Bride of a Bygone War (7 page)

Prosser peered over the shoulders of a pair of overdressed Lebanese matrons loading their plates with petit fours and saw at once what had so disturbed the ambassador: a wag in the bakery had substituted six-pointed Stars of David for the five-pointed stars in Old Glory’s field of blue. By so doing, the prankster had deftly called attention to the U.S. government’s hypocrisy in professing to uphold Lebanon’s territorial integrity against the Syrian occupation while turning a blind eye to the Israeli-occupied security zone in South Lebanon. It was the ambassador’s job to present the U.S. position as a single consistent fabric—yet here was an irksome thread dangling before everyone’s eyes.

“What would monsieur like to drink?” the white-jacketed bartender asked as soon as the tittering died down.
 

Prosser noticed the bearded Saudi carrying away an orange juice and cursed under his breath. “Remy Martin, please, neat,” he replied. He took his drink and backed away from the table, intending to pursue the Egyptian in the corner. A trio of giggling college-age girls in strapless cocktail dresses now occupied the spot where the Egyptian had been. An elderly Lebanese couple directly ahead of him disappeared around a corner into the foyer, and Prosser decided to follow them onto the terrace.

As he passed through the French doors, he heard the low rumble of faraway shelling and realized that what had drawn so many guests outdoors was not the cool night air but the spectacle of tracer fire leaping back and forth across the Green Line. From the port in the city’s north down through the Forêt des Pins to Hazmiyé in the south, even from a distance of seven or eight kilometers the arcs of brilliant light pouring into the no-man’s-land held the onlookers entranced.

Two or three minutes passed and the battle’s hypnotic effect began to wear off. Prosser turned his back once more on the city, and almost at once he spotted the missing Egyptian, waving his snifter in one hand and a panatella in the other, driving home a point to Eric Alleyn, a quick-witted young political officer from the British embassy. Prosser sensed that Alleyn would welcome having someone take the Egyptian off his hands, so he set off to join them.

“Guido? Is that really you, my dear? Guido Novara?”
 

An oddly familiar woman’s voice called out from only a few steps away, but because she was backlit, Prosser did not recognize her until she was directly upon him. Then he remembered the name on the Italian passport he had borrowed some two years ago in Jeddah.

“Guido! Yes, it is you, Guido! I could have sworn I saw you during the show, but I wanted to be certain before I made a complete fool of myself. You do remember, don’t you? Tullia Novara? Jeddah airport? After all, we were husband and wife, Guido, if only for an evening.”

“My God, Lorraine!” Prosser exclaimed. “What in God’s name are you doing in Beirut? I thought you had gone back to London or Dublin or someplace civilized.”

He laughed and she joined in. Her laughter had a gay music to it, and the way she threw her head back gave the impression that nothing could disturb her sense of well-being. Even on the night two years before in Saudi Arabia, when she faced the prospect of a brutal interrogation by Saudi security forces and a lengthy sojourn in a Saudi women’s prison, her laugh still held the magical power of somehow making it all go away, at least for a few shining moments.

“I’m flying again, with Middle East Airlines. I’ve gone back to what I did when I first came out to the Middle East. Ghassan insisted that I quit when we were married. But once all that was behind me and I found myself back in London without a job, it seemed the best thing for me was to go back to the work I’ve always loved doing.”

“But for heaven’s sake, Lorraine, why Beirut? The airport here is closed nearly as many days as it’s open. MEA can barely meet its payroll.”

“Oh, it’s only a ten-week contract. They need an in-flight services trainer for their new class of air hostess trainees. As soon as Walter’s TDY is finished, we’ll go back to Washington and I’ll find a job flying out of Dulles.”

Lorraine must have seen the cloud of confusion pass across his face. In the moment before she held her hand up to silence him, her green eyes took on an expression that passed quickly from doubt to understanding to resignation.

“Don’t tell me. I already know what you’re thinking, Guido. You see, the reason Walter didn’t say anything to you about my coming is that he didn’t know about it. I’ve been in London these past four weeks seeing old friends and working out the details of my return. I haven’t breathed a word of it yet to Walter. He has arrived by now, hasn’t he?”

Prosser felt himself redden. Suddenly beads of perspiration began forming on his upper lip despite the cool offshore breeze. He drew in a deep breath. “Lorraine, I don’t exactly relish being a shit, but I can’t talk to you about what Walt may or may not be doing. If he told you anything, that’s his business. But whatever he said, I can’t confirm or deny it.”

“That sounds so very official of you, Guido. Certainly you can let Walter know I’m here, can’t you?”

“If I said I could, I’d be confirming to you that he’s in-country. Didn’t he leave you a forwarding address or give you some kind of contact instructions?”

Lorraine let out a deep sigh, and within an instant all of her innate charm and buoyancy seemed to escape her. “You know how unreliable Walter can be. Before I left Amman, he said he’d meet me in London on his way back to the States. But after a week I grew tired of waiting.”

Prosser avoided her gaze. There was something troubling about a woman who felt compelled to follow a man to a country in the midst of a civil war when he hadn’t even given her the courtesy of a forwarding address. “So how long have the two of you been together?” he asked in an effort to break the silence. “You left Saudi Arabia at the end of ’77, wasn’t it?”

“January 4, 1978, to be precise. I went back to work for British Airways in London in mid-January, and ten weeks later I looked up Walt on my first flight to Amman. When the airline refused to base me in Amman, I quit and got a job flying for Royal Jordanian. Walter and I have been together ever since.”

Prosser cast a quick glance toward the dining room and its cake with six-pointed stars. “Listen, Lorraine. The party is winding down. Let me take you back to town and we can catch up on what’s been happening. You’re staying in West Beirut, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

“Hotel?”

“The Riviera, on the Corniche.”

“That’s only a couple of blocks from my apartment. Come on. When we get back, I’ll buy you a drink and we’ll see what we can do about straightening out old Walt.”

At the mention of Walt’s name, the magical smile lit up Lorraine’s face, and she took Prosser’s arm as he led her toward the door.

* * *

“Do you suppose they intend to carry on like this all night?” Lorraine inquired, turning away from the red glow of tracer fire as Prosser rejoined her on the balcony of his fourth-floor flat and gazed out over the Mediterranean. The din held steady but was not overpowering; rather, it was as if a thunderstorm was passing somewhere offshore.

He handed her a fresh gin and tonic and settled into the wicker armchair beside her. “The shelling generally tapers off before dawn, around four or five in the morning. But don’t worry. After a few days, you won’t even notice it unless it comes within a couple blocks of you.”

“Don’t shells ever land in this part of the city?”

“Not many since I’ve been here. Where you’re sitting right now is quite safe. You see, incoming rounds almost always arrive from the southeast, from along the Green Line. There’s a hell of a lot of bricks and mortar between us and the southeast side of the building. Unfortunately, the Riviera Hotel isn’t quite as well shielded as this building, but unless you’re in an eastward-facing room, I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”

Lorraine stood up to inhale the fragrant blossoms of the potted frangipani tree at her side. She didn’t look reassured. “You have a lovely apartment, Conrad. Did you find it yourself?”

Prosser leaned back in his wicker chair and took another sip of bourbon. “The embassy has it under a long-term lease. My predecessor lived in it, and so did his predecessor, and the fellow before that, most probably. Not ideal from a security standpoint. But you couldn’t find a better view of the Corniche anywhere in West Beirut.”

“Conrad, please tell me if what I’m about to ask would create a problem for you or embarrass you in any way. But would you mind terribly if I spent the night on your lovely American sofa?”

Prosser laughed and reached out to take her hand. “Of course not, Lorraine. But why don’t you take my bedroom and I’ll stay on the sofa? I rather like sleeping out here in the salt air from time to time.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it. But I will accept your offer of the sofa. I simply can’t bear another night in that hotel. There are only three of us on the entire floor, and the other two give me gooseflesh. Thank God Muriel has invited me to stay with her for the next week until Walter arrives.”

Prosser let the reference to Lukash pass without comment. “I’ll fetch you a towel and washcloth and some fresh bed linens. If you need a toothbrush or anything, help yourself to what you can find in the medicine cabinet.”

* * *

Prosser had not quite passed from twilight consciousness into a deep sleep when he heard the latch on his door click open. Through half-open eyes he saw a silvery glow spread across the wall opposite the partially open door. A slender figure in an oversize white terry robe approached from the moonlit corridor and entered the bedroom.

“Conrad? Are you awake?”

“Yes. Is anything wrong?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“The shelling?”

“I don’t think so.” She fell silent, as if weighing her words, and sat at the edge of the bed. “Conrad, have I ever asked you whether you’re married?”

It was his turn to be silent. He rolled over onto his side and faced her. “I can’t recall if you did or not,” he answered at last. “Anyway, I’m not. I was once but not anymore. My divorce decree arrived here shortly after I did.”

“I’m sorry,” Lorraine replied with the proper note of sympathy. “Do you miss her?”

“Oh, once in a great while, I suppose. Not as often as I expected.”

“Are you still in love with her?”

Prosser looked up at the loose mess of hair spilling over Lorraine’s shoulders and then noticed a spark of anticipation in her eyes. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I ever was. No, I just married her.”

Lorraine bent over him and placed her palm flat against his cheek. He put his own hand over hers, hodling it there for a long moment before reaching down to tug on the belt that held the terry robe around her waist. It fell open, revealing the glowing whiteness of her thighs and the outlines of her small, conical breasts. She shrugged her shoulders and let the robe slide down her back and onto the floor.

* * *

The sun lit up the borders of the heavy curtains like the corona of an eclipsed sun. When the alarm buzzer sounded, Prosser sat bolt upright and shielded his face from the band of blinding light where the curtains failed to reach the floor. Without opening his eyes, he managed to find the clock and turn off the rasping buzz with a deft tap of his fingers.

“Good morning,” Lorraine greeted him huskily. She rolled onto her back and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her slender hands.

“Sorry about the alarm. It has a nasty bark, but I need it to cut through the morning haze sometimes. Did you sleep well?”

“Beautifully,” she replied. “And you?”

“Never better. I guess I was more tired than I realized. Listen, Lorraine, I’m sorry about—”

“Don’t say it. There’s no need to be sorry. All I wanted was someone to hold me and listen, and you were wonderful.”

“It’s kind of you to say that. But I don’t generally have this sort of problem, so I don’t know exactly what to say. Maybe it takes a while before the subconscious realizes that a divorce decree is intended to set you free again.”

Lorraine looked at him as if she were trying to read his mind. “If it’s Walter you’re thinking about, don’t give it another thought. As I said before, Walter can be thoroughly unreliable. I’ve had to learn not to depend on him when I feel the need to be close to someone. It’s not that I don’t love him, because I believe I do, but I also believe a woman is capable of loving more than one man. And right now, Conrad, I find myself growing rather fond of you.”
 

She pulled herself on top of him and sat with her ivory thighs astride his waist, twisting the curly hairs on his stomach around her fingertips. “Why don’t you leave me a message at the Riviera this afternoon and let me know if you’ll be free tonight. Or tomorrow night, for that matter. I’m not going anywhere for a while. Heavens, for all I know, there may not even be a Walter Lukash.”

Chapter 4

Prosser switched on the car radio as he entered the refuse-strewn wasteland opposite the Saint Simon bathing beach, three kilometers south of the city. He turned up the volume and listened carefully for the tone that announced the beginning of the eight o’clock news. The morning broadcasts always carried a complete listing of the hot spots that Beirut’s morning commuters should avoid if they wished to escape sniping, shelling, kidnapping, car bombs, and other local hazards.