Bloody Bokhara

by William Campbell Gault

  “Any really fine rug needs to be carefully sold,” I said.

  “That’s right.” His eyes were reflective. “In 1911, Lee, I sold an antique Kerman for thirty thousand dollars. Later, at an auction, the same rug was sold by its owner for seven hundred.” He paused. “I sold an Ispahan for thirty-five thousand to the same customer. At the auction, it brought twelve hundred.”

  “I wasn’t alive, then,” I said, “but those were the golden years, at the beginning of this century. A lot of very wealthy men collected orientals as a hobby. Those were the collectors’ years.”

  “And those rugs in there are collectors’ rugs.”

  “But this isn’t 1911,” I said.

  He stirred. “No, it isn’t. A lot of bad management has come into the field, since then. Throat and price cutting has come into the business, and dealers who try to compete with carpeting. This isn’t the business it was.” He took a deep breath. “Nor are those the kind of rugs you’ll find on the market, today.”

  I smiled at him. “Miss Lynne said something about — customers.”

  “That’s what I was coming to. There are still a few of the discerning customers left. We know quite a few.”

  “Women — ?”

  He nodded, watching me, looking for a reaction.

  “That’s your field, Carl.”

  “It was. Before I became — emotionally involved with a few of them.” His smile was fatuous.

  “And these rugs — where’d they come from?”

  “Most of them are from a St. Louis collection. I picked most of them up there. The rest are from town, here. They were bought, through the years, by a man of breeding and taste and discernment. I don’t have to tell you they aren’t the kind you’re getting from New York these days.”

  I looked at Claire. “That’s a different story than you told me at the store, today.”

  She met my gaze. “I wasn’t revealing my hand, at that time. I thought it was a little early.”

  I looked at both of them, and down at the floor. Why me? The firm’s reputation? Why me? I asked, “What’s wrong with Henri Ducasse? He’s the boy you should have on a deal like this. Why me?”

  “I explained about that,” Claire said quietly.

  “That’s right, you did. Henri’s old. He’s smart and rich, as you said, but he’s also old.” I looked at Lieder. “And you’re no springer, are you, Carl?”

  “I’m — ageless,” he said, flushing very slightly.

  “I’ll come in,” I said, after a moment. “And what about that rug you have in the safe? You’ve got a customer for that?”

  Carl said, “We won’t worry about that, for a while. I’ve an idea we can get our price for that.” He looked at the thin gold watch on his wrist. “Well, I’ve an engagement at nine-thirty.” His smile tried to instill some intriguing meaning into the words, some romantic rendezvous. “I’ll leave you two young people to your own amusements.”

  Claire went to the door with him. I went over to the record player. She had all of the Gayne Suite there, and I put it on.

  When she came back, I was sitting on one of the love seats.

  “So, it’s settled. You don’t mind if I’m a little nervous about it, though?”

  She didn’t answer that, right away. She was bending over a decanter on the coffee table and I could see she was wearing very little under the filmy green. In any event, no brassiere. Fine, firm breasts and her perfume strong in my nostrils.

  “Scotch, again?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  She mixed it with water, and handed me the glass. “Why are you nervous?”

  “I don’t know. I remember the times Ducasse ran into trouble with the law. And Lieder has been in court a few times on customers’ complaints.” I sipped my drink. “And the blood on the Bokhara.”

  Poise she had, or innocence? I’d settle for poise. Her eyes didn’t waver; there was no visible tenseness in her.

  She frowned. “Blood?”

  “That blot on it was blood, enough blood to make me wonder how it got there.”

  “I can’t tell you, Lee, because I don’t know. It was that way when I got it. And I got it yesterday; Carl brought it up.”

  “Do you know where he got it?”

  She nodded. “I know. But it would involve someone I don’t want involved, Lee.” Her voice had a tremor beyond the importance of the words; her voice held the waver of awareness.

  I looked at her, and it was in her eyes. Spring, maybe? No nympho, certainly, but it was there, in her eyes.

  I smiled at her, feeling the pressure grow in me, the glass unsteady in my hand.

  “There’s a — view from the terrace,” she said, “you should see. All the lights of the bay shore.”

  We went out to see the view from the terrace. It was warm, way too warm for this time of the year. The lights seemed to stretch all the way to Chicago. Below were the lights of traffic cutting over to the Drive.

  I set my drink on the parapet and brought out a package of cigarettes. I offered her one.

  She showed me the lighted one in her hand, and her chuckle mocked me. “What are we sparring for?” she asked. “We’re two of a kind.”

  Silk sheets on her bed, sheets as smooth as her slim legs. Her legs were tan; very little of her wasn’t tan. Very little of her wasn’t active. This was no passive accommodation; this was a partner who gloried in the co-operative ecstasy of ideal communion. Her legs were a vise, her hips compactly powerful, her breasts a firm reminder of her complete glory.

  Spent, we lay, in the pale dimness of the room.

  “All right?” she asked.

  ‘Vintage.”

  “Tramp, you’re thinking. Pushover.”

  “Mmmm — mmmm, No, no, no.”

  Her hand found mine. “What were you thinking, Lee? Tell me your thoughts.”

  I said, “I was wondering how much we could get for that pile of rugs, if they were properly — ”

  Her flat hand caught me right across the bridge of the nose and then she was chasing me around the room, and throwing anything that came to hand.

  One of the things was a shoe, and the heel of it caught me just above the temple. I went to my knees, both hands groping for the edge of the bed.

  “Lee!” Her voice hoarse. “Lee, what — Oh, darling, did I — ”

  Her arms were around me and I leaned back, and my cheek found the hollow of her neck.

  “I can’t see,” I said. “Hold me. Hold me. I’m scared.”

  She held me.

  Coffee, later, and some baked ham. In the kitchen, a blue and white page from a home magazine.

  “You wintered in Florida,” I said, “if I’m right about the pattern. Very skimpy suit you were wearing, too.”

  “Palm Springs,” she corrected me. “Lee, what can I say?”

  “Thanks. Or — haven’t we met some place before? What do you want to say?”

  “I want to say I’m not — quite as — easy as you’ve a right to think I am.”

  “Now, you’ve said it. Is there more coffee?”

  “Lee, damn you.”

  “All right,” I said. “You’re a lady. You’re every inch a lady, every inch I saw, at any rate. Will you quit heckling yourself?”

  “Right now. I’m certainly talky. I — ” She subsided, and poured the coffee.

  When I left, she held me tightly as we kissed, and I thought I heard a sniffle, but could have been wrong.

  It was after three, and the night was cooler. The broad man no longer stood under the maple tree. He was asleep in the seat of my car. Sitting up, but asleep. It was Selak.

  His mouth was open, and he was snoring heavily. Quietly, I went around to the driver’s side, and climbed in behind the wheel. I’d driven him more than halfway home before he woke up.

  He shook himself and straightened in his seat, rubbing his eyes. I stole a glance at him. The clothes he wore were tight, but I knew they were his best. He looked straight ahead, seemingly
embarrassed.

  I said, “Been to a show, Selak? I didn’t expect to see you up at this end of town.”

  Something that sounds like “Voch” which is “no.”

  His tone indicated he didn’t relish any questioning. We drove the rest of the way in silence.

  When I stopped in front of his house, there was a light on. His sister, Louise, came down the wooden walk from the porch. She was a thin, tall girl, and she had a shawl over her narrow shoulders.

  “Selak — where — ” And then she recognized me. “Oh, Lee, he was with you. Everything’s all right?

  “He’s never been out this late, before,” she said. “Were you at the dance?”

  “No. We — were over to see a friend of mine.”

  Selak had left the car and was going up the wooden walk toward the porch. He hadn’t said good-night.

  I thought about him, driving home, and about his sister. She did the fine repair work for every oriental dealer in town, the reweaving. And Selak worked like a two-legged horse. What for? Just to eat and have a shelter from the weather.

  That was not for me, not when there’s big money to be made from people who’ve got big money — and no sense.

  I thought I heard someone in the living room as I undressed, but when I went out to look, nobody was there. Papa’s door was just closing.

  At breakfast, he asked, “What time did you get in, last night?”

  Ann said, “Lee’s a big boy, now, Papa.”

  He ignored her, looking at me.

  “It was late,” I said. “I don’t know, exactly. I brought Selak home with me.”

  “Selak — ?” His frown was puzzled. “Selak — what — ”

  “We were together,” I lied. “He was dressed up; he didn’t hurt the firm’s reputation any.”

  His smile made a Judas of me. “Levon, it was business, then?”

  I nodded. “It was business. Big business.”

  He took the truck to the store; I was to take the station wagon. There were some rugs to be picked up on this near east side, and I could pick them up on the way down.

  Two birds with one stone, two jobs on the same buck. Get to work and pick up the rugs in the same trip. And then sit in the store and wait for some customer to come in, start with one price and end up with the customer’s, working on a smaller margin than the carpet boys, the broadloom gents.

  A voice said, “What are we bitter about?”

  Just Ann and I were at the table, and I looked up out of my reverie. “Money,” I said.

  “What’s that? Never heard of the stuff.” She was buttering a roll.

  “It’s what butters that roll you’re buttering,” I said. “It puts the meat into your dreams.”

  She put her knife down, and took a bite of the roll. “Lee, don’t look so — dedicated when you talk about money. Money is just one of the things in this world.”

  “Name me one as important.”

  “Oh, Lee — for heaven’s sake. You didn’t mean that.”

  “Didn’t I? Look around you. Don’t overlook the three-piece living room set of carved walnut with the worn mohair upholstery and the sagging springs. The folks have had it since they were married.”

  “Mother and I are making slip covers for it. Next week.”

  “Forty years Papa works — for slip covers.”

  “Oh, Gawd,” she said. “Young man on the trail of a fast buck. When did all this happen, last night?”

  “No,” I said. “It never happened; it just grew. Now, I’ve got a chance to make some real money, some Henri Ducasse kind of money.”

  “Through the firm — ?” Her eyes were soft on mine.

  “Firm, firm, firm,” I said. “What a name for me and Papa and Selak. Through the store, or not through it. It depends.”

  “On what?”

  I looked at her evenly. “On whether I want to use the store name, whether I need to use it.”

  “Big money, Lee?”

  “If I’m smart. If I can learn to work the right way. That’s wrong, I suppose?”

  She shook her head. “Not if you’ve got your mind made up.” She finished her coffee, and rose. “Only one thing — I wish you’d have been enough of a gentleman, last night, to phone Berjouhi that you were breaking the date. She waited for you.”

  Her exit line.

  I went to the phone and called Berjouhi, but she’d already left for work. Mom came out from the kitchen as I hung up.

  “I forgot to tell you, Lee. Sam phoned last night. He wants you to call him.”

  “I’ll call him from the store,” I said. “Mom, what kind of guy am I?”

  “A no-good guy, a blind one. But so handsome. Give your ma a kiss.”

  I gave my ma a kiss. She is short and fat and the best all-around Armenian cook in the world. Two kids she had left, out of seven, the other five dying in the old country. But she can smile, she can say, ‘Give your ma a kiss’. You can have Wylie; I’ll take the old girl.

  The rugs I picked up, this cool spring morning, were as dirty as rugs can get and still be recognizable. The house they came from had formerly been a mansion and was now a rooming house. The rugs must have been a carry-over from the mansion days. Sarouks, and what traffic they must have seen. There wasn’t more than twenty more years of service left in them.

  Figured on a years-of-wear basis, forgetting all about the artistry that goes into them, an oriental is a very cheap investment. Maybe Ducasse and Lieder were the smart ones. Maybe Papa was the cheater, and he’d been cheating himself. (adv)

  Last night had been a summer night; this was almost a a winter morning, gray and dull. A fine morning to face a fact and the fact I faced was that N. Kaprelian and Son had to work too hard for too little.

  I was waiting for the light at Astor, when Sarkis’ truck pulled alongside. Sam was at wheel. He leaned over to roll the window down on my side.

  “Thanks for the opening, Lover Boy. Berjouhi and I had a fine time.”

  “Blow it out your barracks bag,” I said. “Will you tell her I’m a dog? I forgot to call. Business, you know, Sam.”

  “Huh,” he said. “Tell her yourself. Lee, wait for me, at noon. Have lunch with me. I’ve got something to talk to you about.”

  The light changed, then, and I didn’t have time to answer. But I nodded at him, as he pulled away, turning left.

  Sam’s one of those bulky guys, with a face like a bucket of mud. But a real, right boy, and maybe one of my best friends in the world. And my cousin.

  He wanted to talk about Berjouhi, undoubtedly. I thought, at the time.

  In the shop, Papa was putting a fringe on a Kerman, sitting at the big table in the rear of the shop, and he smiled at me as I came in.

  “Selak told me you kept him out late. You’ll make a night owl out of him.”

  I smiled, and checked the slips next to the telephone on his desk. Some cleaning pick-ups.

  He said, “Take the south side calls and drop that ten-by-fourteen Chinese out at Mrs. Feltzer’s. She has that in her house, this afternoon, when her bridge club comes, shell buy. They’ll all admire it, and she won’t be able to send it back.”

  “She’s already seen it, in the store,” I argued. “She isn’t the kind of woman you can pressure, Papa. She might not like it.”

  “Take it along and tell her I wanted her to have it for the afternoon. Tell her it is a — a — what is the word?”

  “Racket? You mean a gesture, I guess.”

  He looked at me coolly. “The second word’s the one. Selak will go along to carry. He’s not busy this morning.”

  The Chinese was a pastel green with an embossed design in two corners, rich and thick and soft as a summer night. It was a terrific buy at the price Papa was quoting Mrs. Feltzer. But in this kraut town, it’s the only kind of price you can get. Unless you sell a certain way to a certain type. The Ducasse way.

  I took it along, and Selak. I took the truck. The place was in Bay View, a Georgian house, with a view
of the lake, trim and cold and clean as seven days of cleaning a week will make it.

  Mrs. Feltzer, like her house, was trim and cold and clean, a woman of about forty-five, in a faded house dress and curlers.

  Her face looked scrubbed, her smile icy. Selak was bringing the Chinese from the truck.

  “I didn’t order that,” She said.

  “I know,” I told her, and smiled my prettiest. “But Dad wanted you to use it for a while. We’ve a new shipment of rugs in, and there isn’t room for all the used pieces, and Dad would like to have you keep it on your floor for a couple weeks. I’ll see that it’s picked up again, Mrs. Feltzer. I think my father is trying to high-pressure you.”

  She loved the rug, her eyes showed me that. She was highly vulnerable to anything green, especially the green of currency.

  She shook her head. “That father of yours. Isn’t he the one?”

  “He certainly is,” I said. “He embarrasses me, at times. Just a natural trader.”

  “He’s all right,” she said. “I hope you’re one-tenth the man he is, Lee Kaprelian. Don’t you worry about your father.”

  I won’t, I thought, and that makes two because you never did, old green nickels. Bitter, I was, this nasty morning.

  We moved the furniture around in her den and took up the dreary Anglo-Persian that was in there. The main thing wrong with an Anglo-Persian is their durability. They last so long you have to look at them a long time, and they have all the warmth of a frozen lake to begin with.

  We rolled it up and she said we might as well take it along, because it needed cleaning, anyway. We took it along.

  Selak had been quiet, an attitude I hadn’t noticed particularly, because he only speaks when he’s spoken to.

  Now, as we headed for Southtown, I said, “My dad was asking you questions, this morning, wasn’t he?”

  He didn’t answer, and I glanced over to catch the last bit of his nod. He wasn’t looking at me.

  “You angry about something, Selak?” I asked him.

  “Voch.” Meaning “no.”

  “Sick?”

  “Voch.” Not looking at me.

  Jealous, I thought. Oh, Selak, she’s not for you. It’s spring, Selak, but she’s not for you. She’s for me.