One Way or Another: A Novel (14 page)

He turned with a sudden smile, holding out both hands, palms up. “Of course, I’m only joking. Nobody drowns in my marshes.”

“I imagine it’s the silence that attracts you,” Marco said. “For me, it would be the color. That perfect green.”

“Then you must come and see it. Paint it.”

They made an appointment for a few days later.

Marco saw the enthusiasm on Ghulbian’s face; the man obviously loved his silent, lonely home in the marshes.

“I’ll come,” Marco said, surprising himself. “I’ll paint you there. It’s your place.”

For the first time Ghulbian smiled a genuine smile, not forced or polite.

“Then you will make my dream come true,” he said.

24

Of course, Ghulbian sent his helicopter for Marco. It was evening, and already getting dark, when he arrived. He had expected the house to be typical Ghulbian over-the-top ostentatious, and he was not disappointed. The front door, opened by a manservant, led onto a long paneled hall where an immense crystal chandelier, surely bought from some Venetian palace, tinkled in the draft. Stained-glass windows in reds and greens lent a dim shimmer, while soaring above everything, an opaque domed ceiling gave a cathedral-like air.

An upper landing ran across the back of the house, branching off on either side into corridors which faced over the central hall. There were many paintings on the walls, not crammed together but properly hung and lit with sufficient space to give each its own area, so they might be better viewed. Ghulbian was, after all, a man who appreciated the arts.

The subdued gray of the walls, the dark earth tones of the furnishings matching the mansion’s exterior, seemed forbidding, a touch of the movie
House of Horrors,
Marco thought. Except, that is, for the pair of red leather chairs, set in front of a blazing fire in the drawing room where the servant left him. Between the chairs was a black leather ottoman on which rested an ornate silver tray that Marco felt surely must be by Paul de Lamerie, the famous eighteenth-century silversmith. On that tray stood a bottle of Patron Silver tequila. Not your usual supermarket bottle either; this one looked as though it might have been made by Lalique. There was certainly nothing understated about Ahmet Ghulbian’s possessions. He had the money and he bought only the best.

Marco walked toward the fire. The rug under his feet was soft, a symphony of pale corals and greens, not silk though, and he guessed it was probably Turkish and certainly of the finest hand-knotted wool.

The curtains were of a dark green heavy corded fabric held back with thick gold tasseled cords. There were no lights outside and the night looked very black. Marco thought “secluded” was not the correct word for this place. It was “
remote.
”

He wondered why a man who could buy anything he wanted, any house he wanted, in any part of the world, would choose this godforsaken place. There was not a sound outside, not even of a dog leaping and barking a welcome. But there was Mehitabel.

Marco did not hear her come in, then there she was, standing beside him.

She smiled. “I startled you. I’m sorry. I came to see what I might offer you to drink. Mr. Ghulbian always keeps excellent champagne chilled if you wish for a glass? Of course, if there is anything else you might like, from wine to … well, I suppose beer.”

“A beer would be good, thank you. Dos Equis, if you have it.” He put her to the test by ordering a Mexican beer but she was unfazed.

“Of course.” She gave him a smile that upturned only the corners of her lips. “I shall get it for you myself.”

It occurred to Marco that except for the helper at the door, he had seen no other servants. Surely, with a place this size and an owner as demanding and discriminating as Ahmet, there must be at least a personal valet, a housekeeper, a cook or chef, even a butler. Yet there was only this woman, who placed the chilled bottle of beer on the priceless silver Lamerie tray and set a glass straight from the freezer, white with cold, next to it. She noticed Marco flinch as he saw what she had done and this time she laughed.

“Mr. Ghulbian wants his things to be used the way they were when they were first designed and made. Antiques are only antiques because we have made them that way, is what he believes. He uses them, makes them his own. Their original owners would surely be grateful to him for doing so.”

Marco had to admit he had never thought about it that way but Ghulbian had a point, though an iced beer bottle on the three-hundred-year-old silver was a bit much.

Thinking of Em, he said, “Mr. Ghulbian does not keep a dog, out here in the country?”

Mehitabel had walked back to the door. She turned and looked at him, brows arched in surprise. “Why should he?”

“This is a lonely place. Remote. A safety factor perhaps? Or companionship?”

“There are dangerous marshes all around this house, Mr. Mahoney. It’s safer here than any place with a dozen armed guards. Mr. Ghulbian cannot have a dog, because it would get lost out there in the marshlands. Everything that looks like grass is in reality water or mud. That’s why there are no trees; there is nowhere for their roots to take hold.”

“So it would be cruel of Ahmet to have a dog companion because it could drown in the marshes?”

“It has been known,” Mehitabel acknowledged. “There are no wild creatures around, no foxes, no raccoons, even very few wildfowl. The house overlooks a tidal river. Twice a day, that tide turns. One minute you are looking at a placid stretch of water, the next it’s rising up and surging toward you. It’s best to stay out of the way of our river, Mr. Mahoney. Even the wildfowl have learned not to build their nests there; too many of their young were lost in that surge of water, so brown, so deep, so … strong.” She said the last word almost in a whisper, then quickly made her exit, closing the door softly behind her.

As she did, Marco heard a cry. High-pitched, like a creature in pain.

He leapt across the room and yanked open the door, almost falling over Mehitabel, who was standing immediately outside.

“What the fuck was that? It sounded like someone being tortured.”

“
Tut, tut, tut.
” Mehitabel shook her head at his language, sending her tight Medusa curls dancing. She even laughed, a sound Marco had never expected to hear from her, yet she seemed to find something amusing in what he had said.

“Good heavens, no, Mr. Mahoney. It’s only a wild bird, of course. The herons nest in our roof and they make the strangest cries. Mr. Ghulbian would like to be rid of them but they have been nesting here for centuries and I’m afraid the locals would not approve.”

“And where exactly
is
Mr. Ghulbian?” Marco was fed up of being left standing in the strange drawing room in this strange house on these strange green marshlands with birds screeching like Emily Brontë’s Mrs. Rochester locked in the attic. He wanted out of Wuthering Heights or Marshmallows or whatever, with its wailing birds and antique silver salvers and a woman who somehow made his skin crawl.

“Please send for the golf cart. I can’t wait any longer.”

Mehitabel put a shocked hand to her mouth. Her fingernails were long and painted crimson, her hand strong, her bare brown arms muscular. It crossed Marco’s mind that if it came to a fight she could probably take him on; this woman had more tricks up her sleeve than any pro fighter, he’d bet on that. He also wondered what kind of hold she had over Ghulbian that he kept her close to him. She probably knew all his secrets, and that man certainly had more and deeper secrets than normal people.

“But you cannot leave yet,” Mehitabel protested. “Mr. Ghulbian will be here any minute.” A helicopter clattered in the distance. “There, you see, here he is,” she said. Her dark greenish eyes met his again and Marco thought he caught a glint of triumph in them. He wondered uneasily what she was up to, and what exactly that cry was that he’d heard.

Minutes later Ahmet walked into the room, both hands outstretched, that welcoming smile on his face.

“So sorry to keep you waiting. A bit foggy out there. Often is when the tide turns; got stuck for ten minutes the other side of the river, had to wait ’til it cleared a bit.” He eyed the bottle of beer on the silver tray and added, “I’m glad to see Mehitabel took good care of you. She’s a treasure, you know. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She keeps me on track, knows where I have to be and when, and makes sure I get there. I suppose we all have someone like that, we busy men, to help us out, you know.”

Actually, Marco usually knew exactly where he was going and got there under his own steam, but he nodded and said he was glad Ghulbian was finally here. “I didn’t realize this place was so remote,” he said. “Out on the marshes.”

“But that’s exactly what I love about it.” Ghulbian went over to the sofa. “Come, sit down, why don’t you. Let’s talk about my portrait. Remember, I asked for it to be painted here? Now you see why. This is my territory. I am the only person within miles, no one else even nearby. Welcome to my world, Marco.”

He leaned forward and slapped Marco’s knee jovially, smiling as if they were two boys at a school reunion. “Now, d’you think you can see what I mean?
This
is where I belong, in real life as well as in my portrait.”

To his surprise, Marco did see what Ahmet meant. This strange place could only be home to a man like this. Only a house like this could contain his volatile personality, his ability to become whomever he wanted you to think he was at that moment. And right now, Ghulbian wanted Marco to believe he was a simple, honest country lover, a man who enjoyed the peace and quiet of these dangerous marshes.

“What kind of wildfowl are there around here?” he asked, taking a sip of the beer, which was perfectly chilled.

“Almost none, only the occasional heron that likes to nest on my rooftop, but I’ve pretty much put a stop to that. Nobody needs those great birds swooping around, messing all over everything. No, I like to keep my house clean, Marco. No birds, no dogs, no cats.”

“Only Mehitabel,” Marco said, and Ahmet roared with sudden laughter.

“You’re right. Mehitabel surely belongs to some strange animal world of her own making. Still, she’s efficient, she’s clever, and she’s loyal. What more can a man want in a woman?”

“Love,” Marco suggested, surprised when Ahmet sank, shocked, back in his chair.

Ahmet said, “I believe I asked you, on the plane from Istanbul, whether you were in love. You did not answer me, though I already knew of course that you were. I have not been so fortunate. But enough of that. Let us decide where you would like me to pose for the portrait. At first, I thought on the landing where the light is so beautiful from the Rossetti stained-glass windows. But now I think it’s far too romantic. You know I’m a practical man, a businessman, though I love all the arts.” He threw his arms wide, indicating the paintings, mostly very modern, that lined the corridor. “I have every artist here you’ve ever heard of, and I paid more for most of them than any man ever paid before, and maybe ever will. I’m a fool when it comes to something I really want, Marco. I don’t care what it costs, I must have it.”

Marco thought it a strangely childish philosophy for a grown man but guessed that kind of money gave you reason to believe you could have anything you wanted, all you had to do was pay for it. He remembered with sudden misgiving Ahmet saying he could name any fee he liked. Now he said quickly, “You know I never charge any sitter more than another, however rich he is. I put a price on my talent, that’s all.”

“That’s the way it goes with you artists. It’s your children and grandchildren that’ll reap the benefit. But you will paint my portrait, won’t you?”

The tough billionaire had disappeared. It was as though Ahmet had two personalities: one hard and indomitable; the other insecure and vulnerable and which usually he kept carefully hidden. Marco wondered which he would be allowed to see for the portrait, that of course he agreed to paint, though he did not like the location.

In Marco’s view, there was a darkness about the house that had nothing to do with the limited light coming from the stained-glass windows. It was more the sense that all was not right here. Yet Ghulbian was beaming at him, had welcomed him to his home, and Marco was instantly ashamed of his thought. Sure, the house was dark and its remote location off-putting, but his host was dismissing the beer and breaking out a perfect bottle of Pétrus, already opened in anticipation of his arrival, pouring it into glasses so fine Marco wondered who dared wash them.

He felt Ahmet’s anxious eyes on him as he took the first sip; knew the man wanted him to love it and liked him for that. He might be rich but he enjoyed the pleasure of giving. And when he tasted the wine, he found it smooth yet not overwhelming. “It’s so good it takes my breath away,” he told Ahmet.

“I knew you would understand it. You have good taste, my friend. Now, with it you must try this pâté. It’s made for me by a woman in Aix-en-Provence, not what you might think of as pâté country, that’s more to the northwest of France, but she has her own small goose farm. Ducks too. And oddly, bison, though of course they don’t end up as pâté. I believe I keep her in business, which is good because she’s in her eighties and alone. I like to think I’m helping her, and with reason, because she is excellent at what she does.”

Marco found himself liking Ahmet more as he told the story; he was generous with his time, with his money, and with his compassion. Rare, in a rich man, many of whom had no time for anyone but themselves and the very public charities their PR people involved them in. Besides, the pâté was excellent, served on thin triangles of crisp toast.

“Perfect with the wine,” Marco agreed. “Which, by the way, may be one of the best I ever tasted. Martha and I don’t get much beyond the usual market buys, except when we’re in France, and then it almost doesn’t matter where you get it, even in the mini-market like Casino, you always seem to end up with something good.” He rethought that. “Well, let’s say, drinkable.”