One Way or Another: A Novel (27 page)

Martha glanced at Marco, surprised at Ahmet’s absence. He raised his brows at her, also surprised, as they followed a steward and Lucy, who was almost dancing with delight, along a spacious corridor to the suites that were to be theirs: one starboard and larger with a sitting area, wide windows, quilted silk walls and a blue-themed decor; the other port side with twin beds done out in a yellow-and-white stripe that made Martha wince.

“It’s lost all that ‘feel’ of a boat,” she said. “There’s nothing the least bit ‘nautical’ about it. I can see I’ll have my work cut out if this was Ahmet’s last foray into decoration.”

“No man decorated this,” Lucy said, astonishing them with her sudden perspicacity. “Not even a teenager would want to stay in this cabin.”

“Stateroom,” Martha corrected her automatically, then amended that. “No, you’re right, it’s only a cabin, there’s nothing grand and ‘stateroomy’ about this. We’ll have our work cut out, Lucy, I promise you that.”

Lucy beamed. “Before or after we go shopping for clothes?”

“After we’ve explored this boat,” Martha said firmly, and accompanied by Em, who sniffed every corner, searching, Marco thought, for her beloved gulet, as he himself was, in his mind, instead of this pretentious over-gilded rich man’s toy boat. The sea glimmered, flat as a pond, as though flattened by inertia and too much money.

It took Martha only ten minutes before she was on the phone to Ahmet. He did not answer and she left a message that she was taking him at his word; she would be stripping the entire boat and was getting to work right away on a more appropriate seaworthy look for what was, after all, under all that flossy decor, a quite lovely and certainly very large boat. She promised it would be magnificent, though in a more low-key way. She would complete it in three weeks’ time, which, as she closed her phone, she crossed her fingers and prayed she would be able to do.

Now she must also turn her attention to Marshmallows, where Morrie was helping, though he was still refusing to go back there. Of course he would have to if he was to be of any help at all, but Martha decided she would work that out later.

Meanwhile, she took a shower in a stall that was all beige marble and gilt fittings, and was anyhow too small, and which Marco claimed was an impossible space for anyone over six feet, so she banged her elbows.

A sullen, older steward in what seemed to be the general uniform of white shorts and polo shirt unpacked and hung their things in a too-small closet space, and turned down the bed though it was still only early evening. Drinks were ready to be served on the afterdeck by another white-uniformed steward. Several bags of different kinds of dog food stood next to the glasses, though the steward informed Marco that of course, there was also chicken and steak if required. Em did “require,” and when the steak was brought, she wolfed it in, Marco timed it, exactly one and a half minutes. Em was, he told Martha and the amazed Lucy, more used to a haunch of goat in Turkey and the occasional meat he added to her kibble at home. By then, the shops which closed in the heat of the afternoon were reopening and Martha and Lucy went off to get her something to wear, while Marco decided to take Em for a walk.

Antibes was a small town, sloping cobbled streets, a white church looming over all, still the fishermen’s cottages, some with nets drying outside, chic shops with designer labels, and a sandal maker who was doing good business with tourists waiting outside; a couple of ice-cream stores with flavors like pistachio in a true faded green that made you know it was the real thing. Marco licked his cone as he walked, taking in the scenery, wandering the way visitors did with nowhere particular in mind. Marco decided it was a nice place to be, a good state of mind to be in. What he had to concentrate on now, though, was Ahmet’s portrait. It must be completed before the ball, where it would be, Martha had informed him, “unveiled,” a phrase Marco loathed but understood. “Just remind me not to be there for the unveiling,” he warned Martha. “It’s Ahmet’s day, not mine.”

The other matter lurking at the back of his mind was the red-haired girl. Angie Morse. “Missing, believed dead.” Did he believe Angie was dead? For some reason, perhaps because she had disappeared so completely, he’d found himself drawing quick sketches of the way he imagined her; the sideways glance he felt sure was her practiced look for the guys who came into the bar, the kind of come-on look they expected, or at least hoped for, from their attractive hostess. The bar restaurant where Angie worked catered to guys on the loose, out for a good time, hoping to get lucky or at least look as though they were, impressing the other guys. Not that Marco would do that. He was his own man, whatever that might mean; he would bow down to no one, try to impress no one. He had no need, it was as simple as that.

Marco walked back to the port where the
Lady Marina
took up more space than any other yacht. As a large boat it had to anchor out at sea and ferry its guests back and forth in smart little Riva speedboats, plush with white leather and complementary white baseball caps to keep the wind out of the women’s hair, with sailors standing hands-behind-backs, awaiting their return. The life of the superrich was enviable in a way, yet remembering his own simple life, his gulet, his cottage, his evenings under the old olive tree with the glass of arak he’d often wished was a French chardonnay but really enjoyed anyway, Marco wondered why Ahmet needed all of it.
All this.

*   *   *

He was alone, but for Em, when the captain came to inform him that Mr. Ghulbian was arriving in Antibes, that the helicopter had been sent to pick him up and that Mr. Ghulbian would be joining them for dinner later. Around nine if that was all right with Marco.

Sitting on the afterdeck, cold beer in hand, Em at his feet, the unbeatable view of dozens of large yachts, sails furled and men sluicing down the decks, the aroma of barbecued steak hovering in the air along with the faint tang of jasmine blown on the breeze from land, Marco agreed it was all right, though he very much wished he could be alone with Martha. Well, and Lucy, of course. He thought he’d better keep an eye on her; Martha was worried about Ahmet’s intentions. Then the two women came back loaded with shopping bags, Lucy with a big grin on her face.

“I’ve never been on a real shopping spree before,” Lucy said, thrilled. “Martha said it was because I was still at school and who needed much there, I mean we sometimes made our own stuff for a party, bought polyester in the local market and draped it around, it’s amazing what you can do with safety pins. Once, we were going to a party in London, sneaking out and I had no tights and somebody lent me stockings. I had nothing to hold them up so I tied a piece of string around the tops. Worked a treat. Until they started slipping down, that is.…”

“Lucy, for God’s sake!” Martha was laughing, though.

“I’m going to put one of my new dresses on for dinner,” Lucy said. “And please,
please,
could I have a glass of wine? White and very cold,” she added, giving them a mischievous upward grin.

“It’s yours,” Marco called after her, “once I’ve approved the dress. Nothing too short, now.”

“Nothing
is
too short when you’re seventeen,” Martha said, dropping a kiss on his cheek, scooping up Em and sinking into the chair next to him, propping up her feet on a cushion, accepting the chilled glass of wine from the ever-attendant steward. “This must be what it’s like to be rich,” she murmured, taking a sip.

Marco raised a brow. “Like it?”

“It’s okay. For a change.” Then she laughed. “Yeah, I like it, but I also like to earn my money, and believe me, with this boat and the ghastly Marshmallows I
will
earn it. Morrie Sorrie is already coming up with more ideas, but he’s scared to death of the place, swears it’s haunted. And besides, he hates what he calls ‘that woman.’”

“I’m guessing you mean ‘this woman.’” Marco indicated the jetty with his bottle, and Mehitabel striding along it, rail-thin and looking, Martha thought, like the old Katharine Hepburn in a terrifying movie, wearing gray flannel slacks and a buttoned white silk shirt, her Medusa curls pinned severely back, the over-large sunglasses covering a good part of her face.

“What’s she doing here?” She sat up, glass clutched tightly; the feeling of well-being had disappeared.

“That’s for us to find out,” Marco said.

46

ANGIE

I thought there was a certain honesty about Ahmet; it was apparent in his eyes when he believed you wouldn’t notice; I might almost call it an “otherworldly” look, as though he was somewhere in a place he kept private from the world, and mostly, I suspected, even from himself. It would seem that the famous man did not want us to know the real man. I’ll bet I’m one of the few ever to catch a glimpse of that side of him, much good it will do me now.

The scarecrow that used to be me stood before him, head unbowed, eyes fixed on his. You do not remain locked up, alone for who knows whatever length of time, without going crazy, and there is no doubt now, that “crazy” is what I am. More, it is
who
I am. Vanity still creeps in, though, but really it’s not vanity, it’s a matter of self-worth. I knew I was better than the figure I was presenting to Ahmet; the beaten-down woman, scarcely even female, a nothing person simply waiting for the end. Courage. My mother’s remembered voice came back to me in a whisper that had grown fainter as I sank deeper into the sloth of acceptance of my fate. I had nothing left to fight with.

“You look terrible, Angie,” Ahmet said, sitting back and taking off his dark glasses, the better to view me.

I made no answer.

“Come now, darling Angie, things are looking up.” He glanced at Mehitabel standing behind me, the leash and collar she had taken off held in her hand with the gooseberry-size emerald ring. “I told you no bonds. Get that thing off her,” he’d commanded and I heard the quick rustle of her green satin evening dress as she’d hurried to obey. Mehitabel was as much Ahmet’s slave as I was.

I prayed he would not tell me to undress, though I had lost any modesty I might have had about being naked in front of people. I was a puppet; pull my strings and I moved; put clothes on me or take them off … I had no say in the matter. I knew my fate at Ahmet’s hands and by now hoped it would come sooner rather than later, so as not to prolong the torture, because there was no doubt Ahmet was torturing me. Not in the way Mehitabel wanted, physically, sadistically. Ahmet was playing with my mind. He knew how much more terrible a game that was. Maybe, though, just
maybe,
I could play that game too.

“We are leaving here tonight.” Ahmet checked his watch. “Now, in fact. Better not to be late for your own party, my dear.”

I tried to keep my face expressionless but he caught the slightly raised brows, the question in my eyes.

“There is to be a grand party on the
Lady Marina,
a select group of guests, ‘everybody’ in fact who is ‘anybody’ in the south of France right now will be attending. Patrons is in charge of all the arrangements, my own Tunisian chef is in charge of the food, I told him it must be exotic, different, no smoked salmon rolls and dunking into tins of caviar; we shall nibble on quail eggs and lobster lollipops and the tiniest crisp lamb chops from the newest-born lambs that ever saw the hills of Provence. Murdered, I should say, in my own personal honor, at my behest.” He laughed when he saw my bewildered expression turn to one of horror. “What is it with you girls? Lucy Patron was just as shocked when I suggested that, yet I have no doubt you will enjoy them as much as the next guest, though of course they won’t be told of the chops’ background. I should hate to spoil anyone’s enjoyment.”

He put on his dark glasses, became once again the man in disguise, or was it the real Ahmet Ghulbian? I no longer knew.

“Mehitabel will dress you appropriately. We’ll leave in half an hour. I shall fly the Cessna myself.” He sat, looking at me, as though waiting to hear me ask where I was going. I didn’t need to. He told me. “Back to my yacht, Angie, where it all began,” he said, smiling.

47

ANGIE

I am surprised once again. Astonished, in fact. And scared to death, or close to it anyway. I’m strapped into a seat on the Cessna, next to Mehitabel, with Ahmet and a copilot at the controls. Whether or not we are going to the yacht I have no idea, because after the few minutes he’d spent in his library, staring at my no doubt terrifying appearance, he’d said nothing. I was no longer the young woman he’d seduced, made love to. Or had I seduced him? It had not really mattered at the time and it didn’t really matter now. I had done what I had done, I had willingly walked into this man’s arms, into his clutches, and into a whirlwind of fear, of pain, of near death, which still lurked, a shadow in my future. Or non-future. I want to say I did not care, yet somehow through everything, the human spirit takes control of the mind, sneaks in the back, whispering to keep going, to keep trying, to keep your courage. Never let go.

I was warm in the gray sweats I’d put back on. Mehitabel had tied a soft chiffon scarf over my shorn head. I put up a hand, remembering my earrings, felt them still there, the twin small diamonds that had been an ill-afforded fourteenth birthday gift from my mother. I had worn them proudly every day since, changing them only for fashion when I needed those kinds of dangling chandeliers for work. Thinking about that, I could remember the person I used to be, though I still don’t know the person I have become.

I heard the noise of the engine change slightly as the small plane began its descent. It was dark outside but I glimpsed a string of white lights along a coastline, the red and green riding lights on boats in a harbor, then suddenly a burst of stars and sprinkles in many colors as fireworks exploded from a long barge outlined against the horizon. A treat for the happy tourists, dining in seafront restaurants, lingering over late cups of espresso in the cafés in the normal world I no longer inhabited.