Lace II
“Where’s Gregg?” Maxine strained her eyes in the bright smoke-tinged air, but couldn’t see the Spear in the line-up.
Lili wriggled out of the spectators’ box and ran to the pit, where mechanics worked fast and silently on the Spear.
“Throttle’s jammed. It’s this bloody heat,” Gregg shouted over the roar of starting cars. “We’re going to lose a lap.”
Lili watched as the cars tore off, hugging the ground in formation behind the pace car for the pre-start lap. Then, with a howling crescendo, they began the race. Before the end of the first lap, the Spear slipped onto the track.
By the end of the second hour, the Spear was lying in tenth position. Triumphantly, Gregg jumped out of the car, shouting, “God, that car’s so beautiful!”
“Who’s leading?” Lili yelled, as Gregg’s co-driver shot off in the Spear. The confusion of heat, the fumes, the cheering crowds and the distant cacophony on the fairgrounds made it impossible for her to keep track of the race.
“Nannini in the Lancia; he’s really giving it stick,” Gregg bellowed, as the Spear slip-streamed past the green BMW Sauber C7 and gradually nosed up to overtake it.
Five minutes later, the Canon Porsche spun out of control, hitting Jacky Ickx’s Rothman Porsche, which spun briefly on the grass, then rejoined the race, having lost a place.
By the end of the fourth hour, the Spear was lying sixth. Lili watched the car shudder into the pit with damaged balance weights on the front right wheel; the mechanics worked frantically to replace the whole wheel in twenty-five seconds. “See why we need so many spares?” Gregg prepared to take over from his co-driver. “This race really puts a car through it.”
And it puts the drivers through it, thought Lili, as for the first time, she found herself desperately anxious about someone else’s safety. Suddenly, the race was not dull, it was not exciting, it was frightening. Lili felt only cold terror for Gregg as she saw a Mazda 717 briefly balk the Spear, then both cars veered apart as they tore under the Dunlop Bridge.
At the end of the fifth hour, a doube pileup on the Mulsanne Straight took both Aston Martin Nimrods out of the race and left Gregg lying second, behind the leading Porsche.
In the grandstand, Lili heard the name Eagle Spear in the crackle of noise that was issuing from the commentary loudspeakers. “WHAT’S HAPPENING?” she screamed to Charles.
“HE’S IN THE LEAD,” Charles yelled back excitedly. “THE PORSCHE HAS GONE!”
Gregg knew that eight more Porsche 956s were snarling up behind him. Porsche always dominated all the endurance races, thanks to the excellent German engineering. At Le Mans, a car could self-destruct under its driver; metal would shear, rubber would wear away, plastic would melt; in twenty-four hours’ hard driving, a car could simply fall apart, around and beneath its driver. Only the toughest survived Le Mans.
The third gear felt ominously sticky, as Gregg changed down, anticipating the slow right-hand turn at the Tertre Rouge. Andretti, in the Kremer Porsche, was closing up behind him. Gregg’s left ankle started to throb and, suddenly, he found it difficult to concentrate ail his energy on the corner.
Then Gregg felt a stab of white pain, he heard a gnashing, mashing of metal, saw the world spin in front of him and fir trees rush toward him, as the Spear shot off the road.
* * *
“Luck of the devil!” Charles threw his long, thin body into a velvet armchair. “He crashes at two hundred and fifty kilometers and all he suffers is a sprained ankle.”
Outside the French windows of the chateau, the bubbling song of a nightingale and the tart scent of lime trees drifted into the library. Exhausted by the emotion, the excitement, and the anxiety, Maxine shrugged off her voile jacket and collapsed onto the blue brocade sofa. “Ouf, it’s a hot night!”
They were silent for a moment. The servants had gone to bed and the library was dark except for a dim, brass reading lamp. Maxine sighed. “Charles, I’m exhausted. D’you mind waiting up until Lili gets back from the hospital? She was making a lot of fuss, but her concern was genuine. I’m getting fond of her. Maybe she really will settle down with Gregg.”
“He seems like a nice enough fellow.”
“And very suitable for Lili.” Maxine yawned. “If he becomes the European Sports Car Champion, he’ll have nothing to gain from Lili’s success. He doesn’t need to hitch onto her fame and, as he’s not in the same business, their ambitions won’t clash.”
Charles nodded. “He won’t feel threatened by her.” Slowly, he stretched his arms and legs.
“I can never understand why men find a successful woman a threat.” Maxine eased off her white sandals. “Women don’t find a successful man a threat.” She lifted her toes and wriggled them. “Women think success is sexy.”
Maxine stretched her tired legs out and rotated her ankles. Even after twenty years of marriage, Charles couldn’t take his eyes off Maxine’s long, pale, rounded legs. Maxine knew this perfectly well, and so continued to twirl them slowly in the dim, amber light.
Eternally pragmatic, Maxine realized that seeing someone you know nearly die really sorts out your priorities fast. Charles had been nicer to her than he had been for months, as they drove back from the hospital where Gregg had been taken. Delicately, Maxine massaged her left calf, thinking, our situation won’t be resolved until he says he’s sorry, and he’s never going to say he’s sorry. But Charles will always show that he’s sorry, if I give him the chance and don’t rub his nose in it. She pulled back her voile skirt and started to massage her left knee. Softly she said, “Charles, I’m sorry.” It was better to put yourself in the wrong and get your own way, than to stubbornly insist on being right and continue to be miserable.
“What are you sorry for, Maxine?”
“Everything.”
Charles pounced.
“Successful women are always overdressed,” he whispered in her ear as she squirmed happily beneath him. Charles plunged his hands inside the filmy fabric of Maxine’s dress, ripped off her peach satin camisole, and started to flick his tongue, lizardlike, over his wife’s creamy body.
9
Mid-June 1979
OUTSIDE THE SYDONITE Embassy, the June sun sparkled on the distant Potomac. A picket line of dejected feminists in jumpsuits carried placards that read “Arabs oppress women.” “Islam equals mutilation,” and “CUT IT OUT!”
Wearily, the cops cleared a path for King Abdullah, who flashed out of the maroon Rolls and through the imposing front door, followed by General Suliman.
“Mark Scott’s exhibition is a great success.” His Majesty peeled off white gloves and thwacked them onto the silver salver proffered by a robed servant. “And that leader in the Washington Post about the circumcised child was exactly what I’d hoped for.”
“If the World Health Organization really got behind us, such atrocities would be forgotten in ten years,” said General Suliman. “Tomorrow, Your Majesty will meet the Coptic woman doctor who led the campaign against female circumcision in Egypt. I have put the United Nations report on your desk.”
“What’s the summary?”
“Only the Sydonite women themselves can stop this practice. A man may agree that a virgin bride need not be proven so by mutilation but the women do not believe that, when it comes to the point, a man will accept such a girl. Because of their fear, no progress can be made.”
Abdullah sighed, then asked, “What’s next?”
“The child specialist is waiting in the audience chamber, Your Majesty; then this evening you will preside at a banquet which is being held here, in the Embassy.” The General stood aside as Abdullah strode into the audience chamber. Two neat, gray-suited men were waiting for him. Abdullah looked surprised. “I was expecting you alone, Doctor.”
“My colleague, Doctor Margolies, specializes in the psychiatric problems of adolescents.”
The King raised his eyebrows. The doctor elaborated. “After examining Prince Hassan, I find that there is nothing physically
wrong with him, Your Majesty. He is a healthy boy.”
“Then why is he constantly ill at school? He’s missed so many lessons that the headmaster’s warned me that my nephew may not be accepted for Eton. Yet two years ago, he was a perfect student.”
“Perhaps too perfect, Your Majesty,” the psychiatrist suggested. “Prince Hassan seems to be a quiet, well-behaved and studious boy, but he is abnormally docile for a twelve-year-old, and shows little sign of aggression or curiosity. He is exhibiting the classic behavior of a child reared in an overly authoritarian home environment.”
“What has that to do with his illness?”
“Prince Hassan seems to … prefer being ill to being healthy.”
“If my nephew is malingering because of idleness, then he must be disciplined.”
For nine months of the year, Prince Hassan attended Port Regis, a British boys’ boarding school in Dorset. During the holidays, Prince Hassan was tutored in twentieth century history, military strategy, tactics, and modern statecraft. For one hour a day he was permitted to play. This meant training his falcons, with the keeper of the Royal Mews. Prince Hassan was not encouraged to play with children of his own age, because it was thought that this would make him vulnerable to kidnap and assassination attempts.
Doctor Margolies said, “Prince Hassan is not malingering, Your Majesty. His bronchitis and sinus problems are genuine, the physical symptoms are unmistakable.”
“Then I don’t understand what you’re telling me. Is my nephew ill or is he not ill?”
“Psychosomatic illness is a physical illness in every respect, but the underlying cause is not physical. In Prince Hassan’s case, his lengthy periods of sickness meant that he was confined to the school sanatorium, where he was cared for by the matron, who seems an exceptionally gentle, affectionate woman.” His Majesty looked perplexed, as the psychiatrist continued, “We suspect that your nephew’s illnesses are merely nature’s way of ensuring that he gets something he lacks, but which is vital to the well-being of a twelve-year-old. That is, the love and care of a woman.”
“Naturally, my nephew misses his mother.” Abdullah was puzzled. “Sadly, my sister died five years ago, but there are women in the prince’s household.”
“I don’t mean female servants, Your Majesty,” Doctor Margolies explained. “Prince Hassan is lonely, and he is at the threshold of puberty. Normally, a mother encourages and supports her son, as he grows to manhood. Ideally, an adolescent boy makes his first, inevitable mistakes in a nonjudgmental environment of encouragement and shelter. Without this, a lonely child might well lack the urge toward curiosity and aggression, two qualities that are necessary to any adult male.”
And especially so to a King, thought Abdullah. No Bedouin tribe would be ruled by a weakling.
At midnight, a depressed Abdullah, followed by General Suliman, strode from the banquet hall, through beautifully carpeted corridors, toward his bedroom. He had not been able to secure the help he needed to defeat the Fundamentalist guerrillas, who now controlled one quarter of Sydon. American diplomats were being held hostage in Iran, and the United States did not want another overt involvement in Middle Eastern politics at such a sensitive time.
This evening’s banquet, designed to smooth the negotiations, had been a disaster. The old Ambassador must be retired. Immediately. Clearly the wine had been ill-chosen, because the American guests had barely touched it, neither had they eaten the overelaborate nomad feast. In fact, Abdullah had heard one guest remark to another, “Greasy rice and tough mutton is bad enough, but, by the end of those damn speeches, it was cold as well.”
The three American women guests had looked ill at ease among the many silent Sydonites, who were not used to making conversation with women. The atmosphere had not been one of all-male joviality, neither had it been one of graceful hospitality. Abdullah resolved that his next Ambassador to Washington would have a cultivated, intelligent wife who could properly organize, entertain, and administer the social side of his Embassy, like the wives of the Western diplomats. He had heard that the wives of German diplomats received salaries for supporting their husband’s work, and, after this evening, Abdullah understood why.
Earlier in the week, Sheikh Yamani of Saudi Arabia had given a banquet in honor of King Abdullah. Yamani’s chef had been flown in from the Paris Crillon, the white truffles came from Italy, and the string quartet from Vienna. Tonight, by comparison, the Sydonites had looked like prehistoric savages. Without being told, Suliman knew how Abdullah felt; he was the only person who understood why the carefree, promiscuous Abdullah had turned into this grim-faced ascetic. After years of bravery and patience, struggling to preserve his country from Communist infiltrators, after years of attempting to drag his reluctant subjects into the twentieth century, Abdullah was, quite simply, tired. He was also lonely and isolated, he trusted no men and most women bored him.
Abdullah said good night to General Suliman, then lifted the red scrambler telephone. After arranging to replace his ambassador in Washington, he opened the day’s box of State Papers and began to work through them. At the bottom of the pile, he found an engraved invitation with, attached to it, a three-line file update from Intelligence on Pagan, Lady Swann. Abdullah’s black brows compressed in a puzzled frown as he recognized the handwriting on the invitation.
* * *
Behind her untidy desk, piled with brochures, gala programs, opened envelopes, silver-framed pictures of her family, a moth-eaten rabbit’s foot and old copies of Horse and Hound, Pagan looked puzzled as she worked her way through the morning mail. Again, she read the thick cream page, embossed with a crimson crest.
“His Majesty, King Abdullah of Sydon, has asked me to reply to your invitation to the Royal Gala in aid of the Anglo-American Cancer Research Foundation on July 31. His Majesty regrets that he is unable to be in Great Britain on that date, and will therefore be unable to attend.
“His Majesty has further asked me to request the pleasure of your company at Ascot Racecourse on Ladies Day, to watch his filly, Reh al Leil, run in the Chesham Stakes.” It was signed with a squiggle, by an equerry.
But I didn’t invite Abdullah to the Gala, Pagan thought, checking the guest list again, as the telephone rang. “Yes, this is Lady Swann speaking … Oh, does he? … Hello? … Of course I’m surprised to hear from you … yes, I’ve just received it.” She turned over the letter. “Of course I’d love to see you again, Your Majesty, but I’m afraid it’s not possible.… No, I’m no longer in mourning, but I can’t go racing next week.” Pagan’s automatic response to every invitation since Christopher’s death had been to refuse it. “…not at all. I’m very busy, organizing a charity gala.… A widow’s life isn’t as empty as you seem to think … it’s just … it’s just…” Flustered, she offered a final, weak excuse. “Well, I haven’t got the right clothes. You know how everyone dresses up for Royal Ascot.… Oh, all right, Abdullah, I’d love to come.”
Pagan put down the telephone thinking, that’s the first time I’ve called myself a widow. It didn’t sound so bad. She stood up and peered into the mirror over the mantelpiece. Anxiously, Pagan counted her laugh lines.
Ever since she and Abdullah had first met, when they had been students in Switzerland, Pagan had possessed an almost magic power to make him discard his wary, formal attitude. Pagan could make Abdullah relax and laugh. In an odd way, he had always regarded Pagan as a woman who belonged to him. She had been his first love and he had been her first love. He had never stopped trying to seduce her, even throughout her marriage to Sir Christopher, and Pagan had never stopped refusing him; although the relationship was only a friendship, Pagan never told her husband when she was meeting Abdullah; although it was only a friendship, she always dressed with uncharacteristic care before racing off to the Dorchester; although it was only a friendship, Pagan knew that Abdullah could only think of a woman in sexual terms, so their friendly meetings wafted along on an undercurrent of unmentioned eroticism.
As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, Pagan felt hopeful, flattered, and afraid.
An hour later, the doorbell rang, and outside stood a messenger from Fortnum and Mason, carrying a tower of dress boxes. Beside him stood the deputy fashion buyer, ready to bring a further selection if nothing was to Lady Swann’s liking.
Pagan dithered between a green-and-white flowered chiffon dress and a pale-primrose silk suit. Then the deputy fashion buyer opened the hatboxes. Secretly, Pagan thought that she looked wonderfully romantic when she wore a hat but, invariably, as soon as she found herself wearing one on the street, she felt overdramatic or silly. So she picked the smallest hat. The buyer looked doubtful. Pagan snatched off the little white sailor beret. The buyer confidently handed her a large-brimmed floppy straw, which folded back like a fisherman’s sou’wester. The rich ocher straw framed Pagan’s pale skin and mahogany-colored hair. The buyer nodded. Every woman looked good in the straw sou’wester.
* * *
“Isn’t she getting overexcited?” Pagan asked Abdullah as Reh al Leil curvetted sideways round the paddock, her chestnut neck stained with sweat.
“Isn’t it natural for a girl to get excited on her first outing?” Abdullah smiled. “I seem to remember that when you were a debutante, you were sometimes quite hard to handle.”
Pagan laughed, then again looked doubtfully at the filly. “Look at her—she’s running the race in the paddock.” The filly was dancing in circles around her groom, a telltale white lather of perspiration building up around her girth.
“Aren’t you going to bet on her?”
“Not if she carries on like that. She’ll be exhausted before the race begins.” Pagan teased him. “Young horses are pretty much the same over a short distance, so I always bet on the jockey, like the rest of the bettors. I’m putting my fiver on Lester Piggot, on number seven.”
“Golden Gondola.” Abdullah checked the race program. “The favorite. So you want to play it safe, Pagan?” She became aware of his soft black stare and the warmth of his hand on her arm.