Aslan Norval

by B. TRAVEN

  “I will drive down in my car. Today. In the early afternoon.”

  “Safe travels, ma’am,” Beckford repeated dryly. “Should I send flowers? Red roses or white? As you please.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! It would be better if you tried to have some good ideas, while I recover for a few days. God knows we will need new ideas once the committee announces its decision. And as far as I can tell, their decision will not be positive for the company.”

  Beckford grinned. “That’s nothing new. Even the assistants told me that on the train.”

  “They seem to be smart.”

  “You don’t need much intelligence to say as early as today that the APTC is done for. If I had a dog, even he could guess that.”

  “I need quiet. The sleep-inducing waves of the ocean. No music. No radio. No television. The quietest hotel is the best. The Atlantic.”

  Aslan got up to leave.

  “Do you know what you can do in the meantime, Mr. Beckford?”

  “Of course not, ma’am, not if you don’t tell me.”

  “Get me all the newspapers that report anything of importance about our project and the hearing in front of the committee.”

  “Already done, ma’am. I have subscriptions with six newspaper clipping services, starting with the issues that came out on the first day of the hearing. And I did so three days before the first hearing, so I wouldn’t miss any issues.”

  Aslan exclaimed with an expression of greatest surprise: “You really already did that? And thought about it in advance? But that’s unbelievable.”

  “Why unbelievable? Unbelievable because I had an idea before you whispered it to me, ma’am? You underestimate me.”

  “That you finally had a thought of your own, I would have never thought it possible. Really never.”

  “I am embarrassed, ma’am. I will try to improve myself in all areas.”

  “I don’t intend to embarrass you. All I am saying is this: You are astonishing me. And maybe now is also the right moment to mention that you did much better in front of the committee than I had expected. You delivered the code word exactly on time. Even if we had practiced, my performance could not have been more powerful. And just so you know, I was sweating blood I was so anxious when the chairman tried to trick you. Two good grades on your transcript.”

  “I guess I am useful sometimes, after all.”

  “Sometimes. Maybe.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I will remember that in the future.”

  “Not too soon. And don’t misunderstand me.”

  “As a soldier you learn very fast not to misunderstand, ma’am.”

  “Well, I’m glad you learned that.”

  Aslan went to the door. She hesitated, then she turned toward him.

  “You know, you could visit me over the weekend and bring me a dozen of the most important newspaper articles. You could give me a general overview of the situation, especially how people’s opinions have developed over the last few days.”

  With a short “See you later, Mr. Beckford,” she left the office.

  On the following Saturday afternoon, Aslan and Beckford sat at a small table on the hotel terrace sipping cocktails each absorbed in their own thoughts. The full sun was playing with the waves of the ocean.

  Beckford tried to catch Aslan’s eyes several times with no luck. Aslan looked over at him only when she realized that he was checking out a young lady strolling along the beach in her bathing suit. Aslan felt adrenaline coursing through her body and realized in horror that what she was feeling was jealousy. She tried to shake the horrible feeling, but as she watched him undressing the young woman with his eyes, she thought: Maybe I could give him a try. Just to see what it’s like.

  She looked over at Beckford again, which she could do easily without his noticing now that he was examining a second curvaceous, bikini-clad girl.

  Young, strong, no deformations, Aslan said to herself. “Strange that I’ve never felt an urge with him before. Holved really shouldn’t have left me alone for this long. Beckford is really dumb—but apart from that, he is a beautiful creature.” At that moment, as if attracted by her eyes, Beckford turned to look at her.

  Startled, she worried he could guess what she was thinking. She blushed a little, she could feel it, and thinking about it only deepened her blush. So inexperienced in such things, Beckford mistook the blush as a result of the ocean breeze that had picked up at that moment. Aslan smoothed her hair a little, as if the unexpected breeze had indeed ruffled it.

  Without looking at Beckford she said: “How wonderful this air is for my skin!” She dropped her head back. Then, lifting her head up again and looking out at the ocean, she said quietly: “The waves come and go. They come and go forever and ever, as long as the world exists.”

  She downed her cocktail suddenly and looked directly at him: “Mr. Beckford, can you explain to me why the waves of the ocean come and go without ceasing?”

  “I’ve never thought about it, ma’am. And to be honest, it doesn’t interest me one bit.” He also downed his cocktail and waved to a waiter to bring two new ones. What a bore! thought Aslan. No imagination. Not an iota of poetry. Not a shimmer of romanticism.

  Beckford sipped the cocktail that the waiter had just placed in front of him.

  “Tacky place. Every cocktail has a touch less alcohol and a single, half-rotten lemon slice cut as thin as newspaper.”

  She took a sip, swilled it around in her mouth, and then said: “I don’t think the cocktails are at all as weak as you say.”

  “Possibly. Maybe I’m just used to straight whiskey, not diluted with lemon juice and mineral water—and who the devil knows whatever else these goddamned bartenders mix into our cocktails.”

  “Why don’t you order whatever you want? I don’t mind. As long as you can go back to your room on your own two feet, I’m okay with it.”

  She was happy that she had finally managed to steer her thoughts into neutral territory.

  “Mr. Beckford,” she said suddenly, “you have been here for an entire hour and you have not said one word about what the newspapers are reporting. After all, the reason I invited you here was to hear your report about everything that has happened in New York in the last few days.

  “The only reason, ma’am?” Beckford attempted an intimate grin.

  “Yes, the only reason. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I came here to relax, ma’am, just like you. To enjoy the beautiful ocean, to drink the dishwater cocktails, and to feast my eyes on these beach babes. How could a poor wretch like me think about newspapers right now?”

  He looked at her furtively and thought: I have one and a half days, maybe even two full nights. Anything could happen. Maybe she had other reasons for inviting me here.

  Guessing what was on his mind, Aslan said icily: “Mr. Beckford, give me the news! I haven’t looked at a single newspaper in the four weeks I was preparing for the hearing.”

  Beckford pulled a bunch of newspaper articles from his bag.

  “Don’t read anything out loud to me, not now. Just give me a short overview of the most important things reported since I left Washington.”

  “Ma’am you have unleashed storms like the country has not seen since Pearl Harbor.”

  “Storms?” she asked, surprised.

  “Massive storms.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re in the national and international limelight. You’ve started a frenzy that probably won’t calm down again until one of your projects has been completed, no matter how many hundreds of billions of dollars it devours before it yields any profit. I only brought three hundred clippings, and I have to admit that I haven’t read the majority of them yet. But when I left my office this morning, five piles of clippings had accumulated and three girls”—he couldn’t stop himself from adding with a boyish grin—“three very pretty, buxom girls, by the way…”

  “Mr. Beckford, we are talking about the news and not your explo
its.”

  “Exactly. I’m talking about the five piles of clippings and about the fact that I had to ask three lovely girls to sort these piles. And they couldn’t keep up with them. It was a hell of a job, I’m telling you, ma’am.”

  “And what was the main takeaway of all these reports?”

  “You’ll be surprised, ma’am. People seem to have forgotten everything that was of the greatest importance just a week ago. Because of you, ma’am, nobody cares anymore what’s happening in Moscow, China, Indonesia, or in the Middle East. Nobody asks how many minutes it would take a remote-controlled rocket with a hydrogen warhead sent from Leningrad to explode on Broadway in New York. The newspapers and letters sent in by readers almost exclusively deal with the question of which of your two projects would be more advantageous for traffic, and which of the two projects, the canal or the sixteen-track railway, could be realized faster.”

  The only thing Aslan could manage to say was, “Really? Is that really true, Mr. Beckford?”

  “Of course; however, something happened that could postpone your project for years.”

  “And that would be?”

  “As happens so often—indeed, almost always in our country—several groups have formed. There are four groups so far. Each of these groups is zealously trying to gain supporters. First, you have group number one. They say that the Panama Canal is good enough for us, and that both of your projects are impracticable pipe dreams. Finally, they say that there is no way to raise the necessary funds for either project, since taxes for our citizens are high enough already. Then, you have group number two. Their opinion is that if it were possible and we were to build such a ship-transportation railway, it should connect New York with San Francisco directly, straight across the northern part of the country, which would avoid the detour through Florida and Texas.

  “Group three has decided in favor of the railway between Galveston and Los Angeles. They argue that its construction would cost less money and time than a canal, and that you could transport ships more rapidly on trains than through the canal. This group rejects a canal saying it is behind the times.

  “And then, there is group four. This group claims that it is humanly impossible to build such a railway. And even if you were to build it, there would be no guarantee that it could actually transport large ships of eighty thousand tons or more. This group has definitely decided in favor of the canal.”

  “I never thought about the possibility that groups with strong political influence could form. At least, I never considered it in connection with the construction of a canal,” Aslan said, looking out over the ocean.

  She added: “I predict that the existence of these groups could indeed postpone the beginning of either project. It makes me think that we should immediately contact twenty engineers, who should compare both projects, the canal and the railway, in terms of feasibility, time of construction, and cost. The company will then consider their decision. Mr. Beckford, I personally don’t have the necessary technical experience or knowledge to determine authoritatively what is better: the canal project or the railway project. A simple comparison of both projects, based entirely on logical thinking, would give the railway project the advantage in my opinion.”

  She finished her cocktail and looked at her watch.

  “Would you like to dine with me, Mr. Beckford?” she asked in a different tone of voice. “I would still like to hear from you what the papers are predicting in terms of the committee’s decision. Some reporters have a good nose for such things.”

  She stood up and so did Beckford.

  “At seven thirty in the dining room,” she said as she turned away to leave the terrace. “I have reserved a table as far away from the music as possible since it gets on my nerves. Seven thirty, Mr. Beckford.”

  “I will do my best to be on time, ma’am,” Beckford answered. He was glad to be free of Aslan for a few hours. Talking to her, even sitting at the same table with her, having to focus all his attention on her, was mentally exhausting for him.

  He wandered along the beach and studied the figures of the young women lying around. For Beckford, these kinds of studies were less arduous than having to converse with Aslan.

  Dinner was luxurious but boring. In Aslan’s opinion, none of the courses that appeared on the table were interesting at all. She didn’t say so, but the way she sniffed and picked at the food made her opinion abundantly clear, even to the disappointed waiters. The music was slow and just as boring as the meal.

  Beckford, on the other hand, devoured everything that was served. Doing so helped him keep his conversation to a minimum, because in fact, he did not know what to talk about with Aslan, unless it was about the newspapers again, which he would rather not do at that moment.

  Finally, Aslan could not stand it anymore. She demanded to see the head chef. The chef came. “Yes, ma’am? What can I do for you?”

  “Couldn’t you make me just a regular old hearty bean soup à la navy?”

  “Bean soup, ma’am?” The chef’s face lit up as if a sunbeam was shining on it directly. “But that is exactly what I cooked for us, for the staff today.” He pursed his lips, smacked them, and snapped his fingers, his hand held high in the air. “You shall have your little soup, ma’am, and you’ll dream about it till Christmas.”

  He stormed out of the dining room so quickly that the guests feared he might knock over some tables. The bean soup came with bacon bits and sausage slices seasoned with dried carrots, flower petals, seeds, greens, and chopped stalks. It was the kind of soup Dutch and Danish housewives had been preparing for a thousand years to please their hungry and half-frozen men after they returned from long fishing trips.

  It’s a miracle what truly good food can do once you boil it down to the essentials. Suddenly, Aslan loved the music. She thought the guests in the dining room were delightful people, and the waiters were transformed into the politest, most obliging servers once could imagine. The canal and the railroads, the newspapers and the media lost all importance.

  The head chef appeared at Aslan’s table.

  “And how is the soup?”

  “Divine, chef, simply divine. It’s heavenly that you can still find soup like this.”

  With her left hand, Aslan tugged on the chef’s earlobe until his face was close to hers. “For this soup, you deserve a kiss, chef,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

  The chef glanced at the other guests in embarrassment, as if he wanted to apologize for what had just transpired. The guests, however, burst out in applause and the musicians played a short fanfare in honor of Aslan and the chef.

  Now even more confused and even more embarrassed, the chef raced back to his realm of the kitchen. This time, however, he bumped into one of the occupied tables and upended all the glasses to the even greater amusement of the guests. The guests at one of the tables toasted him although he had already disappeared.

  Now everyone’s attention focused on Aslan. She was worried that some of the guests might recognize her, since she had been introduced to millions on television and in the newspapers. But no one identified her. Two or three minutes later, they had all forgotten the incident and were busy with their own affairs.

  Aslan’s mood improved further. She ordered wine. Beckford, on the other hand, remained true to his usual whiskey. He was looking at the menu again. Aslan demanded a second order of the divine bean soup. The soup had barely been placed in front of Aslan when she saw the chef’s round face in the doorway through which the waiters entered and exited the dining room. He gave her a warm nod. Aslan pressed her hands together and, lifting them, waved at the chef. The chef pressed his hands together in the same way, lifted them, waved back at her with a wide satisfied grin on his face, and disappeared again.

  “The chef will mark this day in red on his calendar. I bet something like this has never happened to him before,” said Beckford.

  “You could lose that bet.”

  “Maybe. In any case, I wouldn’t kiss
anyone for bean soup. I had to eat so much bean soup in the Marine Corps that even just hearing the word makes me full.”

  The musicians played a piece that no one could have identified for sure. Nevertheless, several guests rose to dance.

  “Would you like to dance, ma’am?” asked Beckford.

  “Not with great enthusiasm. But, well, okay. I accept. Because I need the exercise.”

  After two dances, Aslan leaned a little more heavily on his arm without thinking anything of it. He understood this as a kind of invitation. He tried to pull her closer into a more intimate embrace. She pulled back decidedly and after another half a lap she disengaged and said, “Thank you, let’s go back to our table. My soup is getting cold!”

  Half an hour later, Aslan gave the waiter a nod to bring the bill. She placed a hundred-dollar bill on the table in such a way that the waiter would think the money was Beckford’s.

  “I can pay the bill myself,” said Beckford, reaching for his billfold.

  “I know that, but I invited you and you are my guest.”

  He put his billfold back and when the waiter brought the change he left an elegant tip on the little plate and pushed the rest into his own pocket as the waiter looked on. Aslan did not care. It was all her own money anyway.

  16.

  Aslan took the elevator up to her room and by phone ordered a second half bottle of the wine they had served at dinner. She intended to treat herself to a nice and quiet evening in her room.

  “One glass, ma’am, or two?” asked the room service waiter on the phone.

  “One glass.”

  Having accompanied Aslan to the elevator, Beckford went to the bar so that the whiskeys he had previously consumed would not get lonely in his stomach. He also hoped to pick up a lonely hotel guest, whose husband was perhaps too busy paying attention to some other beach babe that evening. You can always pick someone up in a hotel bar. All you need is money and patience.

  In her nightgown and bathrobe, Aslan closed the door of her bedroom and pushed the little table with the open bottle of wine and the glass closer to the divan in the living room. She filled her glass, took up a novel, and blissfully stretched out on the divan.