White Moon Black Sea (7 page)

The smell of woodsmoke and roasting lamb filled the air. The convoy stopped in a cloud of dust. When it settled they saw a sight typical of hill villages. Two old men sat
drinking ouzo and playing trictrac under the shade of the tree in front of the
kafenanon
— a combination coffee shop, post office, and general store. The cicadas were in full symphony.

The driver leaned on the wheel, exhausted. Rashid looked at the peaceful, sleepy atmosphere. He turned to Humayun and Christos and said, “That do for a drive?”

He took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped some dust from the bridge of Humayun’s nose. She removed the turban she was wearing and her shining red-gold hair tumbled onto her shoulders. They barely had a moment before the young men with the rifles were pounding on the horn. Slowly people drifted into the square and surrounded the Range Rover.

It was a delightful reunion for all. The villagers were intrigued by their guests and plied them with questions even before they were out of the car. A 1938 Chevrolet, battered and crumpled with a motor that sounded like an airplane, burst into the square followed by a motorcycle pulling a flat cart and half a dozen donkeys from the opposite direction. They were piled high with people, baskets of cakes and bread and olives, and bottles of oil and ouzo and wine from the next two villages. They were all there for the village lunch. The excitement had been building for days. It had all been planned, the cooking had begun hours before and, as some of the guests dressed in their best spilled out of the vehicles, others were even now walking into the square.

The women, with the exception of Humayun, all looked more like men acting as women dressed in black, their heads covered and tied in black scarves. Some had been bold enough to put on beautiful old embroidered waistcoats or some traditional silver Cretan jewelery. They wore no makeup, and even though some had very weathered skin, their natural beauty shone through it.

There was much clucking and praise and some chastisement for Christos as his men unloaded the back of the Range Rover, putting things out of the hot sun onto the veranda of the village shop. These were in addition to
the endless ouzo, arrak, and retsina, plus Cretan delicacies from all three villages.

It was a day full of vitality. From the many gathered together, opinions and arguments were expressed loudly and clearly representing the collective mind and voice and essence of the three assembled villages.

As for the guests of honor, they loved it all. Loved this personal and intimate Crete they were privileged to be a part of. They saw it at its best up in that village that day. The villagers displayed the stubbornness the Cretans are famous for, the natural pride that they have, the supreme arrogance and elegance of people from truly poor villages. The guests were aware of the savage passions stirring in these people, made explicit in stories that made them understand that hundreds of years of sieges, battles, poverty, and famine had served to shape the unyielding, obdurate character of these people. They heard stories of famous vendettas, heroism during the Second World War and the German Occupation. There was so much spirit, so much life in such a barren, poor little village.

It was a wonderful day. One where reality was fresh and went from impulse to impulse. Rashid, Christos, and Humayun could see that the impulses were not always praiseworthy. There was some pique, there were flashes of jealousy. And, although they saw no outburst of it, since they knew well what lust was, they saw it in some of the men’s eyes. There was a natural cunning in the Greeks: Rashid had known it from dealing with them in business, and he saw signs of it here. He saw these things as part of their character and accepted them as such.

The three kept up with the festivities, which went on until late in the afternoon. They were moved by the passion and beauty of the tough and rugged men dancing together. Then, with much protestation, the villagers finally accepted all the provisions Christos had brought, and the guests of honor were allowed to say good-bye and leave.

They left as they had come, in a convoy, and with the same two young men with their rifles insisting — in case of trouble on the road — they see them to their
rendez-vous
with the helicopter a few miles away. And there was trouble on the road. Halfway between the village and the
rendez-vous
point a tire on the Range Rover blew out and had to be changed.

Humayun and Rashid struggled up a steep, stony, arid hill which sloped down to a beautiful valley and an olive grove. Both were drunk and very happy. They had agreed to return to the Range Rover in a half hour. Now they wandered among the rocks and boulders until they chose a spot, a large sheet of stone made smooth as satin by the wind and the rain, balanced precariously like a shelf from the side of the mountain. From there they could see over the valley and the mountains to a ribbon of blue in the distance, the sea.

A warm, caressing wind rippled their clothes, and the untamed, relentless nature of the place took possession of them. Rashid kissed Humayun passionately. There was a primitive, feral sexuality about him at that moment. She recognized its possible dangers and said, “I think we must go back, darling,” knowing in her heart that was the last thing she wanted to do.

“We have half an hour. Take your clothes off,” he ordered as he started to undress himself.

Humayun did not protest but asked, “What if they come looking for us?”

“Hunters must have their prey. You will be their prize, and I shall win you from them again. I shall watch the pleasure in your eyes and hear in your cries the delight of new young male flesh vanquishing you. I will watch them quake in the arms of the divine.” He laughed at her and roughly pulled her into his arms. He kissed her on the lips and bit her on the side of her neck.

Humayun began undoing her suit. He felt wild and desperate to take her. They were both naked when he pulled her down on to the warm smooth rock and fucked her. He probed her roughly with his penis, but was tender and passionate with his lips and his mouth.

For Humayun it was sublime. To be fucked, naked in the sunlight, in this barren place encircled by mountains, by her master, the man she loved beyond life itself. She
kissed and bit him with a savage passion of her own. She dug her fingernails deep into the flesh on his back and gasped as she came in streams of exquisite orgasms.

He took her again in an animal fashion with even greater need and ferocity. In his mind and will he tore her apart with passionate frenzy. When he withdrew, he spun her around in his arms to kiss her again. Tears of overpowering frustration spilled out his inexhaustible desire for her. But with her kisses she smoothed his madness until slowly he became tender again and brushed her cheeks and forehead with his lips as one kisses a child.

Christos found them that way. He stood over them. “We heard you cry out. It echoes in these hills. I knew you were in no danger. I knew it was the cry that comes from within, the one that comes from passion. No wonder your sexuality tortures me, Humayun.”

Humayun saw the change in Rashid’s eyes. The outside world had arrived, and he needed to make light of their overwhelming sexual togetherness. She diffused the intensity by raising her arm and extending a hand of welcome to Christos. Such well-timed gestures were what kept Rashid always interested in her. Christos was quick to remove his clothes. Rashid held Humayun in his arms and played with her breasts, kissed her lips, and said to his cousin, “Kiss her, make love to her, fuck her well, Christos. I want her to have all of Crete inside her today.”

Christos did what he was told and took her the way Rashid wanted him to. Afterward he took Humayun out of Rashid’s arms and had her again by kissing her sweetly, lovingly, with admiration and affection. Christos was extraordinary. For the first time in their lovemaking, the cruel side of his nature, the ambivalence he felt about her as a woman, was not there. She sensed a change in him she did not understand, but she instinctively knew she would never again have sex with him, and she felt more relieved than she would have expected.

Before Christos rose from the rock he caressed Rashid’s hair, bent forward, and kissed him lovingly on the lips. The three began to dress. It was Humayun who broke the silence.

“Thank you, Christos. I will never forget these last twenty-four hours I have spent in your beloved Crete. Not as long as I live.”

Christos wanted to tell Humayun and Rashid that it had always been a secret desire of his to have, just once, sex with Humayun without conflict. That it was he who should thank them for today, and that he would never forget the joy he was feeling. But he said nothing. Words might have broken the spell of the moment.

Arm in arm they walked back to the Range Rover. The convoy pushed on to its
rendez-vous
with the helicopter. The three stood together in the clearing on top of another peak, surrounded by their convoy of odd vehicles while the men loaded the helicopter with Humayun’s luggage. She and Rashid said their good-byes to everyone and watched as they withdrew down the mountain before the copter switched on its blades.

Alone now, high above the island, they looked out across the rugged landscape. It seemed almost fragile under the vast open sky, amid the surrounding sea, the light of the lingering sun, and the strange, soft, warm wind.

4

“H
ello. Hope you don’t mind, I’ve come for breakfast.”

Rashid went directly to Mirella and, taking her hand in his, kissed it, then her lips. Mirella was pregnant and even more beautiful then ever. Rashid had not seen her in many months and had been desperate for a glimpse of her since she had telephoned him with the news of the baby.

Mirella’s heart had leapt at the sight of Rashid, as it always did whenever they had been parted, even for a day. She had given up trying to come to terms with her physical attraction to Rashid and felt only relaxed and happy that it
was still there. She smiled the kind of welcome you give the
other
man in your life.

He went from her to Adam Corey, who stood and shook hands with him.

“We’re always pleased to feed the hungry, Rashid,” Adam said. “Could be you’re in luck. Moses is cooking the breakfast this morning.

One of the diminutive Turkish housemaids scuttled from the breakfast room. A large round table of icy gray marble on its pedestal of entwined carved lions stood in a square bay window. The window was two stories high, covered by antique Turkish wooden fretwork, the sort the women of the harem hid behind to watch processions from the Palace of Topkapi. Encircling the table were half a dozen round-backed chairs, cut and honed from single blocks of terra-cotta-colored Veronese marble, made to look light and elegant by the superb carved lion arms and legs. On the center of the table there was a huge bowl containing dozens of white moth orchids. There were tropical trees and caged birds around the room which was dappled with the morning sunlight filtering through the wooden screen of the window. It was an enchanting breakfast room.

The maid returned, ready to lay a place at the table for Rashid, and with her came Moses. The two men greeted each other.

“Some breakfast, sir?” Moses asked.

“How are you going to persuade me?”

“Mango juice and calves sweetbreads marinated in a light olive oil, white wine, fresh parsley, basil, and garlic. I barbecue them slowly so that they are firm and golden brown. Then there’s kidney. They’re served together with Ogen melon and a saffron sauce, and my special
Oeuf en surprise
. That’s a brioche scooped out and filled with eggs, a dash of salt, pepper, and, as the French say, a
soupçon
of nutmeg. And who else would go to the length of whisking them in butter to a creamy scramble, something like a mousse? Nor have I stinted with the chopped truffles braised in butter and folded in with the eggs. Back on go the tops of the brioches. And there you have your egg
surprise. Lots of hot black coffee to bring you back to earth again.”

“Stop, stop. Enough production secrets. Just bring it on, Moses. I certainly came to the right house for my breakfast this morning.”

Rashid heard Adam say, “What’s on your mind, Rashid? You didn’t have to avoid a fast day or a kitchen strike at your place, did you? Something more than food has brought you out here so early in the morning.”

But at the same time he was thinking “Moses. Humayun.” Reassurance came as he recalled the last order he had given Humayun, when they had parted upon arrival in Istanbul the night before. “Humayun, kill that relationship.” But he had not come simply to banter about breakfast with Moses either.

From the moment he and Humayun flew off that mountain peak in Crete and waved good-bye to Christos and his convoy of vehicles winding its bumpy way down to the valley, the dark purple kidskin box on his lap had been his focus. Its contents, the fulfillment of a life’s ambition, and the effect it was about to have on his life and, in no small way, on his country and his future, wonderfully concentrated his mind, no less then than when his team of lawyers and advisors met him at the Istanbul airport had Rashid’s delayed reaction of supreme delight at having won his victory over the Oujies at last taken hold.

It had been his intention to invite Mirella to lunch and explain why he had pulled off the business coup that he had. Then to make love to her and claim that business was one thing, their love another, and demand that she handle what had happened with sympathetic understanding for his position. When he woke in the early hours of the morning, however, he changed his mind. He thought it best to tell both Mirella and Adam at the same time. It was too big a coup to exclude Adam. And he did not want to depend on sex games with Mirella to take the edge off his actions. The fact was that Adam Corey could be a greater danger to Rashid for his duplicity than Mirella might be, even thought it was none of his business. Rashid had absolutely no qualms about announcing what he had to
say. His victory was too sweet and far-reaching to touch any personal conscience.

He drank the freshly squeezed mango juice from the large crystal goblet on the Charles II silver plate in front of him. “One thing about your husband, Mirella. He knows a trick when he sees one. Even at breakfast time. You are not going to like what I have to tell you.”

Before he could say another word, Mirella surprised him with an outburst. “You’re not coming? You’re not flying to Paris with us this evening for the reception? Adam’s own daughter Zhara and Ahmed being feted and you won’t be there? That’s really mean of you, Rashid. Mean. You know how much I wanted all of us to be there together. Brindley and Deena are already waiting for our arrival. I don’t see why, if my very busy English solicitor and my best friend can make it, you can’t. All Adam’s children and their mothers are at the Ritz. Have been for two days. My mother and father and brother are at this moment flying from Massachusetts to represent the Wingfields. Even Marlo has turned up at the Crillion and is waiting for us. Adam’s sister is flying in from London. Everyone has made such an effort to help me and give family support to Zhara’s first official public appearance since her marriage. Except you, my …” Mirella hesitated for a moment. There was a faint flush, but she quickly recovered herself.

“Ahmed is arriving with an entourage of a hundred,” she continued. “And the French are making the most out of his visit and the private family and world of his new queen. You need the continued good will of the French, don’t you? And the jet-set media. You could make it easier for everyone by being there with us. How could you let me down like this? Let us all down like this? It’s unforgivable.”

Mirella, tears sparkling in her eyes, jumped up from the table and fled from the room, her white chiffon and lace dressing gown billowing out like some exotic cloud around her. She passed by Moses, who gave her a concerned look. He went directly to Rashid to serve him and Adam. The men remained silent until the majordomo
stepped away and waited off to one side near the Persian wooden coffer inlaid with gold, silver, and bronze birds, flowers, and animals, which served as a sideboard.

Rashid did not fail to register how excitingly beautiful and sexy Mirella looked as she fled from him. His appetite for her was never satisfied and, if it were possible now, he meant to have her much more than he had during these last few months. He liked having sex with her while she carried her child. He reacted to the swell of her belly under the clinging white satin and lace of her nightgown as the chiffon of her negligee had opened just enough to excite and tantalize him with her condition. She was not so large as to make their powerful sexual encounters awkward or uncomfortable. He made up his mind to have her in the next few hours for he feared otherwise he might not be able to get on with his day.

He cut into a sweetbread and, looking across at Adam, calmly asked, “She’s very tense about the Paris business. But I wasn’t about to duck out of an appearance there for her. What was all that about?”

“Anxiety, anguish, needing your support. Affirmation that this pregnancy and having a child are not going to change her life. There have been so many changes in Mirella’s life in such a short span of time. She has risen to them and projected another part of her hidden self to the foreground of her life. And she likes who and what she is, the life she’s leading. Maybe she’s not quite ready for another change. Or maybe she senses she is about to lose part of the life she has. Perhaps it’s not for me to guess the motive, because it was directed at you, not me. I suggest you go to her after you have had your breakfast and find out. But do keep in mind, Rashid, I don’t want her unduly upset by you or anyone else. I wouldn’t thank you for that, especially now with only a few weeks to go before the baby is born.”

There was something, a look in Adam’s eyes, a menace as yet not triggered against him. Mirella’s husband and her lover were having a first intense exchange about the woman they loved. Discreet and civilized as they were, Rashid for the first time did not like the position he was in.
The two aspects of his relationship with Mirella were uncomfortably close to clashing. But what was happening? He wondered. Had she found out about his business coup over her? If so, how? Or had her pregnancy induced a whimsical rage at one of his many, quite open sexual conquests? He would soon find out. The problem would pass.

The two men finished their breakfast in general conversation about their immediate plans. From Paris the Coreys were flying to New York because Mirella wanted the have her baby born there in their East Hampton, Long Island, house on the ocean. Rashid would be in residence in his Southampton compound with numerous house guests. The Coreys and Rashid would be back in Istanbul about the same time, as soon as the baby was able to travel. The more they spoke about their movements, the more awkward Rashid was feeling. On the second cup of coffee he asked if Adam minded if he went up to have a word with Mirella to reassure her he would be going with them that evening.

“Frankly, my friend, I think you are going to have to do better than that. I don’t know what you have done, but I know my wife. That outburst was not for nothing.”

“Would you mind if I whisked her away for a few hours? Maybe take her and the Princess Eirene to lunch?”

It was now a kind of game. Neither of them was enjoying it. It was in fact making them touchy. Both knew in their own way they would have words with Mirella about the little scene she had pulled, which had embarrassed them all. Implicit in their
ménage à trois
was the demand that none of them ever be placed in an embarrassing situation vis-à-vis their relationship. Mirella had let them down.

Adam did not answer Rashid’s question. Instead he rose from the table. “I must be off. Tell Mirella for me that I will meet her at the plane as we had planned. Rashid, we take off at four. No delays. We’ll be cutting it fine enough as it is.” He went around to Rashid’s chair and shook his hand. “I’m pleased to have you with us this evening, Rashid. People see you as part of our extended family, and
your absence might have caused some gossip we will be delighted not to have spread about us. By the way, what is the announcement that we were going to be upset about?”

“It can wait. See you at the airport later today.”

Rashid walked into Mirella and Adam’s bedroom without knocking. She was standing next to the window looking at the morning river traffic plying the Bosporus. She knew without even turning around that it was Rashid. Her heart began to pound. She placed her hands around herself in a hug, feeling a need to be held, and closed her eyes. He walked up in back of her, with not a word said between them. He placed his arms around her waist and pulled her hard against him. With his hands he caressed the hard round swelling of her belly in comforting circles, and he kissed her passionately on her earlobe and the side of her neck. Slowly he turned her around in his arms and slid the sensuous white dressing gown off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. All words, all thoughts vanished. He had never seen her more passionately in need of him. Her sensuous and now very pregnant beauty dazzled him. She was bathed in an earth-mother kind of beauty that powered its own kind of lust, and in it lay another sort of beauty … and yet another. Hers was the kind of perfect beauty that the artist strives to capture in paint, the photographer tries to trap through his lens. It had to do with the light on her skin, the texture of it. She was the epitome of the scent and life of woman, birth, life, death, and rebirth. She was sensual and sexual eternity for him, and he proved that to her without a word.

He drew her by the hand from the window, all the while kissing and touching her. She was helpless to resist him, for the sexual attraction was, as it always had been, mutual. The plunging neckline of the haltered, white lace top of her nightgown was stretched taut by her full, rounded breasts, the long, tantalizing nipples and their pretty pink areolae. He was dazzled by the glamour of his pregnant mistress. He sat down on the silk-covered bench in front of her dressing table after freeing his throbbing penis. Standing her in front of him he raised the white satin, bias-cut skirt of her gown to above her belly. Then
he lifted her very carefully and impaled her upon himself while kissing the roundness of her belly and licking and sucking her flesh. With great delicacy he had her ride his penis, by raising and lowing her again and again, until her orgasms broke within her, delivering her into their special world of ecstasy.

He came once, and then very quickly again, yet was still erect when he laid her across her bed and went to her dressing room to choose a dress and shoes for her. The only words in that room where his.

“Here, put these on, let’s get out of here. This is no place for us. I’ll take you to our love pavilion. Of course I am coming to Paris with you.”

The party deliberately arrived late at the Opéra to be sure the other guests were seated. A violin concerto was in progress, a rich hors d’oeuvre to the opera. Beneath the relaxed surface of the music was the tension induced by evident security measures.

The Loves of the Indies
by Rameau was given a gala performance in honor of the official visit of the Arabian king and his new queen. Their hosts: France and her president.

The lights were down when they slipped silently into their seats in the official box. Only the crystalline white spotlight on the latest Asian prodigy of the violin lit the opera house.