The Pirate

by Harold Robbins

  The apartments over the cafe were reserved for very special clients and their guests who, after a night of amusement in the cafe, might be too tired to make the journey home or who wished to stay and partake of further pleasures that could be provided by the management. The major-domo paused in front of a door and knocked.

  “Who ith it?” a young boy’s voice answered.

  “The Doctor Al Fay and his son are here to see his excellency,” the major-domo replied.

  The door was opened by a young boy clothed in silken shirt and trousers. His eyes were heavily made up and his cheeks rouged and his fingernails long and painted. “Pleathe come in,” he lisped in English.

  Baydr and his father entered the room. The faintly sweet odor of hashish hung in the air. The room was empty. “Pleathe be theated,” the boy said, indicating the sofas and chairs. He left them and went into another room.

  Baydr and his father looked at each other without speaking.

  The boy came back into the room. “Hith exthellenthy will be with you in a moment. Ith there anything I can do for you? A thweet? A refrethment perhapth? We have Englith whithkey if you prefer.”

  Samir shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  The door opened again and Prince Feiyad entered. He was fully dressed in his royal robes, his head covered in white muslin. He crossed the room to his cousin.

  Samir and Baydr rose and made the traditional obeisance to their monarch. Feiyad brushed Samir’s arms aside with a smile. “Is that a way for cousins to meet after they had not seen each other for a long time?” He put his arms on Samir’s shoulders and kissed him on each cheek, then turned, still smiling, to Baydr. “And this is the little boy who cried when he went away to school?”

  Baydr felt himself flushing. “That was a long time ago, your excellency.”

  “Not too long,” the Prince said and laughed. “I think you were six then.”

  “He’s eighteen now,” Samir said. “And a grown man, praise be to Allah.”

  “Al-hamdu il-llah,” the Prince echoed. He looked up at Baydr, who stood a head taller than either of them. “He is tall, your son. Taller than anyone I remember in our family.

  “It is the diet, your excellency,” Samir said. “The food in America is enriched with many vitamins and minerals. The entire younger generation is growing taller than their parents.”

  “What miracles you scientists perform,” the Prince said.

  “The miracles are Allah’s,” Samir said. “We are nothing but His instruments.”

  The Prince nodded. “We have much to talk about, my cousin,” he said. “But we can do that in the morning. Tonight we must enjoy the pleasure of our reunion and each other’s company.” He clapped his hands. “I have had a suite made ready for you so that you may freshen yourselves after your journey. At midnight we will gather in the cafe below, where a feast has been prepared for us.”

  Samir bowed. “We are most grateful for the kindness of your hospitality.”

  The young boy appeared again. “Show my cousins to their apartments,” the Prince commanded.

  The boy bowed. “It will be my pleathure, your exthellenthy.”

  Baydr’s room was separated from his father’s by a large living room. He left his father and went into his bedroom, which was luxuriously furnished in rich silks and satins. The couches were covered with velour cushions. No sooner than he had entered, a soft knock came at the door. “Come in,” he called.

  A young maidservant came into the room. She bowed her head respectfully. “May I be of service to the master?” she asked in a soft voice, her eyes properly averted.

  “There is nothing I can think of.”

  “Perhaps I can draw the master a hot bath so that he may wash away the fatigue of his journey?” she suggested.

  “That would be nice,” he said.

  “Thank you, master,” she said and crossed the room to the bathroom.

  Baydr looked after her thoughtfully. Now he knew he was home. Service was not like this in America.

  ***

  The noise of the kanoon and the drums flooded the cafe. On the small stage a dancer whirled, her multi-colored scarves floating around her, the silver metal of her brassiere reflecting the sparkling lights. At a horseshoe-shaped table at the front of the stage, the Prince’s party watched intently.

  The Prince was seated at the center of the table, Samir in the place of honor on his right, Baydr on his left. Behind the Prince, on small stools, were several young boys, all wearing the same elaborate makeup as the young boy who had greeted them in the Prince’s suite. Standing behind them was the major-domo, who supervised the service of the waiters and other members of the staff. There were bottles of champagne in buckets near each guest and their glasses were constantly filled. The table was covered with more than fifty varieties of hors d’oeuvres and delicacies of the region. The guests ate with their fingers, and a servant delicately wiped their hands after each mouthful with a fresh warm damp cloth. At the door and against the wall stood a dozen of Feiyad’s personal guards, who never took their eyes from the Prince.

  The music reached a crescendo and the dancer sank to her knees in finale. The Prince led the applause. At a gesture from him, the waiters snatched bottles of champagne from their buckets and kneeling before the stage popped the corks from bottle after bottle, shooting them high over the kneeling dancer’s head. Idly, the Prince picked up a bank note from a pile in front of him and, crumpling it in his hand, threw it onto the stage in front of the dancer.

  With a fluid graceful motion, the dancer picked up the money and placed it in her belt just below her navel. She bowed again and smiling seductively backed off the stage.

  The Prince signaled the major-domo and whispered in his ear. The major-domo nodded. He turned and made a gesture to the boys sitting behind the Prince, then signaled the orchestra to begin again.

  At the first sound of the music, four girls came on the stage and began their dance. Gradually, the lights went down until the room was in almost total darkness, with the exception of tiny blue spots on the dancers. As the music grew wilder, the spotlight would lose a dancer, then find her moving more excitingly than ever before. The dance lasted more than fifteen minutes, and when it was finished, the girls seemed to be in a frenzy, finally falling to the floor as the stage went completely dark.

  For a moment there was silence, then for the first time the Prince began to applaud enthusiastically. Slowly the lights came up. The dancers, still prostrate on the floor, began to rise to their feet. Baydr stared unbelievingly. The dancers on the stage were not the girls who had begun the dance. Instead, their places had been taken by the boys who had been seated behind the Prince.

  This time the Prince didn’t bother to crumple the banknotes. He threw the money on the stage in handfuls while the champagne corks popped wildly.

  Baydr glanced at his father. Samir’s face was impassive. He wondered what his father thought of the evening. Those were one-hundred-pound notes that the Prince was so carelessly throwing at the dancers—more money than the average workman earned in a year.

  The Prince looked at Baydr and spoke in French. “C’est ceau, c’est magnifique, non?” Baydr met his eyes. They were watchful and appraising. “Oui.” He hesitated for a moment. “C’est tout pédéraste?”

  The Prince nodded. “Vous aimez? Choisissez quel-qu’un pour votre plaisir.”

  Baydr still looked into the older man’s eyes. He shook his head. “Merci, non. Pas pour moi. Je préf“ere les femmes.”

  The Prince laughed aloud and turned to Samir. “Your son is lovely and he has sound taste,” he said. “He is also very American.”

  Samir looked at his son and smiled proudly. Somehow Baydr knew that he had passed the Prince’s first test.

  It was five o’clock in the morning and dawn was breaking in the mountains when Baydr bid his father good night and went into the bedroom. The drapes were drawn and the room was dark. He reached for the light switch.


  A hand stopped his arm. The woman’s voice was soft and held the faintest Egyptian accent. “We will have candles, your excellency.”

  The faint scent of musk came to his nostrils as she moved away from him. He stood very still in the darkness, his eyes trying to make her out, but he could see nothing until the match scratched and glowed. Then the dark, heavy-lashed eyes smiled at him and she turned to the candle.

  The soft yellow light spilled into the room. He recognized the woman as one of the dancers who had performed earlier that evening. The only portion of her costume that had been changed was her brassiere. Her breasts were no longer contained by the silver metal plate. Instead, they were covered by a diaphanous silken scarf through which the dark areola of her nipples could clearly be seen. She smiled again at him. “I have had a warm bath prepared in case his excellency should be weary.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She clapped her hands. Two more women came from the corners of the room, where they had been standing in the shadows. They wore even less costume than the first. Only the thinnest of veils covered their breasts and fell from their hips around their legs. As they moved toward Baydr, they crossed in front of the light, and he could clearly see the shape of their nude bodies and their carefully depilated hair-free mounds. Only their lower faces were hidden by the traditional Muslim veil.

  The first woman clapped her hands again and still another woman came from a far corner. She turned on a record player and the soft sound of music began to come into the room. She began to sway gently to the rhythm.

  The two women took his hands and led him toward the bed. Their touch was light and swift as they undressed him. He still hadn’t spoken.

  The first woman lit a cigarette and gave it to him. He took a drag. The faintly sweet pungent odor of hashish floated into his nostrils, and he felt a gentle rush of warmth. He took another deep puff and gave back the cigarette.

  He looked at her. “What is your name?”

  “Nadia, your excellency,” she said, making the gesture of obeisance.

  He smiled at her, feeling the surge of sex rising within him. He stretched out on the bed. “Must we bathe?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Whatever your excellency desires.”

  He looked around at them. He could feel the hashish in his loins. He looked down at his phallus, long and lean and hard against his belly, then back at the first woman. “I desire all of you,” he said.

  CHAPTER 8

  He awoke with the sunlight spilling into the room and Jabir standing next to his bed, with a cup of hot steaming Turkish coffee. He took a sip. It scalded his mouth. “What time is it?” he asked.

  “It is noon, master,” the servant said.

  He looked around the room. He could not remember when the women had gone. His last memory of them was a wild tangle of bodies and warmth. He had been lying on his side. One of them had anointed his entire body with oil and then they were all licking at him with their tongues, at his anus, his scrotum, his nipples, his phallus, his belly until the sensation had become so exquisite that the juice burst from him in a final exhausting geyser. Then he had fallen asleep.

  He took another sip of the scalding coffee and shook his head. “Is my father awake?”

  “Yes, master. He is with the Prince and they await you for breakfast.”

  He took another gulp of the coffee and got out of bed. “Tell them I’ll grab a shower and be right there.”

  He let the water run cold, then hot, then cold again. In a moment he was wide awake. He ran his fingers quickly over his chin and decided that he could shave later. When he came out of the bathroom, Jabir had laid out shirt and slacks for him.

  The Prince and his father were still seated at the breakfast table when he came into their room. The major-domo was just clearing away the breakfast dishes.

  Baydr kissed his father, then the Prince’s hand. At the Emir’s gesture he sat down. “Would you like something to eat?” the Prince asked politely.

  “No, thank you,” Baydr said. It would have been impolite for him to eat after they had finished.

  “Some coffee then,” the Prince said.

  “Thank you.” Baydr nodded.

  The major-domo hurried to fill his cup. Baydr tasted it. It was thick and sweet. He waited quietly, respectfully. Though the shades were drawn so that the sunlight could not enter the room, the Prince still wore dark sunglasses, behind which his eyes could not be seen. He waited until Baydr put down his cup. “Your father and I have been discussing your future.”

  Baydr bowed his head. “I am your servant.”

  The Prince smiled. “First, you are my cousin, my blood.”

  Baydr didn’t speak. He was not expected to say anything.

  “The world is changing rapidly,” the Prince said. “Many things have happened since your birth. Our plans must change accordingly.” He clapped his hands sharply.

  The major-domo withdrew from the room, silently closing the door behind him. They were alone in the room.

  The Prince waited for a moment. His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “You know that I have always looked upon you as my heir and believed that someday you would take my place as ruler of our country.”

  Baydr glanced at his father. Samir’s face was expressionless. He turned back to the Prince.

  “But times have changed,” the Emir said. “There are other, more important matters that confront us. All through the Middle East the tide of the future flows from beneath the sands of the desert, promising riches such as we have never envisioned. The source of this wealth is oil. The lifeblood of the modern industrialized Western world. And our little country sits upon some of the greatest pools of oil ever known to man.”

  He paused for breath, raising his coffee cup to his lips to taste the hot sweet mixture. “I have this past month concluded an agreement with several American, British and European companies to develop this resource. For exploration rights, they have agreed to pay us ten million dollars. If oil is discovered, they will pay us additional sums for each operating well and a royalty on the oil that is exported. They have also committed themselves to build refineries and help develop the country. All of this has great promise but I am still not at ease.”

  “I don’t understand,” Baydr said. But he did. It was for this reason that he had been sent to learn the ways of the Western world.

  “I think you do,” the Emir said shrewdly. “But let me continue in my own way. Though the world has renounced imperialism and colonization as a way of life, there are other ways to enslave a country and its people. By making them economically dependent. I do not intend to let the West do that to us, but it suits my plan to let them pay for our progress.”

  Baydr nodded. He began to feel a new respect for the Prince. Behind all the strange peculiar ways lurked a man of thought. “How can I be of help?” he asked. “I am yours to command.”

  The Prince looked at Samir and nodded approvingly. Samir smiled. The Prince turned back to Baydr. “I have a more important task for you than to succeed me. I want a man who can walk in the Western world and take these riches they grudgingly give to us and use them in the Western way to acquire even more riches. And if you will undertake this task for which you have been trained and will be trained even further, I promise you that your first-born son will become my heir and the next prince.”

  “I need no promise from my sovereign prince,” Baydr said. “I will take my joy in carrying out his wishes.”

  The Emir rose to his feet and embraced Baydr. “My own son could not do more for me.”

  “I thank your excellency for your trust. My only prayer is that Allah sees fit in His wisdom to make me worthy of it.”

  “It will be as Allah wills,” the Prince said. He returned to his seat. “You will return to America to school. Only now your education will be in the hands of certain men recommended to me by the American oil companies. You will not take the ordinary schooling. Your education will be specialized and completed within a
three-year period.”

  Baydr nodded. “I understand.”

  “And now there is just one further matter to be arranged,” the Prince said. “Your marriage.”

  Baydr stared at him in surprise. This was something he had not expected. “My marriage?” he echoed.

  The Prince smiled. “You need not be surprised. From the reports I have had about last night, you should provide me with many sons.”

  Baydr was silent.

  “Your father and I have been discussing the matter very carefully and after a great deal of thought have selected a bride for you of whom you can be very proud. She is young and beautiful and comes of one of the best families in Lebanon. Her name is Maryam Riad, daughter of Mohammed Riad, the famous banker.”

  “I know the girl,” his father said hastily. “She is indeed very beautiful. And very devout.”

  Baydr looked at his father. “How old is she?”

  “Sixteen,” Samir answered. “Though she has never been abroad, she is very well educated. At the present time she is attending the American Girls College in Beirut.”

  “Sixteen is young for marriage,” Baydr said.

  The Emir began to laugh. “I have chosen wisely. Perhaps in America a maiden of sixteen is young. In our lands, she is just ripe.”

  ***

  Baydr was silent in the car on the drive back to Beirut. It wasn’t until they were at the outskirts of the city that Samir spoke to him. “What is it, my son?”

  “Nothing, Father.”

  “Are you disappointed that you are not to be the Prince’s heir?”

  “No.”

  “Then it is the thought of your impending marriage?”

  Baydr hesitated. “I don’t even know the girl. I never heard of her before this afternoon.”

  Samir looked at him. “I think I understand. You wonder why we go to all the trouble to educate you in the Western ways and then revert to our own in arranging your marriage. Is that it?”

  “I guess that’s it. In America, at least, you get to meet the girl first and find out if you like each other.”