“Why Ian? Not that he isn’t a pleasure to talk to.”
“He learns things, as you can see. He has read the necessary books – all about why the English came and why they left and why the Saudis cannot be trusted.” At this the prime minister slapped the back of his own hand. “Be good, Fawzi,” he said. “I should perhaps not brief you myself,” he continued. “I tend to be indiscreet. And Elliot knows everything. It is good he is not a blackmailer,” – with this statement he put a hand on Ian’s shoulder – “or he would be so rich he could sell this excellent restaurant and go home.”
“Alidar is my home,” said Ian softly.
“Hah. Alidar is home to no one but Bedouin too dumb to know better. Why would anyone choose to live here?”
“Why do people live in London,” said Ian, “or Sydney, or Rahway?”
“Do you know, Cooper, I think there is a jealous husband back home from whom Elliot is hiding. But no matter. Elliot is welcome here. Alidar is not an easy place to govern. Some of our leading citizens are pirates. Some are imbeciles. The same can, I fear, be said of many who come here because of the oil. I cannot be aware of everything, and some of what I hear about I do not wish to know. It is good to have a little unofficial help. You may help me too, if you wish.”
“Did you know,” said Ian, looking directly at Cooper, “that when Sheik Fawzi was a young man studying in Cairo, he supported himself by acting in very bad, very sentimental movies?”
The prime minister began to laugh uncontrollably.
Later, Philip decided there had been an awful lot of interest in his personal quirks and history. Ian had extracted quite a bit of information on the plane, most of it about his time in the army. No doubt he would pass the information to Fawzi – if he hadn’t already done so.
“So did you actually do anything in Laos,” Ian had asked as he studied the first-class menu, “or just fart about in the woods?”
“There was risk, if that’s what you mean,” Philip had said.
“Ever kill anyone?”
“Every trip.”
“How’d you feel about it?”
“At the time, that was more or less the objective.”
He hadn’t felt anything, actually, which was what the army taught you. Or to be honest, he’d liked the perfection of it: the time that elapsed between the thud of the rifle butt against his shoulder and the bullet’s arrival, some hundreds of metres away, and well below the barrel’s actual point of aim, in the astonished head of whatever North Vietnamese agent he’d been tracking, during which small infinity he would continue, as he’d learned in sniper school, to gaze through the telescopic sight, so as to be both instrument and witness. But his new friend didn’t need to know about that.
8
Allison had arrived in college with no idea what to study, but while she was standing in line to register she met a girl from the East Coast who said she was going to major in political science, so Allison said she was too. The girl had large breasts and the sort of rich dark hair quite a few people from the East Coast seemed to have. She said she had come to California to go to college because it was a “new society” and it interested her. Allison started to say that California had been the way it was as long as she had known it, but decided that would sound stupid. She was intensely desirous of not sounding stupid.
The girl from the East Coast was going to take a course on “political transition,” or something like that, taught by a visiting scholar from the Middle East. Allison signed up for it too.
Some boy Allison met in the dining hall – he was too young, but you had to make conversation – had told her that, while in college, you should either buy the books or read them. It was a joke, she decided. Anyway, she had no spare money whatsoever, so she spent a lot of time in the library. If you do the homework, you tend to go to class. Allison sat in a middle row and took notes. Political transition turned out to be interesting. Occasionally she considered asking Dr. Maloof a question after class, but she had heard he had a reputation, so she refrained.
Dr. Maloof’s reputation drew many to him. Allison’s reticence made her stand out, there being only thirty students in his class. Also the fact that her work was close to being excellent – or as close as a person could get with no experience of the outside world.
One day she received a letter. “I wonder if you could come to my office hours at 3 pm next Wednesday. I am impressed with your term paper.” Allison’s heart pounded as she read and reread the letter.
The floor of Dr. Maloof’s study was covered with the most beautiful rug Allison had ever seen. Framed calligraphy hung on the walls. There were heavy curtains, shutting out the California sun.
“Miss Prime, your appreciation of Bolivia’s revolution of 1952 is really very good.”
“Thank you. Is that why you asked me here?”
“Not exclusively. Do sit down. Coffee?”
“Thank you, I don’t drink it.” She sat down as instructed.
“Miss Prime, I am curious about you. You have spoken so little in class that I was surprised by your paper. One is expected, I think, to talk sometimes in class. Here in America. Or afterwards. I sometimes go with a group of students to a coffee shop after class.”
“Is it part of the grade?”
“No. It probably should be, but I didn’t advertise it as such, so it’s not.”
No response. Allison was still only seventeen, and she had never been in a room alone with a man. She hoped Dr. Maloof didn’t guess that.
“Miss Prime, I sense that you find this situation awkward. As a member of the faculty, I am naturally interested in more gifted students...”
“I am not ‘gifted,’ Dr. Maloof. I work hard, and you will give me an ‘A,’ I hope, which will increase the stipend I receive from the State of California. It would be nice to be gifted. I think there is one student in your class who is, judging by his questions, but he is lazy. It would be nice to be a lot of things. But I will never be a professor, and that is not why you asked me to come during your office hours, which incidentally are not today but tomorrow.”
“Would you feel more comfortable if we had this conversation in the coffee shop?”
“I am not afraid,” said Allison.
“Clearly not,” said the Arab. He looked at her for about a minute. “Silence is very instructive,” he said finally.
“That’s why I study in the library,” said Allison. “That and making ninety cents an hour.”
Dr. Maloof allowed another silence to grow between them. Allison forced herself not to fidget, but she found it impossible to hold his gaze.
“Miss Prime, you are direct, so I will be direct. I would like you to take off your clothes.”
Allison flushed. “For money?” She didn’t know what had made her say that.
“Certainly not. For the experience. I judge that you have never done it before, for a man.”
Allison stood up and began.
“You are charmingly awkward,” he said. “It is better to start with your shoes, and sitting down. But never mind, you are doing fine. Hang your dress in the closet. There are hangers. Put everything in there and close the door.”
“Now what?”
“Sit back down. No, over there on the couch. You are extremely pleasant to look at.” Silence. “Change your position from time to time, so that I may appreciate all of you. You look fit. Do you run?”
“Every morning.” Allison’s throat was dry and her voice cracked a little.
“Would you like a glass of water?”
“Yes, please.” Allison started to rise.
“No, don’t move. I am happy to wait on you.” He went in to his kitchen and returned with an expensive looking tumbler of ice water. He set it on the table beside her and she drank. He returned to his chair. “Better?”
“Yes.”
“You have a dignity about you that I like.”
“It is surprising,” said Allison, “but I am not at all ashamed.” “There i
s no reason to be.”
“My pulse is racing, though.”
“Of course it is.”
“I wish it would calm down.”
“That is quite unnecessary. The point is to give me aesthetic pleasure – for you are a lovely woman – and to give yourself an interesting experience.”
“I am not sure I’d call myself a woman.”
“You are on the verge of womanhood.”
“How reassuring.” For the first time, she laughed.
“If you ever are ashamed, there is pleasure to be taken in that too, you know?”
“I don’t think I would.”
“Fine.” Pause. “What is it, then, about this pleasant situation that makes your pulse race?”
“I am being bad. We may be caught. The door is unlocked.”
“Close your eyes. Breathe. Relax. Let the feeling spread.” Silence. “Would you like me to lock the door?”
Allison thought a bit before she answered. “Perhaps. No.” For a few minutes there was no sound but her own breathing.
“Move your shoulders around. You are getting stiff, I see. Are you cold?”
“I feel like I’m on fire.”
“Perfect. Now open your eyes again.”
The room swam around her. Maloof was still in his chair. It occurred to her that he was handsome. She turned to get another drink of water, then rolled on to her stomach on the enormous couch, so as to let him see more of her. It felt unbelievably brazen.
“Very nice,” he said.
She turned over and put her hands behind her head, like that famous painting in her art history book. They hadn’t come to that chapter yet, so she couldn’t remember who the artist was. “Are you going to fuck me now?”
“No,” he said, “but I would like to touch you, if you will permit me.”
“Yes, please.” He pulled a footstool up next to the couch and sat down. She felt like she had just settled into a warm bath.
“Most women – and for these purposes you are clearly a woman, Miss Prime – most women enjoy having their breasts touched, so long as it is done gently.” He did so, and the feeling was wonderful. “From reading American women’s magazines, I have learned that most men in this country do not understand this.”
“Mine are too small for anyone to have bothered with.”
“Do not be defensive. I will make you go to a topless beach until you abandon that thought.”
Allison nearly swooned. “I do not think there are topless beaches in America,” she said.
“Oh, I will take you to Europe,” he said, as if the point had been obvious.
“I have never been outside of California,” she said. “I will remain defensive about the size of my breasts if it kills me, if that is what it takes to get to Europe. And what you are doing to my breasts right now may kill me.”
‘Would you mind if I touched your nipples just a little? I will be very gentle.”
The sensation was intense.
“There is a restaurant outside Brussels – a sort of club, really – where women may be brought to dinner entirely naked. Provided they are beautiful enough. Or famous enough. It is perhaps the most discreet establishment I know of. The jewellery one sees is quite astonishing. Would you like me to take you there?” He had moved to her armpits.
“I’m not sure I can stand that,” said Allison.
“Oh, you don’t have to be undressed to go there. You just have to be introduced. Extremely well introduced. There are a dozen tables, and one rarely sees more than three or four undressed women on any given evening…”
“No, I mean what you are doing to my armpits.”
He lifted his remarkably soft fingertips from her.
“And yes,” she said, “I’d like to go, dressed or undressed, with or without jewellery. I’ll do anything you want if you’ll take me to Europe. Only please don’t stop touching me yet.”
“I’m afraid I must,” he said. He began rubbing his hands carefully all over her body, evidently to warm her up, and she suddenly realised that she was, in fact, quite chilly. “I have a commitment.” He pulled a shawl from the back of a chair and spread it over her. She shivered and pulled it around her shoulders. “I will make you a proposition, Miss Prime.”
“I thought you just did.”
“Oh, Europe, yes. That is nothing. Listen, I will make a woman of you, as the cheap novels say, any time that you wish. But I would prefer that you remain a virgin.”
Allison thought about protesting but didn’t.
“Which I believe you are.”
“Yes.”
“And also poor.”
“That too.”
“Well, I will pay you fifty dollars a week, which I believe considerably exceeds your wages at the library, to remain a virgin. And at Christmas I will take you to Brussels.”
Allison stared at him.
“I will take that for agreement,” he said, getting up from the footstool and going toward the door.
“It is,” said Allison.
“Take your time getting dressed. Come every Wednesday at this time. Date all you want, but keep your clothes on. Tell me everything that happens. I will show you some things that men like. You will not be unpopular. But you must demonstrate self-discipline. And yes, you got an ‘A.’”
MISSION
9
I have never had a high opinion of myself. Whatever skills I possess have always seemed to me a matter of either self-protection or self-delusion. Wisdom for me has always been a species of bruise. I find it astonishing, therefore, how badly Fatima wants my approval. Every time I go to the palace she gives me an account of what she has done and said and thought since my last visit. She watches my reactions, and if I am guarded she probes.
“Please, Cassandra, be my friend. It was wrong to lose my temper with my brother, wasn’t it? But he is so stupid and it was so unfair…” And if I say I do not think losing her temper with her brother will ever be worth the effort, she cries out as if I have stung her, “But Cassandra, it is keeping it that is an effort.” This makes me smile – she is so passionate a little person – and my smile also hurts her. She composes her face, and in a voice that is half entreaty and half command says, “Teach me to be like you, Cassandra.”
I have never thought of myself as a teacher. I am a good listener. I can find out what people want to hear. Or do. I can say it. I can help them do it. But if I must consult my own inclinations, I am at sea. Fatima demands direction. I am expected to have a subject in mind for each visit, which I must announce on my arrival. We may not get to it for an hour. First, I must hear about something one of her girlfriends said, and why she disagrees, or thinks she should disagree. And also, I suspect, she needs time to try to divine what attitude she should adopt toward the announced subject – what “European ladies” think. But in the end, there must be a lesson, and Fatima must get a grade.
So for the first time in many months, I am reading the International Herald-Tribune and The Times, both of which are obtainable at the Hilton. I try to steer a safe passage between the recent Iranian revolution, which is perhaps too close to home, and the American election campaigns, which I find incomprehensible. I refuse to believe that a second-rate film star is going to be the next president of the United States. Then again, the prime minister claims to have been an actor in his youth.
Domestic subjects are easier. Today, Fatima, I want to see your wardrobe. I want you to tell me which dresses you like best and why.
Soon we have three maids scurrying about. Fatima’s taste is bizarre. She thinks mine is dull. You have large, dramatic features, I tell her. Also, you are a princess. You will always be the centre of attention. You do not need to wear pink for people to notice you. A European woman in your position would dress more severely. Ah. The following week there are half a dozen new dresses for me to inspect. They are black and brown and navy blue, but cut for a girl of fifteen. Still, we make progress.
A girl of fifteen. Fatima is nineteen
. “Next time we must talk about more serious subjects,” she tells me. “Next time we must talk about atom bombs. A princess should know about such things.” She is serious. She is also right. The adored only daughter of an absolute monarch must know about more than dresses. Especially if her brother the crown prince has a furtive regard for her opinions. I know nothing of atom bombs except that they will one day destroy us all and that it would be nice to put that off until one is older and ready to die. “Make Abdulrahman come then,” she says.
Abdulrahman is Alidar’s only Princeton graduate. He was once an orphan. His Majesty found him when he was eleven, and paid for his whole education. Fatima’s idea of negotiation is to insist. She is accustomed to getting her way. So am I, but I insist on nothing except privacy. Perhaps tactical passivity is what her father had in mind when he asked me to teach her about the world.
The more someone knows about atom bombs, I tell her, the less he likes to talk about them. We will bring the Minister of Planning to lunch, but we must see if we can get him to bring the subject up. “And what if he doesn’t?” We must ask him again... after a bit. Fatima regards this as inefficient. She wishes to learn about atom bombs immediately. What do you intend to ask him, then? Please, Minister, tell me about atom bombs. He will think you are a child and give you a simple answer. You must make him feel you understand – not the facts so much as the way he feels. You must make him feel that, talking to you, he understands his own ideas better. Then you will learn something. Even if it is not about atom bombs that he chooses to talk, I think you will learn something.
Luncheon is only a limited success. Fatima is polite. Solemn, like a little girl having a tea party with her dolls. Abdulrahman is also polite. He cannot be induced to talk long on any topic.
“He does not like me,” Fatima says afterwards. “He thinks I am foolish and he could not wait to get away.” You have nothing to be ashamed of, I tell her. It was a very correct lunch. It is not your fault if he was moody.
The terms of my engagement are not precise. I come three times a week. I must leave the office half an hour early to be on time. I go to the palace in a taxi and am driven home in a palace car. It takes up a lot of my time, if I include thinking up and preparing each new subject. But then, I have nothing else to do. And I am growing fond of Fatima. One day a small package is brought to my small house by the king’s tall black servant, Isa. There is a note: “His Majesty appreciates the trouble you are taking with his inquisitive daughter.” The king has sent me a necklace worth fifty thousand pounds.
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