"You are right, I was stupid," Dax said. "It will not happen again."
His father reached out and took his hand. "Dax, Dax. In how many worlds must you learn to live because of me?"
Dax felt the agony and fragility of the man in his touch. Suddenly there was a sadness and an understanding in him that had not been there before. He bent down and pressed his lips to his father's soft dark cheek. "I want to live only in your world, my father. I am your son."
It had been the first time that Dax realized his father was dying.
CHAPTER 9
There was no pain, although Jaime Xenos knew that he was dying. He looked up into the eyes of the priest. There was so much he wanted to explain. But the words merely flitted across the screen of his mind and never found their way to his tongue.
He was tired. He had never felt so tired. He turned his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. The drone of the priest faded. Perhaps he would find his voice again after he had rested. There was no fear. Only a heavy kind of sadness. There was so much to be done, so much he could still do. But now it was over. Time was coming to a stop.
Dax. The word seemed to burn its way through his mind. Alone. Dax. He was so young. And so alive. There were so many things he had not yet taught him. So many things the boy would need to know. The world was not solved by the sheer physical energy of youth alone. He wanted to tell him that. And much more. But it was too late.
Much too late. He slept.
Dax crossed the room toward the doctor.
"He is sleeping," the doctor said. "It is a good sign."
Dax followed the doctor out of the room, leaving the priest alone with his father. Fat Cat was waiting just outside the door. "How is he?"
"The same." Dax shook his head. He turned to the doctor. "When ... ?"
"Sometime tonight. Perhaps tomorrow morning. No one can tell."
"There is no chance?"
"There is always a chance," the doctor said, knowing as he spoke that there was none.
Marcel came up the staircase. "A reporter from Paris Soir is on the telephone."
"Tell him there is no news."
"That is not why he called."
Dax looked at him. "Why, then?"
Marcel did not look at him. "They want to know if you will continue to play polo."
Dax's face clouded. Angrily he clenched his fist. "Is that all they have to think about? A great man is dying and they worry about their stupid games?"
He remembered when the reporters had first given him the name "The Savage." It was after the game with Italy when he had ridden two of the Italians into the dirt and one of them, seriously hurt, had been taken to the hospital.
They had clustered around him later, asking questions:
"How do you feel about the two men who were injured?"
"Bad luck," he had answered casually. "This is no game for men who can't keep their seats."
"It sounds like you don't care what happens to them."
Dax had looked at the reporter. "Why should I?" he asked. "The same thing could happen to me every time I go out there."
"But it didn't happen to you," another reporter said. "And it always seems to happen to someone on the other team."
Dax's voice turned cold. "What do you mean?"
"It seems strange," the reporter had continued, "that you always become involved in an accident when the other team is about to score. And they are always the ones to be hurt, not you."
"Are you suggesting that I deliberately set about to injure them?"
"No." The reporter hesitated. "But—"
"I play to win," Dax interrupted, "and that means not allowing the other team to score if I can prevent it. I am not responsible for the lack of horsemanship of the other riders."
"There is such a thing as sportsmanship."
"Sportsmanship is a word for losers. I'm only interested in winning."
"Even if you kill someone doing it?" asked the first reporter.
"Even if I kill myself," Dax retorted.
"But this is a game," the reporter said in a horrified voice, "not a battlefield."
"How do you know?" Dax asked. "Have you ever been out there with a thousand pounds of horse and man charging down on you? Just try it once. You'd change your opinion."
He remembered that the telephone had rung that night while he was at dinner. It was one of the reporters he had spoken to that afternoon. "Did you know the Italian died in the hospital a little while ago?"
"No."
"Is that all you have to say?" the reporter had asked. "Not even that you're sorry?"
Suddenly Dax had been angry. "What good would it do? Would my words bring him back to life?" He had slammed down the receiver.
How strange that he should recall it all now that his own father was dying. Nothing could change that. Not his hurried return from London after the All-France match with England. Not even the news he brought about the shipping contract, which meant more than anything else. No, it had all come too late.
The only change that the resultant publicity had made was in the crowds. The stands were all sold out for the next game, and there was a murmur from the stands as he came riding out onto the field. He looked up in surprise, then glanced over at Sergei riding next to him.
The Russian smiled. "You're a star. They all came out to see you."
Dax stared at the crowd. They were gawking at him with a curious expectancy. He felt a cold shiver go through him. "They came to see me kill someone."
Sergei looked up at the crowd, then back at Dax. The Russian's mouth settled into grim lines. "Or be killed."
They were almost satisfied. Toward the end of the fourth chukker there was a pileup in the center of the field, and three horses went down, with Dax in the middle. There was no sound as the other two got to their feet and started off the field. But a low soft murmur swelled up as Dax did. Startled for a moment he glanced at them, then turned quickly away to help his pony up.
The horse stood there shaking, its sides heaving, as Dax slowly rubbed its neck. "We fooled them that time, didn't we, boy?"
Then Fat Cat had come onto the field with another pony. A faint smattering of applause began as he lifted himself into the saddle. Mockingly he tipped his cap, and the crowd began to roar their approval.
Bewildered, he pulled up beside Sergei. "I don't get it."
"Don't try." Sergei laughed. "You're a hero now."
Even the newspapers recognized this, and by the end of that year they were pushing him for the All-France team. He became the youngest eight-goal handicap player ever to ride onto the field. Just a month shy of his eighteenth birthday.
But how empty it all seemed now as he waited for his father to die. Everything. All the plans that had seemed so important then. He remembered one night at school, along toward the end of the term. The three of them had been in the room together.
He had leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the desk. "How do you think you made out in the exams, Sergei?"
Sergei's handsome face had clouded over. "I don't know. That last examination was rough."
Dax nodded. He looked at Robert, though there was no need to ask him. For almost three years now he had stood at the head of the class. He was beginning to pack away his books. "How do you feel?"
Robert shrugged his shoulders. "Relieved," he said cautiously, "and yet a little sad." He looked around the room. "In a way I hate to leave this place."
"Shit!" Sergei had shouted explosively. "I'll be glad to get out!"
Dax smiled. "What are your plans?"
"What plans? There are no more free schools for me. No more scholarships. I guess they figure the Commies are in power for good, so who needs a White Russian?"
"What are you going to do then?" Robert had asked. "Go to work?"
"At what?" Sergei made a face. "What the hell can I do? Get a job like my father? Be a doorman?"
"You'll have to do something," Robert had said.
"Maybe I'll go
to Harvard like you," Sergei replied sarcastically. "Or join Dax at Sandhurst. But who would get me an appointment? My father the general?"
Robert fell silent. Sergei watched him for a moment, then apologized, his voice softening. "I didn't mean to be nasty."
"That's all right," Robert replied in a low voice.
"Actually, I've already decided what I'm going to do," Sergei said, his voice lightening.
"You have?"
"I'm going to marry a rich American. They seem to go for princes."
Dax began to laugh. "But you're not a prince. Your father is a count."
"What the hell's the difference?" Sergei asked. "To them a title is a title. You remember that one at the party the other night? When I took it out she looked at it and said in an awed voice, 'I never saw a royal one before.'
" 'Does it look any different?' " I asked.
" 'Oh, yes. I'd know the difference in a minute. The tip is purple. Royal purple!' "
When the laughter had died down, Robert turned toward Dax. "What about you?"
"I guess Sandhurst," he said. "I got the appointment, and my father wants me to go."
"I think it's a damn shame!" Robert said angrily. "The only reason they gave you an appointment is because they want you to play polo for them!"
"What difference does that make?" Sergei asked. "I only wish they'd asked me."
"I'll bet it was my uncle who arranged it," Robert said. "I saw the way he watched your playing when he came to that game last year."
"My father thinks it may help relations between England and Corteguay. Maybe we'll get that shipping line after all."
"I thought it was all set when my father formed the company. It cost over five million dollars to obtain those shipping rights."
"Only the ships never came. It seems that Greek gambler had leased his ships to the British before he got word that the deal with Corteguay was set."
"Somebody was double-crossed."
"Your father and mine. Yours especially. Actually all your father ever got for that five million was an import-export license guaranteeing him five-percent commission on all freight. It turned out to be worth nothing since there was no shipping."
They fell silent for a moment. Though they were both thinking the same thing, neither of them spoke about it. It was much too obvious.
It was Sergei who broke the silence. "We still have this summer, ten games between now and fall. That means at least forty parties, forty different girls to fuck! Anything can happen."
"I know what will happen."
"What?"
The beginnings of a smile appeared around Dax's mouth. "You'll wind up with a royal purple clap!"
CHAPTER 10
The consul came into his office walking slowly, leaning on his cane. "Good morning, Marcel."
Marcel looked up from the newspaper he was folding carefully and placing in the exact center of the consul's desk. "Good morning, your excellency."
Jaime glanced down at the newspaper. "Did they win?"
Marcel smiled. "Of course. And Dax again scored the most points. He is a hero. I understand the whole team is being allowed to stay over for the long weekend."
The consul sat down behind the desk and glanced at the newspaper. It was lavish with praise for his son. He shook his head. "I don't know whether I like this. All this attention. It's not good for a young boy."
"It won't hurt Dax. He has too much sense for that."
"I hope so." The consul changed the subject. "Have we any reply from Macao about the ships?" "Not yet."
"I don't like it. I had heard the British were anxious to release them. They were lying idle in the harbor. And yet, silence."
"These things take time."
"How much time? A month has passed already since Sir Robert promised to expedite things in London. The British may have all the time in the world. We do not."
"The last letter we had from Sir Robert said that he was doing his utmost."
"But is he?" The consul's voice was quizzical.
"It was half his money that the baron put up for the shipping contract."
"And he is also a director of the British lines."
"Two and a half million dollars is a lot of money to lose."
"He could lose much more if the British lost their power to embargo our shipments."
The secretary did not answer.
Dax's father leaned back wearily in his chair. "Sometimes I think I am not the man for this job. It's too much for me. Too devious. There is no one who says what he really means."
"There is no one who could do it better, excellency. It just takes time, that's all."
A wry smile crossed the consul's lips. 'True, but I may not have that time."
Marcel knew what he meant. The consul had steadily grown more frail and delicate. The once giant frame of the man had given way to a thin delicacy. Now the cane. And it wasn't all a diplomat's posture, as the consul had so jokingly remarked. Besides, he had contracted another bad cold and actually he ought to be in bed.
"We'd better get another letter off to el Presidente," the consul added. "I'll bring him up to date. Perhaps he will have changed his mind about the advisability of allowing Dax to attend the British school."
It was with mixed feelings that Dax rode onto the English playing field. This would be the last time he would be wearing the colors of France. Next year he would be playing for the British and Sandhurst. He glanced down the field toward the stands. Sir Robert and his two daughters were there. The girls saw him and waved. He waved back.
Sergei grinned. "You got it made. Which one are you going to fuck first?"
Dax laughed. "Are you out of your mind? I almost got into enough trouble over Caroline. My father would kill me."
"The blond one looks like she might be worth dying for. I can see her creaming just looking at you."
The sound of the whistle floated across the field. The British team had already come out. "Come on," Sergei said. "Let's go meet your future playmates. And teach them how this game is really played."
The party that night was at Sir Robert's London town house. The British had played well but unimaginatively, and they had lost. But even Dax had to admit they were good sportsmen. Their captain seemed to mean it when he had come over to congratulate them.
Now Dax was standing alone near the huge French doors leading to the garden, watching the dancers. Sergei gave him a knowing wink as he danced by with a tall blond girl. Dax could not help grinning. He knew what that meant. Sergei had already selected his pigeon for the night.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Dax looked around and saw Sir Robert standing next to him. "Very much. Thank you, sir."
Sir Robert smiled. "I think you will like it here. We may not have the style of the French but we try to make it comfortable."
Dax was beginning to appreciate English understatement. Involuntarily he glanced around. He had never seen a more luxurious home. Even the baron's Paris town house could not compare with this. "No one could ask for more, sir. You have thought of everything."
"You must consider this your home while you're at Sandhurst. I have already instructed the servants to set aside a suite for you and we're expecting you for the weekend in the country."
"Thank you, sir. I don't know what to say."
"Then say nothing. Just be at home." He glanced at Dax. "I had a letter from your father this morning."
"You did? Did he say how he was?"
Sir Robert shook his head. "Your father never talks about himself, only about his work." His eyes turned shrewd. "How is his health?"
"Not good." Dax's voice turned somber. "I really don't know whether I should leave him at this time. Perhaps I could somehow ease his burden if I stayed at home rather than coming to Sandhurst this year."
Sir Robert looked at him hesitantly. "If I may speak as your senior?"
"Please do. I would appreciate your thoughts."
"If I were your father you would please me most by goin
g to Sandhurst. The impression you will make here will be far more useful to him and your country than if you had stayed by his side."
Dax was silent. It was exactly what his father would have said. Yet that made neither of them right. There was still the question of his father's health. If only he did not catch another cold. If the damn ships were only freed, then the strain on his father might be lessened. That would make him feel better about leaving. "Thank you, sir," he said aloud. "I suppose that is exactly what I shall do."
Later, after the party, he rolled over and switched on the bed lamp. He glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock and yet he could not sleep. He got out of bed and went to the open window. The traffic had quieted, and he stood there looking out. Idly he wondered when Sergei would come in.
Sergei had borrowed a car to take his pigeon home, so probably he would not return until daylight, if at all. But as he was watching, the headlights of a car spilled into the courtyard. Sergei got out and a moment later was in the room. "What are you doing still up?" His eyes swept the room suspiciously. "You had one of them in here?"
Dax laughed. "Is that all you can think of?"
"Is there anything else?" Sergei took his jacket off angrily. "That one I took home was sure a waste of time!"
Dax laughed again. "You can't win them all."
Sergei flung his jacket onto a chair. "Pretty soft," he said. "She told me that Sir Robert is giving you this suite while you're at Sandhurst."
Dax nodded.
"Did you know the girls' rooms are right across the hall?"
"So what?" Dax knew because both of them had taken special care to tell him.
"You're not going to be able to ignore them," Sergei said, unbuttoning his shirt. "They're both ripe and ready." He slipped out of his trousers. "They're still up, you know. I saw the light under their door."
"Do you have a cigarette?"
Sergei tossed him a pack. "They're probably waiting for you."
"I hope they don't wait too long."
Sergei shook his head in mock sadness. "You're making a big mistake. Somebody else will come along and grab off all that prime pussy." He looked at his friend. "What are you worried about? Their father is over in the other wing. He can't hear you. It must be at least half a mile away."
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