Authors: Jacqueline Briskin
“We have an apartment here. Not to brag, but it’s next door to the sacred Churchill Suite,” he said. “From those Olympic Gold Medal dives I’d say Lissie’s recovered from the great snake episode.”
“Not quite. She wasn’t ready to brave outer Marrakesh.”
“Smart girl. Thermometer’s up ten degrees from yesterday. Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all,” she said.
He looked at her.
“It’s too hot to write one more card,” she said, patting the chaise next to hers.
He stretched out, and they talked idly and easily about the comparative heat of the Sahara and the Mojave deserts until Lissie dripped her way from the pool. Alexander inquired how to say terrific diver in sign language. After a brief shyness, the child was animatedly teaching him to sign and spell. Honora, watching them, saw the Sylvander inheritance, the same long, fine bone structure. The heat sent the three of them to the pool, where they paddled on bright-blue inflatable rafts. Alexander kept on his mirrored glasses, Lissie continued her instruction.
When they got out, Honora said to her daughter, “That’s enough sun for one day.”
“No,” Lissie said, turning to her cousin. “No! I want to be with Alexander.”
He moved his hands, asking Lissie if she would like to go out with him.
“Are you sure you didn’t know the manual alphabet before?” Honora asked in astonishment.
“I’m a quick study,” he said. “Tomorrow, early, I’m heading for Djemaa-el-Fna Square.”
Honora signed this to Lissie.
The little girl smiled up at Alexander, flicking her hands in eager acceptance.
“What about you, Honora?” he asked, patently out of courtesy.
“I think you two can manage on your own.”
* * *
The following morning about eleven thirty Alexander returned Lissie—flushed and eager to recapitulate the hot, dusty wonders of Djemaa-el-Fna Square. Honora invited him to join them for lunch at the hotel’s enclosed veranda cafe. His swift acceptance proved him at loose ends. Honora couldn’t help remembering Curt’s question: what was Alexander Talbott doing in a Saharan city burdened with heat and crowded with the Pan-Arabic Conference? Her nephew’s charm and familial resemblance buried her reservations. After her ice cream Lissie went up to rest. Honora and Alexander moved to the indoor fountains, sitting in the high, peacock-backed chairs amid jovial groups of dignitaries wearing jellabas.
Alexander was well read in a broad swathe of authors: he knew the repertoire of nineteenth century Italian opera, of which she was an ardent aficionado. Although this cool, splashing place was hardly bright, he again kept on his dark glasses. A minor affectation, especially in so young a man, and in Honora’s mind one that helped knock down his inhuman sheen of perfection.
The next two days he spent with her and Lissie, either by the pool or sight-seeing. Honora began to hear the sound of cymbals and trumpets. Surely this friendship heralded a reconciliation for the Sylvander sisters.
* * *
At eleven o’clock, shortly after Curt had left to attend yet another meeting, a note was delivered to the Ivory suite, where Honora sat reading. (Lissie and Miss McEwen were lunching with Fuad’s granddaughter and her nurses: it would have breached etiquette had Honora gone.) The envelope was addressed by hand to Mrs. Curt Ivory. With curiosity Honora slit the paper and pulled out the note.
Honora, if it’s not asking too much, could you have lunch with me in the apartment at one thirty? Alone. Alexander.
Honora rang immediately. There was no answer on his phone so she left a message at the desk that she would be delighted to accept Mr. Talbott’s invitation.
* * *
The Mamounia’s air conditioning was not as frigid as in an American hotel. A delightful chill lapped around Honora as she stepped inside the Talbott apartment, which obviously had its own unit: white silk curtains stirred, and the sparse furnishing added to the impression of coolness. Three low, ultramodern couches were set apart Moorish style in an alcove. A taboret held a silver wine cooler, crystal goblets and an earthenware dish covered with a conical lid.
Alexander led her to the central couch. “I ordered a b’stilla sent up.”
“How did you guess it’s my favorite food?”
“Masculine intuition.” He shook out a heavy damask napkin for her. “And Lissie told me.” He lifted the cover and steam burst upward. Using three fingers of his right hand in the Arabic way, he skillfully broke apart the round pigeon pie, destroying the diamond mosaic of cinnamon and powdered sugar. He turned the platter toward her—they were eating as the natives did, without dishes or cutlery.
Honora took the jagged piece, closing her eyes to express her pleasure at the first ambrosial bite. Delicate golden flakes drifted onto her napkin. “There’s no pastry this light anywhere,” she said.
“They drop small pellets of dough until the griddle’s covered with a fine tissue and before it browns they peel it onto a plate. One hundred and four layers of pastry go into a b’stilla for twelve.”
“Is there
anything
you don’t know?”
“I go through these periods when peer-group socializing is like a hair shirt. One time we came here and I hung around the kitchens—that’s where I picked up my Arabic. In case you’re interested, the b’stilla recipe for twelve calls for three pounds of butter, thirty eggs, six pigeons, a pound of almonds, and I can’t remember how much ginger, pimentos, onions, saffron, coriander and sugar.”
Honora sensed, as she had several other times, that he’d prepared this speech, so her
smile was a trifle forced. “I doubt if I’ll fix it anyway,” she said. “It sounds a teeny bit complicated.”
He concentrated on filling their glasses with chilled Pouilly-Fuissé.
“You really are unique, Honora,” he said. “I never knew anyone before who actually doesn’t have a mean side—or see anyone else’s.” He sipped his wine. “I have something deeply Freudian going with Mom, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing her faults. She’s vain, materialistic—”
“Alexander—”
“—and totally different from you. I mean, I never believed in that word ‘lady’ before. But you are one.”
It seemed to Honora that the thermostat had gone berserk and the cold air rippled with chilly drafts. She knew something bad was about to happen, but she had no idea what it was. “Alexander, let’s change the subject.”
“Me,” he continued after a beat, “I have unexorcisable demons. I do what’s necessary to get what I need.”
“Your father was a very dominant man,” she murmured, then flushed. Until now they had avoided the mention of Gideon.
“He wasn’t my father.”
She peered at Alexander, seeing her distorted, diminutive reflections in his mirrored glasses.
“Gideon Talbott wasn’t my father,” he repeated. The quietly spoken words seemed to boomerang within the alcove. “I’ve known who my natural father is since I was fourteen, but I
didn’t meet him until this week—”
Honora heard the words but her brain refused to accept their meaning. She was on her feet, the napkin slithering to the carpet. “That’s enough!” she cried. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
“—he’s Curt Ivory.”
“If this is your idea of a joke—” she cried. She was holding out her shaking hands with the palms toward her nephew, a gesture that could be construed either as pleading or barring.
“Why do you think I was so shook at meeting him?” he demanded.
“An act,” she said vehemently. “I could see it, he could see it. You were putting on an act.”
“Jesus, an act? You prepare yourself, but coming face to face like that—an act? In the medina, when I gaped, then took off, that was an act. Of course I knew who you were. And ever since I’ve been playing you and Lissie. But when I met him,
that
was no act. My brain went white and flat, as if somebody had wiped away the electrical impulses. There I was for the first time standing next to him and I couldn’t think.”
Honora couldn’t think, either, and a strange little sob welled from her. “Why are you telling me this?”
“My demons, aunt, my demons.” The youthful planes of his face sagged with misery. “The thing I regret is that you’re a super lady.”
“Whatever Crystal told you, she’s a liar!” Honora burst out.
“I don’t know how Mom was as a girl, but now she’s the tight-ass of all time. Adultery’s the last thing she’d dream up.”
“She wants to pay me back because Curt’s more successful than Gideon was!” Honora’s voice rose to an unaccustomed shrill wail.
For the first time in her presence, Alexander removed his dark glasses, concentrating on folding them before turning to her.
“Look at me,” he said.
She forced herself to look into his eyes. Eyes the same slightly Oriental shape as Curt’s, the same tawny color. The eyes of love.
Alexander stared back at her. Suddenly she saw the unblinking gaze of the snake.
“So now you believe me,” he said quietly.
The strength ebbed from her and a palsied shaking quivered in her legs. “I . . . I’m ill,” she muttered. “You’ll have to excuse me.”
She had forgotten the step of the alcove, lurching down. Alexander watched unhappily while his aunt, in a parody of her usual grace, limped across the fraudulent coolness to let herself out of the door.
Honora always stamped the Ivorys’ hotel suites with her personality—pretty arrangements of local flowers, a small row of her novels, a bright scarf giving color to the couch. Now her efforts at temporary housekeeping jumped out at her
as sad reminders of her failures as a wife. Rushing through the sitting room, she dropped onto the wide bed—actually two beds she’d asked the floor boy to push together and make up as one.
In the pit of her stomach a beat pulsed regularly, almost like a misplaced heart.
After a couple of minutes she ran into the lavatory, kneeling over the bowl to vomit up the b’stilla. Dizzy, she supported herself along the wall to the adjacent bathroom. She swirled tap water in her mouth with no consideration for the
Water Not Potable
sign above the sink. She could still taste the soured pigeon pastry, so she brushed her teeth. Unbuttoning her soiled dress, she left the creamy silk heap on the bathroom floor and crept back to the bed in the white bra and bikini underpants.
That odd pulsation of her womb persisted feebly. Curving a hand over her flat stomach, she stared with huge, burned eyes up at the high ceiling.
Curt has a son.
The foundation on which her existence rested was a blind, instinctual belief in Curt’s love for her, and now this was shattered.
Oh, stop being ridiculous
, she thought in a vain attempt to reassure herself.
You’re married to a successful, immensely attractive man. You knew he screwed around before he was married. Who but a naive, gullible idiot expects marital fidelity anyway? Of course he’s had a little going on the side. It followeth therefore as night to day that he’s fathered a child—children.
But why Crystal?
Why my own sister?
A lacerating vision presented itself. Curt—as he was now, sturdy with the heavier, visible muscles of maturity—lying naked on his back with Crystal astride him. Crystal, or rather the breathtakingly lush teenager she had been, giving high, excited whinnies as she posted up and down, her sparse golden fuzz of pubic hair engorged by his penis, her firm, honeydew breasts bouncing while Curt gasped out the sweetly erotic obscene compliments that she, Honora, knew well.
A miserable little groan escaped her clenched lips.
Was Curt’s nastiness about Alexander to throw me off the track?
Thoughts of her barrenness and the reason for it recurred with thoughts of her ancient rivalry with Crystal and thoughts of Curt’s betrayal. She found herself gasping for air at each breath.
Is it still going on?
Her sense of time had collapsed. She had no idea how much later it was when she heard footsteps beyond her closed door. From the sitting room Lissie squeaked, “Mommy? We’re home.”
Honora blew her nose, rising on her elbows. “Miss McEwen, explain to Lissie, will you, that I’m not feeling well.”
“No wonder,” called back the governess’s Jamaican lilt. “This heat’s too much for anyone. You rest, dear Mrs. Ivory, you rest.”
She heard the melodious ripple of Miss
McEwen’s voice. Then doors closing. These past few days in the oppressive temperature Lissie had reverted to long postprandial naps. A faraway muezzin droned, a masculine voice rang below in the gardens, the insufficient air conditioner clicked off and on, and Honora’s thoughts writhed. When the afternoon light flowing between the open shutters had deepened to the color of strong ale, Miss McEwen called out they were going down for a snack before the veranda room closed—neither of them had the appetite for a real supper, dear Mrs. Ivory, not after that midday spread at the little princess’s.
Once the door shut behind them Honora began to sob in low, uncontrollable howls.
“Honora?”
Curt filled the doorway, a startingly strong outline backlit by the sitting room lamps. Guiltily, as if he had caught her in flagrante delicto, she passed a sodden Kleenex over her eyes.
Switching on the bedside lamp, he sat next to her.
“Hey, hey, love. What’s wrong?” He caressed her shoulder.
At his touch she flinched. Recognizing her near nudity, she got up and went to the deep closet.
“I just saw Lissie and Miss McEwen. They told me the heat had gotten you down.”
She reached for her white caftan, pulling it on back to front. Although the reversed neckline cut against her throat, she didn’t realize
her mistake.
“It’s not the heat,” she said in a hard voice. “I found out about Alexander.”
“Alexander? I know you and Lissie have been seeing quite a bit of him, but—”
“You don’t have to pretend, not now.”
“I let you know when I met him how I felt. What was the point of rubbing it in?”
“I know whose son he is.”
He moved swiftly to her, grabbing her by the shoulders. “What the fuck is going on here?” he demanded. “What are you talking about?”