However, if any were unhappy with the amount of spirits consumed before the meal, they had ample opportunity to make up for it during the repast the Cham had spread. The wines were superb.
Once again, the Eastern motif had been dispensed with and Muley Khalid had depended upon his French and Italian chefs for the cuisine. It began with Saumon Fumé, the most delicate smoked salmon Larry could ever remember having tasted, and proceeded to Truite à la Hussarde and Délices de Sole d’Antin, to Ris de Veau and Etuvé de Boeuf Maconnaise, all complete with various side dishes, and served with vintage wines of the Rhine, of Burgundy and finally of Champagne.
It was, as a gourmet would say, well done.
The controversy began after Larry had allowed himself plenty of wine to wash down the heavily sauced meat courses. In the general conversation, Petöfe had, in curiosity, asked the Cham the basic nature of the differences between the various Islamic sects, and in particular, how his own, the Ismailian Shiahs, differed from the larger ones.
The Hungarian had giggled apologetically at the question and hurried on to explain. “Of course, we who are Christians realize that we, too, are split into sects, but we are familiar with our own. We have our Roman Catholics — eh? — who still predominate numerically. We have our Greek Orthodox Catholics. We have our Protestants, who are in turn divided into a multitude of conflicting sects ranging from the Church of England, which differs comparatively little from the Catholics, to such groups as the — eh? — let us say Mormons of America, or the Copts of Ethiopia whose ruler claims direct descent from Solomon and Sheba. The ins and outs, we say — eh? — of all these Christian sects, we understand, but not those of Islam. Perhaps you can enlighten us.”
There was the slightly sardonic quality in Muley’s smile. He said politely to Sándor Petöfe, “Of course, it is difficult to speak of one’s religion without prejudice. And, indeed, matters in which I was born and raised in complete belief might seem the most blatant superstition to, say, our most charming Miss Alsace here.”
“Oh, no, I’m very broad-minded, Muley.”
Larry said, “I read somewhere that all religions are superstitions except one’s own.”
The Cham gave a titter of mirth. “Excellent. I shall have to remember that, friend Larry. Bear with me then. The Ismailian Shiahs go back in origin to — ah, on the Christian calendar it would be 1090 A.D. when my ancester Hasan Ben Sabbáh seized the castle of Alamút in the province of Rúdbar which lay in the mountainous tract immediately south of the Caspian Sea. He was strong enough here to be able to spread the supposed heretical ideas of his father, Ali.”
“But, what were these heretical ideas he taught?” Clark Talmadge put in, his rather stupid face trying to portray intellectual curiosity.
The Cham turned to him and pursed his lips for a moment. “I shall be very open,” he said. “Let us admit that the Prophet Mohammed, my ancestor through his daughter Fatima, was desert-born, desert-bred, and never learned to read or write. This vessel Allah chose to reveal his grand plan of destiny. However, as the wave of Islam spread through the world, its teachings of tolerance brought about a renaissance of science, of culture, of development in a hundred fields. And no longer could the world’s affairs be handled by illiterates.”
The Cham paused. “Hasan Ben Sabbáh delved into fields of wisdom unknown to earlier man, even the philosophers of Greece.” He turned to Larry. “It will possibly interest you to know that he was a contemporary and, indeed, fellow student of Omar Khayyam, the Persian poet and mathematician.”
Larry nodded. “One of the great brains of his time, in more than one field.” He added wryly, “Omar wasn’t exactly an ardent religionist. I wonder how many of his beliefs your ancestor shared.” Larry cast his eyes upward and recited:
“Some for the glories of this world; and some
Sigh for the Prophet’s paradise to come;
Ah, take the cash, and let the credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant drum!”
The Cham laughed ruefully. “Ah. So you are a student of Omar the Tentmaker. However, though deep in mathematics and in the developing of a new, and most accurate calendar, Omar failed to delve into mysticism. Though he might have doubted an afterlife and a paradise as described by Mohammed in the Koran, Hasan Ben Sabbáh knew that such a paradise truly existed.”
Larry chuckled apologetically. “I’m afraid the old wheeze about never allowing at a party discussion of politics or religion might have its validity.”
Muley shook his head, his smile as gently soft as ever. “My dear friend Larry, true beliefs cannot be shaken by another’s laughter or even scorn. Say what you will at my table. It would be impossible to insult me by doubting the tenets of my faith. This is your right.”
The Brazilian said uncomfortably, “Maybe we’d better switch to — ”
But Larry was feeling the wine. “Then I should say that the paradise as described by Mohammed in the Koran is on the fantastic side. It makes even less sense than the picture dreamed up by the early Christians of a heaven with streets of gold. The Mohammedan paradise with its endless fountains, its beautiful gardens and bevies of women, its streams of wine which you can drink endlessly without ever getting a hangover, is obviously the dream of a desert nomad who simply couldn’t conceive of anything on a higher level.”
The Cham twisted his lips again, ruefully. “But you see, friend Larry, I know that such a paradise exists. My ancestor, Hasan Ben Sabbáh, founder of the Ismailian Shiahs, discovered the path to it.”
A silence dropped like a thud on the table.
His guests looked at him.
The Cham said gently, “Hasan Ben Sabbáh not only visited paradise himself, but was able to send his followers there.”
Sándor Petöfe giggled. “Yes. But — eh? — could be bring them back again?”
Muley Khalid nodded his amusement at the Hungarian’s jibe. “That is exactly what I meant. He was able to send his followers to paradise and then return them to the world of the living.”
Larry said, “Now look, Muley — ”
The Brazilian said, “Let us change the subject. This is — ”
The Cham said to Larry, “Yes?”
“Now look. I don’t want to step on religious toes. I consider myself an agnostic, but I grant every man to have his own religious beliefs. However, the fact that the Hebrew Bible tells me that Moses went up onto a mountain and personally talked to Jehovah there, and received some laws which were written on stone slabs, doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily true. Particularly since writing hadn’t been invented yet, in the time of Moses. What I’m getting at is that possibly in the written records of your Moslem sect, it tells of your ancestor going to paradise and sending others. However, that isn’t proof to me and shouldn’t be to you, given the scientific outlook.”
The Cham was set back. “But, my dear Larry, I did not suggest that my belief in Hasan Ben Sabbáh’s abilities was based on nothing more than religious writings. You see, he passed down the method, from father to son, to each Cham, of each generation.”
Every eye at the table was glued upon him.
“I am in possession of it today.”
• CHAPTER EIGHT •
IN SPITE OF THE ABSINTHE and other drinks, including the wines that had accompanied the dinner, Larry was uncomfortable. No matter how tolerant the other, one simply doesn’t call his host a liar. However, things had gone too far to drop them completely.
Larry said, “Now look, Muley. You don’t mean to tell us that you, personally, have the ability to go to paradise and then return.”
“But that is exactly what I have said.”
Larry looked at him for a long, unbelieving moment. The other was an intelligent, obviously well-educated, cultivated young man. He was dressed in the latest Western garb, probably from the swank men’s shops of London’s Savile Row. Only his complexion would have indicated that he was not a European or American.
The others were rema
ining quiet, in embarrassment. Larry said slowly, “Then why haven’t you gone?”
For the first time, the Cham allowed himself to indicate a slight impatience. “Perhaps because I feel I have duties to perform here on the mortal plane before Allah calls me to the hereafter. I am, after all, the leader of my people and looked to by them for spiritual guidance.”
Larry cleared his throat and indicated to one of the two turbaned waiters behind him that he wished his champagne glass refilled.
Sándor Petöfe began to say something, as though once again to change the uncomfortable subject.
But the Cham had allowed his ire to rise. He said sharply, “I see my word is doubted. Then I present you with the opportunity, friend Larry.”
Larry gaped at him. There could be but one meaning to the other’s words.
“Oh, now, really …” Loretta began.
The Cham said definitely, “I offer you the opportunity to visit paradise, to remain for, let us say, three hours, and then to return here to our party.”
Larry could think of nothing to say.
Muley continued. “You will be fully lucid during the entire period and will return with full memories of your stay.”
“What proof would there be that it really happened?”
The Cham shrugged, his mouth mocking. “You yourself would be the proof. As I just said, you would be lucid throughout the entire period. What is the American expression? It is a matter of put up or shut up, friend Larry.”
Sándor Petöfe giggled. Down the table, one of the women guests tittered uncomfortably.
Larry Land flushed. “Okay, you’re on,” he said. “What do I have to do?”
Muley Khalid clapped his hands, said something in Arabic to Hamid when his secretary came hurrying in. Hamid raised his eyebrows, darted dark eyes about the gathering, then bowed and slithered out again.
Muley said, “Shall we retire to the library?”
He led the way, the others following uncomfortably. There was a hush over the gathering now, the alcohol seemingly dissolved away.
Hamid entered with a gigantic volume, leather-bound and obviously of great age. The figures on the cover were Arabic, and illuminated with gold. The secretary placed it with great care — perhaps reverence would be the better word — before his leader.
Muley said, “Now if you will just sit directly across from me, friend Larry.”
The Cham’s smile had its elusive sardonic quality. “Let me assure you, nothing that involves discomfort. Far from it.”
Larry lowered himself into the modern leather chair immediately across from the other. There was a very unreal quality about all this.
The Cham looked about at the others. “Now if all of you will remain very, very quiet.” He looked down at the book, carefully opened it. Its pages were of parchment, the body material obviously written by hand. “This is the personal script of my illustrious ancestor, Hasan Ben Sabbáh,” the Cham said softly. There was a hushed quality in his voice. He began to read in Arabic, his tone even. There was a poetic feeling in the words which no one else could understand, a rhythm, a cadence.
The Cham’s voice droned on, and Larry could feel the effects of the great quantities of food he had eaten, and the drinks that had accompanied it. He was, he told himself, getting slightly bored with all this. If there had been some way he could have gracefully backed out, he would have done so.
In fact, he was getting downright sleepy, under the drone of the other voice. Downright sleepy. He was on the verge of dozing….
• • •
Lawrence Land awoke in the paradise of Mohammed.
He was stretched out at the side of a tinkling fountain, on a lawn of grass more perfect than any golf course green he had ever seen.
For the nonce it was as though his mind were turned off. He wouldn’t allow himself to consider the ramifications of what his senses were telling him. He stared down at his body blankly. He was clad in a pair of baggy trousers, a silken sash about his waist, and in a pair of Oriental slippers, the toes of which curled upward. He looked like a character out of a filming of The Thief of Baghdad.
His eyes darted about. It would seem that he was in one of the most extensive gardens he had ever seen, and certainly the most beautiful. There were a dozen fountains within immediate view. The one next to him was of exquisite workmanship. A life-size nude, in gilt.
In sudden suspicion, he picked up a pebble from the graveled walk nearby and stepped into the fountain pool, without bothering to remove his slippers. He scratched the statue deeply with the stone, and blinked at the result. The thing was pure gold. Life-size, of pure gold. What was the value of gold? Something like thirty-five dollars an ounce.
He looked down at the pebble he had picked up.
It was no pebble. And it wasn’t blue glass either. It was an uncut sapphire.
There was a strange, clean, but heady bouquet in the air. A fruity …
He reached down, on a quick impulse and scooped up a palmful of the fountain’s water and put it to his mouth. It wasn’t water. Larry Land was no connoisseur of wines, but unless he was mistaken this was a rather fruity Traminer of the type grown in the Moselle.
Through all this, he couldn’t help being aware of the feeling of euphoria that suffused him. He couldn’t recall ever before having such a feeling of well-being.
On the face of it, this whole thing was utterly impossible. He looked up into the blueness of sky, around at the continuing gardens. Spotted here and there were minor buildings, very much in the tradition of the Taj Mahal.
He didn’t pinch himself. This was no dream. This was no dream. He was absolutely lucid. As lucid, he felt, as he had ever been in his life. This was no dream. But it was insane.
He fell to his knees onto the grass and pulled up a handful of it, and stared. What had he expected to see? It was simply grass.
He gathered up a handful of the stones which were the gravel of the path. They were blue, yellow, red, green. They were, he knew, rubies, emeralds lapis lazuli, opals, garnets, topaz, moonstones turquoise and amethysts. They most definitely weren’t glass.
His feeling of euphoria was, if anything, increasing. From somewhere came the sounds of an exotic music. A haunting, somehow compelling music of instruments with which he knew he wasn’t familiar.
It seemed to come from down the path.
There was no putting it off. He began walking in that direction. He came to the edge of a small grove of trees. So perfect were they that his first reaction was that they were artificial. But they weren’t. He had never seen the species. There was a fruit with which he wasn’t familiar. He plucked one. It was about the size of a large apple. He had no means of peeling or carving so he sank his teeth into it, experimentally. The juices encouraged him and he took a large bite. He looked down at it in amazement. It tasted like fruit salad. As though pineapple, pear, orange and papaya had all been combined. There was no such fruit. Not in his knowledge.
The music was now slightly louder. The path entered the small wood and he continued along it.
When he emerged into the clearing, it was to find another fountain. Another fountain before what would seem to be an Oriental-type palace, somewhat similar to the Sultan’s palace in the casbah of Tangier. Around the fountain were various couches and tables, the tables laden with food and drink. Around the fountain, also, were eight young women.
Larry Land gaped at them.
They consisted of every type of world beauty, running from the darkness of an Ethiopian Hamite to a fair-skinned, tall, very blond Nordic. There was what obviously was an Arabian girl, and a slim, unbelievably graceful Chinese. There was a Malay, a European of probably one of the Latin countries, an American Indian and what he assumed was a Polynesian.
They were clad, or unclad, similarly. That is, each wore nothing save diaphanously thin, and probably silken, bloomers … he supposed would be the term. Otherwise, there were not even slippers on their feet. Their breasts were bare — and pe
rfect. The Chinese girl’s were small and childlike, the nipples dark; to the other extreme, the Latin girl’s were lush, and tipped in coral pink. Such was the transparency of the wisps of silken trousers that it was obvious that the blondes among them were true blondes, and the redhead a true redhead, the brunettes, brunettes.
Some had been splashing in the fountain, others were posed about on the grass or on the couches. When he appeared, two tittered a welcoming mirth and came running to grasp his arms and drag him toward the party.
His feeling of well-being was still a growing thing. The unreality of all this bewildered him, but the potential delights could not be gainsaid.
Impossible.
Impossible.
But it was true. This was not a dream. It was no hallucination.
It was a mind-shaking, unbelievable truth.
It couldn’t be true, but it was.
The girls, giggling, pressed him down to a central couch, richly covered in flowing embroidered textiles, and deep in luxurious pillows. The unreality, the feeling of the impossible, continued to nag him, but at the same time the euphoria was growing to the point of being all but unbearable.
The girls fluttered about him, laughing, trying to get him to eat of the dainties with which the tables were so laden. But he was surfeited with food from the banquet. That fact came crashing home to him now. He was still full from the Cham’s banquet.
Here he was, in a never-never land of impossibility, but he could feel satiation with food. In other words, in time the Cham’s party must have taken place less than an hour ago.
Since he seemed disinterested in food, one of the girls took up an elaborate golden cup and dipped it into the fountain. He noted for the first time, in this Technicolor world, that the fountain was gushing red. It turned out to be a rosé wine, similar to Bordeaux.
But Larry Land wasn’t thirsty either. He hardly needed further stimulation of his feeling of well-being.
One of the girls, the little Malay, had settled down next to his couch and was fingering a long-necked, single-stringed instrument. The high-pitched music she produced had a strange effectiveness, a stirring quality. Two of the other girls danced before him, tantalizingly.
The Jet Set Page 11
