No More Lonely Nights (10 page)

As Dominique’s gaze lingered on the fading grandeur of Cairo’s landmarks, she wondered if all European influence would eventually be wiped out. Did the new regime think there was nothing of the old worth salvaging? She tried to shake off her dark thoughts as the car stopped in front of an imposing old apartment building. A uniformed doorman hurried from beneath a beige and blue awning to open the car door for the ladies.

Solange and Dominique stepped into the blistering sun for only a moment. Then they hastily entered the building through brass-framed double doors. The vast foyer was blissfully cool, thanks in part to the marble floor. An elevator attendant asked Solange whom they were visiting, and they were taken to the eighth floor.

The Renards’ apartment was the only one on the floor, and the elevator opened directly into their foyer. The whole Renard family stood in front of the elevator and broke into exclamations of welcome as the two ladies stepped out.

Dominique was swept into a series of perfumed embraces, the air beside her cheeks the recipient of one double kiss after another. And then, as if on cue, the mass of humanity parted to reveal Anton Renard. It’s like the parting of the Red Sea, Dominique thought wryly, and they think
he’s
the miracle.

Anton’s aunt took his elbow and propelled him toward Solange and Dominique. He bowed over Solange’s hand and politely shook Dominique’s.

Renard, older than Dominique had expected, wore a black suit with a stiffly starched white shirt. His tie was deep burgundy with no pattern. His graying hair was styled in a vaguely 1920s manner: parted almost in the middle, with soft waves falling on his high, pale forehead. But the whole thing seemed held in place with some sort of unguinous substance. Nevertheless, his features were pleasantly regular, his dark eyes graced by long, curling lashes. To Dominique, he seemed attractive enough, but stodgy. He’s old enough to be
Mother’s
next husband, she thought with amusement.

The wave of Renards surged around Dominique and Solange and propelled them into a drawing room. The furniture was ornate, with a great deal of crimson upholstery and gilt. Heavy red velvet drapes were drawn against the midday sun. Dominique was directed to sit in a fat little tufted chair, while Anton was urged into its twin. Trays of hors d’oeuvres were brought in by servants and circulated among the guests. Dominique noticed that everyone in the room pointedly ignored Anton and her, presumably in the hope that they would strike up their own conversation. And this Anton obligingly did.

“It is nice to see my family after so many years,” he began.

Dominique smiled politely. “It must be.” She studied the man before her. He appeared to be close to forty-five. He was slight, only a few inches taller than Dominique, but his suit was well cut and made him appear nicely proportioned. His expression was cautious, but friendly. Dominique wondered if he felt as pressured as she did. But no, he had arranged the meeting. That was the way things were done in Egypt, even among Europeans. A man expressed his desire to marry. The family suggested suitable brides. The eligible women’s families were approached and meetings arranged. Then, often in as little time as a day or two, a verdict was pronounced, a dowry agreed upon, and a date set. Of course, love matches did occur and were growing increasingly common, but it was rare that two young people were willing to defy both families in the name of love.

“I understand that your sister lives in America,” Anton ventured. He took an hors d’oeuvre from the servant and placed it on the small plate that had been given him earlier. Dominique watched as he bit the minuscule treat in half. The gesture seemed unnecessarily prim.

“My sister lives in New York,” Dominique replied. “Have you ever been there?”

“No. Only San Francisco.” Anton dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.

“Oh? How long have you lived in America?”

“Twenty-four years. I went there when I was twenty.”

“And you’ve never had the desire to explore other parts of the country?”

“I prefer to sleep in my own bed and to eat my mother’s cooking.”

Dominique raised her eyebrows. “You live with your mother?”

Anton gave a slight smile, devoid of warmth. “It’s temporary. She lived with my sister and her husband until last year. But they are undergoing… difficulties at the moment. That leaves only me. Mother speaks no English. She couldn’t manage on her own.”

“By now, you must speak excellent English,” Dominique remarked.

Again, he gave her a lifeless smile. His eyes were so dark that they were unreadable. “It will never be as good as my French, I’m afraid. I don’t really like English.”

Dominique cocked her head in surprise. “How do you get on? Work?”

“I do very well,” Anton replied with a self-satisfied expression.

Lunch was announced and, as Dominique expected, she was seated beside Anton. I’m surprised they didn’t set up a table for two in the drawing room, she thought. She decided to enjoy the lavish meal that was served, even if she had no interest in Anton Renard. The Middle Eastern specialties the cook had prepared were delicious. Dominique noticed that Anton plunged in without the restraint he had shown earlier. In fact, he fairly wolfed the food down, leaning forward over his plate. At one point, a drop of sauce landed on his tie. He appeared not to notice as it was absorbed into the red silk.

When the meal was over, the company returned to the drawing room. Dominique watched as Anton took a seat next to Solange. When it was time to go, he once more bowed over Solange’s hand. Then he hurried to Dominique’s side.

Dominique held out her hand, “it was a pleasure to meet you. I hope you have a nice trip back to America.”

“Thank you.” This time he bowed over Dominique’s hand, too. “We will see each other again. Your mother has graciously given me permission to call on you.”

If he noticed Dominique’s look of astonishment, he gave no sign.

As it turned out, Solange had invited Anton to her New Year’s Eve party. But Dominique barely spoke to him at first, so occupied was she by the other three hundred guests. The deputy minister came, of course. He had been almost a daily visitor for the last five years. Dominique watched him and her mother with a smile. She knew that Solange had refused several offers of marriage since the death of her husband. She said she preferred to remain independent. But Dominique suspected that the deputy minister had proposed many times.

Paulette and Jean also came with their families, neighbors of Solange. The three young women giggled in the corner about their love interests in Ismailia.

“Do you miss Stephen?” Paulette asked breathlessly.

“Of course,” Dominique said in a wistful tone.

“He’ll be back next week, won’t he?” asked Jean.

Dominique nodded.

Paulette grinned. “Everyone’s talking about this relative of the Renards. They say he’s here to find a wife. Are you supposed to be the victim?”

Dominique rolled her eyes. “That’s what Mother wants.”

“I met him earlier,” Jean said, “and he’s not half bad.”

Paulette’s eyes widened. “Is that true, Dominique? Is he good-looking?”

Dominique shrugged.

“Hmmm, maybe I should have a look at him,” Paulette said speculatively.

Dominique smiled. “Be my guest.”

But Solange was careful not to seat any other single young women next to Anton during the midnight supper. His eyes lit with pleasure when he saw that Dominique would be next to him. He scanned her appreciatively, taking in her elegant black gown with its gold satin halter neck and bodice. The gold of the fabric made the highlights in Dominique’s hair shimmer in the candlelight.

“You look lovely this evening,” Anton told her.

Dominique smiled—civil, but not warm. She didn’t want to encourage him.

Anton looked attentively around the room. “Your mother certainly spares nothing in her entertainment,” he commented. “Even the flowers are magnificent!” Solange had cleared two drawing rooms and her game room of their usual furniture in order to set up thirty-six tables for eight. They were covered with Belgian lace tablecloths and matching lace-trimmed napkins. At each place—set with Limoges china and Christofle vermeil—were four Baccarat crystal goblets: one for sherry, one for white wine, one for red wine, and one for champagne. Solange, like most French, did not serve water with dinner.

Dominique had never considered the scale of her mother’s entertaining. A party for three hundred only occurred once or twice a year, but Solange was no less extravagant when she entertained on a smaller scale, which she did weekly, with scintillating dinners for twelve to twenty guests.

Dominique said, “Mother loves parties.”

“You must enjoy them, too,” Anton said, leaning back as a footman placed a serving of cream of chestnut soup in front of him.

Dominique picked up her soup spoon. “I’m not here much anymore,” she announced, feeling quite grown up and independent.

Anton paused, his soup spoon poised above the dish, his head tilted questioningly.

“I live in Ismailia now. I work for the Royal Air Force.”

Anton couldn’t have looked more shocked if she had confessed to being a stripper. “You… work?” His lips tightened in disapproval. “Your mother doesn’t object?”

“Oh, she does,” Dominique replied breezily. She laughed at Anton’s expression.

“In my family,” he intoned, “young unmarried ladies do not work.”

Dominique smiled. “Well, to each his own.”

Anton lifted one eyebrow and seemed about to argue. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he nodded politely and said, “Indeed.”

As the soup plates were cleared, Dominique turned to chat with the man on the other side of her. He was a former beau of her sister, Danielle, and an old friend of the family. She soon found herself laughing gaily at his remarks.

By the time the dinner was over, Dominique felt a little tipsy from the wine. When she heard the orchestra warming up in the ballroom, she wished Stephen were with her. How wonderful it would be to see in the new year with him. Instead, she found Anton trailing behind her as she made her way to the romantically lit chamber.

Once they started to dance, however, she began to enjoy herself. Anton’s dancing was smooth and competent. She smiled at him. He wasn’t so bad. She could see how her friends might find him attractive.

“I wonder,” he asked, “if you’d have dinner with me one night next week?”

Dominique stiffened. This was too much! She had no intention of encouraging this man. “I’m sorry,” she said with as much sincerity as she could muster, “I return to Ismailia at the end of the week and I have too many people to see here before then.”

Renard’s face fell. “‘That’s disappointing,” he said gently.

Dominique felt a pang of guilt at her unequivocal rejection. “Well,” she said with a friendly expression, “perhaps another time.”

“Trouble’s brewing,” Stephen confided to Dominique.

Dominique looked up from the file cabinet with an expression of alarm.

Stephen, at his desk, held up the cable he had just finished reading. His brow was creased with worry. “There were demonstrations yesterday in front of the British embassy. The mob was quite abusive.”

“But that’s right near my house!” Dominique cried. She hurried to Stephen’s side and leaned over his shoulder to read the wire. She had to know more! She hadn’t spoken to her mother in over a week and she hadn’t seen her since a month before in January.

Stephen swiveled to face Dominique and handed her the dispatch. Her expression grew frantic as she read it. “Don’t worry,” he soothed her. “It’s just a crisis we have to weather. It will turn out all right in the end.”

Dominique looked up sharply. “That’s not what the newspapers say,” she argued. Things were getting worse, not just in Egypt, but in all of North Africa. A few weeks before, mobs in the nearby French colony of Algeria had launched a random attack against Europeans. Victims had been ripped from their cars, then slashed with knives and razors. Dominique had read with nausea of a terrorist attack on a French family that had left a pregnant mother disemboweled, her unborn baby torn from her womb and placed in the empty cavity of her stomach.

“They hate us!” Dominique cried. She threw the wire back on Stephen’s desk. “They want their country back! And I’m not sure we can blame them.”

Stephen exploded. “Can’t blame them!” He shoved his chair backward and stood up. For a moment, they were nose to nose. Then he began pacing. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Why, we’ve brought this country into the twentieth century!”

“Whether or not that’s true, they want us out now!”

Stephen whirled to face her. “And we’re complying for the most part. But the Suez Canal is vital to our interests—the entire world’s.” He threw his hands in the air in an uncharacteristic gesture of agitation. “We must maintain at least a presence here.”

Dominique’s eyes shifted to the map on the wall. “I don’t know as much about politics as you do,” she said uncomfortably, “just what I read and hear.”

Stephen stopped pacing and looked at her. The expression on his face turned gentle. He sighed and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Dominique, I may as well admit it. Things
are
serious. I’m going to have to go back to England for consultations.”

“Oh no!” Dominique took a few steps toward Stephen, then stopped, remembering their rule against contact in the office. “When?”

Stephen looked down and sighed. “End of the week.”

Dominique swallowed. “For how long?”

Stephen lifted his head. His gaze was tortured. “I don’t know. Maybe…”

Suddenly, the significance of what Stephen was saying hit her. She felt sick to her stomach. “How long, Stephen?” she repeated hoarsely.

“I… don’t… know.” He struggled with each word as though loath to pronounce it.

That evening Stephen took Dominique to his villa on the base. They needed to talk privately, he told her. Seriously.

As Dominique entered the cool, white building, she knew her first peace of the day. Though she and Stephen had spent no significant time at his home, each time she entered it, she was struck anew by its simple beauty. It was furnished in the ultra comfortable British colonial style, a mixture of fine down upholstery and artifacts native to the host country. Cool floors of marble, teak, and tile lent an air of serenity to the sparsely furnished rooms.