to do, I went out to the car, got a carton and brought it back to the hall. I handed out the American cigarettes to people, along with lights. The atmosphere in the hall suddenly changed, Maurice and I were now the centre of attention. Good attention!

You would have thought we we’re these people’s long- lost cousins or something. Men were shaking our hands and hugging us, the ladies were giving us kisses on the cheek and wide smiles. It wasn’t long before the locals brought out their handmade instruments and began to sing us songs in their language. Before we knew it, we had drinks thrust into our hands, real drinks, and were being pulled up to dance. The locals would not let us spend a dime. I’m sure we were introduced to everyone in the town. No words of conversation were exchanged between us, but we felt as though we belonged there. Never had I felt so welcome in a town before. Maurice left the biggest tip of our travels thus far, but only after standing on a table and giving a toast. He held his drink in the air and said, “Here’s to those who wish us well and all the rest may go to hell!” The residents had no idea what he was saying, as far as I was aware. But that didn’t stop them cheering along with him.

God knows how we managed to drive to find a hotel for the evening after all the liquor we

were given. I have no recollection of us doing this. My next memory after the dancing, was

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waking up in a soft twin bed, Maurice snoring on the bed beside me. I rolled over with a grin

and went back to sleep for a little while longer.

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Chapter Fifteen

In Which Maurice Breaks His Own Rules

After a few more days in Yugoslavia, enjoying the nightlife and clubs, we had a decision to make. Maurice and I needed to decide whether we were going to head south towards Russia and Iran, or west towards Italy and the South of France. The choice was easy to make as we had an apartment waiting for us in the South of France and we were low on funds. Another deciding factor was that we might struggle to enter Russia, with Maurice having an Iranian passport. At the time the countries were bitter enemies, and even if we did manage to cross the border, we would more than likely be under intense scrutiny. There was also the possibility of meeting the Shah of Iran in the South of France, if you cast your mind back in the story to our meeting of his wife. Making our way west, our first stop was Venice. I’m so glad I got to see Venice back in the 60s folk, as it’s not the same anymore. Back in the 60s, everywhere was clean and taken care of. It seems to me that the standards there have since dropped. Too many tourists more than likely.

My favourite thing about Venice was the Italian citizens themselves. They were so friendly and funny. Their olive-skinned faces always smiling. I’m sure you know that in Venice, one must travel by gondola. Maurice and I both loved this! I’m not sure there’s anything more relaxing than sitting, reclined in a boat as you rock gently to your destination, taking in the sights all around you. Venice is a city of colour. Each building seemed to be a different shade of blues, greens, yellows and oranges; their image reflected back to you in the crystalline

water. The gondolas were the only real method to travel around the city, so Maurice and I 70

relied on them for the entirety of our stay. Our main problem in Venice, was that we trusted Page

the Italians too much. Their smiling faces and sense of humour had lured us into a false sense of security. It had turned out that the gondola workers had been scamming us all along, taking us on slightly longer routes in order to get more money out of us unsuspecting Americans.

We figured this out one day when it took us twenty minutes to get somewhere, we knew should only take us five. When Maurice questioned the Italian about this, he shrugged his shoulders, pretended not to understand us and became pretty much unresponsive. Not gaining the explanation he wanted, Maurice became frustrated and ended up throwing his shoes at the, then smirking, Italian. The sight of Maurice hopping around, red-faced, trying to free his shoes from his own feet in any other circumstances would have been hilarious. It probably was extremely humorous to passers-by; it definitely was to the Italian who gained a lovely pair of new loafers out of the debacle.

Shoe-less and sulking Maurice let me into a small building, which was the most muted colour in the entire of Venice. This was our destination for the evening. Due to Maurice’s lack of appropriate footwear, he said that this was the only place that would let us dine there. It was a dive, in every sense of the word. Old, marked-wooden tables were spaced unevenly around the room. Mismatched chairs dotted around the tables in random odd numbers. The air was thick with tobacco smoke exhaled from the sour mouths of the elderly men positioned around the room. It was by far the worst place I had ever eaten, but it was cheap and that suited our new monetary restrictions. It took three showers that evening to wash the smell from my body and hair. My clothes never smelled the same again.

The next night we dined somewhere much classier, The Casino of Venice. Now, I know what you’re thinking… “Gary, you said you weren’t going gambling again!” You try saying no to

Maurice when he wants something badly enough. That silver tongue of his could get anything

he wanted. He knew how to play people and get what he wanted. That was the Persian in 71

him, he’d always say. We made our way to the casino via gondola again, this time making Page

sure we were taken the most direct route. We climbed out of the gondola as gracefully as we could in our suits and on to the small wooden docking area outside the Casino of Venice. The building was, and still is, magnificent! It towers above the canals, monumental in stature and stance. Each story of the building is lined with considerable, iron surrounded, windows. You couldn’t help but stop and stare. Walking into the building, I felt like I was walking into a different world. The inside of the Casino contrasted the outside in every way. Where the outside was archaic, the inside was modern. The reception area wass surrounded by immense sweeping staircases leading to the various other floors. We made our way up the stairs on the left towards the restaurant, treading carefully on the luxurious red patterned carpeting in our dress shoes. Arriving at the restaurant we were treated like royalty and seated at a two-seater table draped with fine white linen tablecloths, an imposing glass candelabra between us. Let me tell you this, the food was to die for. We were waited on hand and foot. Three courses later and too many glasses of champagne to count, we headed off into the casino itself.

Walking across the mezzanine from the restaurant to the casino we decided to stop for a minute and look over the wooden railing. We were on the second floor and you could see directly into the reception area from where we stood. I expected the same atmosphere we had seen in the other casinos so far, but what I saw was the opposite of the that. The men and women were chatting to each other happily. Walking slowly to their destination, taking their time and enjoying the ambiance. This made me feel more at home here. I knew then that it wasn’t going to be a crazy night of gambling and losing all of our money. The atmosphere in the casino room was livelier than the entrance to the building, but still subdued for a casino.

We made a deal that Maurice would steer clear of the roulette tables, I didn’t like the odds, so the game of choice tonight was baccarat. Maurice quickly found a free table and perched on

the high stool. I stood off to the side to let Maurice do his thing. Between us we had decided

that our limit was $300. If we lost $600, we would quit. If we won $1000, we would quit. 72 Page

However, with Maurice, the rules didn’t seem to apply as soon as he started playing. He was quickly $2000 up. “Did he stop then?” I hear you saying. No, of course not. I’d been begging him to quit since he hit $1000. Fed up of him not listening to me, I decided to take a walk. I wondered around the entire casino; it took about an hour. When I returned, Maurice was

$3500 up. My nerves were in tatters. I begged him again to stop, he waved me away with a,

“Don’t worry.” He didn’t even turn to look at me. “You can have half, okay? Just let me do this Gary.” I knew I had no chance of getting through to him, so I took another, longer walk.

This time I decided to ask what time the casino would be closing; it was already very late in the evening. A member of staff told me that it didn’t close, but that we would have trouble catching a gondola home after 2AM. I decided to find Maurice to tell him this ‘sad’ news. He must have realised that my patience and his luck was wearing thin as he handed me $7500 in chips, instructing me to swap it for paper cash only. This left him with some small change to play a little bit of roulette while I went to exchange the chips.

I ran like hell to go and cash the chips in, I didn’t want to risk carrying those chips around for longer than possible. At an exchange rate of 650:1, I ended up being given two large bags of money. Maurice came at met me outside of the exchange booth and we caught the gondola back to the hotel, basking in the fact that we had made a shit-tonne of money. Man did I feel lucky! When arrived at the hotel we split the money into two equal piles and stored them each in our own bureau. It took me forever to fall asleep that night, the excitement had got the better of me. Little did I know my happiness would be short lived. The next day things

changed.

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Chapter Sixteen

Where Things Take A Turn for The Worst

I woke up the next day with an un-natural feeling. I could sense that something was wrong, out-of-place. Blinking against the harsh light streaming through the open window, I rolled over. The empty bed where Maurice should have been caught my eye. I quickly pulled on my clothes from last night and checked that my half of the cash was still in my bureau. With a sigh of relief, I saw that it was, a quick check of Maurice’s bureau showed me that he’d taken his with him. I immediately knew where he was, I’m sure you can guess too ladies and gentlemen. On my way to find him I deposited my money into the hotel safe, it seemed like the safest place to keep my money. I was so angry at Maurice for sneaking around and lying to me, my fists were clenched in frustration for the entire gondola ride there.

I marched with purpose into the Casino of Venice and straight over the roulette tables.

Without me there to stop him, I knew that Maurice would be there. I spotted him swiftly, his shoulders hunched in a way I had not seen before. His eyes were bloodshot. His face was contorted into a grimace of concentration, silently pleading the game to go his way. Maurice didn’t notice me until I tapped him on the shoulder, making him jump.

Looking at the expression on my face he said, “Look, Gary. It’s fine, I’ve got the $1000 I owe you. Now leave me alone.” He thrust a $1000 chip into my hand. This wasn’t the

Maurice I knew. The Maurice I knew could stop gambling if he needed to. This was more

than being a ‘typically Persian’. He had a real problem. I could see it clear as day in that

moment.

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“Leave if you want, you can take the car. If you want me to come with you, you need to let me win. I’m going to beat the casino, Gary.” I could not leave him; we had come this far together. The $3750 dollars back at the hotel would see us through the rest of our trip, if

Maurice lost everything. Plus, the $1000 chip he had just given me. I decided to leave him be.

In Maurice’s head, he clearly needed to do this. I cashed in my chip and went for the longest walk of my life around Venice. I say ‘walk’, it was a mixture of gondolas and walking. It was

Venice after all.

By the time I returned to Maurice, it was 3PM. Maurice was on his final $100 chip. He was a defeated man, not caring whether he lost or won anymore. He placed the chip on red, his eyes meeting mine. He lost. We went home in silence. We were brothers, we both knew it. I had seen a side of Maurice that no-one had ever seen. The naïve, uncertain side. The side with a problem. Neither of us mentioned this day again. To be safe, I waited another 100 miles until

I lent him more money.

The atmosphere on the drive towards the next destination was subdued. Maurice told me more about his country, Iran. How most people are paid two cents an hour and that the majority of people there cannot even afford toilet facilities. Returning to Maurice’s desire to live in London permanently, I asked what Maurice would do for a living.

“I don’t know, Gary. I’m not worried though.” Confident Maurice was back, and I have to say, I had missed this Maurice since seeing him in the casino. The conversation progressed from his country, to his father. I had heard bits about Maurice’s father previously, but this was not a topic of conversation that Maurice brought up often. I was dying to know how Maurice’s father had made his fortune. I could have jumped for joy when Maurice

started telling the story.

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“My grandparents saved enough money for my father to go to college in Paris, but not enough for him to be accepted by my mother’s parents. My father’s parents were by no means poor, compared to the majority of people in Iran, but their wealth was nothing compared to my mother’s parents.

My father had to work part-time in a department store throughout his studies, in order to stay afloat. He worked in the gift-wrapping department, wrapping other people’s purchases.

Funnily enough, my uncle Habib (my father’s brother) was working alongside him at this point. One evening they were wrapping up plastic combs that a customer had bought. My dad had an idea. Somehow, they managed to get credit and bought a boat load of these combs really cheap and shipped them to Iran. My father quit college to sell the products his brother bought in Paris, sold them easily and then they had enough money to invest in more combs, which were very popular but hard to attain in Iran at the time. He sold these easily, so they invested in lightbulbs. Sold these even more quickly and before you knew it, they had enough money to build a factory. A plastic factory. The first of its kind. It could produce practically anything, as long as it was made from plastic. Their profits were astronomic. My father and uncle invested and kept investing their money in other ventures, such as land and mines. At some point, his success became noted by my mother’s parents and they accepted him to be her husband.

“Everything my father touched turned to gold, figuratively speaking. Oil was discovered on one of his plots of land. A plot of land he bought for a pittance. He avoided fame, but not fortune. He wanted the best for his family. He does business all over the world, in over twenty countries. My uncle handles the investments in the States, as I’ve said before.

A third of all the profits go straight into US investments. It’s a good system. It works.

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“I admire him. He’s unbelievable. But I don’t want to be him. I could never compare to him anyway. I need to forge my own way. If Flora can do it, so can I. I know you doubt me

Gary, but I can put the work in when I need to. I can make something out of myself, you know.

“I want to be an honest man. In business and in life, Gary. I don’t want to invest twenty countries, all under different names. That might work for my dad, but that’s not the way I want to be. I want to do things my way, but I can’t get away from his reputation, his influence. It’s suffocating.”

We sat in silence for a while after this. The weight of his words was a physical presence in the car. Pushing us down into the hot material of the seats.

Maurice’s attitude changed when we finally got to Milan. The happy-go-lucky Maurice was back. All the seriousness of our stay in Venice and the journey to Milan was forgotten. We stayed just long enough for Maurice to ‘spend the night’ with a couple of women and for us to see Leonardo Di Vinci’s The Last Supper painting. Looking up at this priceless painting made me see just how unpredictable and precious life can be. The painting had been sandbagged during the war, in the hope that it would not be destroyed. Things can change in

an instant and life is fleeting.

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Chapter Seventeen

Where Maurice’s Father Finally Pays Out

Our next stop was Switzerland. Driving over the Swiss Alps is something I will never forget.

I thought the Austrian Alps were unbeatable, but the Swiss Alps were something else. They were magical. Every direction was awash with greens and blues. The colours were so intense that it looked as though everything had been painted in the most expensive oil paints money could buy. Our destination was Geneva. When we arrived, wrinkled from the long drive, the first thing Maurice did was telegram his father. He had been building up the courage to do this again as Maurice’s father had some quite strict rules when it came to gambling. Maurice could gamble as much as he wanted, provided he didn’t lose. We then went to pick up our mail from the nearby Ritz-Carlton hotel, before returning to the hotel we were staying in. We stayed in the room that evening, tired from the drive. We sat on the balcony of the hotel and drank whisky out of tumblers, Maurice quieter than normal. Anticipating his father’s response to the telegram asking for money. Remember folks, Maurice’s father didn’t mind the gambling, it was the losing he had a problem with.

The next morning, I awoke to a loud knocking at the hotel room door. Staggering there, half asleep, I managed to open the door.

At the other side of the threshold was a man in a very expensive suit. “Is Maurice there?” He demanded.

“Maurice, someone’s here for you.” I shouted through to the bedroom, guiding the

man through to the living area. I had no qualms about letting the man in, you could tell he 78 Page

was important. I suspected he was a member of hotel security or the police. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Maurice stepped into the living area, blinking against the sunlight pouring in through the half-open patio door.

“I’m Maurice.” Maurice explained, his tone calm and measured. He clearly knew something I didn’t.

“Identification please,” the suited man responded.

Maurice dug through his bag and produced his passport and his charge cards. The early morning visitor nodded and handed Maurice an envelope before turning on his heel and walking back out the door. When I asked what my morning wake-up call was about, Maurice told me it was money from his father.

“Did I not mention he owns the Israeli-Swiss national bank?” Maurice grinned at me, with that signature smile. Suddenly, it all made sense. Even though it was a weekend and no wiring offices were open in Europe, Maurice’s father had found a way to get the money to him. I later found out that Maurice’s father had awoken the bank manager in the middle of the night, instructing him to get the money to Maurice via courier.

Smirking Maurice slapped be on the back, put his arm around my shoulder and said, “You’re one in a million Gary, what did you think was happening? Now go back to bed, we have a busy night ahead of us.” Following Maurice’s orders, I sank back into my twin bed and was asleep in seconds.

The rest of our stay in Geneva was uneventful except for the fact that I probably saved

Maurice’s life. We did a bit of gambling, not too much though, I made sure of that. We met

some beautiful ladies, of course it was hard not to with Maurice as your wing-man. One

evening, when we returned to our apartment alone, the strangest thing happened. We had 79

fallen asleep on the sofas, after drinking our fair share of scotch. I awoke to the noise of the Page

balcony doors opening. In my alcohol-addled state I wasn’t sure what was happening. I rolled over, knocking my half-empty glass of amber liquid to the floor. The loud crash it made on the tiles was enough to pull be out of my drunken haze. Maurice was stood on the balcony, his white shirt billowing in the breeze, sticking to his body like it was soaking wet. As I stood to ask him what he was doing on the balcony in the early hours of the morning, I noticed something that made my blood run cold. He wasn’t stood on the balcony, he was stood at the other side of the wrought iron railing, clinging to the smooth metal.

“Maurice, what are you doing?” I said in the most normal voice I could muster; I didn’t want to startle him. When he didn’t reply I began to move slowly closer to him.

“Maurice?” I tried again, the veins in my head felt like they were going to explode.

Surely, he wasn’t thinking of jumping. The Maurice I knew would never do such a thing!

Stepping closer to him, I realised he hadn’t flinched once as I had said his name. He had to have heard me he was only a few metres away. That’s when I realised, he wasn’t aware of what was happening. He was sleepwalking! “Oh, dear God! Please let him be safe.” I repeated this mantra over and over in my mind for what felt like an eternity. I had heard the rumours about sleepwalkers, that you weren’t supposed to ever wake them up. Heeding this advice, I made my way as quietly as I could on the tiled floor, over to him. I hesitated before grabbing his shoulder and turning him around to face me. Thank God, he was pliable. He moved as I whispered to him what to do next, never once opening his eyes. With my gentle coaxing he returned his first leg, then his second, back on to the safety of the balcony.

I nearly collapsed with relief! I had done it. Then was the issue of what to do next. I guided

Maurice to the sofa, I didn’t think it was a good idea for me to take him to bed and him wake

up in a different place than he fell asleep. As I turned him around to sit him on the sofa

Maurice’s eyes opened, wide and panic stricken.

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“Gary?” His voice wavered, “What are you doing to me?” You could tell he was trying to make a joke, but his poker-face faltered. “You were sleepwalking, Maurice. I was guiding you back to the sofa.”

“Where did you find me? I’m freezing!” He slid his mask back up, his façade never failed for long.

“You were on the balcony.” I didn’t want to tell him the specific details of where on the balcony he was.

“I dreamed I was going to jump Gary!” The humour in his voice almost masked his panic. Almost.

“Thank God you didn’t really do it then, Maurice.” I tried to lighten the tone of my voice, but

I was never one to be able to hide my emotions well.

“Well, thanks Gary.” He said and laid back down on the sofa, after locking the patio doors. I laid back down on the other sofa, dreading falling asleep. What had happened to Maurice to make him dream that he was jumping? I tried hard to clear my mind of what could have happened. When I finally heard Maurice’s breathing even out, I went and refilled my glass of scotch and sat back on the sofa, staring at the balcony doors, thinking of how differently that night could have gone. The thing that scared me the most, other than losing my best friend, was the phone-call I would have had to make to Maurice’s father, explaining what had happened. The thought alone of that, almost killed me.

Maurice never mentioned the episode again, but I knew it was etched into his mind as deeply as it was into mine. Nevertheless, we continued on with our adventure, each making a silent

vow that we would never speak of it again. We had some beautiful meals and headed off to

our next destination as though nothing had happened.

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Chapter Eighteen

Where I Learn Some More Lessons

When we arrived in Nice, we were greeted by the sunshine. The weather was beautifully warm, the hazy heat reflecting off the surfaces of the terracotta houses. Maurice drove slowly along the coast, taking in the sights; the sapphire sea, white beaches and bikini-clad women.

He eventually managed to tear himself away from the coast and we turned up a windy road into the hills. After about ten minutes of precarious driving on the tiny roads, what could only be described as a mansion emerged from behind a hill.

“This is home for the next ten days.” Maurice told me, proudly. “My dad bought the apartment building as an investment years ago.”

I remember thinking, “So it’s not a mansion, it’s lots of smaller mansions!” to myself.

Maurice explained to me that there were four penthouse apartments, one of them belonged to him, for when he was in Nice. He guided me to the top floor and opened the door to his room. Well, I say ‘room’, it was actually eight rooms. The other three penthouse apartments were for his sisters and his parents. Maurice showed me to my private bedroom, with king size bed and en-suite bathroom. I knew right then, that the next ten days we’re going to be magnificent. We not only had access to the ridiculous apartment, but we also had a balcony, a full kitchen, a car and our very own tour guide. I swear, folks, I fainted then and there out of sheer excitement.

I learnt my first lesson the next morning. I had taken Maurice out for breakfast; he chose a 82

café next to the train station. I had no idea why until I saw a group of young American girls Page

emerge from a train carriage, laden with huge rucksacks on their backs. Maurice’s eyes lit up when he saw them.

Leaning in closer to me he whispered, “This is why we’re here Gary. The American tourists travel through the night between Nice and Rome because it’s cheaper than getting a hotel room for the night.” He walked over to the ladies and began chatting away. I watched

Maurice work his magic from my comfy seat at the café. Maurice not only had the charm to bag these women, he was also able to offer free room and board, a prospect that the travelling women found very appealing. I will leave what transpired next mostly to your imagination, but I will tell you this; if we would have had a turn-style toll into our respective bedrooms, I would have earned a hell of a lot more money than Maurice. He wasn’t fond of American girls, he believed they weren’t challenging enough for him.

I’m pretty sure Maurice’s favourite part of being in Nice was being able to show off his knowledge of the area to me. We spent some leisurely days exploring the sights and the beaches. Maurice took me to San Tropez, where Bridget Bardot lived, and to Juan Les Pins, where the mayor was only eighteen years old and the town opened at 6pm instead of 6am.

We spent the evenings in high-end places such as Monte Carlo and Cannes, dining and clubbing. I’m pretty sure you know Maurice well enough by now to know what happened when we were clubbing. I myself was satisfied by the American women keeping me company back at the apartment, so I just settled into the ambiance of the clubs – letting lose and having a good time.

Often on the beach, Maurice would pay the pageboy to page him, “Telephone call for

Maurice.” Would erupt over the speakers. When I enquired why, he said it was so that if

people were looking for him, they would know where to find him. I didn’t need to ask

whether it was people of the male or female persuasion he was hoping would find him. I

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already knew the answer. Occasionally, I would pay the pageboy to send out a page for

Maurice, if he had been especially nice to me. It was a simple, yet cost effective, way to thank him for the trip.

The next lesson I learnt whilst in Nice, was one that would stay with me for the rest of my life. We went to the casino, obviously Maurice wouldn’t be able to stay away! It was exactly what you would expect from a casino in Nice, incredibly sophisticated. We went to the bar to get ourselves a beer first. Perched upon bar stools, Maurice noticed me intently watching a well-dressed young man, roughly our age, with an incredibly looking blonde woman on his arm. Around his neck he was wearing thick gold, expensive looking, chains. The man flashy to say the least, I noticed the gold Rolex peeking out from under his suit-jacket sleeve.

Together Maurice and I continued to watch this man. We noticed him gambling a thousand dollars at a time. Maurice pointed out the sweat dripping from his forehead, I hadn’t seen this before then.

Maurice then lent in and taught me the life lesson I was telling you about, “Don’t watch him anymore, he’s pretending to be something he’s not. It’s all an act, can’t you seen the panic in his eyes, the sweat dripping on to the table, look how tense his shoulders are. He can’t afford to be here. It’s a façade. Instead you should be watching him,” Maurice gestured across the room to an elderly man in casual clothes. “You’ll learn that things are not always as they seem.” Maurice always seemed wise beyond his years in moments like this.

Watching the old man intently, I soon realised what Maurice was talking about. Maurice must have been watching me the entire time because he interrupted my train of thought saying,

“You’ve got it, haven’t you Gary?” Nodding, but unable to take my eyes from the old man I

explained my findings to Maurice, “He wasn’t playing with chips. He never placed a card. He

called Banco at the last minute, in a game he wasn’t playing. He won $100,000 and walked

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away like it was nothing. That is a man with money, not the other guy. Right? A man with money doesn’t feel the need to show it.”

In case you’re not aware, ladies and gentlemen, Pino Banco, is a game where you play against the banker, not the others at the table. Pulling two cards at a time, aiming to get as close to nine as possible. It was pretty slim changes for the old man to win – that didn’t seem to deter him. Just as winning also didn’t seem to affect him either.

“Exactly!” Said Maurice, proudly. “Did you notice the well-dressed man storm away from the table when he lost his money? He clearly didn’t have enough to be gambling a thousand of dollars at a time. Notice the Pit Boss pocket a thousand-dollar chip, and note the old man’s winnings on his tab?” I nodded again. Maurice continued, “He gave it to the head-cashier, who will take that to the bank for him.” Maurice was right, I hadn’t realised this at the time, the old man hadn’t even waited to check that the banker had added the money to his tab. This lesson stayed with me, never judge a book by its cover. Or a man by his clothes. Appearances mean nothing, it’s what’s inside that counts. Often your first impressions of somebody can be vastly misrepresented. Maurice taught me to look deeper, beyond the spoke-screens and

glitter. To see people for who they really are.

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Chapter Nineteen

Where It’s Time to Visit La Siesta

We drove our little Mustang to La Siesta the following evening. In front of the La Siesta Club a row of Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces and Ferraris waited outside for their owners. This was the place where the rich and famous of the South of France spent their time, and money. It was highly exclusive, incredibly expensive and, at the time, very modern. We continued driving on, past the club so that Maurice could park the Mustang in his usual spot. It wasn’t that he was too cheap to pay the parking attendants, it wasn’t even that he was ashamed of the

Mustang. It was that he wanted to show me the billboard near the beach. It was an advertisement for La Siesta which was captioned, “Only people of class, character and elegance are allowed on these premises.” He then turned on his heels and dragged me towards the club, leaving me to panic all the way there about whether I was a person of class, character and elegance. Just like in London, Maurice completely ignored the line of people waiting outside and waltzed straight in. I don’t know if I can describe this place in a way that would do it justice. It wasn’t the décor I noticed at first; not even the gigantic torch lights, or the bats in cages around the room. It was the people. So many different kinds of people.

Some dressed in finery, others in more casual clothes, that you could tell still cost an exorbitant amount of money. Some in bright colours and patterns, others in monotone. And everybody, I mean everybody, was getting along. It was like everyone knew each other. The atmosphere was so friendly, that I immediately felt comfortable. Whether the people were dressed to impress, or otherwise, you had to come from money to visit La Siesta. At upwards

of $100 an evening per person, the majority of people would be priced out.

Of course, Maurice knew the manager, I don’t know why I hadn’t anticipated this. Whilst the 86

people who had driven there in the scarily expensive cars waited for tables, we were ushered Page

past them to a front row table, for the second time this trip. Maurice slipped the manager a massive tip, with a wink at me, and we settled in for an amazing night. We ate and drank like kings. There were hardly any Americans there, so many didn’t know about the place. They weren’t the clientele that La Siesta was trying to attract.

After a couple of hours, I decided to take a walk around the club, there were so many different rooms housing restaurants, bars and the extensive indoor swimming pool. People were twirling their partners round and round on the lily pads that formed stepping stones across the pool.

I eventually found myself on the terrace, which opened up on to the beach. In the nearby docks were vast yachts that must have cost as much as most of the houses here. They were something else entirely! The soft lights from the terrace reflected from the boats, leaving the beach in an atmospheric glow. It was the most romantic setting I had ever seen.

Other people must have agreed because there were a few couples making love right there on the beach, their silhouettes moving as rhythmically as the tide. I remember thinking that I would love to bring someone I loved here and try that. I walked back to meet Maurice, detouring around the indoor pool. Girls were dancing on podiums around the pool to the thumping French music. People surrounded the pool, spilling into doorways and seating areas, jumping and swaying in time to the music beneath the thatched roof of the club.

I found Maurice by the bar and asked him if he was ready to leave, my head was reeling from the evening’s events. I felt like I needed to come back to La Siesta better prepared, it was a lot to take in in one night. On the way to the car Maurice told me that the last person to leave La Siesta was given a bottle of champagne on the house. According to Maurice, they

didn’t usually close until 6am. Maurice then tried to convince me to go to Club Vallone,

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where the manager of La Siesta usually hung out. I begged for sleep. Tomorrow would be a

new day, for the time being I just needed to go to bed.

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Chapter Twenty In Which We Return to La Siesta

I now understood why Maurice had left the South of France until the end of our trip. He knew nothing could possibly compare to it. The following day we went to Cannes and Maurice showed me the movie theatre, where the rich and famous gathered every year for the Cannes

Film Festival. We ate an expensive restaurant next door, feeling like movie stars. To my disbelief, I managed to pay the bill before Maurice. Maurice spent the day introducing me to his friends that he met up with every summer, including Andrew, who was in charge of the

Carlton Ritz’s parking garage. Cannes was not built in a way that was conducive to how popular it had become. Andrew was very useful to Maurice, always giving him preferential treatment over the famous that flocked there! Much to mine and Maurice’s pleasure. The young redhead caught up with Maurice as they filled each other in on what had happened in the year since they had last met. They usually partied together when Maurice was in Cannes.

He had watched Maurice grown from a young, inexperienced womanizer, to a sophisticated wooer of women.

I took this opportunity to check out the scenery. The ocean in Cannes is truly amazing! It was a blue that I have never seen since. So clear that you could see the ocean floor. Schools of brightly coloured fish glittered by serenely, much like the fancy patrons of La Siesta.When

Maurice and Andrew finally finished talking, we headed back to St Tropez for supper.

Maurice noticed an advertisement for the Rolex Yacht Cup races and decided that this was something he needed to do. As luck would have it, the races were the following day. Despite

the fact that it was last minute, Maurice managed to smooth talk somebody into letting us hire

their boat so we could watch the races from the water. It was a very exciting day for me, I 89

loved watching the action. Maurice loved watching the woman on the boats surrounding us. I Page

had such bad déjà vu the entire day before I realised that I was being reminded of watching the Grand Prix, with me watching the event and Maurice’s attention otherwise occupied.

We had dinner at ‘The Farm’, an elite restaurant catering to the rich and famous, just like everything else in Cannes. It was most certainly one of a kind. You are served by monks. And when I say served, I mean you choose your own chicken and they catch it and cook it, along with vegetables that they pick from the garden there and then. Situated at the top of a mountain that separates Nice and Monte Carlo, the views were breath-taking! Not only that, but you can see the monks making wine before your very eyes. They knew how to put on one hell of a show! We had the best seat in the house. It seemed like if you reached up, you’d be able to touch the clouds. Have you ever heard of such a magical place? That evening we partied at the Juan Les Pins resort, made famous in the Carly Simmons song, which you may have heard, ‘You’re So Vain’. Another local haunt of the wealthy, I truly enjoyed my time there. It most certainly lived up to its song! I couldn’t help but think that I would have missed out on all of these amazing things if I had travelled to the South of France without Maurice.

The following night we returned to La Siesta. On the way in I managed to grab the manager and instructed him to make sure the cheque came to me that evening, not Maurice. Despite the fact I had already been to La Siesta once before, the décor still took me by surprise. The torches, the bats, the way the moon light bounced off the indoor pool. It was like something from a fairy-tale! This evening would begin to resemble more of a work of fiction than I ever thought possible.

After talking a stroll around the pool, and watching the people dancing on the metal pods sprinkled, like lily pads, throughout the pool. We were just in time to see the staff set the pool

alight, filling it with rum and throwing in a match. The flames lit up the patron’s faces and

turned the water into glowing amber. Whenever the staff did this, which seemed to be on an

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hourly basis, the crowd would let up a raucous cheer and the party atmosphere would amplify.

This night would turn out to be special for a different reason. I had heard many of the clients talking of Gunter Sachs’s yacht, which was situated in the harbour. This, apparently, meant that he and Brigitte Bardot (his wife at the time) were somewhere in the building. According to rumours, they couldn’t pass up the opportunity to visit La Siesta. Maurice went on the hunt for his manager friend, to find out where Gunter and Brigitte would be. He loved to be around the rich and the famous. With a knowing smile, the manager guided us past the bathrooms, down a long dark corridor, with only torchlight to show us the way. At the end of the hall was an antique wooden trapdoor. The manager then swung the door open and we followed him down the swaying rope ladder. What we saw was magnificent. It was a hidden room, for the most elite patrons, and Maurice apparently. It had marble floors and a huge bar, the size of one wall with over a hundred bottles of top shelf liquor from all over the world.

Not only that, but it also had the most exquisite bathroom the size of a hotel suite. Music was piped in from above piped in from above and special romantic lighting glowed suggestively.

It was like being in a cave, but with every luxury in the world.

Maurice got into a conversation with the La Siesta owners, three incredibly well-dressed gentlemen. I stood stunned, like a deer in the headlights. I swear my jaw almost touched the floor when I saw Ms Brigitte Bardot herself, walking my way, with a humongous smile on her face. She must have felt sorry for me, my look of incomprehension making me the target of her caring nature. You may not believe what happened next ladies and gents, but this really happened. She asked me to dance. It took me a short while to realise that I hadn’t answered

her. “Yes, of course.” I responded, when I finally regained the use of my brain. We danced

and talked for a long while, all the time questioning whether or not I was dreaming. But this 91

was better than any dream I’d ever had, so it had to be real. We chatted for a long while and Page

she listened to me intently when it was my turn to speak. I loved that about her. Maurice had been using his time more wisely that me. He had been conducting some kind of business deal with the owners of club, maybe he was more like his father than I had originally thought.

The next morning, I had to ask Maurice if last night was just a dream, his response was so typically Maurice, “Last night is whatever you want it to be Gary.” With that, he gave me his cheeky Maurice wink.

I tried to keep the next day low key, nothing could compare to the last evening anyway. I wanted to question Maurice some more about Iran and his past. I so loved learning about his culture. He was still a mystery to me, despite the fact that he continued to open up more and more throughout the trip. He wasn’t in the mood to open up about his country, the only topic he wanted to talk about was gambling. Maurice had always said that gambling was in his blood, and the blood of every Persian.

“The only way I would ever stop gambling, Gary, is if I owned a casino! Then I’d be gambling every day without ever placing a bet.” Maurice laughed at his own logic. I nearly suggested to Maurice that he should buy a casino and I could manage it! Before I could speak my thoughts, Maurice suggested that we go to the Money Exchange to swap our travellers cheques for cash, ready for tonight’s gambling. As you can probably tell, I had stopped policing Maurice’s gambling as harshly, since his dad had sent through the money and he seemed to be on a winning streak again.

Maurice wouldn’t let us exchange our money in banks or restaurants as the exchange rate wasn’t as good, we had to all the way across town to the Money Exchange. I handed over my

$100 cheque to the unsmiling woman behind the plastic screen. She handed be back a wad of

cash that I instantly knew was too much. A quick calculation showed me that she had given

me change for $1000. Realising her mistake, I handed the money back to her. Without a word 92 Page

of thanks, she took the money away from me and gave me the correct amount. Turning to the next customer as soon as the money had left her hands. I walked away, clutching my measly

$100 worth of francs in my hand. Her attitude to this day, makes me wish I had taken the money. When we returned a few days later, she didn’t even remember me. All I wanted was a

bit of acknowledgement, you know?

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Chapter Twenty One

Where Maurice Proves to Be A Wise Man and A Prince

That night Maurice wanted to go out gambling again. I wasn’t going to say no to him, he seemed to be doing well and winning a decent amount. We had a fair evening gambling.

After deciding we’d had enough of the casino, we walked to the boardwalk for drinks. I don’t like using the expression, ‘Her face could stop a clock.’ But that’s exactly what popped into my head when I saw her standing alone looking out at the ocean. Please don’t judge me too harshly for saying that she was not an attractive woman. Before I got a chance to comment to Maurice about how unappealing this woman was, he was already halfway over there. I took that as my cue to get our drinks from the bar and then go and join them. As I approached, Maurice was already halfway through one of his stories. This story was a rehash of his absolute favourite lie to tell women, his father had seven wives, his brother had six and poor old Maurice only had three!

“I do not want to go back to my country as a disgrace.” He said in ‘enhanced’ Persian accent. The woman clearly didn’t know whether to laugh or to feel sorry for him.

As I approached them, I smiled to the woman apologetically on behalf of Maurice. She returned the smile from under a thick crop of brunette hair, her freckled nose wrinkling distortedly as she did so. The three of us spent the next hour laughing and talking, Maurice even confessing that his ‘wives story’ was a load of bull. This made her laugh even harder.

She may not have been beautiful, but damn she was funny! I don’t know who decided it was a good idea for us all to head back to our apartment, but that’s what happened. I had no idea why Maurice had decided to bring this woman back, when he could have chosen any woman

in the South of France, but I went along with it. I even decided to run on ahead and turn the

clocks around in the apartment. Just in case. 94 Page

I don’t tell you this story because I want you to laugh at this woman or hate me for my judgements. I tell it because I think you will find wisdom in what comes next. To me, wisdom is learning from others and I certainly learned something from Maurice that night.

He ‘entertained’ the woman in his bedroom the entire night. Not only that, but he ordered the most expensive breakfast imaginable to the room. The next morning she left with the biggest grin on her face. When the woman finally left, Maurice’s hair still ruffled with a sleepy look on his face, I looked at him quizzically, “Are you going to explain to me what just happened?”

“Well Gary,” Maurice replied, “When two adults like each other very much…” I couldn’t help but laugh at his gall. “In all honesty Gary, I made a woman very happy last night. What could be better than that? She needed me way more than the beautiful women out there.

She’ll remember this night forever, I made sure of that!”

I understood completely what Maurice was saying. He was able to give the woman an experience she otherwise wouldn’t have had, she spent the night with a charming and handsome man. She probably remembers that night to this very day. I hope you’re starting to see why I thought so highly of Maurice, he was a prince that night and has been a prince to countless others in his life.

The following night we went to Monte Carlo to gamble. It was time for Maurice and I to play with the big boys! In order to even get into the casino, you had to register your details with them. Maurice convinced me that it was a good idea to open a line of credit there, as I already had to fill out most of the paperwork anyway. Maurice was already registered there, whilst completing my own forms I happened to notice that Maurice’s paperwork stated that he had a

credit limit of seven million dollars, approved by his father. Surprisingly enough, the night

was uneventful. We did the usual gambling, talking to women, drinking and left the casino

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early. We had an early night’s sleep that night, little did I know Maurice planned on not

letting me get much sleep the following night.

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Chapter Twenty Two

Where I Get A Rude Awakening

We spend the next day on the beach and swimming in the sea, the heat made us sleepy and happy. All I wanted to do when we got back to our apartment, in the early evening, was to wash the salt and sand off my body and have a nap, the dry heat in the South of France sure can take it out of you. After rinsing the evidence of the day off me, I climbed into bed in my underwear ready to have a couple of hours of sleep, having told Maurice I needed the night off. The sunlight was still beaming through the window, so I didn’t think I would have a problem waking up later on.

When I jolted awake the room was pitch black. I could hear laughter and voices coming from somewhere else in the apartment. I reached over and flicked the switch on the lamp, fumbling for my watch to check the time. It was midnight, I had slept for about five hours. Before I had chance to collect my thoughts and wake up properly, Maurice barged into the room, flinging the door wide open.

“Good, you’re finally awake!” he shouted across the room. “Follow me Gary, I’ve got a surprise for you!” At the point he walked across the room, grabbed my wrist and dragged me from the room, grinning all the while. The harsh light of the living room greeted me along with two, very average looking, semi-naked women. Maurice had purchased us prostitutes for the evening. I turned on my heels and went to put on some trousers and a shirt. Maurice was absolutely beside himself laughing, he still hadn’t managed to contain himself when I walked back into the room. I assume he was feeling pretty smug about having given me the ‘night’

off, technically it was morning when I was awoken.

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Maurice had thrust a beer into my hand and was telling me that, “These lovely women are ladies of the night, they had the weekend off, so we are all going to spend the weekend together Gary, what do you think?” Spurred on by my silence he continued, telling myself and the ladies, the plan for the weekend. “We’ll spend the rest of tonight on the balcony, enjoying each other’s company and some drinks, finishing off the night in four separate beds.

Tomorrow, we will spend the day at the beach and the evening in La Siesta. If all goes well, we will be able to enjoy each other when we arrive back from La Siesta.” He paused here to wink at the ladies, “Sound good to you?” The women were very enthusiastic about this plan, they were being treated well and didn’t have to spend a penny. Let me tell you this, the weekend worked out exactly as Maurice planned, if you catch my drift.

The next day, after the women had left, I wanted to call home and see how my family were doing; it had been a while since we had spoken, other than via letters. We went to the post office and asked to use their phone to call the US. We were told that we would have to wait four to six hours for the call to connect and to wait patiently. Maurice smirked at this and told me to follow him. We ended up at a payphone. Maurice picked up the phone, dialled and passed the receiver to me. I was talking to my dad in less than thirty seconds. It was crazy beyond belief. When I hung up the receiver, I asked Maurice how he had managed this. With the world’s cheesiest grin on his face he said, “My dad pays operator 322 $500 per week to put through his calls quickly. The phone system in Iran is even worse than here!”

I’m not ashamed to say that I used the Paris Operator 322 to place my calls each time I was in Europe over the next five or so years. It was a handy little trick!

We celebrated Bastille Day in Nice on July 14th, which just so happened to be Maurice’s

birthday. He tried to convince me that the huge firework displays that continued into the night

were for his birthday. You know what folks, I almost believed him. People seemed to

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worship him everywhere we went, so why not enough to give him fireworks for a day! We left the South of France the next day to meet our girlfriends in Majorca, for one last week of relaxation. I was sad to be leaving France, but Maurice promised me it would not be our last

visit. I was already eagerly anticipating the next one.

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Chapter Twenty Three

Where I Find Our Maurice’s Little Secret

Maurice sped off towards Barcelona where we would be getting a flight to Majorca. He was going way over the speed limit, aand despite the fact that highways were empty, he attracted the attention of the gendarme (France’s motorbike riding police). We were instructed to pull over by a gendarme, Maurice continued on, getting far enough ahead that the motorbike was left behind.

Maurice pulled around a corner and slammed the breaks on, “Change seats with me Gary.

Now!” He jumped out of the car door and to the passenger side as I slid across into the driver’s seat. The urgency in Maurice’s voice told me not to question his judgement.

We pulled off the manoeuvre just in time before the gendarme skidded to a halt and started berating us in French. Unfortunately for him, and for me, my French was a little rusty.

Maurice translated to me as best he could, and communicated with the policeman in between bouts of his rapid French. He explained to the officer that he was the son of the Iranian

Ambassador, hoping he would get some leeway. This did not have the desired effect as in

France in the 60s gendarme officers often kept the cash from the fines they gave out, meaning that if they could get away with fining people, they often did. This did not phase Maurice in the slightest, he had seen an opportunity to benefit from this situation. He explained to the gendarme that we only had German Marks to pay with, so that would have to do. The

policeman thought this over and agreed, rather reluctantly. Maurice fudged the exchange rate, paying with a hundred German Marks note. He was given change in Francs, which were

worth more than the Marks he had given the gendarme to begin with. Maurice was always on 100 Page

the lookout for occasions, such as this, to test his bluffing skills. We set back off on our way again, Maurice waving cheerfully to the policeman as we went. “What was all that about

Maurice?” I asked as soon as we were out of the gendarme’s line of sight.

“I don’t actually have a driving licence Gary.” Maurice confessed. “Never needed one.” He exploded in a fit of laughter after looking at the shocked expression on my face. I don’t know why I was so surprised about this, I had never seen Maurice’s non-existent licence, nor had he ever mentioned that he actually had one. I had just presumed he did, seeing as he’d been driving most of this trip.

We thought that the rest of the drive to Barcelona would be uneventful and we were almost right. We made it to Barcelona with no issues. However, our problems occurred when we tried to find the airport. For some reason we ended up really lost. We asked passers-by where it was in our extremely broken Spanish, often having to flap our arms in wing-like movements in order for them to understand us. Either we misunderstand their directions, which was definitely possible, or they misunderstood our questions, as we had no luck finding the airport.

We eventually arrived very, very late and panicked about missing our flight. We had in fact missed our flight, by quite a significant amount of time. The next flight would be roughly fifteen hours later, at 6am the next day. We knew ourselves well enough to realise that it would be best for us to camp out at the airport until then. The combination of being unable to get up early on a morning and the fact that the airport had evaded us for so long that day, decided that for us. It turned out that about twenty-five other young people had decided to do the same as us, so whilst Maurice decided to have a nap on top of the empty bar, I had a ball

with the other travellers. I asked the guard on duty to make sure that we were awake for our

flights before I snuggled down in a sleeping bag with a lovely young lady from Indiana. The

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guard very courteously, woke us up on time the next morning and we were finally on our way to Majorca, only a day late. Our driving and travelling were over. It was time for us to holiday with our girlfriends before heading back to the states. I was sad to leave the Mustang behind; she had served us well for 18,000 miles, a broker had been instructed to pick her up from the airport and sell her… to be replaced by a Cadillac no less. It seemed Flora fancied

a change.

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Chapter Twenty Four

Where We Holiday Like Married Couples

We arrived in Majorca exhausted and ready for a week of relaxation. I had been shocked that the planes had carried all of our luggage without the airlines batting an eyelid. We lugged all of our cases into a taxi and to the beautiful hotel our girlfriends had chosen for us. They had chosen well; we were with women with good taste. They were due to arrive a short while after us, so we went to our separate rooms. I collapsed into the crisp white bed and slept deeply until my girlfriend, Eileen, burst into the room. Despite everything that had happened on our trip, I had missed her, and we had a lovely reunion in the hotel room.

The hotel was a refurbished castle high up in the mountains with a huge pool, beautiful terrace for dinner and dancing and the most breath-taking views. We spent the days shopping, relaxing by the pool or horseback riding around the grounds. During the stay I had treated

Maurice and our girlfriends to a bullfight with the number ome local matador, and enough

Sangria to sink a ship. It was my way of thanking Maurice for our trip. The holiday was certainly peaceful, but I missed the excitement of travelling with Maurice. The week ended far too quickly and before I knew it Eileen and I were on a plane back to the US. Maurice would be travelling back to the South of France to close the apartment and then back to

London for one final visit with Flora before returning to the US himself.

It was a sad day for both of us, our travels were over. We’d had so many experiences together

over the past few months, it was hard to believe that this was the end. Maurice and I

embraced before Eileen and I got into our taxi. He promised me then, that this would not be 103

the last time we would see each other outside of American soil. Page

His parting words to me, in an incredibly elaborate and over the top voice, were, “Shoot for the stars Gary, that way even if you only reach the moon, you’ll still have achieved something.” People were looking at us, but we didn’t care. We parted ways laughing.

Maurice and I had decided that we would share an apartment back in Boston, so I was quite looking forward to seeing what adventures that would bring.

I realised just how much I had learned from Maurice when we arrived in London to catch our flight back home. The airport staff told me that my luggage was too heavy, as if I didn’t already know that, and that the charge would be £220 in order for it to come on the plane.

The alterative would be to ship it to the US on board a cargo boat. This option would be free, but could take three months for my property to be returned to me. I tried to argue the price down with the member of staff, but they told me they would lose their job if they did so.

Realising I was in the middle of a losing battle, I asked to speak to management and Eileen, and I were escorted to the manager’s office.

We sat there in the dingy office, the manager not breaking eye contact with me. He was smug and cocky, and I didn’t like him one bit. I had £25 folded up in my right hand, the exact amount of money I was prepared to part with in order to get my luggage on the flight. I explained the situation to the manager, adding that I only had £25 to spare. He laughed in my face, telling me that this was not possible. I recalled passing a sign in the hallway stating that student tickets from London to the US were only £199, less than what they wanted to charge me for the additional luggage.

I puffed out my chest and said to the manager, “If you aren’t willing to take my offer, then I would like to purchase another seat please. My luggage will ride in style next to me and your

airhostesses had darned well better ask it if it wants a tea or coffee!”

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At this point, the managers smug look vanished. He knew he had lost. He tried to argue that this was against regulations. I then decided to ask for the use of his telephone to ring my lawyer. I was half-way through typing Flora’s number into the phone, hers was the only

English telephone number I could remember, before he caved and said he’ll take the £25 and put the luggage in the hold, if I don’t buy another plane ticket. Maurice had taught me how to bluff well. A skill that has come in very valuable over the years. I boarded the plane feeling

very smug and satisfied. Confident in the fact that Maurice would have been proud of me.

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PART THREE

REAL LIFE

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Chapter 1

In Which I Fall Back to Earth

I was almost relieved to get back to work the next day. My dad’s tyre store had never felt more normal to me. Travelling can be hazardous to one’s health, you know. I often feel like the lack of reality can be compared to a lack of oxygen; it makes you feel lightheaded. When you had felt this way for so long, coming back to reality can be challenging for some. Me, I welcomed it with open arms. Working in the tyre store, it felt like I had never left. My life soon fell back into the same routine. The days slipped by in a mundane blur of work and sleep. I showed as many people as I could photographs from the trip, as though to remind myself it was real. It definitely happened.

What I did not realise though, was that I had stepped on a proverbial merry-go-round that I would not be able to step off for a long time. I feared that jumping off the merry-go-round would cause me to break a leg. That wouldn’t matter though, I could never find the courage to jump. At least I wasn’t alone on the ride. Maurice was right there with me. The adventures

would become more mature, but the fun and games wouldn’t cease for a long while yet.

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Chapter Two

In Which Maurice Returns to the US

It dawned on me, not long after arriving back home, that I needed to start working hard, not only because I wanted to be successful, but also because I needed to replenish the money I had spent on the trip. I wasn’t lucky enough to have family money, like Maurice did. I made a decision to give up my apartment and move back in with my mom and dad. This would allow me to save money for the future. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that I was stuck for money. I actually had quite a bit of savings left from my Bar-Mitzvah and graduation. I just suddenly felt that I needed to focus on the future. As an added bonus I had returned from our trip with roughly the same money I left with, thanks to Maurice’s gambling tips and tricks. I had even managed to bring back gifts for everyone except for myself!

One main thing that I had realised since travelling, was that I wanted to remain single for a while. This was a complete 360 degree turn since before we left for Europe. I had wanted to be married by twenty, now I wanted to focus on being successful. I blame Maurice for this. I had experienced my fair share of women in Europe and Eileen and I were not meant to be. I had enjoyed spending time with different women and was definitely not ready to settle down anytime soon.

Maurice returned to the US a short while later. I had had enough time to get settled back into work and life. We arranged to meet over a basketball game, it had been a month or so since

I’d last seen him and I’m not ashamed to say how excited I was to see my brother again. I treated him to dinner, which made him smile. “You haven’t changed at all Gary!” he

commented as he tucked into his sandwich. Maurice told me that he had tried to get a double 108 Page

apartment in his building, so that we could live together. Unfortunately for me, they didn’t have one available.

“Would you sleep on the couch?” He enquired. Of course, he would not take a nickel of rent from me for the use of the couch, so this fit my frugal plans perfectly. I gave Maurice duplicate photographs from our trip and he seemed very pleased with the album. I’m sure he’d have lost it pretty much straight away, but I still felt the need to impress him. Even after our trip had ended. I had also taken the liberty to send some to his father. This seemed to have a better impact that my delivery of photos to Maurice. His father sent me a lengthy thank you letter, which I kept safe all these years. I held Maurice’s father in such high esteem after hearing all the stories Maurice had told me on our trip, so to have his thanks felt like the

best thing in the world! I dreamed of meeting him. Sadly, this would not happen for me.

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Chapter Three

Where I Try to Make Flora’s Dreams Come True

Cast your minds back, ladies and gentlemen, to the point in our story when Flora asked me to acquire a Cadillac for her, the exact model Elvis had. I had received a letter from her, shortly after returning to the States, reminding me of my promise to her. It contained a cashier’s cheque for $25,000. The letter told me to purchase the car and keep the change! This was a task way beyond my means, so I enlisted Maurice to help me. His help was not forthcoming,

I had no idea why, but a promise was a promise. I spent my weekends circling car advertisements in the papers and visiting dealerships. I eventually found the car, a cherry-red

1968 Cadillac Convertible. The chrome glinting in the sunlight gave it an ethereal look. The car was with her within the next week or so. This was completely incomprehensible to me.

To have this kind of money on hand, to spend on something that seemed so frivolous to me, was mind-blowing. The truth of it was that Flora was a very successful person, all of her own doing. I believe she wanted to show the world what she had achieved, all by herself. That’s what the Cadillac meant to her. It was more than just a car; it was a trophy.

Flora was very pleased with my purchase on her behalf and invited me to visit her in London any time I wished. This was something I fully intended to take her up on, as soon as I got the chance. But life has a crazy habit of getting in the way.

Now, Flora had another trick up her designer sleeve, ladies and gents, do you happen to

remember a green dress I picked out in her store, saying that my mother would love it? It happened right at the beginning of the story, so I’ll forgive you if you don’t. I’ll bet you do

remember, however, the Iranian ambassador causing a scene about a missing dress for the 110 Page

Shah’s wife. He’d parked his car across the front of the store and refused to leave without the additional dress? Well, Flora had better ideas for that dress than sending it to the Shah’s wife.

The extra dress that should have gone with the ambassador, was in fact, the one I picked out.

Emerald green was my mother’s favourite colour. It arrived on my doorstep, addressed to my mother, with an elegant hand-written note from Flora herself.

Dear Mrs Orleck

I had the pleasure of meeting your son, Gary, on his travels around Europe with my brother. Inside is a gift for you, which Gary chose himself. You’ve raised a fine young man, Mrs Orleck.

All my love, Flora.

My mother had been speechless when she saw the dress and even more speechless when I told her how much Flora’s creations usually sell for! The dress gave me the opportunity to speak with my mother about Flora and her little family in London, something that I wasn’t aware how much I had longed to do. The thought of Flora writing such a kind note to my

mother made me feel incredible.

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Chapter Four

In Which I Struggle to Grow Up

The weeks went by and the days got colder. Before I knew it, it was winter. The busy season at the tyre business. Maurice had invited me skiing, but that wasn’t my kind of thing. I was far too scared of getting hurt and not being able to work through the busy period. In order to be successful, I needed to work as much as I could and get some money built up. Maurice spent the winter season skiing and I spent the winter season working. My personal life was nothing to write about, I found myself at the bottom of many girls’ lists, as I was far too busy with work. This was fine for this chapter of my life.

The only thing that irked me about working hard was the 9 to 5 routine. I hated that this is what society forced upon people. I particularly hated the early mornings. I had led a very sheltered life, so working the daily grind was hard for me. I definitely matured later on in life than some people. I arrived at work late almost every day. This obviously irritated my father, who was a hard-worker and liked his days to be structured. I found it all consuming to spend six out of seven days working, especially alongside my father. My coping mechanism was to try to have a life at night. This then led to more late mornings and more arguments with my father. It was a vicious cycle.

My father grew to resent me coming in late. We had agreed he would treat me like any other member of staff, but his expectations of me were far higher. I was expected to stay later and later in the evenings, long after the other workers had gone home. I was expected to make decisions no one else would, to make sales no one else could. The pressure from my father was relentless. I know he wanted me to succeed, but we grew to begrudge each other. I

learned a lot of lessons about business from my father, lessons that only experience could 112 Page

teach you. As a result of my knack for selling, I was assigned to the road. Taking advantage of my new position, away from my father’s watchful, prying eyes, I was able to develop my selling techniques. I refused to carry a price list with me. I wasn’t selling the tyres. I was selling myself, my brand. Everything else would fall into place once the client wanted to work with me. I have to admit, I probably became ‘too friendly’ with some customers, as well as some other members of staff. I enjoyed breaking the rules and social norms of the time. According to many people, intimacy breeds incompetency. In fact, I found the exact opposite. I made the most of Maurice travelling, for I had the apartment to myself most of the time… if you catch my drift. I definitely loved the privacy, it allowed me to get to know a good few women.

I became so involved in the business and my social life that the year flew by in a haze of work and women, in that order. Maurice had planned to travel again that summer, but work prevented me from accompanying him, much to my disappointment. I found that I grew up a lot that year. I began to feel successful at work and I even managed to travel within the US a few times. I read a lot of travel books during this time of my life. I was still eager to learn as much as I could about WW2 and my Jewish ancestors. The more I read, the more I ached to visit Israel, the Land of Survivors.

I must have been working incredibly hard because my father, and boss, told me I needed to take a vacation. It was the first and last time he acknowledged my efforts at work. I knew where I needed to travel, and I knew that I needed to go alone. I’m not sure why I concluded that I needed to travel by myself. I just knew it felt right. Maurice had invited me to go to the

South of France with him when he found out my father had given me some time off work. I

knew that this wasn’t what I was supposed to do. I need to go to Israel, to the Street of the

Righteous and put flowers on the grave of the butcher who saved Mortiz’s family. Because of 113

this, I turned Maurice’s offer down. Page

Chapter Five

In Which I Almost Cause an International Incident

Please remember folks, this story isn’t supposed to be about me, it’s about Maurice, with a side of Gary. Despite that, I can’t help telling you a couple of stories about my travels to

Israel and Greece. Not just because I love telling them, but I think they will aid your understanding of Maurice’s story. So please indulge me, I’ll make it as quick and painless as possible for you.

On the plane to Israel I had met a lovely lady, she didn’t speak English, only Israeli, but that didn’t prevent us from having a nice time. We communicated in smiles, laughs and gestures.

When we landed in Israel, I accompanied her to find her brothers. Thank goodness one of them spoke some English! We managed to arrange to meet the next evening for drinks at a bar near to where we both were staying. I arrived at club just as she and her brothers did. It was fantastic timing. They were already merry and that was fine with me. I knew I was in for a fun night! In the corner of the bar, propped against the wall, were thirteen Uzi guns, the make and model used by the Israeli army, surrounded by twelve young soldiers, dressed up in their military finery. The group were rowdy and having a good time!

It took me a couple of drinks before I could find the courage to go over and ask what they were celebrating. As I approached, they all turned to me with friendly smiles. I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but it most certainly wasn’t that! I was told, by one of the older soldiers,

possibly only a year or so older than me, that they were celebrating the death of their friend.

Sounds a bit morbid, I know, but hear me out. Their comrade in arms had died at the 114

Jerusalem Gate the previous year. Thirteen soldiers, twelve of whom were in this bar, were Page

chosen to take the gate, and only twelve returned home. Their friend had died in their arms, in his very last battle. They were celebrating his life, his passion for his country. The soldiers had only just received clearance to take his gun and honour him, red tape had prevented it thus far. Myself, and my guests (the lady from the plane and her brothers) spent the evening with the soldiers. My lady-friend from the plane had clearly impressed many of the soldiers and they were falling all over themselves to try to talk to her. It was fantastic to watch, I could tell she loved the attention. But her eyes kept drawing back to me. I’ve got to say, that made me feel pretty great.

Later on that evening, feeling very merry (the soldiers told us to put our drinks on their tab), I had the pleasure of meeting another kind stranger. This trip was becoming full of new friends! An older gentleman came to the table and asked to speak with me privately.

Intrigued, I followed him to a quieter part of the bar, away from the raucous laughter of the soldiers. The man told me that he’d overheard me talking about my business and he also owned a tyre company in Israel, La Harre Tyres. He produced tyres in Israel and sent them all over the world. The funny thing was, that I actually remembered having bought and sold some! He made me an offer then that I took very seriously. Did I want to be the exclusive distributor for his tyres in the US? Before I answered, he handed me his card and walked away.

The rest of the night continued on much the same. The soldiers and my guests partied through the night and had the best time. When it came time to pay the bar tab, it turned out the man with the tyre company had already done so on our behalf… amounting to over $200. That was a nice surprise and the soldiers were more than happy about this. As we parted ways, the

soldiers have each of us a big kiss on each cheek! That evening, I left with the woman from

the plane. We went back to the apartment I was staying in and made love all night. I came to 115

understand that she was a virgin and that she wanted her first time to be with me, “A kind Page

American.” That turned out to be one hell of a special night! It was also the last time I saw her, but I can still picture her delicate face so clearly, glowing in the candlelight of my bedroom.

During my first few nights in Israel I had become close with a local man, a taxi driver by the name of Simon. He had taken on the role of my own personal tour guide, which was fantastic for me! I was able to visit all of the Jewish historical landmarks with his assistance, most significantly for the Street of the Righteous, which was truly breath-taking (and a story I’ll have to tell you another time, I’m afraid). Simon had agreed to show me some of Israel’s most beautiful beaches which is where our next story takes place. We met at one of the beaches surrounding the spectacular Gulf of Eliat. As fate would have it, we ended up next to a couple with two young children. They had a small dinghy that they would ride around the sea on. We had set up our towels not too far from theirs, so they asked us if we would watch their children while they had a quick ride out on their little boat. It was a different time back then folks, people were much more trusting. Of course, we said yes and entertained the children while they went for a quick lap in the dinghy. The little ten horse-power motor was surprisingly quiet as they coasted around at the top speed of five miles per hour.

They weren’t gone for too long and the children were as good as gold and didn’t require much of our attention. As a result of this, my attention drifted to the Jordanian flag I could see across the other side of the sea. I had started a habit of collecting stamps from each country I visited as a way of tracking my travels. I would never pass up a chance to visit another country, however briefly, and collect some stamps. We were so close, that I could actually read the sign saying Post Office, what looked to be a five- minute walk away from

the flag. I asked if I could borrow the dinghy and take a quick ride across the sea to Jordan,

they couple agreed on the condition that the father would drive the boat. That was fine by me,

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I could take in the views on the short drive over. The entire journey took less than fifteen minutes.

Just as we were about to get out of the boat, I heard a pinging sound in the water near me. I couldn’t see what it was, so I shrugged it off and continued to make my way into the water.

Then I heard more pinging sounds, about eight in total, like somebody was throwing rocks into the water near us. There was no one on the beach in front of us and no other boats, so I had no idea what was causing the noises. It took another few pings and small splashes before the father realised it was the Jordanian Army, shooting at us! When I looked to find out where the bullets were coming from, I saw not one, but four armoured vehicles stationed on the road next to the post office. Their machine guns levelled at us. My heart was pounding out of my chest. I couldn’t get any air into my lungs.

Acting on instinct alone I pushed the boat around, facing the direction where we came from and jumped back in, pulling the father in with me. He snapped out of the panic-stricken daze he was in, turned the engine on and powered the boat away, as fast as we could (which wasn’t fast, as you know). Crawling back to the Israeli beach at a snail’s pace was the most excruciating experience of my life. When we finally hit the other side, a sigh of relief left my lips. The second I exhaled, I noticed four soldiers running down the beach screaming at me in a language I didn’t understand. They pointed their guns at us and gestured for us to follow them off the beach. Of course, we did as we were asked, you don’t mess with people who have guns bigger than your right arm! We were escorted from the beach and up the cliff path and to a small tin hut at the apex. The tin hut had only a wooden bench in it. The soldiers pointed at the bench, suggesting that we should sit. Their mannerisms left no question as to

what they wanted us to do.

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They left us alone, cooking in the staggering heat of the hut. A little while later, the guards came and took the father away. He gave me a shrug and a worried smile as he left. Alone in that tin can, I had plenty of time to think about what had happened. It began to dawn on me how naïve I had been, trying to cross into Jordan from Israel without using the proper channels. I was still questioning my shoddy judgement when the soldiers returned to the hut.

This time they were accompanied by a man with medals covering his broad chest. In English, he offered me a drink of water.

I felt my body relax, finally, somebody who could understand me! He told me that he had heard the father’s side of the story, now it was time for me to tell mine. I told him exactly what had happened, in full. I told him it was all my responsibility, that I never thought it would be a problem to just call at get some stamps from the Post Office. I could have kicked myself as I was telling the story and my sheer stupidity became painfully clear. The English- speaking soldier was polite, if a little dumb founded. He couldn’t comprehend how I had made such a monumental mistake. He explained to me in a measured, slightly patronising tone, that I could have caused an international incident, maybe even a war. I felt pretty small,

I tried to explain to him that if an American crossed the border into Canada or Mexico, it certainly wouldn’t have any major repercussions. I had clearly failed to understand the current tensions in that part of the world. The soldier told me that it was only because he maintains open communication with his Jordanian equal that the incident wouldn’t progress further, “stupid Americans”, he’d explained in quite a fond way.

The soldier continued on, “I should probably write this up, but because you took full- responsibility, which I didn’t expect an American to do, I’m not going to do that. I don’t

think you should go and face a judge in Tel Aviv. It was clearly a huge mistake. I thought

that Americans always blamed others and never took responsibility. If you leave tomorrow, I 118

will let you off because your demeanour impressed me.” I agreed to the terms he laid out for Page

me. We shook hands and as I turned to leave, he reminded me not to tell a soul of what happened.

I stood on the beach afterwards reeling from the experience. Looking at Jordan over the

crystalline sea, I could not believe how quickly your life could change.

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Chapter Six

Where I Meet Melina

Please indulge me for a little bit longer folks. This story is important to your understanding and all will become clear.

In a million years I never thought anything would come close to what happened in Israel, never mind surpass it. I landed in Greece wary and emotionally drained, but ready to relax and have a good time. I got acclimated to Athens after checking into a hotel right in the centre of this historical city. I was excited about doing some sight-seeing the next day, so went to bed early.

My first stop was the Acropolis, where democracy was born. I was shocked by not only the sheer scale of it, but also how well preserved it was. After that, I spent the rest of the day touring around the city’s historical and significant sights. After a full day, I was ready for something to eat. I had passed a few picturesque restaurants on my wanderings, so headed back towards the heart of the city. Instead of finding something to eat, fate intervened, and I found the most beautiful young woman sitting on the edge of the most beautiful fountain.

Water spilled out of central columns and as the sun shone through it, dancing shadows swam across her unhappy face. She looked so sad that I almost felt tears stabbing at my own eyes. I pondered what could have made her sad on such a stunning day, in a breath-taking place such as this.

I was drawn to this woman. I couldn’t leave without knowing her story. I waited for a space

to open up next to her at the fountain and sat myself in as close proximity to her as I dared. 120

Up close, the juxtaposition of melancholy on such an appealing face was arresting. So, I did Page

what any red-blooded single man would do, and offered her a cigarette. That was my way into a conversation and by God it worked. I tapped the packet on her leg, mimicking the mannerism I had seen Maurice do so many times before. I proffered her the packet, before taking one myself – always a true gentleman! To my surprise, it worked like a charm. For a second a smile crossed her face. She thanked me, in English, and attempted to return to her sullen demeanour. Like I was going to let that happen! “Why are you so sad on such a beautiful day?” I enquired, not really expecting a response.

“My boyfriend and I broke up.” She replied, staring straight ahead. I could see tears clouding her eyes as she spoke. “We’d been together a long time. I’m confused about my next step in life.” She blinked the tears away and looked me in the eye.

Not knowing how to respond to that, I asked her if she would accompany me to dinner, “I’m starving, and I don’t know which restaurants are good here.”

I responded, hoping she would take me up on the offer. I could see her thinking about it, I couldn’t let her get away so I tried one more time, “We can talk about life and its ups and downs?” I gave her by best Maurice-smile, to which she smiled, signed and said, “Follow me.” She took me to a lovely small Greek restaurant where she knew the staff. They were very friendly people. The Greeks always are! The woman and I laughed a lot while we were eating. It was amazing how quickly her attitude changed from the sullen girl by the fountain, to the life-of-the-party sat before me. She had one hell of a smile and a laugh that stopped me in my tracks. After the wonderful meal she kissed me on the cheek and slipped a piece of paper, with her phone number and name (Melina) scribbled onto it, into my hand. I could not believe my luck. I spent the entirety of that evening thinking about her. Her cropped

chocolate hair, olive skin and hazel eyes haunted my dreams. Not wanting to seem needy, and

being a typical man, I waited a day and a half before calling her. Believe me, it was torture!

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When I finally worked up the courage to pick up the phone, her sister answered, “I’m so glad you’ve called!” This made me feel unbelievable good, she’d clearly told her sister good things about me.

I waited a little while for Melina to come the phone, listening to the distant sound of two girls giggling. “Hello Gary.” She purred into the phone. Her accent dragged out the ‘r’ sound in my name. I loved the way she made it sound exotic. We arranged to meet the following night to go clubbing. I could not have been more excited when she hung the phone up saying, “See you tomorrow Garrrry.” I spent that evening in much the same way as I had the previous evening, thinking of Melina uncontrollably. I had never felt like this about somebody whom I had known so briefly.

We met at the fountain the next evening with a gentle kiss on the cheek and a hug. She took me to so many clubs that night. Each club was completely different. Where one played rock music, another played soul. My favourite thing about the clubs was that when you had finished a drink, you smashed your glass into huge fireplaces. I lost count of how many glasses we smashed. We drank, danced and kissed the night away. We got to know each other particularly well beneath the starlit skies of Athens. It was truly the most romantic setting I could have wished for. I did not think it could get better than that night, but I was proven wrong yet again when we went out a couple of evenings later to a Greek wine festival. For a

$30 entrance fee you could drink wine until your heart’s content. Which is exactly what we did. I didn’t take my eyes off her the entire evening. We left the festival in the early morning, stupid drunk. In the cab she told me that I had met her at the perfect time. Through meeting me she had realised that her boyfriend was controlling and verbally abusive. Her body lent

against mine in the cab as she asked me if I would see her again at the weekend. Her family

always had a big meal on Sundays, she explained, and she would love for me to come. As I

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snuck my arm around her waist, I told her that as long as she was there, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

I arrived at seven o’clock on the Sunday evening and was escorted inside by Melina, where her parents and sister were waiting to meet me. It was exactly what you would expect a Greek family meal to be. Her mother had cooked a seven-course meal and her father had bought a case of Greek wine! Her parents didn’t speak English, and I definitely didn’t speak Greek, so

Melina and her sister translated the conversation for them. About halfway through the courses, Melina’s father banged his glass with a spoon and stood up. He began speaking in

Greek but looking directly at me, so I knew what he was saying was meant for me. Melina’s sister, an English teacher, who was taller and slimmer than her sister, translated his words for me.

“When Melina told us you were Jewish I could not have been more excited to welcome you into our home. Before WW2 I had a clothing manufacturing company and my partner was Jewish. He was the greatest man I ever met. When the Nazi’s invaded, we hid him in the closed behind his bureau you see behind me.” Melina’s father proceeded to push the bureau aside, uncovering a small dark room, adorned with a single hanging light bulb.

With tears in his eyes, he continued, “Four people lived in here for nearly two years, Gary.”

He said my name in much the same way as Melina, “If anyone would have found them, we would have all been put to death. We fed them as best we could, usually at midnight and with food left over from our meals. If we had started buying extra food, people would have become suspicious.”

The father then abruptly pulled the bureau across the closet, sank back down in his chair and

looked at his hands. The room had become very quiet. I could tell Melina’s mother was not

happy about the story being told, especially around the dinner table.

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I decided to break the ice, so I raised my glass to, “A very brave family, who risked their lives to save others.” I could tell my respect meant something to them, this clearly was not a topic that was broached often in this household. When I left the family, much later on that evening, I told Melina’s father how honoured I was that he decided to share his story with me. He replied saying, “I know, in my heart, he would have done the same for me and my family.” Melina walked me to the door after I shook her father’s hand and kissed her sister and mother on the cheek. She kissed me at the door, which such ferocity, that I didn’t think she was ever going to let go. That would have been just fine by me.

Time was fleeting. Both Melina and I knew it. We spent as much time together as possible, settling into a comfortable routine. With the end of my trip nigh, we decided to spend a couple of days together, island hopping. Visiting startling white beaches during the days and drinking the nights away. Despite not having known Melina for all that long, I already knew we had a connection. I hated the thought of leaving her. I wanted to show her how special she was to me so, with the help of her sister, I booked a meal at her favourite restaurant. With an incredible ocean-view as our backdrop, we said good-bye over an octopus dinner. We promised to meet up again and parted ways at the end of the evening with another mind- shattering kiss.

I spent a few days in London with Flora, on my way back to The States. It was lovely to see her again and I almost managed to forget about Melina for a few days. Flora and I spent time shopping and hanging out. I didn’t realise how much I had missed being around her until I arrived on her doorstep, on The Street with No Name, and she opened the door with the world’s most charismatic grin (rivalling that of her brother’s). Flora took advantage of my

visit and asked me to pick her up another car when I got back to America. This time she

wanted a silver Cadillac, with a black top and interior. Of course, I said I would do that for 124

her. I liked the fact that such a strong woman needed me for something. Page

Sadly, I didn’t get to spend much time in London as I had to get back to reality. I had my career waiting for me. I returned home feeling not only relaxed, but wiser. I checked on

Maurice, as he had been travelling also, as I mentioned, to the South of France. We met up for supper and talked of our travels. Both of us extremely animated about our experiences! I told him that I had plans to attend a festival in New York soon, that was hyped to be a fantastic celebration of peace, love and music and turned out to be THE happening of the century. He said he wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it and that he’d let me know. I hoped he would come, I had missed travelling with Maurice (even if it would only be to New York).

My hopes were dashed when Maurice called me a few days later and said, “Sorry Gary, I won’t be coming to Woodstock. I don’t fancy sleeping under the stars in the mud and rain.

Roughing it isn’t for me!” Despite being disappointed, I certainly made the most of the experience. There were more people at the festival than there were in the entire city of

Athens! Over ten million people claim to have been, but in reality, about 500,000 actually attended. And I’ll make you a bet right now ladies and gentlemen… I bet that Maurice

regretted not going.

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Chapter Seven In Which Maurice Lies

I had settled back into daily life well. I still thought of Melina often, but we hadn’t been in contact very much. The occasional phone call here or there, the time difference made it difficult. Thankfully, she had agreed to come to America for Labor Day Weekend, to meet my folks. But that still a little while away yet, so I threw myself back into work.

One weekday, when Maurice was out, I got a phone call for a man threatening Maurice. They wanted $85,000 by the following Friday or they would do ‘unspeakable’ things to Maurice and those close to him. The voice on the phone was calm and even, that made it all the more terrifying. I paced the apartment until Maurice returned home a couple of hours later.

“What’s wrong Gary?” He asked, reading my body language like an open book. I relayed the details of the phone call. A wave of worry washed over his face, before he could fix his visage. He said his usual mantra, “Don’t worry Gary.” He grabbed the phone and walked into his bedroom, leaving the door open. The phone call I heard, went like this…

“Dad. I need $100,000 for graduate school. Business. Yes, it’ll help. Yes, I’ll call Uncle

Habib and tell him where to wire the money. Thank you, Dad.”

The conversation was clearly short and to the point. I could not believe that Maurice had lied to his dad like this. My family values were different to that. You didn’t lie to family. My temper got the better of me and I stormed over to the bedroom, “Why would you like to your dad like that?” I confronted him.

I saw the anger rise within him as he strode across the room to me, “You don’t know what

you’re talking about Gary. It’s none of your business. Back off.” With that, he pushed past

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me and out of the apartment. This argument was bad. I had never seen Maurice react this way before. What I learned later would explain his reaction. But at the time, I couldn’t believe

Maurice behaved like this to his own family. I was pissed and our friendship suffered.

I left the apartment that night and moved back in with my mom and dad. This meant that I could keep on saving for the future. I continued to see Maurice when he was back. It wasn’t the same as it had been before. We avoided the topic of his lies, not wanting to cause more strife in our relationship than there already was. We continued our tradition of partying and meeting women, Maurice continued to be better than me in that department. Although my success was hindered by the fact that I was still hung up on Melina and counting down the days until she would be in the States.

During this time, I grew apart from Maurice. Our relationship wasn’t what it had been, that of a pupil and teacher, but also of brothers. He had his own life and I had mine. Maurice was dating a girl at the time that I didn’t really get along with. This was another contributing factor in our relationship becoming more and more distant. Maurice and I had an argument about her. I interfered more than I should have. I had a habit of interfering in Maurice’s plans, from the various times on our trip, to sleeping on his couch, to me getting involved in his relationship. I felt like we were close enough to tell each other everything. Apparently I was wrong.

I had eventually grown to like his girlfriend at the time, she wasn’t too bad after all, we had just been vying for Maurice’s attention and once we had worked that out, it had been fine. In fact. I had grown to like her and just as I had developed a bond with her, Maurice decided that he was bored and ready to move on. This is when I decided to intervene. They had been

good for each other and I didn’t want it to end. She was helping Maurice to calm down and

grow up. I loved the man Maurice was becoming. So, I warned the girl that Maurice was

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planning on ending it and warned Maurice to be careful not to hurt her. This was another huge argument for us, when our relationship was already strained. We had travelled together for two months without a real falling out, but I had eventually pushed Maurice to his limit.

He finally snapped. He laughed at me when I told him to be kind in the break-up. Told me it was none of my business and to leave it the hell alone. We spoke even less after this. I moved back in with my parents. The conversations we did have were terse. Punctuated with

awkward silences.

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Chapter Eight

In Which I Feel Like Our Relationship Seems Irreparable

During this time, Melina had flown to the states and met my parents. They fell in love with her, much as I had. They didn’t even seem to mind that she wasn’t Jewish. She stayed in my parent’s spare room for a while as our relationship grew and developed. Eventually, we were fed up of not having our own space and we decided to get an apartment of our own. Moving in with Melina took up a huge amount of time. From furniture shopping, to decorating, I had very little spare time.

I loved living with Melina. She made me very, very happy. I loved waking up with her each morning and going to bed together each night. But still I felt like something was missing. My best friend wasn’t there to celebrate my happiness with me. This broke my heart. I had loved him as a brother, and as a teacher, and our friendship was reduced to the odd supper and phone-call. More out of a sense of duty than anything else. It was around this time that I got a call from an old friend from college, who was getting married. He invited Melina and I to go and celebrate with him and some other alumni. Of course, I jumped at the chance. I was shocked by how grown-up these men had become since graduating. Some were married with children; some had their own businesses. They weren’t the boys I had partied with in college, they were men now. It hit me like a tonne of bricks how time had flown since college, since my trip with Maurice, since starting to work for my father. Nearly three years had flown by. I realised then that my trip with Maurice would be one of the greatest things that happened to me, nothing that had happened afterwards even slightly competed for first place. I knew then

that I needed to make an effort to fix the relationship. I couldn’t bear the thought of not 129 Page

having experiences, like those I had with Maurice, again. Or at least a more grown-up equivalent, although I had reservations about whether Maurice would ever grow up. It seemed to me he’d live a Peter Pan live forever.

Despite that, as soon as Melina and I arrived home, I picked up the phone and called

Maurice. It turned out he wanted to meet up as much as I did. We arranged to go out for supper the following day. I felt very lucky that I had managed to catch him on a week where he was actually home and not off travelling.

When I arrived at the restaurant we had decided upon, Maurice was sat at the bar, chatting to the young, attractive female bar tender. This made me smile, he was the same old Maurice.

We bought our drinks and went to sit at a table in the corner, lit by solitary light fixture above our heads. We slipped into an easy conversation, catching up on things that had happened since we last spoke. We avoided the topic of Maurice’s ‘graduate school’ incident, where he lied to his father, in addition to the topic of his ex-girlfriend. Neither one of us wanted to cause an argument. This wasn’t going to be an issue that could easily be resolved, so we bypassed it completely.

By the end of the evening, Maurice and I had slipped back into our old ways. Lots of laughter

and champagne later and it was like we had never been apart. I was very grateful for this.

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Chapter Nine

In Which I Ruin Everything

Life moved on nicely for a while. I kept dating Melina, which continued to be amazing. I carried on seeing Maurice, which made me incredibly happy. And I made some more friends, which was certainly needed! I met Tony at a Corvette rally. We had so much in common. Our love for Corvettes, music and partying! Of course, Tony was also a bit of a womanizer, but I had been used to that with Maurice anyway. I knew how to handle it. Plus, if it wouldn’t have been for Melina, I would have joined him in his pursuits anyway, if you catch my drift.

As time went on, Tony and I developed a really good friendship. This was handy for me, as

Maurice was always so busy travelling. But it wasn’t long before everything went wrong… very wrong. Tony and I went travelling and had a fantastic time. I took him to many of the same haunts as I had with Maurice.

I had taken Tony to the South of France, we were staying in Flora’s apartment, which absolutely floored Tony by the way. We had a fantastic time making the most of Flora’s generosity. Tony was particularly impressed by Flora’s car. One evening I heard shouting outside the apartment, this was very rare for such a high-class place. Upon opening the curtains and peering out of the bedroom window, I saw a squat, older woman, standing shouting at a taxi driver, who appeared to have completely lost his temper. At this point he slammed him fist into his horn, the plump woman covering her ears and screwing up her

tanned face. When she opened her eyes, she saw me in the window and began shouting at me in a language I could not understand! I later learned it was Farsi. She gestured for me to come

downstairs, so being a gentleman, I obliged her. She appeared to be, even from that distance, 131 Page

a woman you could not say no to. The woman spoke Farsi and French, and luckily the taxi driver also spoke French. I gleaned this when I exited the building to the two speaking the language very rapidly. Unfortunately for me, I did not speak French. I eventually managed to gather that this woman had not paid the taxi driver. Upon studying her face more closely, the slim cheek bones, the curve of her nose, I realised that I knew who she was. She was

Maurice’s mother! But why hadn’t she paid the taxi driver? I couldn’t understand what the problem was. It wasn’t as though Maurice’s family were struggling for money. Somehow, through the use of hand gestures and miming, I managed to understand that she owed the taxi driver $680 dollars, which she didn’t have with her, as the apartment manager usually paid her taxi fare for her. Unfortunately, the apartment manager was on vacation, so her plan hadn’t worked out. Not wanting to upset Maurice’s mother further, I retired to my apartment and returned to pay the taxi driver. Thank goodness I had brought plenty of money with me this time.

I then escorted Maurice’s mother to Flora’s apartment. When we arrived at the door, she began gesticulating wildly saying, “No, no,” pointing to her apartment next door. I had presumed, wrongly, that because she didn’t have a handbag with her, or any bags for that matter, she would just stay in Flora’s apartment. Oh, how wrong I was. She dragged me to the balcony in Flora’s room and pointed across to her balcony next door. It was pretty clear what she wanted me to do. I presumed that this happened quite often as she went inside and pulled two wooden boards out of the utility closet, setting them across the gaps between the balconies. She was certainly strong for an older lady! She turned back to me and pointed at the boards, waiting for me to climb across. More scared of this woman in front of me, than of

the considerable drop, I quickly shimmied across and slid open her patio doors. I walked straight through the apartment and opened the front door to see Maurice’s mother beaming in

front of me! She then grabbed my hand again and dragged me back into her apartment and 132 Page

began making tea. I didn’t have any choice but to stay there with her, she was a very convincing woman and I couldn’t have argued even if I tried!

What happened next I can’t really explain, but I managed to understand that she had been travelling on her own, without her husband, to go to what I understood to be a ‘fat farm’ in

Switzerland. Maurice’s mother had convinced her husband that she wanted to go, despite his protestations that she didn’t need to and that her previous ‘fat farm’ retreats had been failures.

I’m not sure whether Maurice’s father agreed to let her go because he was scared of her, much like I was, or because he liked to give his wife what she wanted. Either way, it didn’t matter. She had ended up where she wanted to be. However, Maurice’s father had some guidelines... due to the fact that she had escaped from her previous ‘fat farm’ experiences, she was not to take any money with her, so that she had to stay put. But you know what they say about best laid plans...

Maurice’s mother ended up escaping with only the clothes on her back. She had commandeered a taxi driver to take her all the way to the apartment in the South of France,

I’d wager that he’d been too scared to say no to her! Once she had arrived, the fact that the apartment manager was nowhere to be seen had put a spoke in her plans. She had managed to get a telegram sent off to her husband on her way to the apartment, telling him to send money. She asked me if I would take her to the Western Union to collect the money tomorrow, she knew for certain it would be there! We said ‘goodnight’ in our own languages and went our separate ways.

The next morning, I bought Maurice’s mum, or Mrs E as I called her, breakfast and then took her to pick up her money. Once she had collected the cash, she handed be a slip of paper with

an address written on it and asked me to take her there. I was amazed at how well I could

understand Mrs E without the ability to speak the same language. The address tuned out to be

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the newest high-rise apartments, a stone’s throw from La Siesta. The building itself screamed wealth and class! Mrs E got out of the car and walked straight into the reception of the building, leaving me trailing at her heels. She was occupied with the hotel manager, at the front desk, for so long that I decided to take a seat in the lounge area. What seemed like an age later, Mrs E shouted me, “Gareee.” I loved that she said my name in the same way

Maurice did. She beckoned me over to her. I realised then that she had been signing papers purchasing apartments, the paperwork was left on the desk. The manager then explained to me what was happening, whilst Mrs E continued scribbling her signature on various pieces of paper.

“This lady has bought Apartment 2 for herself and her husband and Apartment 3 for her brother-in-law. She wants to know if you would like Apartment 4?” For a minute I could not understand what he was asking me. Did she think I could afford an apartment like this, or was she offering to buy it for me? To this day I will never know the answer to that question. I believe that she intended to buy it for me. I always knew I was well-liked by Maurice’s family because of the respect I had for him. But I couldn’t for a second believe that she would buy me an apartment. I know Maurice told Mrs E that I had a tyre business, but surely, he explained to her that I wasn’t rich. Maybe it hadn’t come up? Either way I explained to the manager that I couldn’t buy an apartment. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest and neither did Mrs E, she shrugged her shoulders and winked at me. In that moment all I could see was Maurice. They looked so alike.

After I took Mrs E home, we went our separate ways for the rest of the day. That evening, she came knocking on my door... inviting me to La Siesta. I knew this because she grabbed my

arm and said, “Come. Garee. La Siesta!” I quickly got changed and followed Mrs E out of the

door. Of course, I drove to La Siesta. Mrs E did not give me a choice, walking straight over 134

to the car and waiting, rather impatiently, for me to open the door for her. I quickly assented; Page

I couldn’t find it in my heart to cause any disappointment for this amazing woman. We arrived at the club not too long later. Mrs E waited, again, for me to open the car door. We walked to the club arm in arm. I went straight to the bar, not hesitating for a second, and bought Mrs E her drink. She was clearly impressed by this and gave my arm a squeeze of consent. We had a fantastic night dancing and laughing. I bought all of her drinks that night. I felt so grateful to her for giving me Maurice. That might sound strange, but I really did. She brought him into the world and without him, I would have continued to live a sheltered life. I owed her everything. We parted ways at the end of the evening with smiles and a kiss on the cheek. She left for home the next day. It was lovely to get to get to know her. She was really

one truly amazing, and very strong willed, woman.

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Chapter Ten

In Which I Ruin A Relationship

We returned home a couple of weeks later. I had missed Melina terribly and couldn’t wait to see her again. However, what happened mine and Tony’s return, caused irreparable damage to our relationship. Tony and I often did Corvette related things together, car shows and rallies. One day, when he asked me to bring the ‘Vette, as he liked to call it, to his apartment,

I didn’t think anything of it. When I arrived, the party was in full swing. His living room was crammed full of beautiful women, and a couple of very happy looking men. I managed to seek out Tony and we chatted for a while.

“Gary,” Tony said in a faux-serious tone. “These lovely ladies are huge ‘Vette fans. I told them all about your car, and these two in particular,” He gestured towards two fine- looking women stood giggling in the corner of the room. “want you to take them for a spin?”

He winked at me.

Now, before you judge me, Melina and I were very happy. I had no intentions of pursuing these women. I’m not sure if they were aware of that, but that’s just how it was. I had accidentally picked up some of Maurice’s flirty mannerisms by the power of assimilation, which the girls seemed to like, and I did enjoy making them laugh. We got into my Corvette and I took them on a spin around the block. It was about 3pm when I noticed Melina’s car in the parking lot of a store. I pulled in next to it and explained to my passengers what was happening. They were fine with the pit stop, if a little disappointed I had a girlfriend (I kind

of hoped). Melina came out of the store, her arms laden with groceries. Our eyes met across

the parking lot and what I saw surprised me. Her eyes were full of hate. If looks could kill, I 136

would have been dead. I knew she wouldn’t be bothered about my impromptu passengers; Page

she wasn’t the jealous type. But, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong! At this exact moment, she turned on her heels and walked as quickly as she could in the other direction. I followed her, telling the ladies along for the ride that I’d be right back. I eventually caught up with her, until this moment I hadn’t realised how fast she was! “Melina, what’s wrong? I know it’s not the women in the car, you’re not like that. What is it? Tell me.”

“It’s my birthday, you bastard.” A disappointed look crossed her face as she changed directions, pushed past me and headed towards her car. I couldn’t believe how dense I had been. I was so in love with her! Everything was going perfectly well. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was that she had followed me to the States, but I had forgotten her birthday. I got back in my car, took the women back to Tony’s and went back to mine and Melina’s apartment. She was sat on the sofa, staring at out of the window. “Melina please…” I started, but I knew I wouldn’t come out of this one on top.

“Get your things Gary.” She never took her eyes from the window as I carried out my few possessions to the car. She was so strong. Once she had decided something, there was no changing her mind. I was absolutely heartbroken. Let me tell you this ladies and gentlemen, I never forgot any of my subsequent partner’s birthdays, that’s for sure. Lesson learnt. I headed back to my parents, where I was always welcome. My mother was exactly how you would expect Jewish mothers to be, completely overbearing, but so full of love.

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Chapter Eleven Where I Save the Day

Maurice had shown me many new things over the course of our friendship. I always felt as though I owed him something, but didn’t have much to give (that he didn’t already have).

One day, I finally got a chance to return the favour. I got an unexpected phone call from

Maurice, early one evening.

“Hello Gary. Don’t worry, but I need you to help me with something. You said you had a connection with the mob…” As always, his voice was completely calm, as though what he was about to say next was only a minor inconvenience to him! “Could you get me a driving licence please? The cost doesn’t matter to me, just as long as I get one. I’m in a bit of trouble.”

Maurice’s version of a ‘bit of trouble’ turned out to be that he’d been arrested. He had multiple unpaid parking tickets. Now, when I say ‘multiple’, I mean hundreds. I knew he’d never paid much attention to parking restrictions. In fact, he had a collection of parking tickets, which he was quite proud of. His parking antics had finally caught up with him when he’d parked his car in a no parking zone at Boston Airport. For six weeks. And went on vacation.

Over the years that he’d lived in Boston, Maurice had developed quite a reputation for his inability to follow the parking restrictions. He had a warrant out in his name, currently, for twenty-five unpaid tickets. So, when the police found his car at the airport, they’d hit the

jackpot. They usually towed his cars away, which was a minor inconvenience to Maurice as when this happened, he would just go out and buy a new car! Instead of towing it, they

stationed a state trooper where he’d parked the car (now covered in parking tickets), so that 138 Page

they could arrest him on the way back. Stupidly, upon arriving back in Boston Maurice asked a nearby state trooper why he was stood next to his car. Consequently, Maurice was arrested.

Upon his arrest, the police started suspecting that he didn’t have a licence. He had been unable to produce it when asked, and was possibly a bit vague when he was asked further questions about it. Maurice was told that if he didn’t have a licence, and he had been driving in the States without one for all this time, then his VISA would have to be reassessed as this was a serious offence. In addition to being aware of the hundreds of other parking violations

Maurice held to his name, the police also told him that they suspected many of the unclaimed car in the pound were his. How he managed to keep a straight face throughout all of this, I’ll never know.

So anyway, back to the phone call… His (Iranian) lawyer had told Maurice that he’d better get a licence, and fast, so he called me. I had a few connections in the business world, including some of the Mafia at that time (which Maurice knew all about). What he didn’t know, however, was that one of the Mafia boss’s sons (he was suspected to be the second in command across the whole of the Mafia, not just my state) owed me a favour, as I had set him up with his future wife the previous year. I called to ask my friend to meet up. He said that wasn’t necessary. He owed me a favour and would do whatever I asked, he explained. I didn’t need to ask him how he was I already knew. His father had been arrested the newspapers told me that much. I decided to get straight to the point and explain what had happened to Maurice and that money was no object. I requested that the licence be dated a couple of years old, so that it could have plausibly been lost. My friend agreed to sort out our

situation and I thanked him.

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A week or so later, a letter came in the post addressed to Maurice (but at my address). When

Maurice and I opened it, it was a letter from my friend (the Mafia boss’s son). It contained a licence, dating back two years and a handwritten note.

Here is your licence, at no cost to you other than your time. You will need to return to me every two years for it to be renewed, or you can kiss it goodbye. There are no games here. It was reported lost two years ago, that is on record. See you soon.

There were no names, no signature, but of course, I knew who it was from. I could almost see

Maurice physically relax into his seat the second he saw the licence.

Let’s fast-forward the next year or so here folks, a quick whistle-stop tour, if you will.

Maurice and I went our separate ways for a while after that. Life got in the way again. Of course, he was busy with his driving scandal, for which he got off, and travelling the world.

Whilst I got busy with work. We kept in contact as much as possible, which was difficult. I got much closer with my friend John, who I met through work. We travelled Europe together, sticking closely to the same routes as I had with Maurice. I had become a sucker for Europe and any chance I got to show someone else the ropes, I would take it! From what I could gather, Maurice’s life remained the same… travelling, girls and managing his new apartment

complex. If only life would have remained this simple, folks!

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Chapter Twelve

In Which an Earthquake Rips Through Tehran

I had just returned from my trip around Europe with John when I saw the news headlines. I can still see it, “Thousands dead in Iran earthquake.” I was sat at my kitchen table, cereal in front of me. I nearly chocked when I read it. The heat left my body. I racked my brain, trying to think where Maurice said he would be. Not only that, but was his family there? In Iran.

Dear God, I hoped they were travelling.

I tried to call through to Maurice’s parent’s house but was told by the operator that they would not be able to get a call through. Her tone suggested that I should have realised that, what with the earthquake and all. I had no idea where Maurice would be. No contact information. It would be a case of sitting and waiting. The wait nearly killed me. I was pulling my hair out by the time Maurice called me, two weeks later.

“Gary!” He shouted down the phone-line and into my ear, “My dad bought an apartment building in Boston and he’s asked me to manage it. You know what that means right? I get to extend my VISA. I can stay in the US! You want to know something crazy Gary? It’s the biggest cash purchase that’s ever been made in the history of Boston, MA! $1.2 million,

Gary!” He never once thought to mention the earthquake, that I had been beside myself panicking about. Not once had he thought this would affect me in any way! Maurice barely let me get a word in edgeways, he was so excited by the news that he could stay. The

prospect of potentially having to leave America had been playing on his mind since finishing college, not that you would have known, Maurice wasn’t one for sharing his feelings, as you

will be well aware of by now! Then, all of a sudden, his tone of voice changed, and he 141 Page

became serious, “Come see me Gary, on Sunday, we need to talk about something face to face.” Of course, I agreed, and we made our arrangements and hung up the phone.

Maurice had breakfast ready when I arrived at his apartment later that week. As the building manager, he had his pick of the apartments. He chose the penthouse, obviously, could you imagine Maurice in anything else? With panoramic views of Boston and ultra-modern finishings, the apartment suited Maurice perfectly.

We sat at his kitchen table, eating the croissants and fresh fruit spread he had laid out. Once we had finished and the table was cleared, Maurice turned to me and said “Gary, I have a question to ask you. My dad really wanted to ask you himself, but he was too nervous to leave Tehran, there’s a lot going on there politically at the minute. He wanted me to show you this first.”

He walks over to his spare bedroom, gesturing for me to follow him. Instead of a bed, there was a 3D blueprint of a city. It filled the floor of the bedroom, which wasn’t small, let me tell you.

“You’re looking at my father’s dream, Gary.” He let me look over the plans for a short while. I couldn’t resist touching the smooth, hard plastic of the models. It was an awful lot to take in.

Maurice interrupted my thoughts, “What do you think Gary?” To be honest with you,

I’m pretty sure I just blinked at him with a confused look on my face. I was dumbstruck, surely Maurice’s father didn’t plan on building an entire city. I knew how wealthy his family was, but was anybody this wealthy? When Maurice realised I was incapable of answering

him, he continued, “This is a city my father intends to build in Israel. For the Jewish

community. It will be a place of refuge. A place of safety. Iran is not so safe anymore for

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Jewish people. The anti-Semitic views sweeping across the country are putting the people in danger.”

“Wait a minute,” I responded, “You can’t possibly be suggesting that your father wants to build an entire city in Israel and move the whole Jewish population from Iran there?”

“That is exactly what I’m suggesting!” Maurice answered. His signature smile creeping across his face.

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Chapter Thirteen

Where I Learn About the New City

After pacing around the room a while, letting me take in all he had said, Maurice decided to continue. “It would be his own city, Gary. His own police. His own electricity, bowling alleys, movie theatres, you name it.”

I walked back into the kitchen and poured myself a scotch. I drank it quickly, poured another and walked back to the bedroom. “You’re telling me this is a city Maurice? This is real?”

“Yes Gary. It’s real. A whole damn city. It will cost a small fortune, but it will be worth it for all those people to feel safe and have a home. The architect designing all this is one of the best. My father is probably talking to the Israeli government as we speak.”

“Why are you telling me this Maurice?” I asked, still trying to focus on what all

Maurice had said.

“Well Gary. Please bear with me. I’ll get to that. But you need to know a bit more about what this means to my father first. Can I continue? Okay. My father is Iranian first and foremost, you know that. But all of his children are different, they live elsewhere. He has a helicopter on the roof in case he needs to leave Iran quickly. Which he well could. Things are so unstable there. The people are not safe. He just used his helicopter for the earthquakes, to help rescue people. He’s donated millions in supplies to those effected. He is doing all he

can. But he doesn’t feel it is enough.

“Everything he earns is invested immediately. Anywhere but Iran. He does not

want notoriety or fame. He wants to make people happy. Building this city would be a 144 Page

challenge for him. He needs somebody who can help him do this, under the radar. This is where you come in. My father has heard of you, from me and many others, my sisters included. He asked me to invite you to help him. If it wouldn’t hurt your family too much, to leave the tyre business. He knows you are the most trustworthy person around. Gary, my father wants you to be a purchasing agent. You would travel the world purchasing the best supplies for him; everything from cement to electrical equipment. He wants to pay you

$300,000 up front. $100,000 a year. And 300,000 on completion. You’ll also get a Gold

American Express to charge all your expenses to. Pretty great deal. What do you think

Gary?”

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Chapter Fourteen

Where I Make the Biggest Decision of My Life

I needed another drink. I couldn’t believe what Maurice was proposing to me. $900,000 to travel the world and source supplies to build an entire new city. Surely, I had misunderstood him. I turned and walked away, back to the kitchen, where I topped up my glass and sank down onto one of Maurice’s plush sofas.

Maurice plonked himself down beside me. He brought the bottle of scotch with him, which I felt was a good idea. “A letter is on its way, Gary, from my father explaining what I have just told you. Probably in more detail that I could manage. Take your time Gary, he doesn’t need an answer right away. I know it’s a huge decision for you. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Why don’t you do it Maurice?” I spoke after a long while.

“I can’t do that, Gary. I want to do my own thing. To be my own person. The thought of being in my father’s shadow, yet again, makes me shake. I can’t do that.” His gaze fell to the floor, you could clearly see he was struggling with the thought. “Please stay for lunch with me Gary. I promise I won’t talk about this anymore.” I agreed. I had missed spending time with Maurice. It was my day off anyway, what else was I going to do after being given all of this information!

When it was time for me to leave, I said to Maurice, what I had been practising in my head all

day. I needed to make sure I worded it in the right way, the last thing I wanted to do was to

seem ungrateful and hurt Maurice and his family.

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“Maurice,” I began, “Of course I will think of all that you offered. But I don’t want to be bought or sold. I’m just a guy from Pawtucket, with a little tyre business. What do I know of all the things your father wants me to do? I really need some time to think, Maurice. Do you understand that?”

“Don’t worry, Gary. Everything will work out. But please think about it. It would be the chance of a life-time for you.”

With a brief hug, we parted.

I gave the proposal a hell of a lot of thought over the next month or so, especially when I was having grief at work. Which was becoming far more often. I felt that I was in charge of nothing, yet anything that went wrong was my fault. This might sound petty to you, but it was beginning to get me down. Working for my father was not all it cracked up to be. When the days were terrible, I often dreamt of exploring a foreign land. In times like this, I had to check myself. If I accepted the job from Maurice’s dad, there would be no time for exploring.

It would not be glamorous. It would mean living out of a suitcase for three years.

Eventually, I made up my mind. I would tell Maurice’s father that I could not accept. This might seem crazy to you, but hear me out. Despite having a tough time at work, I loved my job. I knew it so well and I was good at it. I was comfortable there. Accepting Maurice’s father’s offer would mean throwing myself into the deep end of something I knew absolutely nothing about. The thought of leaving the family business to go and work for another family, building their dream, was something I didn’t feel I could do. It just felt wrong to me.

Another reason for my decision was that I couldn’t handle the extremes that the job would

offer. I had been invited to Iran many times, but each time I had declined. The stories

Maurice had told me about the dichotomy of the country – people eating from solid gold

plates, whilst others starved. The thought of such injustice made me sick to my stomach. I 147 Page

couldn’t be around that. I couldn’t be a part of it. I didn’t like the idea of the language barrier too. After hearing stories of the Shah being duped by his friends, how did I know whether interpreters and colleagues would be doing the same to me. The thought terrified me.

Please do not misunderstand me. It is not that I dislike rich people. As you know my best friend, and brother, was from an insanely wealthy family. I dislike rich people who do not help others. Who create walls around themselves and ignore the strife taking place on their doorstep. Maurice’s family wasn’t like that. His father, particularly, did all he could to help others. Taking on this role for Maurice’s dad, would land me knee deep in a country full of selfish, wealthy people. That, I could not deal with.

So, I chose to decline. As you now know.

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Chapter Fifteen

In Which I Meet My Future Wife

After breaking the news to Maurice, and his father, I decided I needed to get on with my life.

They had both understandably been disappointed, but understood my reasons. If anything, I think they respected me more for that decision.

As time went by, I moved into a place of my own, at long last. I enjoyed the freedom for a while, but I started to miss being in a relationship. As luck would have it folks, a friend of mine, knew just the gal for me. I was set up with Ronna pretty quickly, and I knew she was the one for me instantly. The second I laid eyes on her. We met at Flicks, one of Boston’s best music venues. My friend and I were sat at the bar, Ronna was playing pool not too far away from where we were sitting. I wish I could say that she caught my eye instantly, but that was not the case. In fact, her friend was the one who immediately took my attention. She was my usual type, a buxom blonde with legs for days. My friend noticed I was looking, probably not too subtly, at the lovely woman playing pool. As luck would have it, she knew Ronna, my future wife, and asked if I wanted to be introduced to her. Of course, I said yes straight away, and we headed over to them. I politely said hello to both women and turned my attention to the blonde. It transpired that we did not click in the slightest. Our sense of humour was entirely different. That’s when I heard Ronna laugh and I knew I had chosen wrong. Ronna was chatting to my friend and had thrown her head back and laughed at something or other and from them on I was infatuated. I managed to weasel my way into their

conversation and thank God, she seemed to like me too! The rest is history.

She taught Hebrew at a local school and agreed to teach me too! I warned her that she had her 149

work cut out and joked that I barely even spoke English. This made her laugh. I felt insanely Page

proud of myself for making her laugh. We had Israel in common. We were both interested in the culture and had both visited this beautiful country. We took it steady. I didn’t want to make her rush into anything she wasn’t ready for. She was only 21! We saw each other often but kept our own lives too. I will never forget our first date. After spending the evening at a restaurant, talking and laughing, I dropped her off back at her parents’ house and walked her to her door. I was hoping for a kiss, I felt like the night had gone well enough for that. Ronna clearly felt differently. She gave me a hug, thanked me for the date and went back inside. On my way back to the car I decided I needed to do everything in my power to make her kiss me on our next date. Thinking quickly, and trying to be romantic, I pulled out a business card from my pocket and wrote on the back, “Call me when you’re ready for a goodnight kiss. I feel like you owe me.” I was over the moon that this worked!

During this time, my father and I went to the ’73 Superbowl in Los Angeles. We had been trying to work on our relationship. The game was over, and we were leaving when I heard

“Hello Gary! Bill!” And who did I see strolling over to our seats, but Maurice! It had been a long while since I had seen him. The last time was when I told him I couldn’t accept his father’s job. This hadn’t affected our friendship in the slightest, neither did the fact we hardly ever saw each other. Aware of the rush of joy I felt when I saw his grin, I ran over to him, dragging my dad along with me. We talked for a little while, before he had to rush off (he had a plane to catch).

Ronna and I became more and more serious. It wasn’t long until we were talking about taking a trip together. We decided on Israel. It seemed like the obvious choice.

Israel went exactly as I had expected. Ronna and I got to know each other really well. We

spent the afternoons seeing the sights and the mornings lounging in bed together. It was like a

dream. The trip continued this way as we left Israel and headed for Rome, Italy. And again,

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as we headed to the South of France. I was so excited to show Ronna all of the glamour this area of the world has to offer. As coincidence would have it, we ran into Maurice, with his future wife, in La Siesta. I heard his laugh before I saw him, his face glowing under the lit torches. His beautiful wife-to-be sat straight backed, almost regal, next to him. Maurice was holding court with six or seven others, all of whom were doting on his every word.

Ronna knew of him, but had not had the pleasure of meeting him in the flesh. It was always quite nerve-wracking, introducing your girlfriends to Maurice, for fear that they would fall in love with him instead. Luckily, Ronna’s attention remained with me as I introduced the two.

Maurice immediately broke out of this audience of people listening to him and ran over to us!

“Gary!” He screamed at me over the din of the modern music, as he dove in for a bear hug.

Then he pushed me aside, kissing Ronna’s hand, “And who is this lovely young lady?” He asked. “Maurice, this is Ronna, my girlfriend.” I told him.

“Wow Gary, she’s a bit out of your league, isn’t she?” He said with a wink, always the flirt! He then introduced us his wife-to-be and the four of us spent the evening together, drinking and dancing. It was the best evening of the trip so far, although I might be a little biased. I think Ronna agreed.

Maurice toasted to our evening together. His signature toast, that always got a good cheer,

““Here’s to those who wish us well and all the rest may go to hell.” The ladies clinked their glasses together, smiling the biggest smiles.

Maurice went home before Ronna and I did. We spent a few more hours basking in the ambiance of the exclusive club. Upon leaving I tried to pay the cheque, only to be told

Maurice had already paid it. He had promised me he would let me pay for the four of us that evening. I was so mad that he had gone behind my back like that. We left La Siesta with me

blind with rage and Ronna trying to understand why I was so angry. When I eventually 151 Page

calmed down, I explained to her about my relationship with Maurice and money. I don’t think she ever quite grasped what it meant to me to pay my own way, but she sympathised and that was enough for me. When we arrived back at the hotel a note had been left with the concierge, “We departed sooner than I thought. Off to Ibiza. Bye Gary.”

The unwritten meaning behind this was clear to me, “You will never get the cheque, Gary. I won’t give you chance.” I was sad that Maurice had left without giving me the chance to pay him back. I would have been more upset had I know that this was the last time that I would

see him.

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Chapter Sixteen

In Which I Explain What Happened Next

I enjoyed the rest of the trip, with the beautiful woman I ended up marrying. From the South of France, we headed to the Italian Riviera, Spain and then back to France. This time we visited Paris. I had the best time showing Ronna the typical tourist spots, relaxing. But before

I knew it, it was time to go home.

We fell into a routine when Ronna moved out of her parent’s house, and into an apartment with a girlfriend. I was almost jealous of their relationship, knowing that I had once been that close with Maurice, whom I never saw anymore. Work became the biggest part of my life. I often worked fifty-five hours a week, spending the rest of my time with Ronna. I had nerves when it came to commit to her. I had never committed to anything else in my life. She was talking of marriage and that scared the hell out of me. I didn’t want to lose her, she had plenty of other’s interested in marrying her. I eventually decided, with the help of many outside pressures, that I had better hurry up and marry Ronna. Thankfully, she said, “Yes,” and we were married on the 6th June 1976.

Not too long after this I was simultaneously fired and quit my job. The tension had been brewing between me and my father again and our tempers had finally boiled over. Ronna and

I took this as an opportunity to travel the States together. Every cloud has a silver-lining

right?

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When we returned from the trip, I began collecting unemployment for the first time in my life. It took a few months for my relationship with my father to improve to a point where I was able to work my way back into the company and stop cashing unemployment cheques.

Life continued on, as it does, we bought our first house, travelled around Asia, suffered through miscarriages and fertility issues. I found out from Maurice’s cousin that Maurice’s father never built the city he so desired to build. The deal went up in smoke. The one pipe dream that had not turned into reality. With the turbulent relationships between Israel and

Iran, it was a concern that should the city be destroyed, it would cost a hell of a lot of money to rebuild. Nobody was willing to insure a city in such a volatile area. So, the city remained a dream.

I had just about accepted that Maurice wasn’t going to be in my life in the same way again.

But it wasn’t too long until he was catapulted back into my life, with full force.

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PART FOUR

AFTER

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Chapter One

In Which the Father Dies

I got the news at home. Maurice’s father had been shot. Against a wall. Maurice called me.

The shock evident in his voice. It wavered dangerously at the mention of his father. It hadn’t made the news yet. But it would before long. There were no more details at that point. I crumpled to the floor, phone still in hand. Numb. Completely numb. This was a man whom I respected more than anyone else, and from whom I had managed to gain respect.

Surprisingly, my first thoughts hadn’t been of Maurice, but of his mother. I was scared for her. Had she had to witness this whole ordeal herself? How would she cope with her husband’s death? I had so many questions running through my mind before I’d even thought of Maurice. How would his father’s death have affected him? He admired his father and I was sure he was putting on a brave façade on the phone. The call was heart breaking…

“Gary, it’s me. My father is dead. He was killed. Well I need to warn you that they’re after me too.” Through my own research I knew that ‘they’ was the Iranian government, which at this time was no longer being ruled by the Shah. Instead, it was ruled by Ali Khamenei and his Islamic Revolution. “They want our money. My father’s money.

I’ve gone into hiding Gary. There’s a $1 million bounty on my head and if they find me, they’ll torture me to get the family money. If they find out how close we were, they’ll kill you to get to me. I’m going to travel the world. Never stop moving. Let them catch me if they can. So, this is goodbye Gary. I love you. Don’t worry.” He hung up the phone. Not giving me time to respond. It took me a long while to process the words my friend had said.

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What I was also told, only by some, was a complete shock to me… I was told by some that there were rumours of his father’s escape. That he was one step ahead of the evil people he was fighting against. To say the government in Iran had not been happy with Maurice’s father for a long while before this, would be an understatement. He was an outspoken advocate for the Jewish population in Iran. His work to support those oppressed by the regime, was not viewed well by the current government. His opinions regarding the country, the oppression, corruption and inequality, were beginning to become recognised by more and more people. A revolution was brewing, and the government knew it. As a result of this Maurice’s father became a wanted man.

It took me a long while to piece together everything that happened.

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Chapter Two

In Which I Begin to Explain

The book might feel a little different from here on out, ladies and gentlemen. I am going to share with you all of the things that happened as a consequence of Maurice’s father’s death.

As a consequence of Iran’s Islamic Republic. What I will tell you now, are the facts as I know them. I believe this to be true. You can check everything I say by doing an internet search, it’s all out there for the public to see. What I will tell you is a story not often spoken about, except by those who knew Maurice’s father. Much of the focus falls on the Uncle,

Habib, who’s story will too be told all in good time.

Let’s dive straight in, shall we?

Not long after I had heard of Maurice’s father’s death, I received a phone call, late at night. It was from Maurice. What he told me changed my life forever. He had a habit of doing that.

This phone call fired something within me. I didn’t care for my safety, I needed to find out more. I needed information. I changed that day. For the better? I don’t know, you will have to decide.

It took me years to piece the information together. I had to do it alongside raising a family and working, which sometimes felt more like a distraction than anything else I’m ashamed to say. By the time I felt like I had the full story, Maurice had already died. At the age of 59. It was a mundane death that Maurice would have despised. A brain tumour got him. Not a very

rock and roll death. But a death all the same. I only saw him once more before his death. He

was dropping his son of at Brown University. When he called into the tyre store, I felt like I’d

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seen a ghost. The Maurice I knew had not aged well, life seemed to have caught up with him in the end. But the young man standing next to him, his eldest son, was the image of the twenty-year old Maurice I remembered. I never picture Maurice as an adult, when I see him in my thoughts or dreams, he’s still that twenty-year old with the wry smile.

Maurice told me of his new three-storey warehouse in London, across the road from Big Ben.

“I never need to wear a watch again Gary!” That shit-eating grin appearing again on his face.

“I spent about $5 million doing the place up. It’s a gold mine! Come visit Gary, it really has been far too long old friend.” I intended to go and visit Maurice in London, I really did. Life ran away with me, as it has a tendency to do. I never got to visit Maurice in London. But I did uncover the truth of what happened to his father.

So, the story goes something like this… After Maurice’s father died, I became obsessed with finding out the truth, or as much of the truth as I could.

The responses to the letters I had sent out to Maurice’s family were few and far between. Not only that, but none of them seemed to want to tell me what had happened. I waited and waited for responses. The questions clawing around in my brain, eating away at me. I did all I could do and waited. Impatiently for the responses to arrive. They came in dribs and drabs, but the responses intrigued me more. With some of them hinting that Maurice’s father was still alive, I knew I had to dig deeper.

Not long after the father’s death it became big news. The Iranian Revolution was already at the forefront of a lot of American’s minds. When the newspapers began printing the story of an Iranian business-man’s assassination, the first civilian assassination by revolutionary firing

squad, I began to notice something strange. The death never mentioned Maurice’s father’s name (Davoud) it instead referred to the assassinated as Habib, which happened to be the

name of Maurice’s uncle, the one who lived in New York City. Many different reasons for 159 Page

this swam around my head… maybe they had gotten the name wrong, there were six brothers after all. Maybe they had killed the wrong man? Maybe it all was some elaborate story created by the Islamic Revolution to scare the remaining Iranian Jews? I couldn’t get my head around it. Why would Maurice tell me that his father had died, if it was in fact his

Uncle? I didn’t understand why he would lie to me. I was hurt that he didn’t trust me enough to tell me the whole story. But then again, I wondered if I was making this whole thing into

something else. Maybe it was just as simple as the newspapers getting the name wrong.

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Chapter Three

The Real Truth

This is the information I found ladies and gentlemen…

The details of Habib’s (wrong name?) death were spread wide on the news, in the papers, whispered between Iranian and Israeli families. Between these newspaper reports, and my conversations with the family who would speak with me, I managed to piece together the real truth. I was lucky enough to be approached by somebody who claimed to know the entire story, having been privy to inside information. This obviously piqued my interest. Even more so when he claimed to have the transcript of Habib’s trial, in its entirety I might add. He asked for an exorbitant amount of money for this information. Money that Maurice would have easily been able part with. Myself on the other hand, not so much. We ended up agreeing on a price for a list of Habib’s charges, even this was more money than I felt comfortable parting with, but I couldn’t let it go. I became addicted to finding out information, much to my wife’s disappointment. Ronna was a huge support to me, putting up with my crazed journey to find information, but I could tell she’d rather I focus on our family.

Let’s start with the obvious, it wasn’t Maurice’s father who died. It was his Uncle Habib, as you probably guessed. The story of his death is tragic and graphic, often told in an awful lot of detail in the articles you can find on the internet. Habib was the face of the company,

which he owned with Maurice’s father. It would make sense that he was a wanted man too. I

found out years later that Maurice’s father died in London, not too far from where his

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daughter Flora, had lived all those years ago. This information I managed to glean after his death. It turned out, when Uncle Habib died, Maurice’s father had gone into hiding.

Uncle Habib was a man of action, he pre-empted everything that happened to him. You could see this in many of his actions in life. He chose to live next door to John Gotti, the number one Mafia boss at the time in order to feel safe. It made sense that Uncle Habib would be the primary target. Not only was he the face of the business, he was well known in high society.

The fiftieth richest man in America. A brave man until the very end, he wasn’t one to hide his face in order to live quietly. He was the life and soul of the family and Maurice’s idol.

Maurice admired his father, but was far closer to his uncle.

Habib’s story goes like this...

When Habib heard that he was a wanted man, in the eyes of the Islamic Revolution, he went straight to Switzerland and spent ten full days preparing his defence, hoping it would make a difference in the eyes of his biased future captors. Knowing the battle, he was about to face, he also prepared for the eventuality of his death. He was under no misconceptions of what would be waiting for him when he touched down in Iran. It is told that Habib instructed

Maurice, and his own sons, to take his will to the world court, believing that this was the only way his wishes would be carried out fairly. When he redid his will, he ensured that his money was hidden. Kept away from the Revolutionary Guard, who believed they were entitled to it.

I believe Maurice’s father helped him with this, transferring the money through the diamond exchange. Through doing this, the money would be readily available for his close family to utilise. Maurice’s father was known by family and friends as ‘The Accountant’, he had ways

and means of transferring the money without getting caught.

Habib then decided to face his opposition, proving that he was a brave and just man. I

believed he hoped that they would see reason and allow him, and his family, to be free. His 162 Page

family say that he believed he was going to deal with, ‘normal and rational people’. Boy, he couldn’t have been more mistaken. Upon landing in Tehran, he was arrested by the Islamic

Revolutionary Guards and taken straight to jail. The charges against him were being a friend of the enemy of God (Israel), being a spy and being a capitalist. All of these charges were seen by Iranian officials as the worst crimes you could possibly commit. This was evidenced in his treatment. He was not even allowed to return to his home first. During Habib’s imprisonment only his basic human rights were adhered to, barely. His head was shaven in order to humiliate him. He was allowed the occasional visitor, food and water. The severity of his situation became even more apparent when a family friend visited Habib in prison.

They met in bare, stone room, Habib’s prison clothes trailing on the floor behind him.

Keeping his head high, he greeted his old friend, showing that he was not a broken man. The friend told Habib that he would help him make sure his children got the money they were entitled to, if he told him where his was hidden. Habib saw straight through the smoke and mirrors. His old friend was being threatened, more than likely with the death and torture of his family, in order for the Islamic Revolutionary Guards to get their hands on his fortune.

Having no choice but to deny the man his wishes, Habib turned around and walked back to his cell. Alone again.

It is rumoured that the Mossad tried to break him out of prison, something that Habib refused.

I think the idea of running from those who had hunted him, for the rest of his life, was something he would never do. He wanted to face them, head on, like the man he was. Not run like a coward, always looking over his shoulder. Maurice’s family were a lot of things, but being a coward was not one of them.

The old friend returned a week or so later, to beg for Habib’s forgiveness. Explaining that the

guards had a plan to break him. That they were determined to get his money, which they 163

believed to be rightfully theirs. He was told that he could leave and never return to Iran, if he Page

told the Revolutionary Guards where his money was. Habib must have considered the offer, any man would.

But Habib allegedly said, “I am not leaving my country. I am not leaving my people. I will not be buried in a foreign land. If I am to die, let me die like a man, defending my honour and standing up for what I believe.” Habib was killed a matter of hours before the biggest whoremaster in Iran at the time. Habib’s ‘crimes’ were seen to be just as serious as those committed by this man, who was accused of executing many murders in his ‘amusement park’ in addition to running the country’s largest prostitution ring. I’ll let that sink in for a second. Habib was thought by Iranian officials to be in the same category as someone who reportedly killed enough people to have his own private, hidden morgue. It has been suggested by many that Ali Khamenei needed Habib, and his family, out of the way due to their wealth and influence within the country. The regime could not risk such high profile, well liked people, speaking out against it. Unfortunately, the easiest way to do this, and to get their hands on a vast amount of money, was to accuse the family of crimes and have their

‘ringleader’ executed.

Maurice’s father took the opportunity to run. He knew he'd be next; the Iranian Revolutionary

Guards were after the family fortune and would stop at nothing to get to it. Maurice’s mother and father. Maurice’s father knew that his country was not stable and would eventually become hostile towards him. After all, he was an Israeli sympathizer and in the eyes of the

Iranian Revolutionary Guard, there is nothing worse than that. An opinion that is still rife to this day. Maurice’s father had money hidden in various bank accounts across the world, under different names, for an occasion such as this. The majority of his money was hidden in

Turkey and England. He knew how to plan ahead! It had been suggested that Maurice’s

father had links with the Mossad which enabled him to leave the country without trace, as 164

quickly and as easily as he did. The passport Maurice’s father left the country with was real. Page

There was no doubt about that. By changing one letter in the name, a new person was born.

And Maurice’s father got to live the rest of his life in peace. It was a far simpler life than he was accustomed to. There would be no more homes fashioned after casinos for him. No more state meetings. No more one hundred suitcases. But that no longer mattered. He escaped with his life. If I knew Maurice’s father at all, he would have adapted to his new life without any difficulties. He was always the one who could make lemonade from lemons.

Flora claims to this day that she did not know he was there, and I believe her. She was never one to lie. The father, in order to keep everybody safe more than likely told no-one where he was hidden. I found an article in the early 2000s that said Maurice’s father escaped to safety via his helicopter. He had been planning his escape for a long time, it seemed. He had hidden massive amounts of cash in Turkey, this helped him to make it to London, with his wife, completely unharmed. I can only speculate that he bribed an official to change the name on his passport so he couldn’t be tracked. The reason for my suspicions is that I learned of his death on a website where you can track family histories. A man had died, who just so happened to have Maurice’s father’s date of birth, but who had one letter different in his first name. This matched up with what one of Maurice’s cousins, who was dating my sister at the time, told me. He said that they had known of his escape through Turkey, but that was it. The cousin agreed that Maurice’s father would have bribed officials to change their passports. He also agreed, that it was definitely Maurice’s father’s obituary I had found. The news saddened me to begin with. What I suspected had turned out to be right, I should have been happy. But

I wasn’t. I couldn’t imagine what Maurice’s mother and father had experienced when fleeing the country. To leave their children behind and lead them to believe the father was dead must

have been torture for the once close family. Nevertheless, the mother and father settled down and lived the rest of their lives in a small Jewish community. I get the feeling that they would

have been happy there, all things considered, because they had each other. 165 Page

Uncle Habib, the man who died at the hands of the Islamic Revolution, has gone down in history. His death is remembered to this day by many people. Not only by those who are

Jewish, or Iranian or Israeli. His death, the first civilian execution, caused ripples across the world. Only today, as I am sat in front of my computer writing this story, Iran is back in the news. The face shown, The Supreme Leader of Iran, Ali Khamenei, who is ready to start the second phase of his Islamic Revolution. The opinions of Iranian leaders about Israel still seems to be the same as it was during the first revolution. The one that lead to Habib’s death and Maurice and his mother and father going into hiding.

The family’s plights did not end with the death of Uncle Habib, as he would have more than likely wished it had. Instead, his children disputed his will, wanting the company money to be included, the money would naturally be turned over the Iranian government who had killed

Habib. After a long and arduous battle, the US courts decided that they had no jurisdiction over Iranian money. That was that. His children and nieces and nephews were well looked after. It had been arranged, prior to his death, for them to all have a share of the family wealth. This was done quietly and under the radar, he did not want the Islamic Revolutionary

Guards coming after his family. They would all be on guard for the foreseeable future anyway, the last thing Uncle Habib wanted was for the Guards to be aware of how the money was distributed, making his family an even larger target.

The money battles did not end with the family. The Islamic Revolution took their fight to the

World Court, arguing that the family’s money was rightfully theirs. After a decade long battle, the World Court decided in favour of the family and not the Iranian government. Little did they know that they were only fighting for the full money. Uncle Habib, incredibly smart

until the very end, had planned for this eventuality. Over three billion dollars was hidden in

the US, in land, buildings, businesses and most importantly, all under different names! This 166

was his final rebellion against those oppressing him. I guess he had the last laugh. In a raid of Page

Habib’s home after his death, $521 million dollars’ worth of jewellery, cash and gold was found. Assets he hadn’t quite got around to selling off, it seemed.

The sad fact of it is, the Iranian government were threatened by the family’s prowess. Their ability to make changes, to better lives. Think about it, if Maurice’s father had built his city, the Israeli people would be so much better off. They would be safe, and history would be

different.

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Chapter Four

The Ending

The story of Maurice and his family ends in sadness. The story of a family doing all that they could to stop the persecution of the Jews in Iran ends without resolution. But the story I have told you is still relevant to this day. I learnt so much a result of having Maurice be a part of my life, as a result of his family being a part of my life too. My life would be so different now, had I never met the man himself. Had I never seen that grin spread across his young face when he knew something I didn’t. I believe that Maurice never opened up to anybody else the way he did on those long, tedious drives through Europe. I loved and respected the way he spoke of his family. Never bragging about his riches and opportunities. He spoke of them like they were a normal family, telling stories of his upbringing just as anybody else would. I feel privileged to have been welcomed into such a close knit, secretive family, I was the only white, Anglo-Saxon American to have been allowed to bond with the family in such a way. The only others that I know to have been as close as I was, were Maurice’s cousins.

I’ve lived a normal, but happy, life since Maurice. I’ve mentioned before that I married the love of my life Ronna, in 1976. We did the whole ‘white-picket fence’ thing and I could not have been more content. My son, Scott, and daughter, Kimberly, are successful and have families of their own. I bought the tyre business from my father in 1986 for more that it was worth and for fifty years I got to do something I was good at, and that I loved. I continued to be good with my money and save whatever I could because of this I could retire in 2014, at

the age of 68, and enjoy my new life as a grandfather.

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Do I have any regrets? Sure, who doesn’t! I wish I had chosen Maurice to be the best-man at my wedding. I wish I’d been able to go to his wedding in London. I wish we could have got to know each other’s children and grandchildren. But aside from all that, I’m glad that

Maurice taught me to be proud of my nature as a giver, not a taker. If I had not been the only one that said, “Thank you,” for the drinks he bought everyone, none of this would have happened to me. My world would have been a much smaller place. My life… so different without him being in it. Seeing Maurice do the impossible, too many times to count, made me realise that I could do the impossible too. He taught me ‘class’, something I had very little of.

I still leave a tip in every hotel room I stay in… because that’s what Maurice did. I think we can all learn to live a little bit more like Maurice, who was so unapologetically himself.

The backstory of the book, the trials and tribulations of Iran and how one family coped with this was just as important to me as telling Maurice’s story. I think it is important to know what is going on in the world around you. Remember, never judge a book by its cover.

Looking at Maurice’s family, you would have had the impression that they believed they were worth more than everyone else, due to the money they had. Dig a little deeper and you’d find out that they had hearts as big as their bank accounts. Everyone that I’ve shared some of

Maurice’s stories with told me to write a book. “The stories are unbelievable,” they would say. So that’s exactly what I did. I wrote this book to honour him. To honour his family. To all those affected by the topics covered in this book.

I think Maurice would be proud of me. I can see him now, with that huge, cheeky grin spreading across his face, “Gary, you did a good job!” Maurice would not want his death to be mourned. He would want to be celebrated. Living life to the fullest was what Maurice was

all about. By sharing his story with the world, in a way, I feel like I’m making him immortal.

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As my final toast to Maurice, when I heard of his death, I dragged myself to one of his favourite haunts, a bar we spent much of our youth in. It felt right to be there... filled with so many memories. What I did next, Maurice would have found hysterical. After having a few drinks, I clambered onto the bar, much to the disgruntled bar tenders disgust. I bought everyone in the room a drink and made a toast to my friend, my brother.

“Here’s to those who wish us well and all the rest may go to hell.”

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Epilogue

Along the way you have met some people in this book, that may have only been part of the story for a little while. Nevertheless, the part they played was important, or they wouldn’t be in the book. I think it’s only fair that you know what happened to them, after the part they played in mine and Maurice’s story.

Flora

Flora became the queen of London society. After partnering with David in nightclubs and casinos. She divorced her husband when he was arrested for fraud (the largest fraud ever on the London Stock Exchange). Later, she married her Italian personal trainer and moved to a huge villa in Italy, where she lived for ten years or so. She missed the spotlight and glamour of London and eventually returned and opened another very successful business, alone this time. She had her father’s business sense and always stood on her own two feet. She’s remained the classiest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. Flora achieved what she set out to do and made her fortune. Flora and David helped to start the careers of many famous artists. The Beetles, Elton John, The Rolling Stones. Their club, The Speak Easy, was the place to be for hip, young artists. She really was the top tier of London society. I think she could probably buy every house on the Street With No Name and still have some money left over. I will always have a soft spot for Flora, she was the first person who showed me what class and elegance truly was.

David S

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David, much like Flora, achieved everything he set out to do. He lived the life of a celebrity, rubbing elbows with the elite, rich and famous. David launched many a music career and his clubs remained in high demand with celebrities from all over the world. For twenty years he rode high on the London scene, until he was investigated and found guilty of consorting with the London Mob. He ended up spending time in prison. It is important to note that Flora had sold out of their business before this happened. I’ll bet if you asked David, he would not trade lives with anybody because he achieved his dreams, without the help of his father. He rose to the top! His father, on his deathbed, summoned David to make amends and give him one third of his estate. David refused; he didn’t need the money. Both David and Flora honoured their handshake until Flora left the country.

The Shah of Iran

The last Persian Monarch. He was exiled to Egypt on January 16th 1979. He died whilst in exile in July 1980 of non-Hodgkin lymphoma. He died a broken man, having been stripped of his status. I still believe he wasn’t a bad man, just weak. The Shah’s wealth is unknown although some suggest it was approximately $10 million per month, so his estimated total wealth was somewhere in the region of $100 million. It is interesting to note here that the

Khamenei, the current leader of Iran, is worth approximately $95 billion, stolen from the

Iranian people. Read into that what you will.

The Empress Soraya

The Shah’s second wife. They say the Shah loved her until the day he died. His position in the monarchy prevented their marriage from being a long one. Unable to produce an heir, it is

said that Soraya became the most loved and cherished person in the whole of Europe. Her

humanitarian work is the stuff of legend. 172

The Empress Farah Page

Also known as ‘Her Imperial Princess’. Remember the nine dresses Flora made for her? She married the Shah in 1959 and remained married until his death. She now lives a very anonymous life in the USA.

Maurice’s Father (Davoud)

Known as ‘The Accountant’, it has been said that he was the smartest out of all the brothers as he was the one who managed to escape the Islamic Revolution. He lived his remaining years, quietly, with his wife by his side.

Melina

Melina went on to become the head of IT at the largest bank in Massachusetts. While working there she met her husband, a real-estate developer, and was happily married with children. At least I was responsible for something good as she came to the US because of me.

She was a fantastic addition to the country, and I feel proud that I had a hand in that.

Moritz

I caught up with Moritz not too long ago. Sadly, his dad died and left him out of the will. He had fled to Israel as a result of this. I got the impression that he was a deeply unhappy man. I offered him a ticket to the US, but to no avail. Not long after this his email address stopped working and I was unable to contact him. I have no idea what happened to his after this. I fear for the worst, but hope for the best.

Flora’s Maid

She stayed by Flora’s side until the very end. She went to Italy with Flora and returned to

London with her too. She happily remained with Flora until her death just five years ago.

Flora’s Daughter

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Much like Maurice, she went to the best boarding schools in the world. A trust was set up for her by both Flora and her grandfather (Maurice’s father). She too had to go underground, as a result of her family, but it was much easier for her as she was never on the grid to begin with.

I’m not sure where she is today, but I’d wager that whatever she’s doing… she’s doing a damn good job, just like her mother.

My Father and My Mother

My relationship with my father remained strained. He had two entirely different sides to him.

One day he would be your best friend, the next he would stab you in the back just to prove he was better than you. I loved the good dad but hated the bad. He died at sixty-eight of lung cancer. We argued until his very last day. He was a tyrant to me and even left me out of the will… I didn’t even get a dime. It hurt me even more to see the way my father treated my other. She was old fashioned and had only ever been with my father, she didn’t know any differently. My mother had a heart of gold and never stood up for herself with my father. She died when she was eighty-six, outliving my father by fifteen years.

Maurice’s Uncles

It has been mentioned that Maurice’s father had brothers, Maurice’s uncles. Uncle Habib has played a considerable part in our story. But what about the other brothers? Well, one brother lived out his live, unknown, running the diamond exchange in Israel. Another, the mechanical genius, escaped to Turkey. He lived a good life and had a thriving business. And the jail brother, the one who needed to be bailed out for Flora’s wedding, continued on the same path as he always had.

Maurice

The one and only. He was never able to live up to his own expectations, but not for lack of 174

trying. In my opinion, he never found his centre, that one thing that would give him purpose. Page

I can personally attest to the fact that Maurice lived his life to the fullest! Sadly, he often reminded me of a dog chasing his own tail. He always remained one in a billion to me, whilst he called me his one in a million. I only wish he was here to read this book which I wrote about him. Which I wrote for him.

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PHOTOGRAPHS FROM GARY’S PERSONEL

COLLECTION

Figure 1 After Gary had changed the tyre, Maurice insisted that Gary take a photo of him posing in this way. Maurice

wanted to show this photograph to his dad. This proves his slight of hand, does it not?

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Figure 2 Flora and Maurice; sibling love.

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Figure 3 Maurice dressed to kill.

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Figure 4 Maurice being Maurice. He was always such a poser. He knew he was good looking and made no attempts to hide

it!

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Figure 5 Gary, Melina, Maurice out partying.

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Figure 6 Gary and Maurice’s mother.

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Figure 7 Ronna's 'blonde' friend and Ronna.

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Figure 8 Gary and Ronna at La Siesta, dancing on the pods in the pool.

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Figure 9 Gary and Flora's Daughter and Maid Outside Flora's Home

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Figure 8 The La Siesta Billboard.

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Figure 9 The Pool at La Siesta.

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Figure 10 The Famous La Siesta Bats.

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Figure 11 Gary at La Siesta, his happy place.

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Figure 12 Gary (Second on the left) Celebrating the 4th July.

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Figure 13 Gary at Dachau.

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Figure 14 Gary and Melina at Woodstock.

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Figure 15 Gary, Melina and Friends at Woodstock.

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Figure 16 Gary Receiving a Ticket on Maurice's Behalf.

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Figure 17 Gary and Maurice, still brothers after spending sixty days together.

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