Lemon in the Basket Read online

  “You have used the exact word,” said Jaylia good-naturedly. “He will, if he so wills. He can. But he may or he may not. Sometimes he isn’t in the mood.”

  “He won’t, I suppose, wear black tie?” said Maggie, amused.

  “Al Asad never wears Western dress.”

  Lurlene was being stricken by panic. It crossed her mind that anybody was crazy to expect that this king might show up in cowboy boots! What! He ought to know better than that. But what would you say to a king who might speak English if he felt like it? She said, “Oh, I wouldn’t know what to say, you know. We just … we just kinda want to come and sit in a corner.”

  “Mind your shoes,” said Jaylia carelessly. “Nobody gets to sit down.”

  “Oh, well, I see, I’m sure.” Lurlene was scarlet. Didn’t this princess figure that Lurlene knew better than to sit down, if some king should be standing up? Lurlene was feeling most uncomfortably warm. The new suit was too heavy for the temperature of the day. She didn’t even feel like herself in it. She didn’t even want to come to the dumb party. This was all for Rufus’ sake, because ever since he read about it on the society page he’d been looking in the mailbox or waiting for the phone to ring. Lurlene was now giving Jaylia a black look.

  Maggie said easily, “There was a friendly warning. Not that it will do a bit of good. Every woman will have on her feet some brand-new, matching shoes that will inevitably be killing her.”

  Yah! thought Lurlene, a flash of grim joy going through her. She got up. She had to get out of here. “Listen, I certainly don’t want to bother anybody. I got to run along anyhow. Thanks a lot. And say, I was very happy to meet you … uh …” Lurlene didn’t know what to call the woman. “Excuse me?” she finished.

  Maggie got up and accompanied her to the front door, although Lurlene protested. When the door had opened Maggie said soothingly, “Don’t fuss too much, Lurlene. It won’t be a long gathering. It will be very quiet, just people standing around and, for the most part, saying absolutely nothing of any importance.”

  Yah! That’s what you think! thought Lurlene. “It’ll be a wonderful experience,” she said lamely, and went away.

  When Maggie came back, Jaylia said with a puzzled look, “Did I offend her?”

  “No, no,” said Maggie absently. Then, pencil poised, she looked far away and said, “Lurlene is no more flustered than the majority of our guests will be pretending not to be.”

  Jaylia leaned back and stretched her torso, catlike. She said, softly, “Have I told you lately, Maggie darling, that I think you are a bit of a darling?”

  “Not since Friday, I believe it was,” said Maggie severely. “Come. Come. To work.”

  14

  One of the King’s jets (he had two) came gracefully to ground, as expected (at L. A. International) very early in the morning on Wednesday. Al Asad and entourage became the center of a cluster of policemen, Secret Service men, newsmen, cameramen, and a few citizens curious enough to get up that early. The King was screeched through the city to the bungalow on the grounds of the posh hotel, where he was shut abruptly away from sight and sound. He did not (the press was told) speak English. Later on, perhaps, an official, interpreted interview might be arranged.

  Duncan Tyler found his mother and father watching a rerun of all this on the downstairs portable television set in the Judge’s study. (Maggie and the Judge kept a portable TV on each floor of the house for use in cases of real necessity.) Duncan sensed that his parents were glad to see him this morning. After all, he had met the King before (as, of course, had Mitch although more briefly). Duncan had arranged to take the day off and be, as best he could, some sort of liaison.

  The house was cool and in perfect order, humming along smoothly. Duncan left his parents to their viewing and ran up to look in on the boy. Jaylia was with him. They were chattering away and Duncan realized that they were both excited, and both happy to be excited. Tamsen had been right. They were homesick.

  He told Saiph that Tamsen would not come to play this afternoon because of the party. (That is, if there were to be one.) He said a few words to Jaylia, who scarcely seemed to see or hear him, and went back down.

  But there it was, still. The same damn thing. A man can look at a princess, he supposed, although there was nothing more that he could do. Oh, he would if he could. He didn’t kid himself. But the chances that he ever could were very small. He would not be led into any further temptation. Duncan knew he had made no great and noble renunciation. The thing was and always had been … well, almost impossible. Besides, he was married now, to a beloved bride who loved and understood him. He did not and never would live on the same side of the globe of the earth as Jaylia, who … Well, never mind.

  He went to sit with his parents, and began to watch Maggie fondly, trying to guess what role she would choose this morning. Ah, the calm chatelaine. Dainty fingertips on every pulse in the house. Would Duncan take coffee? Nothing was the slightest trouble.

  When Jaylia came down to take coffee, too, Duncan was able to sip quietly, watching and listening while she tried to describe who might be coming with the King. The entourage, she explained, would consist of at least three body servants to His Majesty. They would not come here. There would also be at least three members of what might be called his inner cabinet, if Alalaf had such a thing. These would be men who were always at the King’s side whenever he was visible to the people. Any people. At home, Jaylia said, there would be bodyguards with swords and daggers, or (on occasion) machine guns.

  At this Maggie threw up her hands.

  But Jaylia did not think the King would lead what might look like an armed invasion into this country.

  The Judge wanted to know who would be minding the store, and Jaylia made educated guesses. A very tight military watchfulness would be on in Alalaf. Everything would be kept strictly status quo; no decisions until the King came home to make them. After all, who else could?

  When the sirens sounded, Maggie caused the coffee cups to disappear. Jaylia scampered up to her son, the Judge cleared his throat several times, and Duncan found himself straightening his tie.

  The visitors were four. There was no doubt which of them was the King. His silken robes hung with a difference. Nothing could be seen of the body, except that it moved well for a man of seventy. The face, beaten by time, was sharp; it was stern. It had no humor. The eyes seemed cold.

  But Al Asad chose to remember Duncan Tyler from a year ago. The King also chose to speak English this morning.

  Now it turned out that Maggie Mitchel Tyler was a Queen this morning. Duncan was tickled to see Maggie assume a position of equality and let her crowned head be gracious to its male counterpart. He thought he saw the King’s eye flicker, briefly.

  Their Majesties decided to ascend the stairs almost at once. Behind them marched the one man of the four who wore trousers. He was in a khaki outfit of military aspect. He had sparse sandy-reddish hair, and a face full of freckles. The other two men, both in gowns and headcloths, remained below, and the Judge turned his hand, indicating that Duncan must go up and help Maggie do the honors while he, the Judge, attempted to entertain these two gentlemen.

  So Duncan went leaping upward, in the rear of the procession.

  He had missed the first encounter of the King with the Prince, not to mention with the Princess.

  Saiph was sitting up in a big blue chair near the balcony doors. He was wearing white pajamas and a blue robe. Daily sunning had given his skin a glow. He looked healthy and handsome. Duncan was tickled to notice that the little face had taken on an imitation of the expression on the face of the King, his grandfather. It was stern; it was keen, but the eyes seemed cold.

  This east guest room was a large room; it was crowded at the moment. The King’s presence was imposing. He had been persuaded to sit down in a chair facing the boy, from just within the passage door. Beside him, watchdogging the proceedings, stood this freckle-faced chap in the khaki. Inga was there, in her white un
iform, drawn politely into a far corner. Hayyan was there, dutifully stiff, beside his little master. Jaylia was there, in her pleasantly designed, but long-sleeved, high-necked summer frock. Her face was proud and happy, and yet in some way humble. She had a “presenting” air. “See,” she seemed to say, “may it please you!”

  Maggie was there, just inside, graciously permitting everyone else to be there.

  Duncan stayed just outside. He could not understand a word that was being said. The King and the little boy were not speaking English to each other. Duncan began to try to guess who could understand. Jaylia, by concentrating, was getting most of it. Inga, too. Hayyan, no doubt, understood it all. So did this King’s man in khaki. But had Duncan not known that Maggie was totally ignorant of that language, he would have supposed that Maggie was understanding every syllable in an aloof and indulgent manner. He had to marvel. Maggie tickled him. She really did.

  The visit was not long. It seemed formal, but satisfactory. The King rose. Duncan stood aside with an ushering gesture. The King nodded and, with a movement of his eyes, invited Duncan to come along. So the King, followed by his own man, and only then by Duncan, swept through the upper passage and down the stairs.

  No, the King informed his host, the Judge, the King would not take coffee. The King would like to speak with the doctor. The Judge agreed that this meeting must take place, whenever His Majesty wished, of course. (Omitting the news that Mitch was operating on some other child this morning.) But the Judge ventured to suggest a small reception, here, this evening. Certain people. Not many.

  The King said something in his own tongue to his companions. The man in khaki said to Duncan, “May I see the house, please, on this level?”

  “Why, sure,” said Duncan, who kept on being irreverently tickled, for some reason.

  “Colonel Heinz Gorob,” the man said, with the ghost of some heel-clicking.

  “Duncan Tyler,” said Duncan amiably. “Come on, let me show you around.”

  So the Judge invited the King into his own lair. Al Asad said a word or two. The white-clad ones stood still. The King stepped cautiously, but alone, into the study. The Judge, seizing this opportunity and not much doubting it had been arranged, said quickly and privately what he had hoped to say. The King understood with an eye-beam and said that he would be quite willing to exchange a few quiet words with certain people.

  Duncan, still amused but beginning to be slightly outraged, too, watched this Colonel Gorob inspect the big living room, the lanai, the dining room, even the kitchen, as if he were looking for rattlesnakes.

  When they returned to the reception hall the King was waiting with indications of royal impatience. He chose to depart in a whirl of white cloth.

  Duncan plunked down in one of his father’s leather chairs. “Whew!”

  “The party is on,” the Judge said, licking imaginary cream from imaginary whiskers.

  “What’s up?” Duncan pounced.

  “Opportunity.”

  “Oh?”

  “Quiet words, behind the scenes.”

  “In the middle of a social bash!”

  “Where else,” his father said, “can it be done so secretly?”

  Duncan marveled, fondly.

  Jaylia came in, body curving, face smiling.

  “Did we pass?” said Duncan crossly, American to ex-half-American, and the hell with it. The trouble was that Jaylia, upstairs, had just reminded him of Jaylia in Alalaf, and the whole flavor of it had come back to him. Something so precious it must be hidden? So irresistible that it must be forbidden? Or, in itself, so unresisting that it could be taken? In other words, the chiffon-bloomer bit?

  When she nodded now in affirmative answer to his question he shifted restlessly, not pleased that she seemed to have taken it seriously.

  “Who the devil is this Colonel Gorob?”

  “Oh, a German. Or he once was.” Jaylia sat down. “I believe he was a displaced child at the end of the Second World War. He’s been around ever since. Efficient, you know.”

  “No flowing robes for him, eh?”

  “Unfortunately they don’t suit him,” said Jaylia, and her eyes added, As they would you, oh, handsome one. “The Colonel is not a type who wishes to look ridiculous.” Now she was bubbling.

  “He was looking under the rugs,” said Duncan grumpily.

  “Oh, he loves to do that.”

  “What is he? Al Asad’s hatchet man?”

  Jaylia looked puzzled. Then Maggie came in. Her erstwhile Majesty was a bit miffed; her crown had gone somewhat askew when she had been left with the women and children upstairs. “Isn’t he the arrogant old b … bird!” she sputtered. “My word, Jaylia, does a woman have to behave like a worm with these creatures?”

  Jaylia bent her head and looked at her own hands where they were clasped loosely. “Apparently,” she murmured.

  Maggie darted her a glance that answered with mischief. She then sat down and changed her face. The one she put on now was all sweet deference, but from behind the mask there steamed and there blew gusts of pure power, mockingly translated into superfeminine terms.

  Duncan marveled. He felt that his mother’s art had just enlightened him. But to what, he was not sure.

  15

  The Reception was to be at eight o’clock. Maggie, on the phone, apologized for the inconvenience of so strange an hour but, since it was His Majesty’s choice, there was nothing to be done about it, was there, except to arrive promptly. The Judge, meantime, was on his own phone.

  At seven-twenty Lurlene put her head out of the bedroom door and said, “Look, hon, why don’t you just go on ahead? Listen, I’m having a terrible time with this damned hairdo. You don’t want to be late.”

  “No, I don’t want to be any later,” Rufus said tensely. He had been ready for half an hour, all dressed up in his tux and walking around like an animal in the zoo.

  “If you leave now you can even be early. Listen, I can take a cab. Why not? So what, if it’s a little bit expensive? This damn hair …”

  He said, “All right. All right, then.”

  He wasn’t seeing her. He was thinking about something else. Her heart was jumping, but he didn’t say anything more.

  When the car had bucked backwards out of the driveway Lurlene dropped her comb on the dresser and looked at herself in the mirror, and she wasn’t seeing a thing. In a moment she went tiptoeing, which was silly because she was all alone in the house, out to the tiny room off the kitchen that they called Rufus’ “den.” When she looked in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t there.

  So she went back into the bedroom and began to struggle into her new dress. It was long; it wasn’t too full in the skirt or too low at the neckline. It was dark. Lurlene had thought of black, but then she had remembered something from somewhere. Somebody had once said, in her hearing, that neither black nor white was very good on television. The dress was a deep, an almost-navy, blue.

  Lurlene’s skin kept crawling. It kept crawling, like when you start getting the flu. She’d already had one tranquillizer. She thought another wouldn’t hurt. Suddenly she was in a fever to get there, to arrive, and not miss anything. She wished she hadn’t chickened out, there for a minute. She called for a cab before she swiftly did her hair.

  Tamsen had chosen white, a simple dress with a high waistline. Her hair was up. She looked like a small ode-worthy Grecian, from an urn. She was in Saiph’s room, and he in the blue chair. The boy had been arrayed in gown, robe and headcloth. The costume suited him marvelously well. Inga was in the dressing room, changing into a fresh uniform now that her charge was ready. To Tamsen had fallen the pleasant task of being with him. They were gay and excited.

  Meantime, Jaylia was making herself glamorous (Tamsen had no doubt) in the west wing. The whole house thrummed with anticipation.

  “This is going to be fun,” Tamsen predicted.

  Downstairs, the Judge had just answered his phone.

  “William?”

  “Y
es. Oh, Alice! Alice Foster?”

  “William, please listen carefully. Can you hear me well?”

  “Yes, I can, Alice.” The Judge respected urgency and cut off fripperies.

  “I’m going to talk fast, because I may be monitored. Speed’s the thing.” Alice’s words began to race. “I have with me, as you know, a certain politically important …”

  “What drags behind?”

  “Yes. Yes. I’ve finally got out of this poor innocent intellectual who must have been behind the late and latent nonsense.” Alice’s voice rattled and swooped. “William, it is Asiatic. You know. Those people? My young friend didn’t even realize he was their cat’s-paw. Idealist! Too easy to sway. Fact is, I’ve swayed him, myself.”

  “I’m sure,” the Judge murmured.

  “He’s lost to them, but that may not matter. Are you getting this?”

  “I’m getting it,” the Judge snapped, unable to keep from responding in a comparable style.

  “I’ve found out that somebody very close to … Himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Somebody has been bought out by these people. The man is there with him. The man is there, now.”

  “And who?” said the Judge.

  “I can’t be sure,” said Alice Foster, “but for my money it’s G. G.,” she repeated. “G. Now, you can’t announce that. You can’t accuse. Not directly. I haven’t the proof. But warn Himself, quietly. Can you do that, William? Warn Jaylia, too. And please watch out … William, can you hear all this?”

  “Loud and clear. Go on, Alice. As fast as you like.” The Judge’s ear was sweating on the phone. He could hear her gathering force to continue this machine-gun delivery, which would, he had to admit, tend to baffle a listener whose native tongue this was not.

  “It is suspected, by those people, that Himself has in mind to make some contacts. Helpful agreements?”

  “That is possible.” The Judge was cautious.