Once upon a very long time ago, an acquaintance I had, fixed me up on a blind date in Chicago. This acquaintance was a friend of the only female roommate I ever had in my entire life; a nightmare named Miriam, her friends name was Georgia. Georgias middle eastern boyfriend was friends with Mustapha Kechtban. Four of us met at the finest French restaurant, Chez Paul, Chicago. Edith Piaf was bellowing in my Irish American ears. My second language of choice was French in high school and French in college. I never picked up French. I am not a linguist. That means, I’m a lover; why I picked French, the language of love, romance and Paris… I’m Anne.
Mustapha Shafiq Kechtban was of Lebanese descent, sophisticated, masculine, strikingly attractive dressed finer than kings, and wore cologne from heaven. He came with an Arabic accent and spoke a dozen languages. Mustapha was single, never married, like me then. He was from Sidon, Lebanon and came to America young. He was an international coffee, cocoa and oil export merchant, not much older than me. He was a Chicago resident part of the year, and then he’d be in the Ivory Coast in Africa in the fall during the coffee and cocoa harvest season, managing his father’s plantations. Flying all over the world from London to the Cayman Islands investing and selling coffee or cocoa was my boyfriend. My new world. I didn’t change my life for him. I continued mine.
The first time we met, he drank a substantial amount of Black Label scotch. He acted very pleased with me that day, and he staggered a bit when we left the table. After our first date, he always ordered Crystal champagne for me when we dined, and he often ordered appetizers that cost over $200, such as truffle-infused dishes, foie gras and Wagyu beef. Delightful ! I was fond of Mustapha.
His high-rise apartment overlooking Lake Michigan, by my downtown Chicago law office. We ate at dozens of fine restaurants and I learned to cook Middle Eastern food which is the best food ever. I never lived with him. I always had my own place. He was a Muslim. He never talked about God. I did.
During the day, he was either playing the stock market at home, or gambling at the race track, either Hawthorne Race Course or Arlington International Racecourse.
One Saturday morning, his diamond merchant business partners, the elderly Simons were visiting from Ft. Lauderdale. Mustapha decided to take us out to Arlington Racecourse. I’m not a gambler at all, but Mustapha was a compulsive gambler. I never said anything, but it wasn’t good. He would blow threw so much money when we would go to Vegas playing craps. Crazy gambling addiction. I never asked him for anything. I love elephants. He’d bring gifts of ivory jewelry and elephants.
The four of us are at the race track betting on the horses. I was betting $5 on horses to “win,” the most straightforward wager in horse racing. I bet to “win” on five bets and everyone of them won.
I recall my last bet on a Thoroughbred horse named Prince Of Peace. I picked Prince of Peace because I’m a Christian and Jesus is the “Prince of Peace.” Mustapha is Muslim and the Simons were Jews.
My last bet on the Prince of Peace won too. Every horse I picked to “win,” won. All five of them.
Mustapha and the Simons were absolutely floored. They were speechless. Mustapha was slightly perturbed really, because it wasn’t him doing all the winning. It was me. Middle eastern men are misogynistic. It’s ingrained. He wasn’t born in America. He was born in Lebanon, and later in his early 20’s came to America, so he said.
I wasn’t phased much by my run of victories, my string of wins, it’s gambling. It’s a game risking money. I don’t like the sound of it. I was just there for Mustapha. I loved him.
The Simons soon thereafter, wrote Mustapha a letter telling him he better marry me. “Anne is good-luck. She’s beautiful. She’s one in a million,” they wrote.
Mustapha Shafiq Kechtban (google the name) broke my heart, and I didn’t take him back. Never would I allow someone to injure me like that when I loved him so much. He wasn’t worth it. I left Chicago and went to Phoenix just to avoid him. It was the coldest winter in Chicago, then left in May. Mustapha ended up years later losing all his millions, probably gambling in shell companies, a Jordanian friend of his told me I bumped into at a Middle Eastern restaurant in Highland Park. I had two homes in Lake Forest and a home in Glendale, Arizona when I ran into his friend. It appears I ended up better than Mr. Millionaire. He ended up going into Federal prison too for three years, for importing red bull energy drinks and Newport cigarettes without trademark or tax from China into Chicago. Glad I had enough sense to leave when I did years before. It was a lot of years between.
About that same time, arriving in Phoenix from Chicago, I became active with Jehovah’s Witnesses and was baptized. I became dedicated to the Lord, and I remain dedicated to the Prince of Peace and will for eternity. I’m born again and saved.