Casablanca, starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, won the Academy Award for Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Adapted Screenplay in 1944. It’s #2 on the American Film Institute’s original list of the Greatest American Films of All Time. The following is a complete work of fiction.

The scorching heat from the late-afternoon sun in southern California was mild compared to the heat that she felt at that moment. He was short, not handsome, arrogant, somewhat uncouth, and not at all what she expected in a co-star, and yet, it was that unsophisticated nature that ignited the fire deep within her.

She tried thinking of her husband, Petter, and her daughter, Pia, but that didn’t help. At age twenty-seven, Ingrid Bergman was in her sexual prime, and being away from her husband was not something her body could easily tolerate. In her mind she knew that Petter had to stay in Rochester and study medicine and she knew any dalliance would be wrong, but, she simply couldn’t ignore the yearnings.

“Mrs. Bergman?” came the call from her assistant Betty, outside the door, mildly startling her. Moving to the door but not opening it, she answered.

“Yes, Betty?”

“Mrs. Bergman, Mr. Bogart sent word that he would like you to join him for dinner in his suite.” The way it was asked, she wondered if it was a question or an expectation. A trickle of moisture formed between her legs. She debated furiously in her mind.

“Mrs. Bergman?”

“Yes. Please send word to Mr. Bogart that I have plans for the evening.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dinner in his suite, she thought, the utter arrogance of that man.

Deciding that a cool bath and a cup of tea were in order, she started the water to fill the tub in her bathroom then went into the kitchen to prepare the tea, filling the teapot and setting it on the stove. Returning to the bathroom, she turned off the water and quickly disrobed, stepping into the cool bath, hoping that it would relax her and quash some of her inner desires. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back, the cool water very refreshing after a long, hot day on the set. She felt her shoulders relax while her breathing slowed and calmness washed over her.

The sound of wood being smashed startled the young actress. There were voices, male, one familiar, shouting out her name, and an annoying harsh whistling sound, followed by the door to her bathroom being opened.

“Mrs. Bergman, are you in her--” the man said, then stopped in his tracks as his eyes zeroed in on the naked woman in the bathtub, now sitting up, hands partially covering her exposed breasts.

It was Bogart.

“What ARE you do--” she began, raising her voice, but stopping when she saw him turn his head and call out to others.

“It’s all right, I found her; she’s fine. Just leave the window open and close the door. Let’s not make a big deal out of this.”

She started to put things together. The smell of something burning, the whistling sound, and people breaking into her cottage.

She felt her cheeks turning red with embarrassment for her mistake. “I must have ... I started to make some tea and then, I must have dozed off for a few minutes.”

She saw that he was once again looking at her, not saying a word.

Gathering her strength around her like an invisible cloak and making a decision, she rose from the tub to her full five feet nine inches and let her hands fall to her side.

“Would you hand me my robe, please?” she asked with as much dignity as she could muster.

Bogart took in her nakedness, her grapefruit-sized breasts, adorned with hardened, pink nipples, the pleasing contours of her hips and legs, and of course the triangle of wet hair nestled between her legs. He handed her the soft robe and then turned away.

“I hope you’ll excuse my barging into your apartment. My wife recently started a fire in our home and my nose has become very sensitive to that burning smell.” He knew he didn’t owe her an explanation; he was simply acting the hero. Somehow, even seeing her naked, the soothing tones of her voice and her fresh, natural beauty, gave him the impression of innocence and someone who needed protection. Ingrid was completely unlike his combative, alcoholic wife, Mayo.

“Mr. Bogart, you have absolutely no reason to apologize for something that was caused by my stupidity,” she said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

He turned to face her, once more. Her silk robe clung to her wet nakedness, accenting her womanly body. Taller than him by three inches, he was forced to look up into her blue eyes, taking in the wet tendrils of hair clinging to her face. His stare became fixated on her full lips ... the kind of lips that needed to be kissed.

“Well, you’re okay and so I’ll leave. I’m sorry you had plans tonight. I thought we could run the script after dinner,” he said, the gruffness returning to his voice. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Um, I’m glad you’re okay.”

Bogart couldn’t put his finger on it, but running through the script the next day seemed particularly awkward. Ingrid appeared to be skittish. Henreid was very abrupt. Bogart concluded that he and Ingrid were of the same mindset when it came to their co-star.

Accustomed to taking a walk during his lunch break, he was surprised to find Ingrid, alone, sitting on a bench. She appeared to be writing in a notebook, but upon closer view, he found she was making notes on her script.

“Always work, Mrs. Bergman?” his voice startled her.

As she looked up, he wondered why she took his breath away. She was far from being a sophisticated Hollywood beauty, but maybe that was it. The warm breeze tossed her curls and the sun made her luminous skin glow.

“Mr. Bogart, I didn’t hear you approach,” she said softly. “I thought I would be alone here.”

“Well, I’m sorry I bothered you, then,” he responded, turning to leave.

“No! Wait! May I ask you a question; your opinion?”

Bogart turned back. “Of course you can. One thing you’ll learn about me is that I’m completely honest. I guess some would say to the point of rudeness.”

“While I realize that I am new to Hollywood, I am not new to this profession. I find ... well, how can I say this? Henreid appears to be angry with me. I was wondering if you noticed.”

“Noticed? I’d say he was being a pompous ass.”

She tried to hide her laugh. “I think the phrase I would use was prima donna, but I quite like your term. Won’t you sit down?”

It was that exchange that bonded the two. Bogart was quite a relaxed actor, which did drive Ingrid a bit crazy. Where she had studied at the Royal Dramatic Theatre School in Stockholm, he was an indifferent student and learned his craft in another way. Working all sorts of jobs in the New York theaters, he eventually began to act.

Bogart’s jealous, alcoholic wife caused him to vow to himself that he would not get involved with his fascinating co-star. He knew the rumors of affairs with her leading men, but he would not be one of them. He decided they would have a professional relationship only.

Oddly enough, they discovered they each had ties to the Finger Lakes region in New York. A comfort level formed between the soft-spoken, feminine Swede, and the heavy-drinking, hard-playing “tough guy”.

A comfort level that bore no foreshadowing of what would follow.

“Harder,” she called out, her arms wrapped around his wiry build, her legs open wide, inviting, no, demanding deeper thrusts.

“Fill me, Bogie, fill me,” she continued, working to achieve her orgasm, the rhythmic thrusting getting deeper at her command.

“Yes ... YES--” and then the young actress awoke with a start, the room dark and quiet but for the pounding in her head, both literal and figurative. Her body was coated with sweat, the silky pajamas clinging to her form.

Damn, she thought, another one of those dreams. What is wrong with me? I’m behaving like a ... she thought about using the word Harlow instead of harlot, but then decided it wasn’t at all nice to think harshly of the dead.

Looking over at the alarm clock on the nightstand, she was able to make out 4:20.

Well, at least I only lost forty minutes of sleep.

Getting out of bed, she opted for a bath, a hot one. As she started to fill the tub, she was again reminded of the incident from last week, when he handed her the robe, when she stood before him, stark naked.

And he did nothing! A week later and it still floored her.

The steamy, hot bath was followed by some basic make-up, enough to let her be comfortable being seen in public, well, movie-set public. Wardrobe and make-up would take over the task of transforming her into Ilsa, she decided, donning navy trousers, a white blouse, and a sweater.

According to today’s filming schedule, they would be shooting inside Rick’s Cafe all day. She wouldn’t be needed until about 9:00 am or so, depending upon how many additional takes it would take for him to get his lines right. Honestly, she thought, if he’d lay off the booze a bit he’d probably have a better chance--.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. She looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was still shy of 6:00.

“Mrs. Bergman,” said the courier after she opened the door, “Mr. Bogart is waiting for you outside in the parking lot.” With that, the courier turned and left.

Ingrid was dumbfounded. What on earth does he want at this time of the morning?

She walked outside and saw him seated on a motorcycle.

“Hop on, kid. I wanna show you sumthin’.”

She was even more dumbfounded.

“You want me to get on that ... that ... thing, with you? It’s still dark out. Are you crazy?”

“Maybe. But climb on. You’ll want to see this. It’s only a few minutes away,” he said, his eyes seeming to look deep into her soul. “Trust me, Ingrid.”

It was the first time he had ever called her by her first name. It was always Mrs. Bergman or kid. She felt a flutter within her.

“Say it again.”

He stared hard at her.

“My name. Say it again, please?”

“Ingrid.”

She smiled and felt the flutter again. Then she climbed onto the back of the motorcycle, put her arms around his midsection, and they rode away into the early morning darkness.

True to his word, it was just a few minutes away. A right onto Forest Lawn, left onto Barham, and then a left onto Lake Hollywood, a windy, narrow passageway that led to some dirt road. He was driving far too fast for her comfort level, so she simply hung on for dear life, her eyes closed, her breasts pressed up tightly against his back, a fact that he was well aware of.

As he slowed, she opened her eyes and saw that they were close to what appeared to be a lake. He stopped the engine and they both got off the bike. He walked down to the water while she dusted herself off.

“Come here. It won’t be long now. You don’t want to miss this.”

Not having a clue what he was talking about, she walked down to where he was standing. He had moved closer to the water, near a few trees. She looked down, wanting to be careful where she stepped. She found some solid ground a foot or so in front of him, slightly lower and closer to the water.

He was looking out across the large expanse of water. “It’s the Hollywood Reservoir,” he said, his eyes still trained toward the far edge where it was becoming much lighter.

And then it happened.

The sun peeked up over the edge of the horizon, a brilliant blade from it striking down onto the calm surface of the water. As the sun rose just a fraction, the blade moved closer until it enveloped them. She put her hand to her eyes to shield them.

“Listen,” he whispered, and she listened.

At first, it was a tentative cheep. Then a little louder; a chirp. Then what sounded like a reply. Shortly thereafter, two cheeps and a chirp. Soon, an avian orchestra was playing.

She turned to say something but he touched her shoulder with his left hand, an electrifying touch, his right hand near his mouth, one finger in front of it, universally signaling her to remain quiet. Then he pointed with his finger toward the middle of the reservoir.

“Watch.”

She watched, though some of her concentration was on his hand which was now resting on her shoulder.

A streak came from the left and hit the water with unexpected violence, the lightened color of the sun-drenched water making it tough for her to see what happened. Then she saw it, a great bald eagle had captured its breakfast and was rising into the air.

“Wow,” she said, still watching. She turned then and looked up at him, and saw that he was staring once again, hard, at her. She felt aflutter once more. The water, the hills surrounding it, some trees ... it reminded her a bit of home. “Thank you for bringing me here. You have no idea what this means to me.”

Her fragrance of roses mixed with his Old Spice, two elements that should never combine into anything good, but did. He looked at this unconventional beauty, looking more like a young fresh-faced mother than a Hollywood starlet. Her blue eyes were so trusting, and as much as he wanted to crush her to him, covering her soft lips with his, he abruptly turned and walked back toward the motorcycle.

Here’s looking at you, kid, he thought. “Yeah, well I just thought you might find it interesting,” he called out, trying to mask his desires. “Come on, let’s get back. I want to grab some breakfast at the canteen.”

Ingrid rode back with him, not clinging quite as tightly, and completely confused by what just happened. She had no words, and chose to keep silent, even after they arrived at the studio.

It had been a difficult afternoon. Paul Henreid became angry when Ingrid stumbled over a word, screaming at her, “This is preposterous! I thought you were supposed to be an actress! I have news for you, Fraulein; you’ll never make it here in America!”

As he stormed off the set, it was all Bogart could do not to follow him and show him how a real man acts. Ingrid left in tears, wishing more than anything that she had never heard of Casablanca.

Filming for the stars ended early that afternoon. Ingrid returned to her cottage, calling Petter and trying to remain calm. He told her of his studies and stories about their daughter Pia. His calming voice had a way of relaxing her but also made her miss their life together. Feeling better, albeit homesick, she put her feet up to relax, resting her head against the arm of the sofa.

She kept her eyes closed but listened for Betty to answer the knock at the door. The clipping noise of her shoes on the tile floor announced her presence.

“Mrs. Bergman, there’s a note for you. The messenger is waiting for your reply.”

Ingrid could barely keep her eyes open but managed to open the envelope and read the short note inside.

Have dinner with me. I’ll meet you anywhere you say.

-H

A tingle ran through her body, but she would not give in. How inappropriate of him? Did he think she would drop everything to dine with him?

“My reply is no. Simply tell the messenger that, Betty. Thank you.” She put her head back and closed her eyes once more.

Something startled her awake, though she didn’t know what. The shadows had grown long and the last vestiges of the sun cast the room with amber hues.

BANG, BANG, BANG – someone was pounding on her door. She froze.

“Ingrid! Open this door and let me in!”

She was shocked at his boldness but was afraid of what he might do if she didn’t acknowledge him. She barely turned the knob to open the door when he pushed his way in.

“No? No? That’s all you had to say? No?”

She didn’t think for one minute that he expected an answer so she kept quiet.

“This is the second time and the last time you will say no to me. Get dressed, we’re going to dinner,” he ordered.

Why she didn’t say anything, Ingrid would never know, but she quietly turned and went to her room. Ingrid noticed that Bogart was wearing a white shirt, opened at the neck, without a tie, and a sport coat. She quickly slipped into a pale gray skirt and short-sleeved jacket, pushed her heels aside, and decided on white flats. A double-check to be sure her seams were straight, and applying a light coat of rose-colored lipstick, she joined him in what seemed to be only a few minutes.

He barely looked at her, held the door open, and silently ushered her out of the cottage and to his car. She had no idea where they were going, as the tires squealed when he pulled away from the curb.

Bogart guided the car down Sunset Boulevard and pulled up near Schwab’s Pharmacy. Entering the building, he guided Ingrid to a booth, by placing his hand on the small of her back. Even through her clothing, his touch sent a chill up her spine. Her eyes followed his wave to a shorter young man, whom she recognized as Mickey Rooney. They were no sooner seated when a waitress appeared at their table.

“Good evening, Mr. Bogart. Will you be having your usual?” she asked.

“Hi there, Lucy. Bring us a couple of burgers, fries, and two cokes.”