She was called to window number four. Behind the glass sat Mme. Leila, whose glasses hung from a beaded chain.
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.
Yasmine walked out into the grey Parisian drizzle. Omar was on the steps, lighting a cigarette. procuration consulat maroc
Within an hour, Yasmine’s father, wearing a djellaba and looking confused, appeared on a consulate iPad screen. A notary in Marrakech held his hand. Yasmine, via a phone held to the screen, translated the legal jargon. Omar sat in the waiting area, patiently knitting a wool cap with his arthritic fingers.
Her father was in Marrakech. He had finally bought the riad he’d dreamed of for thirty years, but the seller was threatening to back out. The signing was in 48 hours. Yasmine couldn’t fly down; she had a presentation. So, she needed the consulate to authenticate a power of attorney allowing her cousin in Casablanca to sign the deed in her father’s name. She was called to window number four
Omar exhaled smoke. “The consulate is not a wall, my child. It is a door. You just have to know which key fits.” He tapped his temple. “And sometimes, the key is not a document. It is a old man who refuses to be ignored.”
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. Just then, a soft voice intervened
“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.”
