Authors: Nelson DeMille
Well, maybe that was a silly thought, and quite frankly, I didn’t give a damn what Amir Nasim thought; he’d had ample time to get rid of the statues if he’d wanted to.
Anyway, we chatted about the weather until we reached the top of the stairs and passed into the upper foyer, where in days gone by the master and his wife would greet their now coatless, hatless, and probably winded guests.
From the upper foyer, I followed Mr. Nasim to the right, down a long, wide gallery, which I knew led to the library.
Mr. Nasim inquired, “How long has it been since you have been here?”
Obviously, he knew something of my personal history. I replied, “Ten years.”
“Ah, yes, it is nine years since I purchased this home.”
I recalled that the government, which had seized the property from Frank Bellarosa, had sold Stanhope Hall and most of the acreage to a Japanese corporation, for use as a retreat for strung-out Nipponese executives, but the deal had fallen through, and I’d heard from Edward that an Iranian had purchased the property a year after I’d left. I should tell Mr. Nasim that Anthony Bellarosa wanted his father’s property back.
He asked me, “You have good memories here?”
Not really. But I replied, “Yes.” In fact, Susan and I had been married in Stanhope Hall, while William and Charlotte were still living here, and Cheap Willie had given us—or his daughter—an outdoor reception, to which he’d invited about three hundred of his closest and dearest friends, family, and business associates, as well as a few people I knew. Of course, with William footing the bill, the food and booze ran out early, and the orchestra packed it in at 10:00 P.M. sharp, and by 10:30 the remaining guests were scavenging for wine dregs and cheese rinds.
That was not my first clue that my new father-in-law was a master of the bargain-basement grand gesture, nor was it the last. In the end, he’d gotten back the only thing he ever gave me: his daughter.
Mr. Nasim informed me, “We are still in the process of decorating.”
“It takes a while.”
“Yes.” He added, “My wife . . . the women take their time with decisions.”
“Really?” I mean, nine years isn’t
that
long, Amir. You’re married. Learn to be patient.
In fact, the wide gallery and the adjoining rooms were almost devoid of furniture and totally devoid of paintings or decorations. There were, however, a scattering of carpets on the floor—undoubtedly Persian—and ironically, this is what covered most of the floors of Stanhope Hall when William and Charlotte lived here.
The last time I’d seen this place, it was unfurnished, except for a few odds and ends here and there, plus there were a few rooms that Susan and I used to store sporting equipment, awful gifts, and Susan’s childhood furniture. Also, I recalled there had been steamer trunks filled with clothing belonging to long-dead Stanhopes of both sexes. These outfits spanned the decades of the twentieth century, and Susan and I would sometimes dress in period costume—we both preferred the Roaring Twenties—and act silly.
Mr. Nasim said to me, “I suppose you know the history of this house.”
His English was good, learned from someone who spoke with a British accent. I replied, “I do.”
“Good. You must tell me the history.”
“If you wish.”
We reached the library, and Mr. Nasim stood aside and ushered me through the double doors.
The paneling and bookshelves were as I remembered, a rich pecan wood, but the new furniture was, unfortunately, a really bad French style, white and gold, the sort of thing you’d see in the Sunday magazine ads for a hundred dollars down and low monthly payments.
Mr. Nasim indicated two chairs covered in baby blue satin near the fireplace, between which was a white coffee table with bowed legs. I sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, and Mr. Nasim sat facing me. I noticed that the bookshelves were nearly empty, and what was there were mostly oversized art books of the type that decorators sold by the foot.
I noticed, too, that Mr. Nasim hadn’t invested in air-conditioning, and a floor fan moved the warm, humid air around the big library.
On the table was a silver tray piled high with sticky-looking pastry. My host said to me, “I enjoy the English tea, but I prefer Persian sweets to cucumber sandwiches.”
I noted his use of the word “Persian” as opposed to “Iranian,” which had some negative connotations since the Islamic Revolution, the ’79 hostage crisis, and subsequent misunderstandings between our countries.
Mr. Nasim whipped out his cell phone, speed-dialed, said a few words in Farsi, then hung up and said to me with a smile, “The high-tech version of the servant call button.” He informed me, “Tea will arrive shortly,” just in case I thought he’d called the Revolutionary Guards to take me hostage.
He sat back in his satin chair and asked me, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Mr. Sutter?”
I replied, without apologizing for my unannounced house call, “First, I wanted to let you know—personally and officially—that I’m staying in the gatehouse.”
“Thank you.” He added politely, “Perhaps I should have called on you.”
My limited experience with Arabs, Pakistanis, and Iranians in London was that they fell into two categories: those who tried to emulate the British, and those who went out of their way not to. Mr. Nasim, so far, seemed to fall into the former category of, “See how Western I am? Am I getting it right?”
I informed him, “It is I who am living on your property, so I should call on you. Which brings me to the other point of my visit. I saw Mrs. Allard a few days ago in the hospice house, and I believe she doesn’t have much time left.”
He seemed genuinely surprised and replied, “Yes? I didn’t know that. I thought . . . well, I am sorry to hear that news.”
“When she dies, as you know, her life tenancy expires with her.”
“Yes, I know that.”
He didn’t seem outwardly thrilled to learn that he was about to get his property back, but he knew, of course, this day would come, and he’d already made plans for it, and I’m sure those plans didn’t include me. Nevertheless, I said, “Therefore, I’d like to ask you if I could rent—or buy—the gatehouse.”
“Yes? You want to live there?”
“It’s an option.”
He nodded, thought a moment, then said, “I see . . .”
“If I rented, it would be only for a month or two.”
“I see. So you need a place to stay while you are not in London.”
“How did you know I lived in London?”
“I was told by Mrs. Sutter.”
“I assume you mean my ex-wife.”
“That is correct.”
“And what else did she tell you? So I don’t take your time by repeating what you already know.”
He shrugged and replied, “When she purchased the house—the former guest cottage—she paid a courtesy call. It was a Sunday, and I was here with my wife, and we had tea and she spoke generally of her situation.”
“I see. And since then, she’s informed you that her ex-husband has returned from London.”
“Correct.” He added, “Not me, actually. Soheila. My wife. They speak.”
I wanted to warn him that Mrs. Sutter was an adulteress and not good company for Soheila. But why cause trouble? I returned to my subject and said, “So, if you have no objection, I’d like to rent the gatehouse for a month or two—with an option to buy.”
“It is not for sale, but—”
Before he could continue, the woman who’d answered the door appeared carrying a tea tray, which she set down on the table with a bow of her head.
Mr. Nasim dismissed her, and she literally backed out of the room and pulled the doors closed. Well, maybe her training wasn’t all that bad; she just needed a lesson in front door etiquette. Or, more likely, Amir Nasim scared the hell out of her. Maybe I could pick up a few pointers from him on gender relations.
Anyway, Mr. Nasim did the honors and opened a wooden box that contained tins of teas and said to me, “Do you have a preference?”
I did, and it was called Scotch whisky, but I said, “Earl Grey would be fine.”
“Excellent.” He spooned the loose tea into two china pots and poured in hot water from a thermal carafe, all the while making tea talk, such as, “I generally let it steep for four minutes . . .” He covered both pots, then flipped over a sand timer and said, “. . . but you can time yours as you wish.”
I glanced at my watch, which he could interpret as me timing my tea or me getting a little impatient. In any case, I guess tea is what people of Mr. Nasim’s religion did in lieu of six o’clock cocktails.
As we waited for the sands of time to run out, he made conversation and said, “I lived in London for ten years. Wonderful city.”
“It is.”
“You have lived there, I believe, seven years.”
“That’s right.”
“And before that, you sailed around the world.”
“Correct.”
“So, you are an adventurous man. A man who likes danger, perhaps.”
“I went sailing. I didn’t attack any warships.”
He smiled, then said, “But it is dangerous out there, Mr. Sutter. Aside from the weather, there are pirates and explosive mines. Did you sail into the Persian Gulf?”
“I did.”
“That is very dangerous. Did you visit Iran?”
“I did. Bushehr.”
“And how were you received there?”
“Quite well.”
“Good. I have this theory that people who live in seaports are happier and kinder to strangers than those who live inland. What do you think?”
“I think that’s true until you get to New York.”
He smiled again, then changed the subject and said, “So, you will return to London in a month or two.”
“Perhaps.”
“And where do you live there?”
I told him my street in Knightsbridge, without giving him my house number, flat number, or telephone number.
He nodded and said, “A very nice neighborhood.” He informed me, “I lived in Mayfair.”
“Nice neighborhood.”
“Too many Arabs.”
I let that alone and watched the sand run. I’m aware that other cultures make lots of small talk before they get down to business, and I know this is not simply politeness; the other guy is trying to get a measure of you that he will use later. In this case, however, the business was fairly simple and should have taken less time than a three-minute egg. Well, maybe Amir Nasim was simply being polite to a now landless former aristocrat.
He said to me, “So, you are an attorney.”
“That’s right.”
“And this is what you did in London.”
“American tax law for British and foreign clients.”
“Ah. Interesting. Yes, there is a need for that. In fact, I have a company in London, so perhaps we can meet there one day and—” Time was up, and he took hold of his teapot and poured through a strainer into a dainty cup, saying to me, “Please go ahead, unless you like it stronger.”
I poured my tea as Mr. Nasim heaped several spoons of sugar into his cup. He asked me, “Sugar? Cream? Lemon?”
“I drink it straight.”
“Good. That is the correct way. But I like my sugar.” He sipped and said, “Very good. I use filtered water.”
“Me, too.” I said to him, “About the gatehouse—”
“Try a sweet. May I recommend that one?” He pointed to a gooey heap of something and said, “That is called Rangeenak.” He then named the other five desserts for me.
My Farsi, never good to begin with, was a bit rusty, so I said, “I’ll try number one.”
“Yes. Excellent.” He plucked up a wad of what looked liked dates with a silver tong and put them on my plate. “If you find it too sweet, I would recommend this one, which is made of sesame paste.”
“Okay. So, as to the purpose of my visit, it would be convenient for me, and I hope not an inconvenience for you, if I stayed for a month or two in the gatehouse.”
He put one of each pastry on his plate and replied offhandedly, “Yes, of course.”
This took me by surprise, and I said, “Well . . . that’s very good of you.” I added, “I can draw up a short-term lease for one month, beginning on Mrs. Allard’s death, with another month’s option. So, assuming we can agree on a rent—”
“There is no charge, Mr. Sutter.”
This, too, took me by surprise, and I said, “I insist—”
“No charge.” He joked, “Do you want to complicate my American taxes?”
Actually, that’s how I made my living, but I said, “Well . . . that’s very kind of you, but—”
“Not at all. I ask only that you be out by September the first.” He added, “Of course, if Mrs. Allard is still living at that time, then you are still her guest. But otherwise, September the first.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“Good.”
“But why don’t I draw up an agreement to that effect?” I explained, “Legally, it would be good for both of us to have this in writing.”
“We have a gentleman’s agreement, Mr. Sutter.”
“As you wish.” Now, of course, I was supposed to offer my hand—or did we cut open our veins, exchange blood, then dance around the table? After a few awkward seconds, I extended my hand and we shook.
Mr. Nasim poured more tea for himself, and I took a sip of mine.
He said to me, “I just had a thought.”
My antennae went up.
He continued, “I’d like to ask a favor of you.”
I suddenly had this flashback to the evening when Frank Bellarosa invited Susan and me to Alhambra for coffee and Italian pastry, and afterwards don Bellarosa and I retired to his library for grappa and cigars, at which time he asked me for a favor that wound up ruining my life. Mr. Nasim did not indulge in alcohol or tobacco, but otherwise I was certain he and the dead don had a lot in common.
Mr. Nasim inquired, “May I ask a favor?”
“You may ask.”
“Good.” He popped a rather large pastry in his mouth, then plunged his fingers in his finger bowl and wiped them on a linen napkin. He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, then said, “With Mrs. Allard in the gatehouse and Mrs. Sutter in the guest cottage, I have felt a lack of privacy. You understand?”
I reminded him, “You have nearly two hundred walled acres of land here, Mr. Nasim. How much privacy do you need?”
“I enjoy my privacy.” He further informed me, “Also, I could make use of the gatehouse for my own staff, and I would like to have the guest cottage for my own use as well.”