Authors: Roberta Latow
‘It’s not like you to sit in a cold bath.’
‘My mind was drifting.’
‘I thought as much.’
Ben opened his robe, draped it over the chaise longue and returned to Arianne. Pulling her forward by her hands, he stepped into the bath behind her and lowered himself into the water. Spreading his legs far apart he placed his hands around Arianne’s waist and drew her against him. He kissed her back. Then, taking the sponge, he lathered it up with the bar of Guerlain soap and began washing her back. ‘About my conversation with Mike Chambers …’
Arianne grew tense. She leaned back, rested herself against Ben’s chest and removed the sponge from his hands. She made herself busy, lifting his arm out of the water and starting to wash it. Ben removed the sponge from her hands. ‘This is not going to go away, Arianne.’
She slipped down in the water. Turning on her side, she pulled herself up on to her knees to face him. Still between his legs, she sat on her haunches, the water covering her breasts. Ignoring his words, she retrieved the sponge and resumed washing his shoulders.
Bathing together was one of their great pleasures. He caressed her breasts, so slippery and sensual in the soapy water. The dark nimbus around her erect nipples was puckered. She looked sexy. Hungry for her, he raised her by the waist from the water and buried his face between her breasts, moving his head from side to side. Lost in their voluptuousness, he took first one nipple in his mouth and then the other. He sucked hard and held it between teeth that teased and taunted. He covered her breasts now with loving, urgent kisses. When he saw in her eyes that she was right there with him, not drifting somewhere else, he could have wept with joy. She was back.
Arianne did nothing to hide the pleasure he was giving her. She had been calmed by his love for her. She could face anything now. They smiled at each other, understanding through sensual
delight rather than words, that with him she could face the crisis confronting them. He lowered her gently back into the water.
Her hands had not been idle. They had closed on his penis, been fondling his scrotum. He had grown long and thick and hard there; life and love were pulsating. To be handled thus in the silky hot water was exciting, sensuous. Only one thing could be better. Hands on her waist, he raised her once more, but this time high up out of the water, only to pull her down again, impaled upon him. Now their pleasure with each other was complete. To be filled so by Ben in one slow, exquisite thrust was nearly to take Arianne’s breath away. Involuntarily she threw her head back and let out a sigh. It was of more than pleasure. Relief? Release from anxiety? She intoned to the heavens, ‘Oh God, what joy, what bliss.’
She placed her hands on the edge of the bath and leaning on them, moved herself languidly on and off his penis. His kisses were deep and filled with passion; he licked her lips. Finally, still impaled upon Ben, she leaned against his chest, resting her head upon his shoulder. He sponged them with streams of the hot steamy water, and said, ‘That phone call.’
No, she didn’t want to hear about his conversation with Mike Chambers. Ben eased her from his shoulder to lay her on top of him. Arianne was careful to straighten her legs over his without disengaging. She liked having him erect and yet quiescent inside her. They lay in the water, bodies touching. He enveloped her in his arms. Lying there, up to her chin in the warm water, she felt safe and cocooned in a sensuous world of passion and love. He caressed her back and bottom and felt her yielding in to him with a warm and gentle orgasm. For some time they lay together, silent and contemplative. Then Ben kissed her lips once more, her cheek, her eyes, before he slid from beneath her on to his side and held her for several minutes. Now it was he who gave a sigh. At last he rose from the bath, taking her with him.
He held the pale grey, terry-cloth robe, trimmed in plum-coloured grosgrain ribbon for Arianne. She stepped into it. The large mother-of-pearl buttons shone as if newly prised from the sea. He watched her do them up as he dried himself with a bath sheet and wrapped a smaller towel around his waist.
She was at the dressing-table brushing her hair. He went to
her and took the brush from her, and then her hand in his and led her to the chaise. They sat down and stretched their legs out. He eased an arm around Arianne and said, ‘You look absolutely beautiful. To me you are the most thrilling and clever woman. I think we love each other very much. You’re going to have to remember that.’
Ben was taking advantage of the calm and collected Arianne now before him. He wanted to make what he had to tell as easy for her to accept as possible. ‘Mike Chambers.’
‘You were a long time on the telephone with him.’
‘Yes.’
‘Jason is alive, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. And he is in Tangier, just where that letter said he was.’
‘It seems incredible that we could have called that place and asked for Jason and, just like that, have heard his voice. And he would be alive for me again.’
‘Well, it might not have worked in exactly that way. More likely, we’d have asked for him and they would have said, “No such person here.” Jason is living under an assumed name: Edmund Waverly. The monastery is a hospital and a hospice run by monks. It boasts the finest medical attention in Tangier. A team of French doctors. They dedicate themselves to the terminally sick.’ Ben saw the anguish suddenly return to Arianne. ‘Jason is in no immediate danger of dying, but he has been critically ill for a very long time. That’s all Mike Chambers would tell me – except that he is Jason’s friend and companion. And we are flying to Tangier, day after tomorrow, to meet Mike.’
‘Did Mike send that note to Simone?’
‘No, I asked him that.’
‘Then it has to have been Ahmad. I think we should call him, Ben.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘He was our best friend. He loved Jason as much as I did. Jason was as much his life as he was mine. He knows Jason is alive. I must talk to him, ask him why.’
‘Leave Ahmad out of this, Arianne. This is something we are going to deal with without Ahmad. He is no friend. Forget what he has been to you and Jason in the past.’
Ben was taken by surprise when Arianne turned on him. ‘How
can you say that? You weren’t there. You never saw how he loved Jason and mourned him. You have no idea what a loss he was to our lives. How can we leave him out of this? You are unfair to Ahmad.’
‘I doubt that. Arianne, have you such a short memory? And why are you so angry with me? Are you afraid I might be right? You are your own woman, now – remember? You don’t need to be propped up by anyone. Let alone a bastard like Ahmad Salah Ali.’
The reprimand realerted Arianne to the reality of her situation. She placed her hands over her face. ‘Oh God, Ben, I’m sorry. You’re right.’ She removed her hands from her face.
‘Look, I know this is a shock for you, a shock for both of us. That’s why we must think rationally, face realities and deal with them. You don’t have to defend these men or what they have done to you. They are not defensible. Mike Chambers skirted around nearly every one of my questions. The few he did answer, and the hints that he dropped, lead me to believe we are about to hear an unsavoury, probably dishonourable story. One we should not become embroiled in. I am not passing judgement. All I am saying is, we should prepare ourselves, and most especially you should prepare yourself, to face the day after tomorrow. Your husband may not want to see you. He has, after all, made no contact with you for years. And if he does see you, what then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Arianne, you know, maybe we can deal with Jason through Mike Chambers.’
‘You mean not see Jason? Ben, I have to see him. I have to know what happened. I have to know …’ She hesitated, reluctant to finish the sentence. Instead she said, ‘Surely you can understand that?’
‘Yes, I can understand that.’ But Ben understood more than Arianne thought he did. He understood that, in spite of her wishes, hour by hour, he was losing her. That she was slipping away from him into the arms of a dead man come back to life, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it, except put up the best fight he could for the woman he loved.
Arianne was angry. Angry with Jason and Ahmad, but mostly enraged at herself. A pawn in some game? Not likely! What she needed was a good lawyer, not a trip to Morocco. But here she was, swaying down the aisle, clinging to the top of one seat and another for balance as the plane made its descent towards a landing in Tangier.
She was surrounded by noise: the hum of the motors, chatter in several languages, the hustle and bustle of polyglot people making ready for a fast exit from the plane. Arianne asked herself what she was doing there. It was difficult to tell when she had finally put emotions aside and returned to the reality of her life: love with a good man; the future where games were restricted to polo matches, tennis, and board games. And the fact that her husband, dead or alive, no longer existed for her. Arianne felt an enormous weight had been taken off her shoulders. Her mind had been set free and her heart could flutter again at the sight of the smallest flower or the largest expression of life. She was in control of herself, her emotions.
Ben’s eyes were closed; how handsome he looked; good and kind. Her mind recalled the first time she had seen him. Chessington Park. She thought of her mother, Artemis, and Ben’s Uncle Anson, the parkland and the house – a world away from the madness of this flight to Morocco to confront the past. She smiled, thinking of Beryl Quilty and her pathological need to control life in Chessington House. Another kind of madness, another slice of life. Something between a laugh and giggle slipped from between her lips. She placed her hand on Ben’s shoulder. He covered it with his, opened his eyes and stood up, then stepped in to the aisle, allowing her to take the seat next to the window.
‘I was in a half-sleep, a doze really, but I thought I heard you laughing.’
‘I was having a little giggle about the madness of life.’ She turned to face Ben. ‘We should be on a plane about to land in New York, not in Tangier.’
‘I’ll buy that.’
Ben noted the change of tone in her voice, the sparkle in her eye:Arianne in control. The Arianne he fell in love with, no pawn in any man’s life. Arianne had come out of her shock. He had never doubted that she would.
‘How stupid I’ve been. Here I am looking for explanations, when all I really need to look for is a divorce.’
That word, divorce, was music to Ben’s ears. When they left London he had still been concerned that Arianne might be returning to her husband. Now, minutes from landing in Tangier, they were there because she was seeking a divorce. Everything he had hoped for. Arianne knew what she wanted. It had somehow become clear to her that, however much she had loved Jason, happy as she had been with him, there could be no return.
Mike Chambers watched the airplane door open. A ground steward tapped him on the shoulder. ‘OK, Mike, that’s us.’
The steward took the steps two at a time: his way of testing them before any of the passengers descended from the aircraft. On the stair landing he stopped to speak to the first-class cabin steward. The passengers were held back until Arianne and Ben were found. The steward spoke to Ben and pointed Mike Chambers out to him.
Ben and Arianne descended the stairs. This tall, handsome, well-built man, dressed in a putty-coloured linen suit, and an elegant woman dressed in cream linen, high-heeled, cream lizard shoes and wearing a large-brimmed hat of straw, turned out to be the people Mike was waiting for. He was impressed. He gave the lady all his attention. She was carrying a large, cream-coloured lizard bag. It hung from her shoulder by a gold chain. She had a beautiful face, serene even, with kindness in the eyes. It was a face with an angelic quality about it. She was not the woman he had expected Jason Honey to be married to. But then what had he expected? He had had no clue. Jason Honey had
never mentioned a wife. Hell! He hadn’t even mentioned that he was Jason Honey yet! Mike Chambers stepped forward, his hand out to Ben’s. Ben introduced himself and then said, ‘This is Arianne Honey, Mr Chambers.’
‘Mike. Please call me Mike.’
Mike Chambers was the consummate diplomat. A clever young detective, he knew how to keep on the good side of his connections. He introduced Arianne and Ben first to the airport official standing with him and then to his two colleagues.
‘We have to thank these two men for taking the sting out of your landing in Tangier. If you give your passports to Mr Hussein, he will get them stamped and meet us at the car.’
Thanks followed from both Arianne and Ben as Mr Hussein walked off in one direction, while they walked in another across the tarmac to a waiting car. ‘You seem to be a man of influence, Mr Chambers.’
‘No, just a detective with friends. We do a lot of security work here in Morocco. Did you have a good flight?’
Banal conversation. Arianne knew it was what was expected, and therefore duly delivered until they got down to the real reason they were there. Arianne was just a bit flustered by Mike Chambers. She had expected an older man, not a tall, handsome fellow who could be no more than in his mid-twenties. But he was American, open-faced, bright, obviously very confident in whatever he did.
The small group stood next to a large black Mercedes parked on the edge of the tarmac near an exit gate from the airfield. They made chit-chat about Tangier, questions – had either of them been there before? – declarations of admiration for Morocco.
It was the first day of July; the heat was oppressive. ‘You’ll be cooler without your jacket,’ suggested Ben and helped her off with it. The linen dress worn beneath it had wide shoulder straps that crossed over her bare back. Mike mused to himself, She may have the face of an angel, but that body belongs on earth. For him Jason was a mystery, but his desertion of this woman standing before him was an even greater mystery. ‘The car is air-conditioned. We can wait for the passports just as well sitting comfortably.’
Mr Hussein returned with them before they had a chance to
sample the air-conditioning – profuse thanks and handshakes all round again. He gallantly handed Arianne a bunch of deep purple, pansy-like flowers, with a long pin stuck through the string binding them. ‘May your stay in Tangier be all flowers and joy.’ In the car Ben pinned them to her dress. ‘May it just, God willing,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘Do you mind, Mike? I really hate being sealed in an air-conditioned car,’ Arianne asked. The windows were immediately rolled down. All the way in from the airport the scent of Morocco, its colour, its rhythm, the excitement of North Africa, impinged on them. The women, draped and masked, walked along the roadside together in groups of two and three, or zoomed past in powerful limos, on the saddles of bikes, or slowly on flat carts drawn by donkeys. Then there were the men in robes and turbans, others in jeans and brightly coloured shirts. Children, loud laughter, push-carts with fruits and vegetables being hawked by boys who dashed in front of cars to wave them down to shop. Transistor radios blaring Moroccan music, the whine of oboes and high-pitched stringed instruments, thumping drums. Arianne was entranced. She was far more interested in Tangier than she had thought she would be. Ben knew Tangier, though not as well as Casablanca or Agadir. He had hoped one day to take Arianne and show her Morocco, to explore it more deeply himself. But now was not the moment.
‘I’ve booked you into a hotel. Your luggage will be delivered directly there from the airport. But, for the moment, I thought I would take you to a garden where we can have lunch and talk.’
Mike was sitting in the front seat of the car with the chauffeur. He had been turned around facing Arianne and Ben, telling them the plan. Now he placed an index finger to his lips, as if to say, ‘Be silent. Don’t say anything about your mission to Tangier until we are there.’
Ben indicated to Mike that they understood. Arianne found the secrecy a little annoying. She wanted to get on with it. She was almost uninterested now by what Mike had to say about Jason. She had even reached the point where she wished she hadn’t come to meet either Mike or Jason. She no longer felt she had to see them. She could get a lawyer and send him to settle it all.
A welcome thought, but Arianne knew that was impossible. The ghost had to be laid – if not for her sake, then for Ben’s, and for their future. She distracted herself with Tangier. The sights were enhanced by its being a port city, an Arab city on a bay of the Strait of Gibraltar that had for years been held successfully by various powers. Having been established as an international city in 1923, it had never lost that international chic that mingled with the Arab Morocco. Now a city that had abolished that international status and assumed independence, it was its own special place. It made for a mélange of architectural styles, yet each was subservient to that of the country’s own.
Driving through the city, Arianne was impressed with the sunny disposition, the smiles, the charm of the people gathered in groups in the squares and market places. It retained too its lingering Gallic chic. Arianne was captivated by Tangier even before the Mercedes pulled up in front of a magnificent Moroccan house.
They walked through rooms resplendent with tiles, marble floors, and complex fretwork, and were greeted by turbaned servants and maître d’. The owner of the establishment, a handsome Moroccan of considerable age, dressed in splendid robes and turban, saw them into a courtyard where a fountain tinkled. Wooden bird-cages hung in the shade, bird-song filled the quadrangle. They went through more rooms to another courtyard, this one smaller, with another fountain, and clay pots of flowers in abundance – a riot of colour and an overpowering sweet scent. Here was a place Matisse might have painted or de Nerval surrendered his sanity to.
In the rooms and courtyards Arianne saw attractive, dark-skinned men with bright eyes and Arab features, wearing white turbans and dark blue robes trimmed in white silk braid; servants drifting silently through the rooms carrying trays proffering delicacies from the Moroccan cuisine enticingly presented. Sitting on divans resplendent in Moroccan dress and bulky, exquisite jewellery, beautiful women covered their faces as Mike and his party passed them. They were attended by men in western dress, elegant and chic, who accorded the foreigners a friendly smile.
Arianne was enchanted. They were shown to a table in a far
corner of the splendid garden of palm and date trees, hibiscus in full bloom on bushes taller than a man, flowering lemon and orange trees, green lawns, and an endless display of flowers. Here were more fountains to cool the air, a small pond of golden fish, another covered with water lilies, and at its edges clumps of irises and flowering papyrus. From other tables dotted around the garden came the sound of laughter, the sight of smiling faces, happy diners. People acknowledged Mike’s table as they passed by. Ben was no less impressed, even though he had been there before, dining with Simone and a contingent of French friends. ‘You certainly have found your Tangier, Mike. This is one of the hidden wonders of the city.’
‘You’ve been here before, Ben?’ asked a surprised Arianne.
‘Yes, I even have a friend who lives here, a French friend. He has a marvellous house.’
‘You didn’t say.’
‘It didn’t seem relevant, but now I think it might be.’
Long, cool fruit drinks were brought to the table, with mint leaves and slices of orange. ‘I was somehow not prepared for this. It never occurred to me that I might take to Tangier,’ Arianne announced.
‘It’s easy,’ said Mike. ‘There’s a large expatriate community to prove it, and others in Casablanca, Agadir and Fez. Many successful westerners, some celebrated writers, people from all over the artistic and social world, are here, enjoying an exotic lifestyle in handsome Moroccan palaces or lesser, but still enchanting houses.’
‘And you’re one of them?’ asked Arianne.
‘No, I’m here strictly for business. But I manage to enjoy it.’
‘And what is your business?’ asked Arianne.
‘I am a private detective working for a very respectable agency. Your husband doesn’t know that.’
‘But you told Mr Johnson here that you were a friend, a close friend, and his companion.’
‘That’s true. It’s rather complicated. I have become very attached to him. It’s hard not to, he’s such a charmer. But I am doing a job as well.’
‘Don’t tell me any more. I think I’d rather not know. You say my husband is alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘You understand what a shock that is to me? He vanished from my life, then we buried him. I mourned for years, and now I find it’s all been a sham. I need only know one thing. Is my husband capable of making contact with me?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he hasn’t. Now I really don’t think I want to know any more. That one thing was important. The rest is irrelevant, except that I am still married to Jason Honey. Had some malicious person not notified us that my husband was still alive, I would soon have been a bigamist. And he would have allowed that. I thought I wanted explanations from him. I don’t. I only want a divorce.’ There was a firmness, a definite hardness about Arianne that both men began to admire and respect.
‘Mrs Honey, it would be better for you to hear me out. There’s no elaborate deception here on my part, or my firm’s. I have instructions to tell you certain facts. If you don’t want to hear them, don’t. But I think you would be wise to do so, because you are going to be hard-pressed to get a divorce from Jason Honey. You see, to all intents and purposes he has had himself wiped off the face of this earth. I know he is Jason Honey, I have proof. But he doesn’t acknowledge that. And the proof I have cannot be used on your behalf. It’s confidential to my firm’s client, who is not Jason Honey. His passport doesn’t say that he is. And he doesn’t acknowledge you.’
‘Where does that leave me?’
Ben saw the flash of vulnerability in Arianne. Emotions taking hold. He came to her rescue. ‘Arianne, painful as this may be, you are going to have to hear Mike out. Otherwise there is no way we can deal with this problem.’
Arianne nodded agreement.
‘Good.’ Ben reached under the table to take her hand in his, raised it to his mouth and kissed it tenderly. Then, placing it on the table, he held it tight. He asked, ‘Mike, who do you get your instructions from?’