Three Rivers (3 page)

Endo had lit one of the fires and was just touching a match to the second. The fires gave a warmth to the room, making one forget the grayness of late afternoon. Isabel sat quietly sipping her tea. There was a huge bowl
of late garden roses on the table. The tea, flowers, crackling fires, the room, all gave Isabel much pleasure, peace and a great sense of tranquillity.

Some time went by before she reached again for the telephone on the table. She dialed through to Athens, but no line was available. No sooner had she put the phone down than it started to ring. She took a sip of tea, sat back very relaxed and picked up the telephone.

“Hello.”

“Hello, I have a call for you from Saudi Arabia.”

“Operator, I am afraid that you must have the wrong number.”

“Sorry, madam, but is your number 499–7899?”

“Yes, that is this number, but I think there must be a mistake.”

“Well, that is the number that is being called from Saudi.”

“Well, they must have made a mistake when they wrote down the number.”

“Excuse me, madam, I will check again. Will you hold?”

The operator came back on the telephone. “Madam, I have checked with the caller in Saudi Arabia, and he does have the correct number. I am putting you through now.”

“But, operator, there must be a mistake. The only person I know who could possibly call from Saudi Arabia is at this moment in the United States.”

A different voice said, “Yes, you do know someone in Saudi Arabia, Miss Wells.”

“Oh, dear.”

The voice on the other end of the line laughed.

“Oh, dear, I am embarrassed.”

“Please, do not be embarrassed and let me introduce myself. My name is Alexis Hyatt. You probably do not remember me. We met at a reception and later dined a few seats from one another at the Chicago Arts Institute more than six months ago. It has taken me a long time to find you again.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do remember being introduced to you, but very briefly.” (But Isabel thought to herself:
I remember our eyes met and he fancied me, but I couldn’t be bothered. Oh, I do wish I could remember what he looks like
.)

“Ah, well, that at least is something. Now, may I explain
how lucky I am today, for it is here in Saudi where I am visiting the king and his brother that at last my search for you has ended.”

“Mr. Hyatt, I don’t want to be rude, but even though I met you six months ago I don’t know who you are.”

“Then, Miss Wells, permit me to tell you. I am an Egyptian and have long been a minister in my country. By my own request I no longer hold an official position but act for my government and, indeed, for other governments whenever I am needed. My family’s history makes it natural for me to work for my country. I am a collector of art and artifacts and over many years have added to my family’s collection. These are the two things that occupy my life, and since one day I shall give them to my country, the two are almost one and the same.”

“But, of course,
Hyatt
. I have been privileged to see some of your things scattered around the world, Mr. Hyatt. You have a fine collection.”

“Miss Wells, I wanted so much to speak to you that night and have thought about you ever since.”

Isabel suddenly became very nervous about this man. It was all very flattering, but what did he look like? She remembered now, quite vividly, that their eyes had met and she had known that he wanted her very much. Knowing Arab men, she knew better than to look him in the eye again.

“Mr. Hyatt, how did you get my number?”

“Ah, at a reception last evening here at the palace. One of the guests was the curator who introduced us all those months ago. We were discussing the problems I am having with the cataloging and housing of my collection — what should be kept in my private premises around the world, what will be selected for the museum I am building for the collection. I told him how much I admired the new wing in his museum and suddenly remembered that this was the man who had introduced me to the woman who has haunted me. I tried to explain to him who you were when suddenly he said, ‘But, Alexis, that is the very woman you must commission to work with you. She was one of the advisers hired by our directors.’ And at last I knew your name. Since he did not know where to reach you, I had him call his office in Chicago and he produced your number within hours. So here I am, and I want to see you as soon as it is possible for you.”

“This is all very flattering and you are very kind, but I don’t know you.”

“You sound frightened. I know that this may all seem strange to you. I don’t mean to push you.”

Oh, damn
, she thought,
he sounds so terrific, but is he another short Arab with tiny eyes, thick glasses and a banana-colored suit? He certainly doesn’t sound it, but all this sounds too good to be true. Is he my prince, going to sweep me away and love and adore me, or is he going to want to give me an uncontrolled bad fuck and finish, or is he going to hire me?
These thoughts flooded Isabel and made her very nervous. All she could think to say was: “Well, when you are in England next, you must come for tea.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Alexis Hyatt said, “Miss Wells, I do not want to have tea with you in London.”

Isabel heard a very strong tone of authority in that voice and realized that the voice obviously had been educated in England but had a trace of what seemed to be a French accent.
Oh, dear
, thought Isabel,
it doesn’t sound like a banana-suited type
, and pulled herself together to say, “Mr. Hyatt, what do you want?”

“Miss Wells, I want to hire you to come to Egypt for one week to discuss the possibility of your working on a project with me. When are you available?”

All trace of anything intimate was gone from his voice. The charm was off and the business was on; well, Isabel had her answer — it’s a job — and her heart fell. Just another job, a good one nonetheless. It could be just for one week or might be a very large and interesting one. She made up her mind in a split-second.

“Mr. Hyatt, I can get my diary now and we can discuss dates, or I can send a selection of dates and my fee for the week tomorrow.”

“Miss Wells, please go and get your diary. I will hold the phone. I should like you in Cairo as soon as possible, and as for your fee, there is nothing to discuss — whatever it is, you will please send a bill and how, when and where you want payment. After we have settled on the date my assistant will call and give you all the relevant information.”

A bit nonplussed by his sudden switch of tone, Isabel went to the library, looked through her diary, picked up
the extension and said, “Mr. Hyatt, how soon do you really need me?”

There was a pause, and he replied, “The very first day that you can be there.”

“I could leave in three days if I can get a reservation. Is that too soon for you?”

“Three days’ time is perfect. You need not bother about the reservation, Miss Wells. I will send my plane for you. My London representative will be in touch with you within the next twenty-four hours. Again, Miss Wells, I am very happy to have found you.” She thought his voice softened ever so slightly. She thanked him rather formally and said good-bye.

As Isabel hung up, she thought about her new job and how extraordinary life was.

She knew she should call Athens again, but then she decided to find out more about Alexis Hyatt. She picked up the phone and called Cecil Davenport, a most famous and renowned
antiquaire
. The phone went on ringing for quite a long time as Isabel tapped her foot on the marble floor, thinking,
Please be there, Cecil. I do hope I haven’t called too late and he has gone for the day
. The phone went on ringing, no answer.

“Damn,” she whispered, none too softly.

Isabel rang Athens again.

Her sister Ava answered the telephone and appeared to be in a very rare “up” mood.

“Isabel, I received your gift this morning, and I loved the book! You know how hard it is to buy best-sellers here in Athens, and I am such a Le Carré fan! Thanks so much! It’s been such a busy day — lunch with mother, who sends her love of course, and tea with the girls. Alfred has planned a wonderful dinner with friends, and I can’t wait for his gift.”

Isabel knew that when all attention was on Ava, she was as pleasant and quiescent as possible for a usually sharp and hard lady who demanded the limelight no matter how small the beam.

Isabel took advantage of the easy moment between them to wish her well, and was so happy that Ava was in a kindly humor that she made the great mistake of telling her about Alexis Hyatt’s phone call. “That’s a very strange story you are telling me, Isabel. Of course he
doesn’t fancy you. Just because a man makes a phone call doesn’t mean that he’s in love with you.”

“Then, why did he call?” demanded Isabel.

“Well, he called because he probably wants something from you for nothing, or a favor. Ask yourself, why else would he call you? Don’t be so vain. Are you so desperate for attention that you have to make these love stories up? Stop fooling yourself. You’ve always lived on fantasies.”

Isabel was furious with herself for falling into the same old trap. A few sentences of normal, friendly conversation from Ava and there she was, talking openly about herself and being attacked by Ava.

Only weeks before, when Ava had humiliated her so much in front of friends, Isabel had finally admitted to herself that Ava’s unconscious dislike for her and her conscious politeness towards her were no longer bearable. Too many years of letting things go by in order to keep some kind of peace and the little tyrant quiet had done no good for either one of them. Being catered to and pacified in every way had only added to Ava’s psychopathic narcissism and Isabel hated her for it.

After Ava hung up on Isabel, she went over to the bar, poured herself a large Scotch, and as she lifted her glass and tossed back the drink, she saw herself in the mirror. Putting down the empty glass she began to admire herself. Ava was totally enthralled by her own tiny five-foot, well-trimmed figure, her very short, well-cut, ash-brown hair, her large piercing brown eyes and tiny, turned-up nose, all set in that still flawless, still unwrinkled face.

She looked deep into her face and thought,
I am so lucky I’m wonderful to look at, but intelligent and practical too
. She ran her hands over the body of her dress, tucked the pink silk shirt into her skirt until every fold fell into its proper place, ran her hands over her hips and turned sideways to look at her profile; she pressed one hand against her flat stomach, the other hand over the flat of her buttocks; then she took a handful of the fleshy part to feel how nice and firm they were. She turned full front into the mirror again and thought,
How well I deserve my beauty; how hard I’ve worked for it all my life
. Then, smoothing a hair that was out of place and examining her fingernails for any slight chip in the enamel, she left the
bar and the mirror. As she walked away she thought briefly of Isabel:
foolish, vain Isabel, living in dreams of men who might come along and make a life with her
.

She thought of Isabel as beautiful and intelligent. But intelligent only because she had managed to pay her own way all of her life. Lazy Isabel, who sometimes stayed in bed until midday. Lazy Isabel, who never jogged, who didn’t work out in the gym four times a week. Lazy Isabel, who would never apply herself long enough to learn a second language perfectly and who got away with living in foreign countries merely with her personality and bits and pieces of the local language. Lazy Isabel, who made her money from other people’s laziness and lack of intelligence in being able to create things that Isabel was hired to do, and all in the name of Art. No. Money was the thing that Ava admired about Isabel. She at least earned her own way, but to this day Ava never quite knew how Isabel got away with it. Imagine anyone hiring someone because they had good taste! To Ava that was the height of tastelessness. No, she could never figure out how anyone could hire a design consultant. Why, even the title revolted Ava.

Vain, selfish Isabel, with her jobs for the rich and sometimes famous — famous in whose eyes? Isabel, with her over-sophisticated, so-called beautiful home that was never, by Ava’s standards, quite clean enough; her clothes were just a bit too individual. Her animals belonged in a zoo, or at least in a country house — not in London! How sad that Isabel lived under the delusion that she had a beautiful and glamorous life.

Ava looked around her living room at all the clean, practical Danish furniture with its simple cotton covers in bright primary colors; the photographs of herself and Alfred taken on their various trips around the world; the paintings, all original oils on canvas by Alfred or Ava — a flower, a bird, a tree, two fish kissing — in the same primary colors as the furniture; the tiny sculptures in clay, painted in bright, white enamel by Alfred; and, of course, the books — two hundred copies of
A New England Childhood;
two hundred and sixty copies of
Essays by a New England Girl
, which Ava had written and had privately printed in Athens. She sold them to friends or even strangers who read Ava’s cleverly written ad in the
Athens News
. Both she and Alfred believed that the only reason
the publishers would not buy them was that they were too well written to make money. The fifty copies on the shelves in the living room of the March 1970 edition of the
Reader’s Digest
with Ava’s story — “The Sicilian Baker” — was proof enough to them that Ava was a writer and a success.

Ava and Alfred could write, paint, sculpt, design and decorate as well as or better than any of the professionals, except maybe a few who had been dead for at least two hundred years. So they backed themselves instead of Art.

Oh, yes, this is more like it
. She and Alfred had a neat package of a marriage.
Nothing phony about me or our life
, she thought.
Up at six in the morning and work, work, work, keeping this package together
.