The Pirate

by Harold Robbins

  “That’s right,” he said. “I want to make a good impression. I have a feeling they resent me for taking over the bank.”

  “I’m sure they’ll get over it once they meet you.”

  “I hope so,” Baydr said seriously. “But I don’t know. They’re very clannish down there.”

  “They will. I know that crowd very well. Expatriate Pasadena. But they’re no different than anyone else. They go with the money.”

  The giant bouquet of red roses presented to Jordana by the president of the bank, Joseph E. Hutchinson III, and his wife, Dolly, when they arrived proved that she was at least partly right.

  ***

  There was a soft knock at the door, and the muffled sound of Jabir’s voice announcing, “It is fifteen minutes past seven, master.”

  “Thank you,” Baydr called back. He rose from the small table at which he had been reading the latest bank reports. He would have time for another shower before he changed into his dinner jacket. Quickly, he took off his shirt and trousers and, naked, he started for the bathroom which separated his bedroom from Jordana’s.

  He opened the door, just as she rose, glistening, from the scented bath. He stood for a moment, staring. “I’m sorry”—the apology sprang to his lips without thought—“I didn’t know you were still in here.”

  She returned his look. “It’s all right,” she said, a faint tinge of irony in her voice. “There’s no need to apologize.”

  He was silent.

  She reached for a bath towel and began to wrap it around her. He put out a hand to stop her. She looked at him questioningly.

  “I’d almost forgotten how beautiful you are,” he said.

  Slowly, he took the towel from her hand. He let it fall to the floor. His fingers traced a line from her cheek, across the flushed, rising nipple, past the tiny indentation of her navel to the soft swelling of her mound. “Just beautiful,” he whispered.

  She didn’t move.

  “Look at me!” he said, a sudden insistence in his voice.

  She looked up into his face. There was a gentle sorrow in his eyes. “Jordana.”

  “Yes?”

  “Jordana, what has happened to us that we have become strangers?”

  Unexpectedly her eyes began to fill with tears. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  He took her into his arms and pressed her head against his shoulder. “There are so many things that are wrong,” he said. “I would not know where to begin to correct them.”

  She wanted to talk to him but she could not find the words. They came from different worlds. In his world the woman was nothing, the man everything. If she said to him that she had the same needs he did, the same sexual and social drives, he would regard it as a threat to his male supremacy. And he would think that she was not being a proper wife. Still, these needs were what had brought them together in the beginning.

  She pressed her face against his chest, weeping silently.

  He stroked her hair gently. “I’ve missed you,” he said. He put a hand under her chin and raised her eyes. “There is no one else like you for me.”

  Then why do you stay away? Why the others? she thought to herself.

  He answered as if he were reading her mind. “They mean nothing,” he said. “They are only to pass the time.”

  She still did not speak.

  “Is it like that with you?” he asked.

  She stared up into his eyes. He knew. He had always known. And yet he had never once spoken about it. She nodded.

  His lips tightened for a moment. Then he sighed. “A man begins his own heaven or hell right here on this earth. As I have begun my own.”

  “You’re not angry with me?” she whispered.

  “Have I the right?” he asked. “Judgment is for the time we stand before Allah and our book is read. My own sins are enough for me to bear. And you are not one of us, so even the rules that might be applied could not hold true. There is but one request that I make of you.”

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “Let it not be with a Jew,” he said. “To all others I will be as blind as you.”

  Her eyes fell. “Must there be others?”

  “I cannot answer that for you,” he said. “I am a man.”

  There was nothing she could say.

  He raised her head again and kissed her. “I love you, Jordana,” he said.

  She felt his warmth flowing into her, as she clung to him. His strength hardened against her belly. Her hand dropped to encircle him. He was hard and moist in her fingers. “Baydr,” she cried. “Baydr!”

  He stared into her eyes for a long moment, then lifting her under the arms, he raised her into the air before him. Automatically, her legs widened to encircle his waist, then slowly he lowered her onto him. She gasped as she felt him penetrate her. It seemed as if he were thrusting a burning rod into her heart. Still standing, still holding her, he began to move slowly inside her.

  The heat began to run through her and she could not contain herself. Clinging to him like a monkey she began to move spastically on him as orgasm after orgasm began to shake her. The thoughts were racing crazily through her head. It was not right. This was not right. This was not what she should have. This was not the punishment she sought.

  She opened her eyes and stared wildly into his face. “Hurt me,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Hurt me. Please. Like you did the last time. I deserve no better.”

  He stood very still for a moment, then slowly, he lowered her to the ground and look her arms from around him. His voice was suddenly cold. “You’d better dress,” he said, “or we’ll be late for the party.”

  He turned abruptly and went back into his room. After a moment, she began to shiver. She reached for the towel, cursing to herself. She could do nothing right.

  CHAPTER 6

  The heat from the white glaring sun seemed to bounce off the jagged rocks and the sands of the desert that stretched in front of them. An occasional wild scrub leaned brown and weary in the warm wind. The chatter of the machine gun somewhere ahead of them fell silent.

  Leila lay motionless in the small foxhole. She felt the sweat gathering in her armpits, between her breasts and between her legs. Carefully, she rolled over on her back. She heaved a sigh of relief. The ache in her breasts from pressing so hard into the ground began to ease. She squinted up into the sky and wondered how long she should lie here. The Syrian mercenary in charge of their training had told her not to move until the rest of the platoon caught up to her. She glanced at her heavy man’s chronograph. They should have been here at least ten minutes ago.

  Stoically she forced herself to wait. Maybe it was only a training exercise but those were real bullets they were using and already one woman had been killed and three others wounded. After the last exercise, the grim joke at the camp had been the question, who would get the most credit for wiping out the Fedayeen—themselves or the Israelis?

  She wanted a cigarette but did not move. A shadow of smoke in the clear air would be an invitation to draw fire. A rustling sound came from behind the foxhole.

  Silently, she rolled over on her belly and turned to face it, pulling the rifle toward her at the same time. She inched toward the top of the foxhole and began to raise her head over the edge.

  A heavy hand came down on her, jamming the steel helmet and liner over her ears. Through the pain, she heard the mercenary’s gruff voice. “Stupid cunt! You were told to keep your head down. I could have picked you off from a hundred yards away.”

  He tumbled into the foxhole beside her, breathing heavily. He was a squat, heavy-set man, short of breath and patience. “What’s going on up there?” he asked.

  “How the hell should I know?” she retorted angrily. “You told me to keep my head down.”

  “But you were supposed to be the advance scout.”

  “You tell me how I’m supposed to do both,” she said sarcastically, “find out what’s happening without raisi
ng my head out of the foxhole.”

  He was silent. Without a word, he took out a package of cigarettes and held one out to her. She took it and he lit the cigarettes for both of them.

  “I thought we weren’t supposed to smoke,” she said.

  “Their mother’s cunt,” he said. “I’m getting tired of playing these stupid games.”

  “When is the platoon coming up?”

  “Not until dark. We decided it wouldn’t be safe for them to move until then.”

  “Then why did you come up here?”

  He looked at her, his dark eyes moody. “Somebody had to let you know of the change in plan.”

  She stared back at him. He could have sent one of the others; he didn’t have to come up himself. But she knew why he did. By now she must be the only one of the women in the platoon he had not had.

  She wasn’t too concerned. She could handle him if she had to. Or wanted to. In many ways everything had been made too easy. All the traditional taboos of the Muslim had disappeared. In the fight for freedom, the women were told that it was their duty to give solace and comfort to their men. In the new, free society, there would be no one to point a finger against them. It was just another way the woman could help win the battle.

  He pulled the canteen from his belt and unscrewed the cap. He tilted his head back and let the water trickle slowly into his throat, then handed it to her. She poured a drop onto her fingers and delicately wiped her face. “By Allah, it is hot,” he said.

  She nodded, giving him back the canteen. “You’re lucky,” she said. “I’ve been out here two hours already. You have less than that until dark.”

  She rolled over on her back once again and pulled the helmet visor down so that her eyes were shaded from the sun. She could at least try to make herself comfortable while she waited. After a few moments she became aware of his gaze. Through narrowed eyelids, she could see him staring at her. She became very conscious of the dark blotches of sweat on her cotton uniform, under her arms, across her waist and in the crotch of her trousers. It was almost as if she’d marked off her private areas.

  “I’m going to try to rest,” she said. “This heat’s worn me out.”

  He didn’t answer. She looked up at the sky. It was that peculiar shade of blue that always seemed to come toward the end of summer. Strange that it should be like that. Until now she had always associated it with the end of summer vacation and the return to school. A memory flashed through her mind. It had been a day like this, under the same blue sky, that her mother had told her that her father was going to get a divorce. Because of that American bitch. And because a miscarriage had left her barren, so that she could not give him a son.

  Leila had been playing on the beach with her older sister that afternoon when suddenly Farida, their housekeeper, appeared. She seemed oddly agitated. “Come back to the house immediately,” she said. “Your father has to leave and wants to say goodbye to you.”

  “All right,” she had said. “We’ll change out of our wet bating suits.”

  “No,” Farida said sharply. “There’s no time for that. Your father is in a hurry.”

  She turned and began to waddle quickly back to the house. They fell into step behind her.

  “I thought Daddy was planning to stay for awhile,” Amal said. “Why is he going?”

  “I don’t know, I am only a servant. It is not my place to ask.”

  The two girls exchanged glances. Farida made it her business to know everything. If she said she didn’t know it was because she didn’t want them to know.

  She stopped in front of the side entrance to the house. “Wipe the sand from your feet,” she commanded. “Your father is waiting in the front salon.”

  They wiped their feet quickly and ran through the house. Their father was waiting near the front door. Jabir was already taking his suitcases out to the car.

  Baydr turned to them and smiled suddenly. But there was a curious dark sadness in his eyes. He dropped to one knee to embrace them as they came running up to him. “I’m so glad you came in time,” he said. “I was afraid I would have to leave without saying goodbye to you.”

  “Where are you going, Daddy?” Leila asked.

  “I have to go back to America on important business.”

  “I thought you were going to stay,” Amal said.

  “I can’t.”

  “But you promised to take us water-skiing,” Leila said.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice seemed to choke and suddenly his eyes were moist. He held them close to him. “You both be good girls now and listen to your mother.”

  There was something wrong. They could feel it but they did not know what it was. “When you come back, will you take us water-skiing?” Leila asked.

  Her father didn’t answer. Instead he held them very tightly. Abruptly he let them go and got to his feet. Leila looked up at him, thinking how handsome he was. None of the other fathers looked like him.

  Jabir appeared in the doorway behind him. “It is getting late, master. We must hurry if we are to make the plane.”

  Baydr bent down and kissed them, first Amal, then Leila. “I’m depending on both you girls to take care of your mother and obey her.”

  Silently they nodded. He started for the door and they followed him. He was halfway down the steps toward the car when Leila called after him. “Will you be gone long, Daddy?”

  He seemed to hesitate for a moment but he was in the car and the door closed without his giving an answer. They watched the car roll down the driveway and then went back into the house.

  Farida was waiting for them. “Is Mother in her room?” Amal asked.

  “Yes,” Farida said. “But she’s resting. She’s not feeling well and asked that she not be disturbed.”

  “Will she come down for dinner?” Leila asked.

  “I don’t think so. Now you girls take your baths and wash all that sand off of you. Whether your mother comes to dinner or not, I want you both to be clean and fresh at the table.”

  It was not until later that night that they learned what was happening. Their mother’s parents came over after dinner and when their grandmother saw them she burst into tears.

  Anxiously she pulled them close to her heavy bosom. “My poor little orphans,” she cried. “What will you do now?”

  Grandfather Riad immediately grew angry. “Silence, woman!” he roared. “What are you trying to do? Frighten the children to death?”

  Amal immediately began to cry. “My daddy’s plane crashed!” she wailed.

  “See?” Grandfather’s voice was triumphant. “What did I tell you?” He pushed his wife aside and swept the oldest girl up into his arms. “Nothing happened to your daddy. He’s fine.”

  “But, Nana said we were orphans.”

  “You’re not orphans,” he said. “You still have your mother and your father. And us.”

  Leila stared up at her grandmother. The heavy eye makeup the old lady wore streaked her cheek. “Then why is Nana crying?”

  The old man was uncomfortable. “She’s upset because your daddy went away. That’s why.”

  Leila shrugged. “That’s nothing. Daddy is always going away. But it’s all right. He comes back.”

  Grandfather Riad looked at her. He did not speak. Farida came into the salon. “Where is your mistress?” he asked.

  “She is in her room,” Farida replied. She looked at the children. “It is time to go to bed.”

  “That’s right,” Grandfather Riad said quickly. “Go to bed. We will see you in the morning.”

  “Will you take us to the beach?” Leila asked.

  “Yes,” her grandfather replied. “Now do as Farida said. Go to bed.”

  As they started upstairs Leila heard her grandfather say. “Tell your mistress that we await her in the salon.”

  Farida’s voice was disapproving. “The mistress is very upset. She will not come down.”

  Her grandfather’s voice grew firm. “She will come down. You tell he
r that I said it was important.”

  Later, when they were in bed, they heard the loud sound of voices coming from downstairs. They crept out of their beds and opened the door. Her mother’s voice was very shrill and angry.

  “I have given him my life!” she wailed. “And this is the thanks I get for it. To be left for an American bitch with blond hair who has given him a bastard son!”

  Their grandfather’s voice was lower and calmer but they could still hear him. “He had no choice. It was the Prince’s command.”

  “You defend him!” their mother said accusingly. “Against your own flesh and blood you defend the injustice. All you are concerned about is your bank and your money. As long as you have their deposits you do not care what happens to me!”

  “And what is happening to you, woman?” Grandfather roared. “Is there anything you lack? You are left a millionaire. He did not take your children away from you as he could have done under the law. He gave you the property and the homes, here and in Beirut, and a special allowance for the girls. What more can you ask?”

  “Is it my fault I could not give him a son?” Maryam cried. “Why is it always the woman who is to blame? Did I not bear him children, was I not a faithful wife, despite the fact that I knew he was carrying on with infidel whores all over the world? In the sight of Allah, which of us has lived a good life? Certainly it was I, not he.”

  “It is the will of Allah that a man must have a son,” her father said. “And since you did not, it was not only his right but his duty to provide himself with an heir.”

  Maryam’s voice was quieter now but it held a note of deadly intent. “It may be the will of Allah but he will pay for it someday. His daughters will know of his betrayal and he will be as nothing in their eyes. He will not see them again.”

  Then the voices dropped and they could hear no more from downstairs. Silently, the children closed the door and went back to their beds. It was all very strange and they did not really understand.

  The next day when they were on the beach Leila suddenly looked up at her grandfather, who was sitting in a chair under an umbrella reading his newspaper. “If Daddy really wanted a son,” she said, “why didn’t he ask me? I would have been glad to be a boy.”