The Pirate (32 page)

She didn’t speak.

He sensed her doubt. “But it doesn’t matter now,” he said gently. “You are here and I am seeing you.”

She nodded, still silent.

“Tell me,” he said awkwardly. “How is your sister?”

“Fine. She’s married. I don’t see much of her or her husband. We don’t have much in common. They’re very social. And, oh yes, Amal thinks she might be pregnant.”

He smiled. “You mean I’m about to become a grandfather?”

“It’s possible.”

He let out a slow whistle.

“That’s very American,” she said quickly.

“What is?”

“That whistle. What does it mean?”

He laughed. “I have a lot of adjustments to make. First I have to realize that I’m the father of a nineteen-year-old, now suddenly, I’m a grandfather.”

Leila laughed. “Don’t count on it. Amal thinks she’s pregnant every month. This might be like all the others.”

“You know, you have two brothers.”

“I know. Muhammad and Samir.”

“You know their names?”

“It’s not exactly a secret. The newspapers always have stories about you. And pictures.”

“They’re good boys. You would like them.”

“I want to meet them.”

“You will. Soon.” He got to his feet. “Where are you staying?”

“With a girlfriend,” she said. “Her family lives in Geneva.”

“Swiss?”

“Yes.”

“Would you rather stay there or would you like to move in here with me?”

“Whatever you would like,” she said, her eyes falling away from him.

“Get your things together then,” he said. “Can you be back here in time for dinner?”

She raised her head. Her eyes were smiling. “I think so.”

“Okay, get going then. I have work to do.”

She rose from the chair and threw her arms around him. “Thank you, Father.”

He kissed the top of her head lightly. “Don’t thank me. After all, I am your father, aren’t I?”

***

She stood in the doorway of the coffeehouse and scanned the tables. The restaurant was almost empty, just a few office workers dallying over their morning coffee before going to work. She looked at her watch. Eleven o’clock. They should be here any minute now. She went to a table and sat down.

A waiter appeared instantly. “Oui, mademoiselle?”

“Coca avec citron.”

He brought the drink and went away. She lit a cigarette, then sipped at her drink. It was sweet. Not as sweet as the Coca-Cola in Lebanon but sweeter than the French, although it was served French style. One small stingy piece of ice floated on the top, not quite enough to cool the drink unless you sipped the liquid past it.

Two young men and a young woman appeared in the doorway. They were dressed much like she was in jeans, shirt and jacket. She waved to them and they came to her table and sat down. Again the waiter appeared. A moment later he brought their coffees and went away.

They looked at her expectantly. She looked back without speaking. Finally, she put down her cigarette and held up her two fingers in a V sign.

The others broke into a smile. “It went all right?” the woman asked in hesitant English.

“Perfectly.”

“He didn’t ask any questions?”

“Only the usual fatherly questions,” she answered. Then she broke into a grin. “You know I’ll have to talk to your mother about this,” she imitated.

An expression of concern crossed the woman’s face. “What if he does?”

“He won’t,” she said confidently. “I know my mother. She hasn’t spoken to him in ten years and she’s not going to now.”

“Are you going to work for him?” one of the young men asked.

“Part-time. He thinks I should go to business school first to learn some skills. Then I can go to work fulltime.”

“Are you going to go?” the woman asked.

“Of course. If I didn’t, he might get suspicious. Besides, it will only be for a little while.”

“What’s he like?” the woman asked.

Leila looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “My father, you mean?”

“Who else would I be talking about?” the woman retorted. “Is he anything like those stories we’ve read about him? You know, a playboy the ladies can’t resist and all that?”

Leila’s eyes grew thoughtful. “I suppose so,” she said hesitantly. “But I don’t see him like that at all.”

“How do you see him?”

Leila’s voice grew bitter. “I look at him and I see all the things we’re fighting against. The money, the power, the ego. The kind of person who is concerned only for himself. He couldn’t care less about the struggles of our people. He thinks only about the profit he can make from it.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“If I didn’t believe it,” Leila answered in a hard flat voice, “I wouldn’t be here doing what I agreed to do.”

CHAPTER 3

The first thought that flashed through Leila’s mind as Jordana came into the room was how beautiful she was. Tall, honey-colored blond hair, tanned California glow, slim body and long lovely legs. She was everything an Arab woman could never be. For a moment, she understood why her father had done what he did.

Then the old bitterness and animosity bubbled up and she had all she could do to keep it from her eyes as Jordana came toward her.

“This is Leila,” Baydr said proudly.

Jordana’s eyes were clear and direct, her smile genuine and warm. She held out her hand. “I’m so glad to meet you at last. Your father used to speak often about you.”

Leila took her hand. Jordana’s grip was as warm as her greeting. “I’m pleased to meet you too,” she said awkwardly.

“Baydr, your father, tells me you are planning to stay.”

“If I’m not in the way.”

“You won’t be,” Jordana assured her. “And I’m delighted. Now, maybe, I’ll have someone to talk to when he’s away. He travels quite a bit.”

“I know,” Leila said. She looked at her father. “I’m sorry. I’m a little tired. Is it all right if I skip dinner and go right to bed?”

Baydr cast a quick glance at Jordana, then back at Leila. “Of course.”

“And you won’t mind, will you?” she asked Jordana. “Besides, you two must have many things to talk about.”

“I don’t mind,” Jordana answered.

“Good night then.”

“Good night.”

When the door had closed behind her, Baydr turned to Jordana. “What do you think?” he asked.

“I think she doesn’t like me.”

“How can you say that?” The surprise echoed in his voice. “She doesn’t even know you.”

“Your daughter is jealous.”

“You’re being foolish,” he said, annoyance creeping into his voice. “What has she to be jealous of?” I asked her to stay, didn’t I?”

Jordana looked at him. There were some things men would never understand. But she remembered how possessive she had been about her father and how she had felt when she had seen him with his new wife for the first time. “It doesn’t really matter,” she said. “I’m glad for you.”

He didn’t answer.

“She’s a very pretty girl,” she said.

“Yes.”

“What made her decide to leave school so suddenly?”

“She said she felt life was passing her by,” he answered. Then he chuckled. “At nineteen.”

“That’s not so funny,” she said. “I can understand that.”

“You can?” He was surprised. “Then maybe you can explain to me why after all these years she suddenly wanted to see me?”

“Why shouldn’t she? You are her father. Girls have a very special thing for their fathers.”

He was silent for a moment. “I should call her mother and tell her.”

“I have a feeling you won’t have to. That her mother already knows.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Your father told me that she had spent almost the whole summer with her mother, and that she just left Beirut a few weeks ago. Her mother must have known where she was going.”

He stared at her. That was strange. Leila had led him to believe that she had come from school. She had said nothing about being at home. He wondered why she didn’t tell him, but decided to say nothing to Jordana. “I think I’ll call my father,” he said. “I’ll let him talk to her mother.”

Jordana smiled. In some ways he was very transparent. He did not want to talk to his former wife. “The boys asked if they could come to visit when we get a house. They’ve never had a chance to play in the snow.”

Baydr laughed. “You tell them that they can come up here the very first day the snow begins to fall.”

***

Dick Carriage leaned back in his chair and took off his reading glasses. He took a tissue from the box on his desk and, turning his chair away from the bright Tensor lamp, slowly began to wipe the lenses. Large white lazy flakes floated past the window.

They had been in Switzerland almost a month before the snow began to fall and Baydr, true to his word, had his sons flown in the same day. Now they were in Gstaad for the weekend. He had remained in Geneva to clean up the pile of paperwork. Baydr had called that morning in very good humor. The boys were really enjoying themselves.

Carriage smiled to himself. Fathers were pretty much alike no matter what their background. Baydr felt much the same as he did about his own sons. He swung back to the desk and looked at the photographs of his wife and sons. The picture, taken in his garden in California, suddenly made him feel very much alone. They were a long way from the snow in Switzerland.

He heard the click of the front door latch outside the study that he and Baydr used as an office when they were in the big house in Geneva. He looked at his watch. It was a little after two o’clock in the morning. He heard the sound of hard-soled shoes on the marble floors of the entrance foyer. They had an unmistakably feminine rhythm. It had to be Leila. She was the only member of the family who had not gone to Gstaad. She had said something about special classes at school on Saturday but then she hadn’t gone. Instead she had stayed in her room until after lunch, then she had gone out and had not returned until just now.

There was something strange about her, he thought. Despite the outward pleasantness and apparent willingness to cooperate, he sensed a certain withdrawal, a restraint in her calculating eyes. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of her resentment, especially toward Jordana, although she obviously tried to keep it concealed.

The footsteps reached the staircase and began to ascend, then they came to a stop. A moment later the knob on the study door moved tentatively. “Come in,” he called.

The door swung open and Leila stood there, dressed in her inevitable blue jeans. Sometimes he wondered if she owned any other clothes.

“I don’t mean to disturb you. I saw the light coming from under the door.”

“It’s okay. You’re not bothering me. I was just taking a break anyway.”

She came into the room and he could see the flakes of snow melting in her hair and on her clothes. “You haven’t stopped since my father left yesterday morning.”

He smiled. “It’s the only chance I have to catch up on the paperwork. When he’s around I don’t have much time for it.”

“Don’t you ever take time off?”

“Sure. When we were in California a few months ago, I had a whole week with my family.”

“But since then,” she persisted. “You don’t even take time for yourself on weekends.”

“What for?” he asked. “There’s nothing I want to do.”

“You could go out to dinner. Go to a movie.”

“I’d rather work. I don’t like doing those things alone.”

“You don’t have to be alone. There are lots of girls in Geneva looking for dates.”

He laughed. “There are lots of girls everywhere. But, you forget. I’m a married man.”

“My father is a married man and that doesn’t stop him,” she said.

He looked at her sharply, wondering how much she knew. “There are certain things your father has to do,” he said quickly. “That’s his business.”

“Is it? I’ve heard lots of stories about him.”

He was silent.

“I’ve heard stories about Jordana too.” Her eyes were challenging. “Is that business also?”

He met her gaze coolly. “There are always people who are quick to gossip. Most of them don’t know what they are talking about. I’ve learned that the most important contribution I can make toward you father’s business is to mind my own.”

She laughed. “I can see why father trusts you so much. You are loyal to him.”

“He’s my employer,” he said stiffly. “I respect him a great deal.”

“But do you like him?” she asked pointedly.

His answer was prompt and direct. “Yes.”

“Even if he doesn’t give you any days off?”

“That’s my option,” he said evenly. “If I choose not to take them, it’s my own affair.”

She walked around the corner of his desk and glanced down at the pile of papers. “Money buys a lot of things, doesn’t it?” It was a statement not a question. “You’re as much a slave to the system as anyone.”

“The only better way I know to make a living,” he answered in Arabic, “is to have a rich father.”

He saw the quick anger flash in her eyes and knew he’d hit a nerve. “I don’t have—” Then she caught herself and stopped abruptly.

“You don’t have—what?” he asked softly.

The anger was quickly replaced by self-control. She smiled. “Nothing. Where did you learn to speak Arabic so well?”

“At home.”

She was surprised. “I thought you were American.”

“I am,” he smiled. “But my parents came from Jordan. Their name was Khureiji. My father changed it to Carriage before I was born, when he opened his first restaurant. He thought it would be easier for Americans to say Carriage House than Khureiji House.”

“Are they still alive?”

“No.”

“Didn’t they ever want to go home?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe it’s just as well they didn’t,” she said quickly. “Not as long as the Jews were on the doorstep.”

He looked at her without speaking. The real tragedy was that they had gone back. Perhaps if they hadn’t, they would still be alive today.

She took his silence for agreement. “It won’t always be like that. Soon we will get rid of the Jews. We almost did this time, but we were betrayed.”

“By whom?”

“Some of our own people. People who thought only of their own pockets, their own power. If they hadn’t stopped us, we would have driven the Jews into the sea.”