“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.
“You know I’ve always been a coward, Abdullah.”
He smiled at her and clicked his fingers. An equerry stepped forward. “Lady Swann wishes to place a five-pound bet each way on the favorite.”
“Abdullah, don’t be silly. I was only teasing. Of course I’ll put my money on your horse.”
As soon as he had mounted, Reh al Leil pitched her jockey onto the velvet turf, and the odds lengthened to 100–7.
As the other horses cantered sedately down the course to the start, Reh al Leil tore off at a gallop, her once-glossy flanks thickly plastered with white foam and her nostrils gaping wide and red.
She reared in terror at the starting stalls, again unseated her jockey, and delayed the race a further ten minutes.
When the starting gate finally flew open, Reh al Leil was twenty feet behind the other horses and heading in the opposite direction to the race.
“Wherever did you find that filly?” Pagan asked Abdi, as Golden Gondola set a businesslike pace in the lead.
“Kentucky,” he said pleasantly. At the first furlong, Reh al Leil was the last horse in the race.
At the third furlong post, she was halfway up the field of eight young horses, and showing extraordinary speed.
By the last furlong, Golden Gondola had dropped back to third place and Reh al Leil, cheered on by the roar of the packed grandstands, was out in front, then triumphantly won by a neck.
“I’m glad I didn’t bet on the favorite, she’s lost a lot of money today,” laughed Pagan, as they made their way to the winner’s enclosure. “She couldn’t have gone slower if she’d been a real golden gondola.”
“Most modern gondolas are motorized.”
“How unromantic. Were there ever golden gondolas in Venice?” Pagan asked Abdullah, as they watched Reh al Leil, draped in sweat rugs, being walked steadily up and down.
“Yes. In fact, there still are, Pagan. Haven’t you ever been to Venice?”
“No,” said Pagan. “What’s your tip for the next race? Oh, watch out, here’s the Queen Mother.” With difficulty, Pagan curtsied in her tight primrose silk skirt.
Afterward, Abdullah and Pagan walked slowly past the paddock to the sun-dappled half-circle of white rails at the end of the racecourse grounds. “This is my favorite part of Ascot,” Pagan said dreamily, as she watched the horses being prepared for the journey home. The farrier removed the light racing plates from Reh al Leil’s oiled hooves, and Abdullah rewarded the horse with a couple of peeled, scrubbed carrots.
* * *
“His Majesty is upstairs,” the ancient doorman told Pagan the next day, after directing her to the back staircase. Women—or lady guests, as they were known at Black’s—could only enter certain parts of the club and they were forbidden to use the main staircase.
In the shabby dining room, the walls were covered by gold-framed pictures of bloodstock. Elderly waitresses moved slowly from table to table. “I see nothing’s changed,” Pagan said to Abdullah.
“Nothing has changed.” Abdullah smiled back at her. “The food is as bad as ever.” He nodded amiably at the Minister of Defense, as he passed their table. The part of Abdullah that had been educated at Eton and Sandhurst, the lover of field sports and a respecter of tradition, was extremely comfortable at Black’s. The part of Abdullah that was proudly Arab detested the claustrophobic atmosphere of privilege and prejudice in the dim-paneled rooms, where judges, politicians, churchmen, and diplomats drank fine champagne from silver tankards, snoozed in old leather chairs and, although polite, really wanted nothing to do with dirty wogs.
In the early days of their friendship, when lunch at Black’s had been a frequent event, Pagan and Abdullah had realized that the only way to eat well in the club was to order food that had been purchased from the members’ own estates, which meant river fish, game, and esoteric vegetables such as salsify and samphire.
Abdullah watched Pagan as she dipped slim green asparaguss spikes in melted butter, then ate plain salmon trout with new potatoes, fresh peas, and cucumber salad.
When the raspberries arrived, Abdullah ate them with his fingers, picking up each small red fruit, one at a time. Why should such a harsh man have such a soft mouth, Pagan wondered, watching him; his lips look as soft as Reh al Leil’s nose. Pagan felt the elation of flirtation. She realized that not once, since they had sat down, had Abdullah taken his dark eyes from her face.
When the waitress removed the silver raspberry dishes, their hands were half an inch apart on the white damask tablecloth. Abdullah slowly stretched his fingers and Pagan felt the warmth of his fingertips.