The Pirate (11 page)

“Another meeting?” Mara asked.

Jordana shrugged silently and raised her champagne. The Princess slipped into the chair beside her.

“One of my husbands was like that. I forgot which one. Always meetings. It was so boring, I divorced him.”

Jordana smiled at her. “Baydr may be many things but he is not boring.”

“I did not say he was. But some husbands do not realize there are other things in life besides business.”

Jordana did not answer. She sipped at her champagne. Suddenly she was down. Nothing seemed to work for them anymore.

“Come, darling,” the Princess urged. “Meet my young man. It will make him happy and may amuse you for a few minutes.”

“Where is he?”

“Over there. The tall blond one standing near the steps.”

Jordana glanced at him. “He seems young.”

The Princess laughed. “He is young, darling. Twenty-five and with the staying powers of an ox. I have not known a man like him since Rubi was in his prime.”

“Gigolo?” Jordana asked.

“Of course, darling,” Mara said. “Aren’t all the beautiful young men? But that makes life simpler when you get tired of them. Give them a few francs and they go away. No complications.”

“Tired of him already? Is that why you’re giving him away?”

Mara laughed. “No, darling. It’s just that he exhausts me. I can’t keep up with him. He keeps sticking his big beautiful cock at me and I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m exhausted.”

“At least you’re honest.”

Mara’s voice was hurt. “I’m always honest. Now will you meet him?”

Jordana glanced toward the salon. Carriage was coming back alone. Youssef and Vincent had remained with Baydr. She shrugged her shoulders. “All right,” she said. “Bring him over.”

***

Baydr handed the Scotch and water to Vincent and gestured him to a seat. Youssef retired discreetly to a corner of the room as Baydr sat down opposite the American.

“I have been an admirer of your work for a long time, Mr. Vincent,” Baydr said.

“Thank you, Mr. Al Fay. I’m truly flattered.”

“I’m sure I’m not alone,” Baydr said, and decided to come right to the point. After all, the man was American and he didn’t have to beat around the bush. “That is why I decided to ask if you would be interested in doing a film based on the life of the Prophet. Have you ever thought about it?”

The director pulled at his drink. “Honestly, Mr. Al Fay, I never have.”

“Any particular reason, Mr. Vincent?”

Vincent shook his head. “It just never occurred to me. Maybe it’s because we Americans know very little about Muhammad.”

“But there are more than four hundred million people who do,” Baydr said.

Vincent nodded. “I know that now. Mr. Ziad very carefully explained that to me. He also gave me several biographies of the Prophet and I must admit that I was fascinated with the idea.”

“Do you think there is a film there?”

“I do, a very good film.”

“One that could be successful in the Western world? One that could help them understand that we have a civilization founded on morality much like their own?”

“Successful? I don’t know. There will be problems in exhibition,” the director answered. “In terms of understanding, I would say, yes. Conditional, of course, on the film being shown.”

Baydr nodded. “I understand that. But suppose that were possible. What is the first step we would have to take to get the film made?”

“All films begin with a script.”

“You’ve written the scripts for your other films. Would you consider writing this one?”

“I would if I knew enough, but I’m afraid I lack knowledge.”

“If you could obtain the help you need, would you then consider it?”

“If I were sure that when I was finished with the script a picture would be made.”

“And if I guarantee that the picture will be made?”

Vincent looked at Baydr and took a deep breath. If he said yes and the picture were abandoned, he would be finished in the industry. The Jews would see to that. But if it were made, and it was good, they would even play it in their theaters. They didn’t care what the film was if it brought money into the box office. “I’m expensive,” he said. “I don’t come cheap.”

“I already know that, Mr. Vincent. Would a fee of one million dollars plus a share of the profits of the picture be too little?”

***

The music that came through the loudspeakers was slow and romantic and the floor was crowded as Jacques took the glass of champagne from her hand, put it down and led her onto the floor. He smiled down at her. “I have waited a long time for the right music so that I could ask you to dance.”

Jordana felt the champagne buzzing in her head. She smiled back at him. “How nice.”

He pulled her close to him. “You Americans. Is that all you can say? ‘How nice.’”

She looked up into his face. “American? I’m not American. Can’t you tell from my dress?”

“Don’t talk,” he said. “Just dance.” He moved her head against his shoulder and with his other hand in the small of her back pressed her hips tightly against him. He moved very slowly in time with the music, allowing her to feel his growing erection.

After a moment, he looked down at her. Her eyes were closed. He let the hand that held her drop to his side, then moving toward the railing where no one could see what they were doing, he began to rub her hand against his rocklike shaft. “I have buttons on my trousers,” he whispered. “Not zips. Open them.”

She stared up at him, her eyes wide. “You’re crazy!” she whispered. “There are people watching!”

“No one can see!” he whispered fiercely. “We have our backs to them. I have already masturbated twice since your dance. This time I must have you touch me!”

Still looking into his eyes, her fingers found the buttons and opened them. He wore no undershorts and his phallus leaped out into her hand. He pressed her head against his chest so that she would have to look down at him. “Pull it!” he commanded.

The palm of her hand covered no more than one-third of its length. In the dim lights she could see the glistening red glans bursting from his foreskin. She felt the moisture fill her palms.

“Harder!” he said.

She no longer heard the music. The only rhythm was that of her hand moving back and forth, back and forth over the length of him.

“Now!” he whispered. “Through the railing into the sea!” He let it come.

Staring down, she could see the spurts of semen as they shot from his shuddering penis. Then it was over. She looked up into his face.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling. He took the handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Dry your hands.”

She took the handkerchief and rubbed it against her palm, then gave it back to him.

He shook his head. “Dry me too.”

She wiped him and he slipped himself back into his trousers. “You can throw the handkerchief away,” he said.

The handkerchief fell toward the sea and they moved from the railing back onto the crowded dance floor. “I must see you again,” he whispered. “Where can I call you?”

“You can’t call me. I will call you.”

“I’m at the Martinez. You will call? You promise?”

She nodded. The music stopped just as she saw Baydr followed by Youssef and the American director come to the top of the stairs. “My husband,” she whispered. She began to leave him but he held onto her hand.

“Tomorrow?” he whispered.

“Yes!” She pulled her hand free and made her way across the floor toward Baydr. Her face was flushed and she felt as high as if she had just finished a joint of hash.

“Darling!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely birthday party. How can I ever thank you enough?”

CHAPTER 11

It was past midnight and Leila was getting bored with sitting in her room. She stood at the window looking out at the Croisette. The crowds were still milling back and forth in the warm night. The lights on the billboards on the center islands were still advertising the films that were to be shown during the coming festival and there was a bright, gay feeling in the air.

She turned from the window. She had had enough. She had to get out for a walk or she would go crazy. She picked up her denim jacket and her key and went out into the hall. She put on her jacket while waiting for the elevator. When she emerged from the building, she looked much like the other young women wandering the night in their jeans and shirts.

She started down toward the Carlton, stopped and bought an ice cream on the corner of the Rue du Canada, then crossed the street to the beach side, where the crowds were less. Opposite the Carlton, she sat down on the slanting concrete railing along the esplanade and watched the people entering and leaving the hotel.

She finished the ice cream, ate the sugar sweet cone down to the last tiny fragment and then licked her fingers clean. She heard the noise of a speedboat motor and turned around to look.

A big Riva was pulling up to the Carlton dock. It was empty except for two uniformed sailors in white T-shirts and duck trousers. One leaped up on the dock and tied the line to a small stanchion. A moment later the other sailor climbed up beside him, then both stood idly smoking and talking.

She looked past the speedboat. Her father’s yacht was anchored several hundred yards out in the bay; the party lights across the upper deck twinkled in the night. The faint sound of music drifted toward the shore. She took out a cigarette and lit it.

She glanced back at the hotel. Nothing was happening there. She dragged on the cigarette. A small car going by on the Croisette slowed down, then stopped opposite her. The driver leaned across the seat, rolled the window down and yelled something at her.

She didn’t hear what he said but she knew what he wanted. Contemptuously, she shook her head and, getting to her feet, turned her back on him. The driver hooted his horn in reply and drove off with a clashing of gears.

Impulsively she started down the steps to the beach and walked out on the jetty. Automatically, the sailors began to come to attention, but when they saw her, they relaxed and continued smoking. Their eyes watched her as she approached.

She halted on the upper portion of the pier and looked down at them. She didn’t speak.

“Bon soir,” the taller sailor called to her.

“Bon soir,” she replied. She studied the Riva. It was the big one, elaborately furnished with radio telephone and stereo tape deck. There was no doubt in her mind that it belonged to her father. He was into all the American toys.

“No business tonight?” the shorter sailor asked slyly in French.

She ignored him.

The taller one laughed. “Come down here,” he said. “We’ll pay you ten francs each for a quickie.”

She stared at him. “What’s the matter?” she asked tauntingly, gesturing toward the yacht. “The girls out there too expensive for you?”

The taller sailor was undaunted. “Twenty francs each. That’s our top offer.”

She smiled at him. “I’ll give it to you for free, if you take me out there.”

The two sailors looked at each other, then at her. “We can’t do that,” the taller one said.

“Afraid you’ll lose your jobs?” she taunted. “What’s going on out there that’s so important?”

“It’s the birthday of the wife of our patron, the Sheik Al Fay,” the smaller one said.

Teasingly, she undid the buttons of her denim jacket and let it fall open. She put her hands under her full breasts and held them out so that they could see them. “Regardez ces tétons,” she said. “How would you each like one of these beauties in your mouth?”

They shook their heads almost sadly. “Twenty-five francs,” the taller one said finally.

“Sorry,” she said. Quickly she did up the buttons. She began to turn away. “You had your chance.”

“Tomorrow,” the tall one called after her. “Come to the old port. We’ll take you out then.”

“Tomorrow I won’t be here.”

“Wait!” the shorter one called. He said something quickly to the other that she could not hear, then turned back to her. “Okay. Out there and once around the yacht, then back. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” She climbed down on the boarding jetty while the taller sailor jumped into the speedboat. The roar of the engine filled the night. The shorter sailor held out his hand to help her down into the boat. She stepped in without his assistance, went to the back and sat down.

The shorter sailor cast off the line and stepped down into the moving speedboat. He turned to her. “Better come forward. You’ll get soaked with spray back there.”

She smiled up at him. “I don’t care,” she said. “I love the water.”

As the Riva picked up speed, he came and sat beside her. He reached over and undid the two buttons on her blouse. A calloused hand cupped her breast roughly. “Magnifique,” he said. “Épatant.”

“What’s your hurry?” she asked. “There’s plenty of time.”

He bent forward and placed a greedy mouth on her nipple. His teeth were rough against her skin. She pushed him away. “Wait,” she said angrily. “When the ride is finished.”

He stared at her, his face flushed.

She smiled sweetly at him. “I won’t cheat you, don’t worry.” She took off her jacket and handed it to him. “You can hold that as collateral.”

He stood there stupidly holding the jacket and looking at her. “What kind of a game are you playing?”

The radio telephone buzzed before she could answer. The taller sailor picked it up. A voice crackled angrily. He put it down and looked back at them as he turned the boat in a wide arc. “We have to go back to the dock,” he said. “The captain is pissed at us. There are people waiting there to come aboard.”

“Damn!” the shorter sailor said. He gave the jacket back to her. “Put it on.”

“I told you we shouldn’t have done it,” the taller sailor said.

“Merde!” the shorter sailor snapped.

Silently, Leila buttoned the jacket. She looked at the dock where some people were standing, dressed in elaborate evening clothes. The sailor cut the engine and the boat drifted in toward the dock.

Smartly, the little sailor, holding the line in his hand, leaped to the dock and fastened it. The taller sailor remained in the boat.

There were two men and two women. They stared curiously at her as she got out of the speedboat but didn’t speak. She climbed to the upper portion of the pier before she turned around. The smaller sailor was helping the ladies down into the Riva with exaggerated solicitude. Suddenly he looked up at her.