Lace II

  “Such as?”

  “As you know, female infibulation is still practiced. And a woman’s body belongs to her father or her husband, like their goats.”

  “I know all that, Abdi, you’ve told me over and over again. Why are we discussing it now?” Pagan was puzzled.

  “Because unless women play an active part in my country, we can never be part of the modern world.” A screaming green rocket flared briefly and fell into the sea. “I need an experienced, diplomatic, sophisticated woman with organizational ability at my side. That is what my country needs.”

  “You sound as if you’re drafting a want ad,” Pagan told him, “gynecological experience an advantage.”

  Abdullah released her shoulders and walked across the terrace to the balustrade, then turned to face her. “I need someone who understands Western ways, and Western women, and the need for our women to assert themselves.”

  “Why not propose to Gloria Steinem?”

  Abdullah’s mouth twitched with anger. “I swore to myself that I would not lose my temper. Pagan, I will not allow you to misunderstand me again.” He shook her by the shoulders. “I realize that you’re headstrong, impulsive and…”

  “Self-conscious?” Pagan interrupted him. “Mustn’t forget that. That’s why we used to have so many rows when we were young. You were nervous and pompous and I was just nervous.”

  Behind Abdullah’s back the white filigree facade of the Doge’s Palace gleamed in the floodlights at the far side of the lagoon. Abdullah said, “We are no longer young.”

  Pagan laughed. “You’re so tactful. But, Abdi, I still feel young and nervous and uncertain when I’m with you.”

  “You would get used to me.”

  Suddenly, Pagan realized the reason for the political lecture.

  Abdullah said, “Yes, I want you to marry me!” Earnestly, he said, “Let’s not mess it up again, Pagan.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” He rose again and strode away to the edge of the terrace again, silhouetted against the gold flares of the fireworks as they whistled over the sea.

  Pagan rustled across the terrace and laid her hand on his arm. “You don’t understand…” she began.

  Abdullah interrupted her. “Yes, I do understand, Pagan. You’re afraid of being humiliated again, you’re afraid that I’ll reject you again, as I did when I was nineteen.” He sighed. “Please remember that was a bloody long time ago!”

  Pagan said, “It’s true, I don’t want the pain of hoping again, Abdi. I don’t want the uncertainty and then possibly … the realization that, at my age, I’ve allowed myself to hope for too much, that I’ve made a fool of myself again—but this time with the whole world watching.”

  Abdullah took both her hands in his. “But I really need you. Especially you, Pagan, because you have also been hurled from a life of ancient tradition into the modern world, so you will understand my people.”

  Pagan still felt as if she were being recruited for a particularly unpopular diplomatic post, rather than being courted by a man who wanted to marry her. She thought, here we are in this beautiful romantic place, the moonlight is trembling on the waves and the gondoliers are poling around down there, singing love songs, and Abdi’s talking to me as if he were hiring a Middle-East liaison executive.

  “I can see why you need a Kinga,” said Pagan, “but I’m not sure I understand why you need a wife.”

  There was a pause. “For the usual reasons.” He looked away from her.

  “Abdi, in the center of her heart, every woman is always seventeen, and this seventeen-year-old wants to hear it.” Γ ll make him say it, if it kills him, Pagan promised herself. Every woman wants to hear it, and men never understand why.

  Finally, Abdullah looked at the floor and muttered, “I love you.”

  Gently, Pagan said, “And I love you.”

  “Can I assume then that your answer is yes?”

  Again, Pagan caught the odd, brisk note in his voice. Was this the notorious lover? The romantic playboy, the man who had spent a fortune on red roses? She said, “There are a couple of subclauses that we really should discuss.”

  Nuzzling her neck, he said, “I don’t want to hear that you’re not young enough or unsuitable in any way. Let’s brush these insecurities aside.”

  “No, let’s pull them all out in the open, now, Abdi. First of all, I think I’m too old for you.”

  “Kindly let me be the judge of that.”

  Pagan touched the green ribbon of the order of Semira, which hung over Abdullah’s white dinner jacket. “I know this isn’t the traditional moment to bring this up, but it’s very important to me. I must know. Do you intend to be a faithful husband, Abdullah?”

  “Why must you Westerners confuse sex and love? Sexual fidelity has little to do with marriage.”

  “Do you intend to be faithful to me?” Pagan felt as if she were walking on eggshells, but she was determined that Abdullah should answer her question. “After all, in the East, sexual fidelity has a lot to do with marriage—for the wife. Adulterous women are still occasionally beheaded, aren’t they? So what are your intentions, Abdullah?”

  “When one knows that one can have any number of nubile young women by snapping one’s fingers, one feels less inclined to snap them.”

  “Abdi, don’t evade my question. Will you be faithful to me?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “We’re being honest,” she reminded him.

  He paused. “Then I doubt it.”

  “You might feel inclined to snap the fingers?”

  “We’re being honest.”

  Pagan felt a dull ache. “Then my answer must be no,” she said with dignity, as her ache turned to pain. She pulled away from him, disappointed and angry. “Why are you so impossibly arrogant?”

  “You asked me to be truthful. But once again you put your pride before reality.” He looked at her, trying to control his anger. “I swore that I wouldn’t let you lose my temper again.”

  “Me—lose your temper!” Pagan shouted.

  Abdullah grabbed her hand. “We must stop this, Pagan.” He controlled himself with difficulty. “We’re having a quarrel about something that happened thirty years ago.”

  “Something that didn’t happen, you mean.” Pagan’s tone was bitter.

  “Something that could happen now,” he insisted gently, pulling her toward the couch.

  Pagan thought, he’s just demonstrated the perfect way not to propose to a woman. She said, sadly, “Abdullah, I don’t think such a marriage would ever work.”

  The last of the fireworks spluttered out and the sea seemed darker than before. Abdullah accepted temporary defeat. “But you will still come to Cannes?” he asked quietly.

  “Are you sure you want me to come?”

  “I think we should both consider what we may be missing.”

  Does he mean it or doesn’t he? Pagan wondered. It was like listening to those pursuing feet earlier and trying to work out where the sound was coming from; every indication seemed deceptive.

  But I’ll never know if I don’t dare to find out.

  “I’ll come to Cannes,” she promised him. “After my Drury Lane Gala.”

  12

  July 1979

  “WE’VE MADE A lot of extra money on the drinks, party and the raffle.” The Scottish Duchess looked around the ballroom. Bare-shouldered women in bright taffeta gowns talked to men with pearl-studded shirt fronts, on their best behavior.

  Pagan, whose face ached with smiling at her guests, was hardly listening as she anxiously wondered whether the hotel had allocated enough waiters.

  “It’s a long time since I’ve seen so many real tiaras,” said the Duchess. “Hardly anyone wears their real jewels today. Nicole Birmingham said that the last time she wore her aquamarines, it cost five thousand dollars for the insurance and the bodyguards, so the next morning she went straight round to Kenneth Lane.”

  Pagan an
xiously eyed the clock set in the wedding-cake plaster molding above the door. Another five minutes and she’d have to make her speech, then marshall the two thousand guests to the Theater Royal, Drury Lane.

  Suddenly the banquet manager was at Pagan’s side. “May I have a word with you, milady?”

  “What’s wrong, Mr. Gates?”

  “I’ve just spoken to Mr. Zimmer, who telephoned from the theater. He told me to tell you that they’ve had a slight technical problem, something to do with the fire curtain. So Mr. Zimmer asked if you would announce that the Gala will take place an hour later than scheduled, at eight-thirty. He told me to tell you not to worry, everything is under control, the engineer just needs time.”

  “What a nuisance, Mr. Gates,” said Pagan, thinking bloody fire curtain, “I’d better tell everyone straight-away.”

  She made her way to the podium, climbed up the steps and took the microphone. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen…”

  * * *

  “The curtain should have gone up ten minutes ago, but there isn’t one person out front.” There were tears in Lili’s eyes as she peeped through the red velvet stage curtains. Beyond it were two thousand empty theater seats.

  The stage manager, his bow tie askew, nodded tensely. “There’s still no sign of anyone in the theater. Not one person.”

  Beyond her heavy stage makeup, Lili’s eyes looked scared. Nervously, she pulled up the long black glove which covered her right arm. “I can’t believe it.” She shook her head, scattering spangles from the three white Prince-of-Wales ostrich feathers that hung from her skullcap. “What the hell has happened?” She bit her bottom lip to control her agitation, then nervously smoothed the skintight black velvet dress which left one shoulder and one leg bare.

  “I don’t know.” The stage manager ran his hands through his greased blond hair. “They should have poured through the doors at least half an hour ago. The theater is absolutely empty.”

  Lili tapped her silver shoe, her leg, elegant and taut as that of a polo pony, in her gleaming silver tights. “Please check the tickets again. Please check that they printed the correct date!”

  “We’ve already checked. There’s nothing wrong with the invitations.” The stage manager looked helpless. Charity benefits—run by amateurs—were always a nightmare.

  Zimmer put his arm around Lili. “Don’t cry, darling, or you’ll have to redo your makeup. Best thing is to get back to your dressing room, like everyone else. Stash will find out what the hell’s happening.”

  Lili’s agent nodded, patted her spangled shoulder, then hurried to the stage-door telephone.

  Zimmer knew that this was not a run-of-the-mill theatrical disaster; there must have been some colossal street accident near the hotel, maybe a 707 had crashed in Piccadilly, but his job was to calm the leading lady, so he said, “Toughen up, Lili. You’re a professional, remember? Worse things have happened in the theater. Nobody’s dropped dead on stage. Abraham Lincoln hasn’t been assassinated out front. The Phantom of the Opera is still in Paris.”

  Lili gave him a weak smile. Zimmer was at his best when things were going wrong; the worse the crisis, the calmer he became.

  Stash reappeared in Lili’s dressing room. “Mystery solved,” he said. “They’re all still at Grosvenor House because someone announced that we had backstage problems, and that the opening had been postponed for an hour. I managed to speak to Lady Swann and she’s going to get everyone here within fifteen minutes. They’re radioing for every cab in London.”

  Zimmer said, “It’ll take fifteen minutes to seat everyone. So, Lili, you’ve got half an hour to calm down, to think yourself into your role and keep your legs warm.”

  He was right. Lili reached for her grubby purple legwarmers.

  “And check your makeup, darling,” said Zimmer. Tears had smudged her thick black eyeliner. “Then concentrate on your part, Lili. Forget everything else. Leave it to me.”

  Zimmer knew that any actor is in a fragile state of mind before going on-stage. Often the half hour before curtain-up is spent quietly sitting in a chair and thinking himself into his part, concentrating only upon what lies ahead and blocking out any extraneous thoughts. During that time an actor hates to be spoken to, or interrupted. A good actor produces his performance from inside himself, which is an unconscious process; he’s learned his lines, he’s studied, he’s rehearsed with the rest of the cast, and before curtain-up time is when the part takes over the actor. The conscious mind is suspended as the subconscious takes over, transferring all rehearsed input into a living performance.

  Twenty minutes later, there was a tap on the dressing room door and a distraught Pagan appeared in a tulip-skirted cream satin dress, and Abdullah’s emerald collar.

  “I don’t know what’s happened, Lili, but I know that someone’s tried to ruin our benefit and we’re not going to let them. You’ll have a full house in fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s all very well for you, Pagan,” said Lili, sounding exhausted. “You don’t have to go out there and smile and knock ‘em dead, as if nothing had happened.”

  “Lili needs to be alone, now,” Zimmer said firmly. He led Pagan out of the dingy dressing room and up to the backstage area, where the crowd of dancers were sweating in the hot July night. Zimmer tiptoed across the stage, peeped through the spyhole in the center of the curtain, then tiptoed back to Pagan.

  “They’re coming!” he confirmed, then turned to the theater manager. “Please get your security men to search the entire theater. Tip up every seat, check the flies and the scenery storeroom, empty the lavatory cisterns, clear the street outside.”

  “We can’t possibly do that, it’ll delay the performance even longer!” The house manager promised himself that he’d never let the theater owner give another charity event, so long as he still worked at that theater.

  “We know that someone out there doesn’t like Lili,” Zimmer said. “So we must insist on a full security check.” He turned back to Pagan. “This is a terrible thing to happen to a performer, the opening is going to be very tough for Lili.”

  “I know. That’s why my opening speech is going to be different from what I’d planned.”

  Pagan found that her legs were shaking, as she walked out to the center of the stage. A stagehand pulled the red velvet curtain aside for her. She took a deep breath and stepped through the opening. The spotlight temporarily blinded her. She held up her hand for silence and saw the upturned faces in the front row seats. Beyond them was blackness, although Pagan knew that they had a full house, as she beamed at her audience and started.

  “Many things can disturb a star’s self-confidence, but the one nightmare that every performer knows about is that no one will come to watch the show. Because without an audience, there can be no performance.” Pagan was aware of the hush in the theater, as she went on. “Tonight, for almost an hour, it seemed as if that nightmare had become a reality, for Lili, our star.…”

  After Pagan ended her speech, a few scattered handclaps quickly grew into a roar of applause. Pagan hurried into the wings as the curtains drew back and the lights dimmed, leaving the stage black. Then a single spotlight picked out the silhouette of Lili’s small, silver-spangled figure at the top of the elaborate staircase.

  The applause became a standing ovation, as the audience clapped, and shouted their approval, for a full five minutes before Lili could start to sing. “C’est Paris.…”

  * * *

  “‘…can only praise her jaunty courage,’ that’s the Mail.” Lili’s agent tossed the newspapers onto Lili’s bed, pulled off his black leather gloves and unbuttoned his vicuna coat. “The Times says you’re the natural successor to Piaf and Garland, and the Sun’s given you the front page—’Sex Goddess Lili Drama.’ They’ve all run it as a news story. You’ve got great coverage.”

  “And you still have no idea who planned this horrible joke.”

  “All we know about him is that he must have plenty of money. It was an
expensive operation.”

  “Talking of expenses, did you send the money to Teresa?”

  * * *

  On the nightstand lay a delicate pair of gold handcuffs from Van Cleef in Cannes. An empty bottle of Bollinger, and a lipstick-smeared champagne glass stood beside a plastic bag of cotton balls and a small pharmacist’s box of amyl nitrate capsules. The other glass lay smashed on the floor, beside a purple satin, black-fringed negligee.

  Teresa was wearing an elaborate, black leather Barbarella costume with four-inch spike heels on her black leather thigh boots. She was lovingly cooing scatological insults into the ear of the stout man who lay on the bed beside her.

  “Please stop,” he begged. “Don’t be so cruel, I didn’t mean it.”

  “You mean you lie to me as well.” She shoved him away from her and he fell over the side of the bed to the floor, yelping as his body hit the broken champagne glass.

  He crawled away from the bed on his hands and knees. Nimbly, Teresa jumped off the bed, kicked his wobbling, hairy backside with her high heels, then, with a practiced hand, she flourished her thin black whip over her head, just missing the plastic chandelier.

  He whimpered, “Don’t kick me, don’t kick me, please.”

  “These boots are filthy,” she snarled, “you haven’t cleaned them properly!” She took another neat jab at his rear, thinking, I’d better be careful, I don’t want to mark him.

  As expertly as a rodeo cowboy, she lighted flicked his ear with the whip. “Turn around,” she commanded, thinking she’d better get this over fast, she didn’t want to be late for her tennis coach this afternoon at Washington’s prestigious Potomac Club. She jabbed at the fat man’s pendulous stomach. “Now, lick my boots!”

  As the man did so, Teresa could see that at last his claret-colored private parts were responding. Thoughtfully, she tickled his spine with her whip, then threw it on the bed and leaned backward toward the cotton balls and the capsules.

  She kept up the litany of abuse and, from time to time, she gave him an encouraging whack with her hairbrush, as she deftly wrapped the capsules in cotton, then twisted them in a handkerchief.