Lace II

by Shirley Conran

  Mark knew better than to point out that Major Khalid had nothing to do with the success of the operation, as he opened his folder of photographs and spread the still-damp prints on a mahogany table at the side of the room. Mark handed him a magnifying glass and, carefully, the King bent over the shots. “These are really magnificent pictures of desert warfare.” He peered closer at the prints. “You are obviously a brave man, Mr. Scott.” He looked again at the shots of the Soviet arms cache. “As every discontented man calls himself a communist, we could not be sure of Soviet infiltration; we suspected it, but we had no proof. You have done my country a great service. Thank you.”

  Mark saw his moment. “Your Majesty, I have some other pictures I would like you to see.”

  “By all means.” Swiftly Mark gathered up the pictures that proved Russian intervention in Sydon and replaced them with pictures of the circumcised child being tended by the nurses.

  Abdullah looked in silence at the helpless, feverish face and mutilated young body, then softly he demanded, “Who committed this atrocity? What kinds of soldiers are guilty of this perversion?” Mark could see from the faces of the two ADCs that they knew what they were seeing, but that Abdullah’s mistake was genuine.

  “Your Majesty, this is not an atrocity committed by the guerrillas,” Mark explained, “this is the result of an infibulation operation on a young girl. I was asked to take these pictures by a doctor at the Dinada hospital.”

  Abdullah’s calm was chilling as he walked slowly back to his polished leather wing chair and asked Mark to sit down and tell him about this barbaric practice. He scribbled the doctor’s name on his note pad and ordered one of the ADCs to summon the Minister of Health immediately. The King then fixed the other young ADC with his black glare. “Did you know of this custom?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the ADC stood stiffly at attention. “But it is only practiced by the most primitive peasant women.…”

  “Ninety-five percent of our people are primitive peasants.” King Abdullah’s voice was still quiet but his eyes were angry. “Why was I never told of this? Is there any reason for it?”

  “Nothing beyond superstition, Your Majesty,” the ADC answered, “but the Moslem Fundamentalists approve it. There is no reference in the Holy Koran to such a practice, but some of the great learned men of the past regarded the tradition as commendable.”

  “May Allah preserve us from the evil that is done in his name.” Abdullah turned back to Mark. “What will you do with these pictures?”

  “Offer them to Time,” said Mark at once. “They’ll certainly take the shots of the Russian armaments.”

  “But what about these?” Abdullah asked, indicating the pictures of the suffering child.

  “I’ll also offer them to Time, but they may not take them; they’re too shocking.”

  Abdullah nodded, sharing Mark’s opinion. “Do you appreciate my difficulty? I can give the order for this practice to cease immediately, and the women will obey me. Thirty years ago no house in Sydon could be repaired, no man could even leave his village, without permission of the King, and the simple people will still obey royal commands without question. The simple people are not the problem. The problem is that if I make a dictatorial gesture, the fanatics will use it to foment revolt. If I am to succeed in stopping this disgusting custom, it must seem as if I am bowing to the will of the people, not trying to impose my will upon them.”

  “So you need the Western press to shift the climate of popular opinion?”

  “As well as Western politicians, scientists and diplomats.… Have you ever exhibited your photographs in a gallery, Mr. Scott?”

  “Yes, I’m with Anstruther’s in New York.”

  “Then please arrange a gallery exhibition of these photographs. We will pay for it, of course. Our Ambassador will see you when you get back to America,”

  Quietly, a side door opened six inches. King Abdullah’s head jerked round. Two nervous brown eyes looked round the door, then a twelve-year-old boy entered. He was wearing an elaborate miniature white military uniform. King Abdullah thought his heir should enter the room like a prince, not peer round the door like a servant.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Uncle. I thought you’d finished.” Prince Hassan had been waiting outside the door for two hours, torn between love and dread of his uncle, his guardian, and the King whose throne he would inherit.

  3

  November 1978

  “DO YOU MIND answering the door, Zimmer? That’ll be the hotel maid with my dress.” Lili was, as usual, in the tub.

  Zimmer stuck his head round the bathroom door. He had directed Lili in most of her best movies, including the scandalous Q, which had made her an international star. “When you’re ready, darling, a small jungle has just been delivered.”

  “Check there isn’t a small journalist swinging from the trees.” Since the news of her breakup with Simon Pont had flashed around the world, Lili had once again been besieged by photographers. Zimmer thought, thank heaven for Lili’s sake that nobody had discovered the real reason for the breakup; but then, they never did.

  Lili wandered out into the luxurious sitting room wearing a white bathrobe with her wet hair wrapped in a peach towel. With care, she approached the luxuriant orchid plant. From an arching spray of unnaturally perfect, succulent pale-yellow flowers dangled a small emerald-velvet pouch tied with silk cord. Lili opened the little bag and tipped out a small scarlet jeweler’s box. Inside, a pair of dazzling blue-white diamond earrings sparkled in the weak November sunshine.

  On the apricot couch by the fireside, Zimmer clicked his tongue approvingly. “That’s the third packet this week—now you’ve got the complete set: Madame Pompadour’s thirtieth birthday present, auctioned in Monte Carlo last month. No one can say Spyros doesn’t try.”

  “Shut up, darling.” Lili threw a kiss to the small, slender man on the couch and put the little scarlet box on the coffee table. “You know Spyros Stiarkoz is only after me because I was his brother’s girlfriend; I’m just another part of the old Stiarkoz empire to be annexed.” Lili tugged the white sash even more tightly round her slim waist. “And, Zimmer, I’m not letting you bully me into a high-profile, low-satisfaction relationship just to make your next movie a little bit more bankable.”

  “Not many women would turn down someone as rich and powerful as Spyros Stiarkoz.”

  “I don’t care about his riches and his power. After Simon, I want a bit of peace and quiet. I want to be left alone. Don’t you understand?” Lili sat on the other end of the apricot sofa and started to towel her hair. “Stiarkoz is just another man to me, another man chasing me because of something in his own imagination. Being pestered by Stiarkoz is just the same as being chased by photographers, or any of those sickies who write filthy letters to me. To them, I’m hardly human; I’m some sort of fabulous sex goddess. All that’s important to them is how they feel! They never think of my feelings, of what I want.”

  “Spyros knew as soon as Simon left for Paris. He’s just trying his luck as fast as possible, before anyone else gets on the field.”

  “Exactly, Zimmer.” Lili leaned forward and ruffled his graying blond curly hair. “I am the hare, I am the quarry. This is the nightmare of my life, the obverse of the cost of success.”

  “But basically it’s flattering, Lili.” Zimmer waved his small, neat hands in the air, begging her to be reasonable. “You’re love-hungry, Lili, that’s your problem and always has been. But you can’t stand men being ‘in love’ with you because you’re more intelligent than the average sex goddess; you don’t want to mesmerize them, you want communication, not lust. You want loving warmth instead of the heat of passion.”

  “Exactly.” Lili stopped toweling and flung her still wet hair backwards. “I have had it up to here with sex.” She touched her nose. “My allure, sex appeal, whatever the hell it is, brings me nothing but trouble, Zimmer.”

  “At least you don’t have to worry about that with me, d
arling.”

  “No, but I come up against your naked-eyed, beer-swilling MCPs every time I set foot outside the door. You can’t imagine how it depresses me. You think it’s a joke. But I sometimes wonder if anyone will ever love me just for myself, as Angelina did, instead of being mesmerized by the superstar, or loving because they really want something from you. There are so many star fuckers, Zimmer, who just want to bed me and run out and tell all their friends, so many people who want me to endorse some body stocking or bicycle, so many people who want me to invest my money in their sure-thing project.” She turned to Zimmer and gently touched his hand, saying, “That’s why it’s so important for me to establish a loving relationship with my mother.”

  As he looked into the glowing dark eyes, although he wasn’t the worrying sort, Zimmer thought, she can’t really blame men for the effect she has on them.

  “And that’s why we can’t persuade you to do this film? That’s why you’re wasting your career time hanging around New York, turning down all the parts that Swifty and I suggest?”

  “That’s why.”

  “I don’t want to press you, Lili, but please think again. Mistinguett is such a wonderful part; she was the Marilyn Monroe of the twenties, all Paris was in love with her, she was the girl who put the Ooh-là-là into the Folies Bergère, and her legs were the toast of Europe.”

  And you, Lili, have the most wonderful legs, Zimmer thought but knew better than to mention it. “The Best Legs in the Business is going to be the biggest musical of the year. Glitter! Glamour! Fishnets! Showgirls! Sequins! Feathers! And we’re after Richard Gere to play the young Maurice Chevalier.”

  “Sounds over budget before you start shooting.” Briskly, Lili tossed the diamond earrings back into the scarlet box and threw it to Zimmer, who caught it with one hand. “In the hotel safe?”

  “If we’ve now got the complete set, I’ll return them to Spyros tonight.”

  “God, how I hate women who are too pure to accept jewelry. Why are you going out with him tonight if you want nothing to do with him?”

  “I’m going to say no politely.”

  * * *

  Lili and Stiarkoz sat stiffly in their private box, hardly speaking to each other as, on the distant stage, Prince Albrecht danced with the vengeful spirits of maidens deserted at the altar.

  “Why do you have to tell me here?” Stiarkoz hissed.

  “Because,” Lili said steadily, “I don’t want to tell you in public but in private.” In fact, she wanted to be in a protective atmosphere. She didn’t want to be taken out to sea, abducted by white Rolls to Greenwich, Connecticut, or flown to Spyros’s private island in the Grenadines while he “reasoned” with her for five days nonstop. “Spyros, I’m flattered by your attention, but the answer is no. I’m sorry.” Lili’s voice sounded suitably contrite. On-stage, the white net corps de ballet moved relentlessly toward Prince Albrecht, their pink slippers dancing lightly over the hallowed areas of the misty graveyard. “You’ve been very generous to me, Spyros, but I cannot accept this beautiful jewelry from you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Lili. I want to give you everything you want.” He touched her soft hand with his wrinkled one, and Lili could not imagine anyone enjoying the touch of that claw.

  Below them, fickle two-timer Prince Albrecht collapsed before the onslaught of ghostly brides. In the box an inch of cigar ash fell on the crimson carpet. “I am a careful man, as you know, Lili, and I consider all my decisions. Is there nothing I can give you to persuade you?”

  Prince Albrecht staggered on, but as far as Lili was concerned, the scene was over, and she hoped to escape. Lili whispered fiercely, “How many times do I have to tell you, Spyros? All I want you to do is to leave me alone. So long as I’m dependent on a man, I’m frightened that I won’t be able to cope on my own. That’s why I want to start out again—by myself.”

  “What rubbish! All women like to play hard to get. If you don’t want to see me, then already there must be another man.”

  Lili shook her head in frustration, and her pearl earrings shone as they caught the light. “You men can’t believe that when a woman says no, she means no.” She leaned forward, “There isn’t anyone else. The only other person in my life is me. Can’t you understand that at the moment I don’t know who I am or what I want, or what I can do? I have found my mother, I have the beginning of my new identity, and I want to be left in peace to discover the rest—that’s all. That’s why I want to be left alone.”

  “Left alone? For twenty-four hours, perhaps.” Angrily, he ground out his cigar in the bank of white chrysanthemums that fronted the private box.

  * * *

  In the Stiarkoz white Rolls Royce, Lili thought, Spyros is a greedy old reptile. How surprising that two brothers could be so similar and yet so different. Spyros had Jo’s twinkling black olive eyes, and the rough, tough business acumen, but he lacked his dead brother’s vitality and charm. Then, suddenly, in the hushed, padded interior of the car, Lili realized that Spyros was about to pounce, and that she was in a luxurious pale, pigskin prison. Lili panicked, as she remembered being told that when a Greek shipowner meets a woman and likes her, he wants sex with her straightaway.

  Spyros was tough, coarse, and muscular. He went straight for Lili’s breasts, ripping the embroidered white-chiffon gown. Seed pearls bounced over the carpet as his stubby hands reached for her. Lili cast a frantic look at the back view of the chauffeur. No hope there. She managed to shove Spyros away from her.

  Spyros muttered, “I don’t need to rape you, you’ll find you will belong to me. I will look after you better than Jo did. When he died, my brother left you penniless, didn’t he? But I will give you everything you want, Lili. Your place is on my yacht, Persephone, without a care in the world, except to go shopping.” Again, he rumbled at her breasts and, this time, Lili let him. She realized that if she continued to resist, he might rape her. No, her only thought was how to get out of the Rolls.

  “Spyros, you can either force me, or you can give me time. It’s not … the right day of the month.”

  His unblinking, tortoiselike stare searched her eyes. Lili held up her flowerlike face to his lips, and suffered his embrace until they arrived at the Pierre.

  She was sweating with relief as she hurried down the long cream corridor, pulling her chinchilla wrap around her wrecked chiffon dress. At the elevator, she paused, then turned on her heel and approached the reception desk. She handed the night manager the scarlet jewel boxes. “Would you please have security deliver these to Lady Swann at the Algonquin.”

  Nothing would irritate Spyros more than giving his diamond bribes to charity.

  * * *

  Angrily, Lili stood naked in the mirrored bathroom and looked at her breasts, where bruises were already starting to form. She remembered how her body had ripened early, at twelve; how embarrassed she had felt as her breasts had swelled. Young girls always worried about their growing breasts; they were either too big or too small or too low; but whatever they were like, they attracted attention. Lili remembered how she had hated the new interest of the unknown men who lounged on the street corners of the shabby Paris suburb where she had grown up; even her adoptive father, Monsieur Sardeau, from behind his prim, civil-servant’s pince-nez, had furtively swiveled his eyes over her body, as Lili worked her way through the household chores each day after school.

  From the age of six, Lili’s existence had been a vortex of catastrophe, a downward spiral of misery over which she had had no control. Lili had been one of life’s victims—until she had learned how to use the power of her body, the power of those two upthrusting breasts.

  Lili had once asked Jo Stiarkoz why men had this automatic, knee-jerk response. Why—even when they were talking to her—men would gaze helplessly at Lili’s breasts, and not at her face; what was so compelling about those two pounds of flesh?

  Jo had laughed and said, “I’ve never thought about it.” Then he added thoughtfully, “What’s so good a
bout breasts is that they wobble; when they bounce and they jiggle, a man just wants to grab them. I can’t say why, it’s an instinctive reaction, it’s gut lust.”

  “But why? When a woman sees a group of workmen in the distance, she knows that, when she draws close, there’ll be this glazed-eyed, following-the-tennis-ball-at-Wimbledon reaction, as she passes the workmen. Why?”

  Jo had said, “I really can’t tell you. A man has no control over these feelings. But if a woman isn’t wearing a bra, so that you can see her nipples and watch them bounce, or if she’s wearing tight clothes that look as if her breasts are bursting to escape, then a man feels that there’s a special conspiracy between himself and that woman, because he’s wanting to touch them and knows that he can’t, and he knows that this unknown female knows just how the man feels.”

  “What an impertinent assumption. So they wobble; so does Jello and men don’t go glassy-eyed about that.”

  “To a man, a woman’s breasts are something hidden, mysterious, forbidden. And that soft lilting movement is both a hint and a promise of that woman’s sexuality: those breasts convey a secret, sensual message from the female to the male.”

  “Rubbish,” said Lili. “That’s the cause of all the trouble. No message is sent. When a woman’s not making love, then her breasts just get in the way if she’s doing anything athletic, or trying to look elegant, because clothes hang better on a flat body. That’s what a woman thinks about her breasts; they’re just there, like her knees. I’m not promising every man anything, simply by having breasts.”

  “You may not be, but that’s how it appears to the man.”

  “That’s just a man’s excuse for bad behavior,” Lili had sniffed. “She was asking for it, is what men say, conveniently shifting the responsibility for their attraction onto the woman. A woman likes to be admired by, and attracted to, men—but only the men of her choice.”