Lemon in the Basket Page 15

  “Yes, indeed, Your Highness,” said Maggie, as she curtsied.

  Al Asad seemed to be hiding his mouth under his palm. With a rustling of robes, he rose. Tamsen was already vanishing with Inga into the dressing room, as unmannerly as an excited child who was “going somewhere.” The Colonel, who had dismissed her almost at once as more child than woman, said to his old master, “Should we not discover what woman …”

  The King’s hand moved half an inch and the Colonel shut his mouth. There was, then, one moment when the King and the hostess stood side by side, both intending to go through that open door. It was the King who bowed. So Maggie, crowned again, went gracefully before him. Their Majesties walked sedately together toward the stairs. Colonel Gorob, red in the face, stalked behind.

  Al Asad did not seem to be trusting him as he should, and Gorob was no longer trusting Maggie Tyler. She was not what she seemed, he had concluded crossly, whatever she was.

  Duncan Tyler, yearning toward that dressing room, said to the boy, “What’s eating on the Colonel?”

  “He says that there has been a woman wounded with a knife.” Saiph’s voice was calm and his face composed. But his left hand was holding his right elbow, now.

  “Nothing of the sort has happened here,” said Duncan.

  “Of course not,” said Saiph, without even a hint of mischief. “‘Eating on him?’ That is an idiom? Or is it slang?”

  Duncan silently studied him. A boy of eleven, who wore a knife at all times.

  “I shall ask Tamsen,” Saiph said, suddenly sunny. “Ah, Tamsen, she is very foolish.” The boy was giving Duncan what might be a man’s look. Foolish heart-driven women. As if a man is not prepared, and would not prefer, to protect himself. Yet, in this foolishness, we must sometimes indulge them. “I will take care of her,” said the Prince of Alalaf.

  Duncan bowed and went (dismissed) away. He took no offense against the boy for his attitude. He couldn’t kid himself that he understood this boy. When Duncan could not even speak the language, how could he read the idioms? Behind the words would be centuries of thoughts—as strange or stranger. If Duncan thought that Saiph “ought” to have expressed gratitude, and then regret, it was only that Duncan himself “ought,” in the same circumstances.

  Duncan simply felt that it was time Saiph went home.

  Tamsen, standing in the dressing room, with shafts of pain running down her left arm while Inga pinned up the extra length of the uniform together with the extra length of the party dress, worn underneath, thought that she was looking very well in that mirror.

  “Can you braid my hair and pin it up?” she asked.

  “Yes, madame.”

  “Yes, of course you can,” said Tamsen dreamily, considering the kind of ballet that was going on in this house, a swift cue-snatching improvisation among many people. Improvisation on a theme, and each member of the corps entrusted to come in smoothly, wherever needed, in a pattern that had never been designed, but simply grew. How lovely! she thought.

  Something had happened to Tamsen, with the pain and the bloodletting. She had in some way, now (at last), been punished. So she was not guilty anymore. She felt free and not afraid.

  Lurlene stood at the bottom of the stairs. She didn’t know where they had put Rufus, to sleep it off or whatever, but she herself was beginning to feel miserably out-of-place. She had better locate him. After all, he was her husband. This was the fact that made Lurlene a Tyler. Maybe he was O.K. by now. Maybe he would go with her, to meet this king.

  Then the sight of such descending splendor—a King and a Queen—sent Lurlene turning away and scurrying back towards the garden side.

  Phillida was just gliding through the lanai. “Oh, Lurlene,” she said, “I’ve been hunting for you. I believe you are wanted.”

  “It’s about time,” said Lurlene thickly.

  Phillida took her arm, quite firmly, and they went through the lanai and all the way to the kitchen.

  “Back stairs, eh?” Lurlene muttered, resisting that hand.

  Phillida said lightly, “Why not? They’re for the family.”

  So Lurlene went along.

  20

  Inside the big room, Jaylia had been attracting all eyes, until Al Asad reappeared with Maggie. Then all eyes were busier than ever. The party, which had bogged down for a while, seemed to revive.

  In some mysterious way, everybody suddenly knew that there was now going to be a little pageant. Into the frame of the archway came two young men, in Western clothing, with Eastern faces, very stiff to their duty. They opened the curtains, as it were, and then, walking slowly, but with ease, there came the white-clad, stunning little figure of the Prince of Alalaf. Almost no eyes looked anywhere else.

  The Judge, who had instinctively put out his hand in greeting, made nothing of the boy’s evasion of a handshake. Customs differ. Besides, Mitch was authoritatively, and even fussily, guiding the boy to a big chair in the large room. Saiph’s young voice, in its American-flavored English, began to chat gravely and charmingly with what privileged persons could wiggle themselves near enough to see and to hear.

  Both choosing to be ignored, Maggie, and the old man who was a king, stood apart. “May he live forever,” she said, softly.

  Al Asad said coolly, “My aide, Colonel Gorob, insists that a woman has been wounded by a knife, in this house.”

  “Whatever can he mean?” said Maggie, seeming almost absent-minded. “Nothing untoward has happened here.”

  Elsewhere in the room, the Colonel, although he was fuming, continued to notice everything. Al Asad really ought to trust the Colonel, who was convinced that something was being concealed. He was bound he would discover what it was. This was his duty, toward at least one of his masters.

  He noticed when an ambulance had drawn up quietly outside, as Sam came to inform the Doctor of its arrival. He noticed the figures of two women come quietly down the stairs and stand to wait, beside the study door. They both wore white uniforms and fingertip-length blue capes over the white. Gorob knew all about them. The taller one was the boy’s nurse; the shorter one was that little Tyler girl. Whatever woman had been hurt in this house, she was well-hidden, somewhere else. Upstairs, he judged. It must be so. Al Asad should have believed him. Gorob was becoming a little confused, between two masters.

  Tamsen could feel her back on fire, but it was well-hidden, now. The Doctor was allotting only a very few minutes for this ceremony. Already he was beside Saiph. The way was being opened. Saiph, whose arm must be on fire, was walking toward the hall. He did not smile at Tamsen nor she at him. It didn’t seem necessary.

  The Doctor had scurried to the front door and now was letting in (of all things and in what cold blood!) a pair of news photographers.

  Saiph eyed them aloofly. He turned back to face the people, who were all watching, with Al Asad front row center.

  Prince Saiph made a graceful farewell speech, regretting his departure from the party, thanking his doctor, and every member of the Tyler family, who had been so very kind to him. Still, he wanted to go home. His smile illuminated his small face and all his charm went radiantly forth. His audience was almost moaning with delight. The cameras flashed, again and again; the men, crouched low to the floor almost under the King’s feet, were gleeful because they knew “heart” when they saw it. Happy emotion was running high. Even Maggie Mitchel Tyler (Look! Look!) had her handkerchief to her eyes.

  The Prince spoke, in a foreign language, one sentence directly to his grandfather. He made a slight bend of his head, very like the old man’s own mannerism. Then, walking steadily with great poise and dignity, and followed by his entourage, the Prince departed.

  Duncan Tyler, who had twitched aside one window hanging, was watching the driveway from the passage above. He saw, in the lightning of flash bulbs, how the Prince refused to be lifted. (And no wonder.) Saiph entered the ambulance. Inga climbed in, close behind him. Kasim and Hayyan spryly followed her. In a moment, the driver made the vehic
le begin to creep softly, as motorcycles began to roar and the police escort took position.

  Next, behind the ambulance, was Mitch’s car and Duncan saw his brother help Tamsen (knowledgeably) into the front seat, as a gentleman should. Then Mitch went around and got in to drive. His car, too, was encompassed within the escorting noise.

  Cameras tried for some last interesting shots as the procession moved. Then it was gone.

  Duncan blew out his breath in one long sigh and went back into his father’s room.

  “Say, you better tell me pretty soon, what’s the big idea,” said Lurlene, lifting her head from his father’s pillow as if her head might weigh a ton. “How come Phillida dumps me down? Listen, I …”

  “You’ve had too much to drink,” said Duncan calmly. “So the party’s over.”

  “What do you mean, the party’s over?”

  “For you, I mean. The King of Alalaf doesn’t care for drunken women.”

  “You … you … you … got some crust, you Tylers.” Her head fell back and it began to roll. “You don’t care what you do, do you?” she muttered.

  Duncan, who cared what he did, hated to do what he now must. “Things being as they are, may as well have a little nightcap,” he said to this woman, as agreeably as he could. “Care to join me, Lurlene?”

  “Drink, yah! Might as well be drunk as the way I am,” she mumbled. “Oh, I never was going to get to meet this King. Oh, I see that now. Phillida, first, she puts me with that stupid whoever-she was. Oh, I get it! I’m the … I’m the”—triumphantly Lurlene found the words—“I’m the skeleton in the woodshed.”

  Well, thought Duncan, no, not quite. That cupboard is occupied. He put the pills that had come from Mitch, through Phillida, into a glass. Could not have Lurlene blundering about. Could not afford the risk. Whatever she knew, she could not know enough. Yet, what she did not know made her dangerous.

  Oh Lord, what shall we do with the incompetents of this world, in this one of Your years? With the unteachables—the ones who can’t, and the ones who could-but-won’t, the ones who do not mesh into the whirls of the wheels as they turn, nowadays? What shall we do when they knot up, in personal grievances, unaware of much too much, yet aware of enough to make them both miserable and dangerous? Make mobs of them? Exploit? Manipulate? No, no. We have said that they must each be understood and each valued for what he is. That is our civilized position.

  And so we thought we had done, with Rufus. We believed it. But did he? Oh, he used to. Surely, he used to. But somewhere along the line …

  Meantime, what am I, in my well-educated, intelligent and civilized wisdom, doing right now? Duncan’s mouth was wry as he held the glass to Lurlene’s lips.

  So much for love and understanding. There had come a time when it was either too late or too soon. Too risky, at the moment, to try it on. And no faith to ask for it.

  Lurlene bridled and slobbered, but she took a little.

  “What’s so great about this prince?” she mumbled.

  “Don’t worry about him. He’s back in the hospital. Just a checkup before he goes home tomorrow. Relax, why don’t you?”

  Her head rolled.

  Tamsen was leaning forward to spare her back the back of the seat.

  “O.K.?” Mitch was speeding them along, inside the armor of the noise.

  “Something’s wearing off, I guess,” gasped Tamsen. “But I’ll make it.”

  “Howl. You’re entitled, and it’s safe for ten minutes, at least.”

  “No, no, better not.” She could have howled, all right, but once begun, could she stop?

  “I hope the King gets out of there, right fast,” Mitch growled.

  “Why?” Tamsen tried to switch her attention.

  “Because I’ll be going back to see after Rufus.”

  “He was knocked out. Do you think his head …”

  “Knocked out, momentarily,” Mitch said, “and perhaps.”

  “Perhaps?” Tamsen felt astonished.

  “I’m inclined to think he wasn’t much hurt. I ought to examine him more thoroughly, of course.”

  “But …”

  “Duncan hit him, too. Even so, he wasn’t unconscious (in the usual sense, that is) when I first saw him. I’m fairly sure he was possuming. Oh, I put him in a state to snooze awhile. Couldn’t trust it. But I can believe that when he fell, he possumed out on the whole business, then and there.”

  “Because he had failed again?” she gasped.

  “Because he couldn’t think what else to do, in the fiasco,” said Mitch grimly. “God knows what the inside of his head is like. He had bumped the outside. That would have been a suggestion.”

  “That’s—awfully sad,” she said in a moment.

  “You bet. It’s sad I didn’t listen to you harder. Sweetie, you busybodied considerable tonight. Do you realize you might have got that knife in the eye? In the throat?”

  “So might Rufus,” Tamsen said, wonderingly.

  “So might Saiph have got a bullet in his vitals. I guess we better get profound,” drawled Mitch, “and say to ourselves, ‘It might have been worse.’ Can you walk briskly, on your own two feet, all alone, as far as the elevator?”

  “Of course,” she said, absentmindedly.

  21

  Upstairs, Duncan remained on guard. This was his function. There was no one else to do it. Mitch had gone, having functions of his own. And the Judge was both unaware and unavailable.

  Downstairs, as the party continued, the Judge was absorbed in his own problem. Al Asad did not wish to leave without the few words promised him. Yet the Judge was not sure he ought to risk this conference. The most secluded gathering must arouse the curiosity of this spy, however it was managed. The Judge felt that he could fool the guests, but not the enemy. Meanwhile, the party was lasting too long.

  Then the Judge observed a most fortunate happening and he began to sift through the throng, dropping a word here and there.

  Upstairs, as the party continued too long, too long, Duncan found himself on edge with nerves. He had checked on Rufus, who seemed still dreaming whatever dreams might be in that sorry head. Lurlene was now snoring. Duncan covered her. At last, he was able to convince himself that the King surely would leave soon, at which moment he, Duncan, ought for his manners to show up and say a brief but courteous farewell. He could lock the door to his father’s room.

  So he did that, from inside, and slipped out through the small door that led into his mother’s room, where he neatened himself, and then came out into the passage and the upper stair-hall. And went discreetly down.

  The party, still a stand-up party, was milling gently. Al Asad was still there, seeming rooted, not contemplating departure. Duncan was trying to figure out how he could say a graceful good-bye to a guest who wasn’t going yet, when Jaylia in her own way summoned him to her side.

  She said, “I am sure we shall be leaving tomorrow. If I don’t see Tamsen, will you tell her how grateful I am? For this, tonight, too. It was darling of her to go.” Her eyes were asking if all was well.

  “I’ll be glad to tell her,” he said, smiling to answer that all was well enough, so far.

  Sam appeared with a tray and Duncan took refreshment. He then became aware of a presence at his back. Al Asad, with entourage (not Gorob, however), had made his way to them.

  “I have been told that the young lady, your wife, has been most kind to Al Saiph.” The King was gracious.

  “She has enjoyed it, every minute, Your Majesty. She is devoted to him.”

  “She seems very young,” the King said. But lights went out in that face. Duncan had not answered some other question.

  What was going on in that mind, behind those eyes? Duncan didn’t know. He felt as if he were pinned here. He knew that he ought to get away and go back to his post, yet how could he get away? People had shifted, drawing to stand politely a few feet apart, yet constituting an audience. “She is not as young, perhaps, as she is able to look,” Duncan
said. He started to ask if the King knew that Tamsen was a painter. But he remembered, in time, not to do so, there being a religious prejudice. He didn’t know what remark he could throw into the silence to alleviate the King’s faint whiff of ennui. Those eyes were scanning the room now. “Ah,” the King said, very low.

  Duncan saw that the Judge was making his way toward them, rather purposefully. “May I interrupt, Your Majesty?” said he. “There is a phone call for you, personally. Will you take it in my study, sir?”

  Al Asad’s head bowed assent. The Judge led. The King followed. The King’s men followed him. The people shifted to let them pass.

  “From home, perhaps?” said Jaylia. Her eyes met Duncan’s with momentary uneasiness. Then she moved only slightly, but somehow invited the people, indicated that she was available. The women might chit-chat. The men might gather around, but mustn’t touch.…

  So Duncan slid easily away from this new grouping. He was thinking, Well, she does things her way, but not to me.

  The Judge paused, with his hand on the knob of his study door. “This may be private, Your Majesty.”

  Al Asad spoke to his followers. One man turned his back to the door as if to station himself on guard. But the other one followed Al Asad as the Judge bowed them through. The Judge must put up with this. (He didn’t mind. He had spotted Colonel Gorob, ten minutes ago, as that man had been walking softly up the stairs. That was when the Judge had gotten busy.)

  The four quiet Americans seated inside his lair all rose, ready for serious business. “Ah,” said the King.

  Zora was half in tears. “But I do not know,” she wailed. “I do not know.”

  The Colonel had pounced upon her in the midst of all the packing. Many pieces of luggage were scattered about and heaps of feminine apparel were there to be sorted. Zora did not seem to understand what he wanted of her. He had her by the wrist and she was twisting and writhing (as he shrewdly observed) as if she knew no pain would result from this frenzy.