The Keys to the Riad

“Mademoiselle. Your father’s signature must be verified against his national ID card,” Mme. Leila said without looking up.

Yasmine checked her phone for the tenth time. She had taken a day off from her marketing job in La Défense to be here. Behind the thick glass doors of the consulate, the line snaked forward like a tired serpent. She clutched a green folder containing her father’s passport, her own ID, and the procuration forms.

“Excuse me, madame the Consul,” Omar said, his voice raspy. “I am here for my own procuration . My son in Montreal needs to sell my taxi permit.” He paused, looking at Yasmine’s panicked face. “But perhaps I can help this girl.”

Just then, a soft voice intervened. From the waiting area, Omar had been watching. He shuffled toward the window, leaning on a carved wooden cane.

Mme. Leila raised an eyebrow. “Monsieur Omar, this is an administrative procedure, not a souk.”

At 4:55 PM, the deed was done. The procuration was stamped. The green ink seal of the Consulate of Morocco pressed into the paper like a medal.