Authors: Robbins Harold
Fat Cat's voice took on the ingratiating tone he always used when he had got himself into something he didn't want Dax to know about. His round face had the innocent look of a cherub. "Don't you recognize them, excellency?"
"No, I don't, who are they?"
"They are our servants."
"Our servants?" Dax turned to look at them. They giggled and tried to hide, one behind the other. He turned back to Fat Cat. "All of them?"
"Yes, excellency."
Dax looked at them again and counted. "But there are eight of them!" It was only a four-room house—his bedroom and Fat Cat's, a combination living and dining room and a kitchen. "Eight," he repeated, turning back to Fat Cat. "Where do they all sleep?"
"Here, excellency." Fat Cat led him around another corner of the house, the women trailing along behind them.
Against a wall of the house there was a kind of lean-to. The roof was thatched, and on the open side there were curtains made of old burlap bags. Dax parted the curtains and peered inside. On the ground were seven neatly made straw pallets. He let the burlap curtain fall and straightened up. "But there are only seven pallets."
Fat Cat began to look unhappy. "That is all they need."
Dax stared at him. He knew the answer almost before he had asked the question. "Where does the eighth one sleep?"
Fat Cat didn't answer. His face turned slightly red with embarrassment.
"Well?" Dax asked, staring at Fat Cat. He had no idea of letting him get off that easily.
"You see, excellency, that was what we were talking about."
"No, I don't see."
"Well"—Fat Cat took a deep breath—"they were arguing about whose turn it was to sleep in the house."
"With you?" Dax asked coldly.
"Yes, excellency." Fat Cat hung his head for a moment. "You see, three of them are already pregnant. The others feel I am not being fair if I do not let them have their turn."
"I think I need a drink," Dax said. He walked around to the front of the house and went inside. He took off his cap and sank into a chair.
A moment later Fat Cat was at his side. "A nice tall cool gin and tonic, excellency," he said in a soothing voice. He put the glass on the table next to Dax's chair and started back quickly toward the kitchen.
Dax's voice stopped him. "Get rid of them!"
Fat Cat's voice was injured. "All of them, excellency?"
"All of them."
"Couldn't I just send away the pregnant ones?"
"All of them!"
"Couldn't I even keep the two best ones?" Fat Cat wheedled. "It's not healthy for a man to live alone in this climate."
"No," Dax said flatly. "In case you don't know it, we're attached to a foreign military force. We could both be court-martialed and shot for what you've done. There isn't anyone who would believe that you could run a harem right under my nose without my knowing about it!"
He picked up his drink and sipped at it. "I can't even believe it myself."
It was not until seven months later, after MacArthur had been summoned home, in 1952, that Dax was summoned to the office of the new Chief of Staff. The weather had been freezing along the Inchon Valley and the casualties heavy in the face of the new drive by the North Koreans and the Red Chinese.
The assistant to the new Chief of Staff smiled at him. "At ease, Colonel, I think I have some good news for you for a change."
"Yes, sir."
"The Commander-in-Chief wishes you to confirm to him that your force, which has been held in reserve, has now received its training in the use and care of the new weapons."
"I can confirm that, sir. I received a dispatch from my president just last week. Over two thousand of our soldiers have been trained in the new weapons and are ready to be called."
"Good. I will inform the Commander-in-Chief of your confirmation. He will forward a request to have your troops shipped out at once."
"With your permission, sir, I would like to send a diplomatic dispatch to my president direct. I wish to alert Mm of the request."
"Good, you have it. I was hoping you'd do that, it should speed things up. Your men should be ready to embark the minute the orders arrive."
But two days later Dax was back with a cablegram from el Presidente. White-faced and silent, he handed it to the aide.
PLEASE INFORM COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF MY DEEP REGRETS.
DUE TO EXPIRATION OF ENLISTMENTS LESS THAN FIFTY OFFICERS AND MEN NOW TRAINED IN USE OF NEW STANDARDIZED WEAPONS. IMMEDIATE STEPS BEING TAKEN TO TRAIN NEW ENLISTERS. YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED WHEN QUOTA IS FILLED.
EL PRESIDENTE
The aide looked at Dax. "It looks like someone's been playing politics with you, Colonel."
Dax did not answer.
"Do I have your permission to show this to the Commander-in-Chief?"
"Yes, sir. And may I request a favor of the Commander-in-Chief, sir?"
"What is it?"
"I feel my usefulness here is at an end," Dax said through tight lips. "I request permission to be relieved of my duties."
The old aide stared at him for a moment. "I suppose that would be best," he said thoughtfully. "You'll have your permission in the morning." He held out his hand. "I'm sorry, Colonel."
Dax took his hand. "I am too, sir."
It was a war without secrets, and the news was all over Seoul in a matter of hours. Even the North Korean radio announced that the Corteguayan president had refused to send troops to fight in an imperialistic war of aggression.
Dax sat at a table in the officers' club alone with a half-empty drink. He lit another cigarette and stared moodily down at the table. Occasionally a friend would come over with a word of sympathy, but since they didn't know what to say, mostly they left him alone.
Then an American Marine major came in. He was only back a few hours from the battle line. His clothes were still dirty with the mud of the field as he walked up to the bar and ordered a drink in a voice still used to making itself heard over the rumble of war. The other soldiers gravitated around him, eager to hear the latest.
"Man, it was a bitch!" He drank his drink hurriedly and ordered another. "I lost almost half the men in my command. Those damn slant-eyes just kept on comin' an' comin'. I never saw so many of the yallow gook bastards in my life."
The major turned, his elbows on the bar, and looked around. Then he noticed Dax. He stared at him for a moment and, without lowering his voice, asked of no one in particular, "Is that the colonel who comes from a whole country of chickens?"
A silence suddenly fell over the room. Dax looked up and met the Marine's eyes steadily. He had been around long enough to understand the play on words. Slowly he got to his feet. He counted out the money for his drink and placed it carefully on the table, then walked up to the major at the bar.
"I envy you the battle from which you come. Perhaps it gives you the right to say such things, Major," he said quietly, "but I don't envy you the ignorance out of which you speak."
After a moment the major's eyes lowered, and Dax turned and walked out of the club. The next day he was in Tokyo.
Less than a month later he was on his way back to New York. It was almost two years from the day that el Presidente had sent him out as head of an army that never existed.
CHAPTER 5
Sergei sat behind his desk, his eyes thoughtful, his hand toying with the gold letter opener. He looked at Irma Andersen, then at the man sitting in the chair beside her. "I don't know," he said after a moment's silence, "we're doing well enough here. I wouldn't like to upset the apple cart, as you Americans say."
Irma snorted derisively. She spoke rapidly in French, too rapidly for the American sitting next to her to follow. "You're an idiot, Sergei! You gross two hundred thousand a year, maybe net seventeen thousand for yourself. You call that enough? Lakow is offering you millions!"
"But here we know what we can do," Sergei replied. "America, that's another story. It's a different kind of business entirely. Wiser and smarter men than I have lost their shirts in the mass market. Besides, how do I know what it might do to our business here? We could lose it all if our customers decided we had become too common, too ordinary."
"But copies of your dresses are sold all over America now, and it hasn't made the slightest difference."
"Copies, that's something else. Our prices are maintained. Not everyone can afford an original, and the royalties are not bad. But we would surely lose all that if we went into a straight twenty-to-fifty-dollar line."
"It's not just the dresses," Harvey Lakow said, "it's everything. A complete new way of life for the American woman. The Prince Nikovitch name will be on everything. A complete line of cosmetics and perfumes. Lingerie. Sport wear, from bikinis to ski clothes. Even husbands won't be forgotten. We'll have men's toiletries as well as ties and sport shirts. I don't think you quite realize what this could mean. We'll have an investment of over five million before we see a single sale."
Sergei still hesitated. "If the idea is so good, why haven't any of the other houses gone for it?"
Harvey Lakow smiled. "Because we haven't asked them. We asked you."
There was no doubt in Sergei's mind that Lakow was telling the truth. Amalgamated-Federal was the largest association of department stores and women's-wear .shops in the world. There were over a thousand outlets in the United States alone, ranging from the largest of department stores in the big cities down to medium-size quality shops in a variety of smaller towns.
"If you could have anyone you wanted, why me?"
"If I may speak bluntly?"
"Go ahead," Irma said, "the truth won't kill him."
Lakow turned back to Sergei. "Once we had decided on what we are temporarily calling 'Paris in Your Home,' we began to look around for the one house we thought would best suit our needs. The older, better-established houses were immediately rejected because we were convinced they were too set in their ways. Then we considered for a while taking one of their designers and building him up. But that seemed hardly practical. It was Dior's name that was known, not the designer's. We were looking for a name that any American woman would immediately associate with Parisian couture. That's why we decided on you. Oddly enough, it was my wife who brought up your name. I've learned to trust her judgment, she has very good instincts. She pointed out that although you were a comparatively new house you had survived for over five years, and thanks to Miss Andersen's column and others, you are in some ways more widely known than most of the older houses. Besides, my wife said she met you once and that you seemed a bright, capable young man."
"Your wife?" Sergei's brow wrinkled.
Harvey Lakow smiled. "She said you probably wouldn't remember her. It was before the war, when she came to Paris on a holiday. She was alone; I couldn't get away because of business problems. You were a student then and very helpful to her. You acted as her part-time guide."
"I'm sorry," Sergei said, "I don't seem to remember her."
"It's not really important. The important thing is that you have a good house, and a moderately successful one. But in Paris you will never really achieve the status of a top house. Yet to American women the others are just names, while you are a personality, a man whose pictures they have seen in newspapers and magazines. They know of you through your marriage to Sue Ann Daley, and through the extensive reportage of Miss Andersen. You represent to them glamour, excitement, the high life. There is no doubt in our minds that if you come in with us and go to America we could practically dominate the fashion world there in a very short time."
Harvey Lakow got to his feet. "Look, I know this is all very sudden. I imagine you want time to think about it. I'm going to Rome tomorrow but I'll be back on Saturday. Could you call me at my hotel then and give me your answer?"
There was a silence after Lakow had left the room. "What do you think?" Sergei finally asked Irma.
"He's right," she said, quietly for once, "you will never make it here as a top house. You know that because you wanted to hire other top designers and they wouldn't come."
Sergei nodded. He had long felt the need of another designer; his own little fairy was beginning to lose his sparkle. "It's still dangerous. I could lose everything."
"All you need is a few good years, and then it wouldn't matter. The fifteen percent they are offering you is worth twenty times what this place is. And they are quite willing for you to keep this for yourself alone."
Sergei stared at her. "America, I've heard so much about it. I've always wanted to go there. And yet . . . I'm afraid."
Irma smiled. "You have nothing to worry about. American women are no different from any other kind. You should know that by now. They are all in love with what a man has in his britches."
Sergei reached for a cigarette. "I can always rely on your honesty to make me face myself for what I really am, Irma."
"That's why your name is better known than that fairy designer you've got downstairs. Don't knock it, boy."
Sergei put the cigarette in the holder and lit it.
"Tell me something," Irma said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"Was it true that you really didn't remember Lakow's wife?"
"No." Sergei looked across the desk at her, his eyes gentle and in a way sad. "I remembered her very well."
"I thought so," Irma said with satisfaction. "I didn't think you were the kind of man who ever forgot any woman."
"I should be excited about it," Sergei said after the waiter had filled their demitasse cups and gone away, "but I'm not."
Giselle said nothing, just sat there looking at Sergei with her huge blue eyes.
"I'm thirty-five, and for the first time in my life I've found a place for myself. I don't want to chance losing it. I guess it's because I find it too comfortable. Or am I getting old?"
Giselle smiled. "You're still a young man."
Sergei looked at her somberly. "I feel old. Sometimes when I think of my daughter—she's almost thirteen now— I'm reminded of how much time has gone by."