Lace II

by Shirley Conran

  “Ah … ah … ah,” he groaned in ecstasy. Teresa looked down. The John was nearly ready for her. He wasn’t a bad old boy and he was generous. She’d give him an extra kick or two, on the house. After all, she was getting paid twice over.

  “You’ll never learn to do it properly, you filthy pig.” She pulled her feet away from his tongue and reached for the whip. Briskly, she kicked him flat, turned him over with an economical jab of her toe, and straddled the whimpering plump body. With her left hand she reached for his penis. Her right hand grabbed the empty champagne bottle, smashed it against the lumpy handkerchief, and then briskly held it under the fat man’s nose. A purplish-red flush suffused his face and neck; Teresa heard inarticulate noises, gurgles, and groans as he turned purple and his pop-eyes looked up at her in ecstasy.

  How much more can this old bastard take? wondered Teresa. By the time she got back to Paris, her backhand would be invincible.

  * * *

  “Would you please stick this in a red file before you leave for the night?” said Judy. In her personal office, all productive work which had an end aim—and a deadline date—was put in a red, transparent plastic envelope. These red files had their own “in,” “pending,” and “fallow” tray. All “in” red file work was always done first thing in the morning, before any other work was discussed, even before the telephone was lifted. This meant that priorities were painlessly sorted out and the achievement work was dealt with before the routine work.

  The secretary left the office and Judy picked up the projected advertising figures for August. Next month looked as if it was going to be even more depressing than July; summer was always a thin period for advertising revenue.

  There was a knock and Tony entered. “You left this file in the car, Judy. Gee, I’m sorry we’ve lost Lady Mirabelle.” Judy looked up in surprise. Tom had said that nobody knew they’d lost that account. As Tony left the office, he almost collided with Tom, who was entering. Tom waited until the door had closed, then he said, “Okay, Judy, we’re ready to go belly up, if it has to be. I’ve prepared for everything except hocking our watches.”

  Night after night, after the staff had gone home, Tom had secretly worked to prepare VERVE! magazine for closure. Bit by bit, Tom had transferred every asset owned by VERVE! magazine into the names of two holding companies which had been set up for the purpose. Now, everything tangible, from the office lease to the messenger-boy’s motorbike, might be saved from the wreck so that they might start again. Tom had checked through all the staff contracts and, without Judy’s knowledge, quietly negotiated for two of the longest-employed editors to be offered good jobs on rival magazines, thus saving their compensation payments from his company. He had set these strategic savings against the disastrous projected loss. He no longer felt any regret for the years of business triumph, only the calm determination of self-preservation. Tom’s clear head and inventive business brain would, he hoped, save the roof over both his families; Kate didn’t know of the impending crisis, but now she owned their apartment and their country house. His ex-wife and two sons had a trust fund that could be touched by no one. Tom had always been more realistic than Judy. Although he took high risks in business, they were always carefully calculated. A good gambler always knows bad luck when he meets her, knows that when he’s on a losing streak, he has to toss the cards on the table, stand up and say good-bye.

  * * *

  “I’m afraid they’ll have to be shot, Suliman, as quickly as possible. Give the orders at once.” General Suliman saluted and left the room. Abdullah leaned back and allowed his eyes to close for a few moments. He pinched the bridge of his sharp aquiline nose, where a knot of tension had formed between the winged black eyebrows. Then he rose, walked slowly to his London Embassy, over the green grass of St. James’s park and looked up the Mall, toward the severe gray stone of Buckingham Palace. He’d returned from Venice the day before, to find a crisis waiting on his desk, of course.

  His ancestors had not known the comfort or the complications of civilization. Their life was simple because there was very little to clutter it up: neither possessions nor sentimental attachments; but what his Bedouin ancestors possessed was the ultimate luxury of freedom; their lives were circumscribed by the cruel physical environment and pitiless discipline of the desert, but their spirit was free. Suddenly, Abdullah felt the old, familiar urge for the harsh peace of the desert. He sighed and moved toward the drawing room.

  “Well?” Pagan pushed her heavy mahogany hair back and looked at Abdullah with concern. He seemed to have grown ten years older in the two days that he’d spent anxiously considering the fate of those three terrorists.

  “Execution.” Abdullah took the chair next to her, his somber face and khaki uniform contrasting with the blue silk cushions. “My father was right. Forget the smell of mercy when dealing with your enemy.”

  You don’t have to teach a cat to sit by the fire, Pagan thought, and you don’t have to teach a Bedouin to be cruel. The desert is cruel, and so is anyone who survives in it. Desert life is so harsh, that punishment has to be even harsher. Pagan could understand Abdullah’s Bedouin nature, but she wondered if she could ever get used to it. “Your father never had to deal with the Moslem Fundamentalists,” she said doubtfully, privately thinking that the old bugger had only had to deal with the traditional gang of powercrazed second cousins trying to stab each other in the back.

  “No, but he had his own fanatics to put down,” said Abdullah.

  “Will the priests find out?” Pagan knew that if the terrorists were executed, Abdullah risked making them martyrs.

  “Not immediately. When they get no news of their men in prison, then they’ll know, but too late. It’s hard to make martyrs months after the event. And if these men had been popular in their own village, there would have been a greater outcry when they were arrested. The priests were unable to whip up much of a demonstration. I think their power is weakening, at last. The priests exploit the ignorance of the people. In Sydon, we’ve had to achieve centuries of development in thirty years. It’s the same for every nation on the Gulf; I don’t want my country to go the way of Iran. I will not see Sydon hurled back into ignorance and superstition. My job is to guide my people into the twentieth century.”

  He jumped up and prowled around the room, remembering his dusty country, neatly wedged between Oman and the United Arab Emirates on the Persian Gulf. He thought of the camels and Cadillacs side by side on the desert roads, the extremes of feudal poverty and half-assimilated modern sophistication.

  “I’ve disposed of eleven revolutionary groups since I became King.” His voice was somber. “Each one of them was led by one of my own blood relations, and they were all executed.”

  Pagan thought, no wonder Abdi has only one heir.

  “They all want the same thing—power. The priests are no different, except that they use the sacred name of the Prophet to justify their betrayal. They confuse and frighten my people, who, like all people, hate change. It’s difficult for them to change from our traditional ways to the modern way of life that’s been developed in the West. They prefer to rush back to the Middle Ages.”

  “It’s the same choice for you, isn’t it?” ventured Pagan.

  “What do you mean?” Abdullah looked at her in surprise.

  “You’re also stuck between two worlds, aren’t you? You can’t be an absolute ruler like your father…”

  Born in the East, Abdullah had been deliberately educated in the West so that he would be capable of dealing with the rulers of the West. Through his Western ego, he had learned to criticize his own people; he had dropped one culture and not been accepted by another. So he felt an isolation in his life and Pagan had spotted this long ago.

  Abdullah perched on the arm of Pagan’s chair and kissed the tip of her freckled nose. “My father’s problem,” he said, “was persuading the nomad to build a house. Then his problem was persuading the nomad to build a lavatory in the house. After that, when I
became King, the problem was to teach the nomad to stand in front of the lavatory instead of climbing on the bowl. Now, if the priests are not controlled, the nomads will convert their cisterns into camel-troughs because the priests tell them it is not the way of Allah to piss indoors.”

  * * *

  Where other women felt an urge to rearrange the furniture, Maxine rearranged the now priceless treasures of the de Chazalle family. Years ago, she had saved them from mildew and moth when she had saved the chateau by opening it to the public, as a beautifully presented, historic showcase which also promoted the family champagne business.

  When Pagan arrived at the Chateau de Chazalle, she was shown to the wide, Chinese-yellow picture gallery on the first floor, known to the public as the History Walk, although the family called it Ancestor Alley.

  Maxine, in her stockinged feet, was standing on a chair and hacking at a gold picture frame with a kitchen knife.

  “Whatever are you doing, Maxi?” Pagan blew her a kiss. “Why are you ruining that picture frame?”

  “I’m not ruining it, I’m distressing it,” Maxine smiled down at her. “I’m making it look old and worn, as if it has been hanging here for at least one hundred years, instead of three days.”

  “What’s the point of that?”

  Maxine jumped off the chair and kissed Pagan on the cheek. “It’s the essence of shabby chic, the way that aristocratic houses should look. Anyone with money can have everything new, but it’s far more difficult to achieve this slightly worn, not-perfectly-matched, artlessly charming look of a room in which a priceless painting hangs next to a watercolor of Sorrento by your grandmother.”

  “But what’s chic about having a chipped picture frame?”

  “Anyone with money can buy that glossy magazine look. You need generations of family history to feel comfortable with an Aubusson carpet that’s worn on one corner, chintz curtains that are faded because they’ve been hanging at the same windows for over one hundred years and Chinese hand-painted wallpaper that is, perhaps, a little dim because it was painted in the eighteenth century by Chinese artists whom your ancestors imported from China to do the job.”

  “But what’s the point?”

  “Snobbery, darling Pagan. It’s the new decorator look. The point of shabby chic is that you can’t achieve it unless it is authentic, or unless you have a very clever decorator.”

  “Don’t you ever stop working, Maxi?”

  “If I enjoy work more than pleasure, then is it work or pleasure?”

  “Crumbs, don’t ask me. I hate decorating. If the shops have what I want in the right color, then it’s the wrong size. Always. Sophia wants her bedroom redone for her birthday, and I really can’t face it. She wants stripped pine furniture and a Victorian brass bed.”

  “I’ll do it for you, if you like,” Maxine offered, “but not in stripped pine and brass, that’s too passé.” She took Pagan’s arm. “Now let me show you to your room, and then you can tell me why you have to see me so suddenly. What’s so important that you can’t talk about it on the telephone? What is it that can’t wait until our holiday in Cannes?”

  “I want to ask your advice. But first I want to talk to Charles.”

  “Charles! What on earth do you want to discuss with Charles?”

  “Politics. Eastern politics.”

  * * *

  After dinner, Pagan steered Charles to a green leather sofa in the library. She knew that Charles had Middle East associates, and he had known Abdullah as an acquaintance since he had married Maxine.

  “Charles, I want to talk about Abdullah,” she started, then felt embarrassed. “You know—Abdi, playboy of the Western world.”

  Charles twirled the brandy in his glass. “It’s only in the West that people regard him as a playboy, Pagan. In his own country, and among the Gulf states, he’s considered a brave, devoted leader.” He sniffed his brandy. “Abdi is the most skillful of all the Gulf rulers at dragging his country into the twentieth century, although he’s in such serious trouble at the moment.”

  “What do you mean?” Pagan, accustomed to listening with only half an ear while Abdullah talked of his state affairs, suddenly wanted Charles to tell her more. Now that Abdullah and she were apart, Pagan managed to drag his name into every conversation, no matter how odd the context.

  “Like every other oil-boom people, the Sydonites are bewildered by the modern world, and confused about their national identity.” Charles took a sip of his Napoleon brandy. “You really want to know more?”

  Pagan nodded.

  “The Fundamentalist guerrilla army is getting help from the Communists, Pagan. If Abdullah can’t handle that situation, not only will he lose his country, but the red flag will shortly be flying over one of the most strategic positions on the coast.”

  “I had no idea … I didn’t realize…”

  “Combine that with the Iranian situation and the Ayatollah on the other side of the Persian Gulf and you might end up with Muslim fanatics controlling eighty percent of the world’s oil—and taking their orders from Moscow.”

  “No wonder Abdullah’s so grim about it all,” Pagan murmured.

  “Sydon is a grim place and it’s a crazy place. In fact, the whole Gulf area is crazy. I’ve done business with Saudi Princes who wear silk shirts, drink whisky and speak better English than I do. But at their homes, their mothers and wives wear long black traditional robes. Then, underneath the robes they wear the latest Paris fashions, and the most wonderful jewelry, Christian Dior and Cartier. The women are never seen in public and only wear these beautiful clothes to drink tea with each other. And that’s about all they’re good for.”

  “What do you mean?” Pagan asked, intrigued.

  “Because they’ve always been excluded from public affairs, most Arab princesses have no sense of social responsibility. They don’t do a thing to help the poor of their country.”

  “How do you think a Gulf Princess should behave?” Pagan tried to sound casual.

  Aha, thought Charles, so that’s it.

  “She shouldn’t be spending her time watching video tapes, gossiping, and eating cakes. She should organize help for the young, the old, and the poor. She should do the sort of work you do for the Research Institute, Pagan.”

  “Do you think so?” Pagan didn’t sound as casual as she had intended. She jumped up and fidgeted with a bowl of pink peonies. The library was filled with peonies and pink hydrangeas in blue chinoiserie bowls.

  The following morning, Maxine suggested a walk in the park. “I want to get you on your own, Pagan,” she said, as they strolled over the grass behind the bounding, pink-gray Weimaraners. “Now, what’s up?”

  Pagan burst out, “Maxine, why do men find it so difficult to say ‘I love you’?”

  “Ma chère, they say it, but not in those words. They say, ‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?’ or ‘But I married you, didn’t I?’ ”

  Pagan stomped across the grass in silence.

  “Words don’t matter,” Maxine encouraged. “It’s the actions that count. Any Latin con-man can say ‘I love you.’ You must judge men by what they do, not what they say.”

  Pagan was silent until they reached a little arbor. They sat down under the lichen-covered statue of Apollo. Pagan said, in an off-hand voice, “What do you think the world would say if I married Abdi?”

  Maxine jerked her head around so suddenly that her sunglasses almost fell off. So Charles was right. “You mean—he’s asked you, Pagan?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t said yes. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. You remember how he behaved … when we were young. That’s why I haven’t said yes.”

  “Why not?” Maxine couldn’t believe her ears.

  “Because, if I married Abdullah I’d also be marrying his country, his people, his oil fields, his seat at OPEC, his Communist guerrillas, his backward people, and his oppressed women.” Pagan bit her bottom lip. “I can’t cope with all that, it scares me to death.” />
  “Rubbish! You coped with that audience at the Theater Royal all right. You coped with Christopher’s illness, you’ve raised thousands of dollars for the cancer institute. You have a positive genius for coping—except when you’re in love. Maxine took off her sunglasses and stared at Pagan’s worried face.

  “But suppose he dumps me, like he did before?”

  “So few women realize that there is life after humiliation. And why should he dump you?”

  Pagan jumped up nervously. “Let’s keep walking.”

  They sauntered in silence along the seven-foot-high box hedge that bordered the estate. Eventually, Pagan burst out, “I asked him if he intended to be faithful. The rotter said … well, he indicated … Maxi, the silly bugger said, ‘I cannot promise you fidelity because I do not know if it is possible, I simply don’t know.’”

  Maxine laughed at Pagan’s imitation of Abdullah’s most pompous manner. “But that’s very sensible of him. It doesn’t mean that he’s going to dump you. It means just the reverse. He’s being very honest.”

  Pagan looked anxiously at Maxine, as if asking a fortuneteller to read the future. “But I don’t think my pride would let me turn a blind eye to a crowd of young blondes with big tits. In theory, perhaps, but in fact, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t.”

  “Pride has always come between you and Abdullah. Abdullah’s fierce pride and your stubborn pride. You’ll learn that one of the good things about getting older is that one learns to compromise, to give and take.”

  “So I’ve noticed with you and Charles. You give and Charles takes.”

  Reaching the curlicued, wrought-iron gates, they turned to walk back on the grass at the side of the drive. “Charles is very careful of my dignity,” Maxine said, with dignity. “Well, nearly always. He has his little affairs, but he is very discreet, he never humiliates me. Well, hardly ever.”

  “That’s what you settle for—your dignity and a quiet life. What is the difference between your dignity and my pride, Maxine?”