CHAPTER 9
Baydr watched Jordana across the room. He felt satisfied. He had made the right decision. Jordana was just the balance he had needed. Now she was bidding good night to the Hutchinsons. She had made an impression on the wives and there was no doubt that it had made a difference in his relationships with the bank’s officers. Now they were a team.
Of course his new profit-sharing proposal had been a great help. Fifteen percent of the profits to be distributed among the employees on a stock dividend basis had not hurt at all. There was one thing all people had in common—greed.
Joe Hutchinson came over to him. “I’m glad we were able to get together,” he said in his hearty California voice. “It’s sure good to know that the man you’re working with has the same ideas that you have.”
“I feel good too, my friend,” Baydr said.
“The girls hit it off pretty good too,” Hutchinson said, looking back at his wife. “Your little lady invited Dolly to visit her in the south of France next summer.”
“Good,” Baydr smiled. “You come too. We can have some fun.”
The Californian winked his eye and grinned. “I heard about them French babes,” he said. “Is it true they all go around topless on the beaches?”
“On some of them.”
“I’ll be there, you can bet on that. I never got as far as Europe during the war. I caught some flak in North Africa and the only girls I ever saw were gook whores. And no self-respecting man would touch them. Either they were full of clap or else they had a nigger up an alley to run a knife into you.”
Apparently, Hutchinson didn’t realize he was talking about Arab countries. In his mind there could be no association between the natives of North Africa and the man who stood before him. “The war was a bad time,” Baydr said.
“Was your family in it?”
“Not really. Our country is small and I guess no one thought it important enough to fight over.” He didn’t mention that Prince Feiyad had entered into an agreement stipulating that if Germany won they would have been placed in charge of all the oil development in the Middle East.
“What do you think?” Hutchinson asked. “Will there be another war in the Middle East?”
Baydr looked him in the eye. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well, if anything does happen,” Hutchinson said, “I hope you give ’em hell. It’s about time somebody put those Jews in their place.”
“We don’t have many Jewish customers, do we?” Baydr asked.
“No, sir,” the banker said enthusiastically. “We just don’t encourage them, that’s why.”
“Do you think that’s why we blew the Rancho del Sol development?” Baydr asked. “Because some of the developers were Jewish?”
“That has to be the reason,” Hutchinson said quickly. “They wanted to do business with the Jewish banks in Los Angeles.”
“I was curious. Somebody told me that we were underbid. LA gave them the money at prime and we wanted a point and a half over.”
“The Jews did that deliberately to undercut us,” Hutchinson said.
“Next time you cut right back. I want our bank to be competitive. It’s the only way to attract the big deals.”
“Even if they’re Jews?”
Baydr’s voice went flat. “Don’t get confused. What we’re talking about is dollars. United States dollars. That deal could have made us two million in three years at prime. If we undercut it by a half point, it would still be a million and a half. That’s the kind of money I don’t like to pass up.”
“But the Jews would have underbid us anyway.”
“Maybe,” Baydr said. “But we just might remember that from now on we’ll be an equal-opportunity lender.”
“Okay,” Hutchinson said. “You’re the boss.”
“By the way,” Baydr said. “Is that last figure you quoted me on Leisure City still firm?”
“Twelve million dollars, yes. The Japs have forced it up.”
“Put a hold on it at that figure.”
“But wait a minute. We haven’t that kind of money available,” Hutchinson protested.
“I said put a hold on it, not buy it. I think we may have a partner by the end of the week.”
“The hold will cost us ten percent, a million, two hundred thousand. If the partner doesn’t show up we lose it. And there go our profits for the year. The examiners won’t like that.”
“I’ll take the chance. If worse come to worst, I’ll put up the money myself.” If everything worked out right, neither he nor the bank would have to put up a penny. The Japanese would put up six million, and the other six would come from his Middle Eastern group which the bank in New York could finance and he would have it three ways. The bank would collect interest on the money and an equity, he would collect an equity for his share in the Japanese consortium, and he also had an equity in the Middle Eastern group. Money, it seemed, had a strange power to feed on itself and grow.
Finally the Hutchinsons were gone. Jordana came back into the room. She sank into a chair exhausted. “Jesus,” she said. “I don’t believe it.”
He smiled. “What don’t you believe?”
“That there are still people in the world like that. I thought they were all gone by now. I remember them from when I was a child.”
“You’ll find people don’t really change.”
“I think they do. You’ve changed. I’ve changed.”
He met her eyes. “That’s not necessarily for the good, is it?”
“It depends on how you feel. I don’t think I could ever go back to that kind of life. No more than you can go back home and stay there.”
He was silent. In a way she was right. There was no way he could ever go back and live as his father lived. There was too much going on in the world.
“I could use a smoke,” she said, looking up at him. “Does Jabir have any of that private hash of his?”
“I’m sure he has,” Baydr said, clapping his hands.
Jabir appeared from the adjacent room. “Yes, master?”
Baydr spoke rapidly in Arabic. A moment later Jabir was back with a silver cigarette case. He opened it and held it out to Jordana. The cigarettes were beautifully rolled, complete with cork tips. Carefully she took one. He then turned and extended it toward Baydr, who also took one. Jabir placed the cigarette case on the coffee table in front of Jordana and struck a match. He held the flame at the right distance so that only the top touched the cigarette and none of the heat came through. He lit Baydr’s cigarette in exactly the same manner.
“Thank you,” Jordana said.
Jabir salaamed, in the gesture of obeisance. “I am honored, mistress.” He left the room quietly.
Jordana sucked the smoke deep into her lungs. She felt its tranquil effects. “This is beautiful,” she said. “No one seems to get it the way Jabir does.”
“It is grown by his own family on their own farm, not far from where my father was born. The Arabs call it the stuff of which dreams are made.”
“They’re right.” She laughed suddenly. “You know, I think I’m high already. I’m not tired anymore.”
“Neither am I.” Baydr sat down in the chair opposite her, put his cigarette into an ashtray and leaning forward took her hand. “What would you like to do?”
She looked into his face. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. “I would like to go back,” she said, “back to the time we first met and begin all over again.”
He was silent for a moment, then he spoke. “So would I,” he said gently. “But we can’t.”
She stared at him, the tears running down her cheeks. Then she hid her face in her hands. “Baydr, Baydr,” she cried. “What has happened to us? What went wrong? We were so in love then.”
He drew her head to his chest and stared somberly into space. His voice was a low rumble in her ears. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, thinking how beautiful she had been the first time he saw her.
***
&
nbsp; He remembered the cold and the white blinding light reflected from the snow and the white buildings surrounding the inaugural stands. It was January 1961. The greatest country in the world was inaugurating its new President, a young man by the name of John F. Kennedy.
Six months ago no one in the Middle East had even known the young man’s name. Then, suddenly, he was the candidate of the Democratic Party and there was a telegram from the Prince on his desk. “What is Kennedy’s policy on the Middle East?”
His reply had been terse. “Pro Israel. Not much else known.”
The telephone call he had received the next day was equally terse. The Prince himself had called. “Find a way to contribute one million dollars to the Nixon campaign,” the Prince had said.
“It will not be easy,” he had replied. “The United States has peculiar rules about campaign contributions.”
The Prince chuckled slyly. “Politicians are the same everywhere. I am sure you will find a way. Mr. Nixon and Mr. Eisenhower were very good to us when the British and French tried to take over the Suez in fifty-six. We should at least show we are grateful.”
“I’ll work it out,” Baydr replied. “But I would like to suggest that we also make a token contribution to the Kennedy campaign, just in case.”
“Why?” the Prince asked. “Do you think he has a chance?”
“Not according to the polls, but this is America. One never knows.”
“I will leave it in your hands,” the Prince said. “I’m beginning to think you’re more American than Arab.”
Baydr laughed. “The Americans don’t think so.”
“How are your wife and daughters?” the Prince asked.
“They’re fine,” he answered. “I spoke to them last night. They’re in Beirut.”
“You had better make a visit home,” the Prince said. “I am still waiting for that heir you promised me. I would like to see him before too long. I am not growing any younger.”
“Allah will preserve you,” Baydr said. “You will live forever.”
“In paradise I hope.” The Prince’s whispery laugh echoed in the telephone. “But not on this earth.”
Baydr had put down the telephone thoughtfully. The Prince never said anything casually. He wondered if he had heard that Maryam could not bear any more children after the birth of the last girl. But if he had heard he would not have asked about an heir.
He would have insisted that Baydr get a divorce and marry another. Barrenness was a valid reason for divorce under Muslim law. But Baydr was reluctant. It was not that he was in love with Maryam. There never had been that between them and the longer they were married the less they seemed to have in common. She was too provincial; she really disliked Europe and America. She was only truly happy when she was in her own environment, in a world she understood. That was the real problem, Baydr thought. She was too much an Arab. And the thought of having to marry another Arab woman just didn’t appeal to him.
Maybe the Prince had been right. Maybe he was too American. For he definitely preferred Western women to his own. There was a life about them, a style, a look, a freedom that Arab women didn’t have.
Baydr found a way to make the contributions. Both of them. They had many friends among the businessmen in both parties. The token contribution had paid off and the Prince had received a special invitation from the inaugural committee. The Prince declined on the grounds of poor health and appointed Baydr to be his special representative at the inauguration.
Baydr was in the section reserved for the representatives of foreign countries, fairly close to the inaugural platform itself. He was uncomfortable in the freezing cold, despite the thermal underwear under his formal swallow-tail suit, pearl gray vest and trousers. The top hat, pressed down on his head to prevent it from being blown off by the gusts of wind didn’t help very much in keeping his head warm.
He looked around. Some of the other diplomats and their wives were better prepared than he was. They were older and probably had been through this before. He could see them nipping from small silver flasks and there were more than a few thermos bottles in evidence.
He glanced at his watch. It was almost a quarter past twelve. They were running late. The ceremony was due to start at noon. He reached into his pocket for the dark glasses. His eyes were weary with squinting against the sun and snow, but he changed his mind. None of the others were wearing them. There was a flurry on the stands. He looked up as the applause began. The President-elect was coming onto the platform.
There was something young and very vulnerable about him as he walked forward with firm strides, the wind ruffling his hair. The cold seemed not to bother him. He alone of all on the platform wore no hat or coat.
A moment later a priest came forward and delivered the invocation. His voice was singsong and monotonous like all priests’ voices no matter what their faith, but the young President stood quietly, hands clasped, his head respectfully inclined. Allah would not have insisted on so long a prayer in such cold weather, Baydr thought.
When the priest had finished, another man was led forward. He was old and white-haired and his face seemed carved out of the same granite as the building behind him. Baydr heard the whispers around him. The man was Robert Frost, one of America’s great poets.
The old man began to speak, his breath smoky in the winter air. Baydr could not distinguish the words. A moment later he stopped. There seemed to be a problem.
Another man stepped forward and held a hat over the lectern. Apparently the sun had blinded the old man so that he could not read what was on the sheet in front of him. Another whisper ran through the stand. The man who held his hat was Lyndon Johnson, the future Vice-President. The old man said something, the Vice-President elect stepped back and the old man began to recite a poem from memory. His voice rang through the public address system but Baydr had stopped listening. He had noticed a girl on the platform about three rows behind the President.
She seemed tall but he could not really tell. The platform was tiered so that all could see and be seen. She was bareheaded with long, straight blond hair, framing a golden tanned face. Her bright blue eyes were set above high cheekbones that fell into planed lines to an almost square chin. Her lips, as she listened intently to the poet, parted, revealing white even teeth. When the poet finished, she smiled and laughed and clapped her hands enthusiastically. For some reason Baydr thought, She’s a California girl.
Then the President was being sworn in. The ceremony itself only seemed to take a moment, after which he turned to the lectern to begin his speech. Baydr listened carefully.
There was one line that made him wonder if the President had read the Koran. It could have been taken from the Holy Book. “Civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerely is always subject to proof.”
When the President had finished speaking, Baydr looked for the girl but she had already gone. He tried to find her in the crowds that were moving away from the platform but she was nowhere to be seen.
Still her face kept appearing before his eyes all through the afternoon as he rested in his suite in the hotel. He watched several replays of the inauguration ceremony on television, hoping to catch another glimpse of her, but the angle of the camera was always wrong.
There was only one other chance. Spread across Baydr’s desk were invitations to four inaugural balls, each of which promised an appearance by the President. She would have to be at one of them, he thought. But which one? That was the question.
The answer was simple. He would go to all of them. If the President could do it, so could he.
CHAPTER 10
Baydr allowed himself no more than an hour at each ball. One was very much like another, crowded and noisy, the floor covered with people, drunk and sober, dancing, talking or just walking about aimlessly. The one thing they had in common was that they were all Democrats, glad to be back in the sun after eight years in the dark. After a while, Baydr began to wonder if there were any Republicans left in the country.
He arrived at the first ball just after the President had left for the second. Carefully, his eyes swept the room. He never realized before just how many blondes there were in Washington, but none of them was the one he sought. He went to the bar and ordered a glass of champagne.
A man came up to him and grabbed him by the arm. “Did you see him?” he asked excitedly.
“Who?” Baydr asked.
“The President, that’s who,” the man answered in an aggrieved voice. “Who else would I be asking about?”
Baydr smile. “I saw him.”
“Great, wasn’t he?” The man smiled and walked off without waiting for an answer.
Baydr put his drink down and decided to go on to the next ball. It was a good thing it wasn’t far because the streets were still icy. Again, the President had come and gone by the time he arrived. Baydr screened the room and when he saw that the girl wasn’t there, he didn’t even stay for a drink.
He got to the third ball in the middle of a dance. People were crowded around the periphery of the door, trying to peer through the crowds.
Baydr pushed his way through. He tapped a man on the shoulder. “What’s happening?”
“The President’s dancing with some girl out there,” the man said without turning around.
On the far side of the floor the flashbulbs were popping. Baydr made his way toward them. As he passed, he heard a woman ask in disapproving tones, “Why doesn’t he dance with Jackie?”
He heard her husband’s disgusted reply: “He has to do those things, Mary. It’s politics.”
“Then why does it always have to be a pretty girl?” the wife retorted. “I don’t see him dancing with any of us who worked so hard on this campaign.”
Baydr was at the edge of the floor. The photographers and cameramen were climbing over each other to get pictures of the President. For a moment, he was pinned against a post, then he managed to slip past them.
There was a small clear space around the President and his partner. The other dancers didn’t really move; they just shuffled in a semicircle, staring at the President. Baydr stared too. The President was dancing with his girl.
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