I had Scotch with water; she drank rye. She sat on an armless love seat, and I sat across the coffee table from her, on another love seat, identical with hers.
I was trying to get the pitch. I had the impression she’d been coached for her role this afternoon. Her information was too glib and detailed, too “bookish.” We get customers like that once in a while, who spout information almost verbatim from the books they’d read about oriental rugs.
Thinking these thoughts and looking at her. Looking at her was a pleasure.
She put her glass on the coffee table. “You clean rugs at your place, Mr. Kaprelian?”
“We do. I have a man waiting downstairs. I’ll have him come and get that Bokhara.” She nodded.
I said, “I brought that Sarouk along, but it would be too big for your dining room. I can have him put one of your other rugs down in there.”
“Fine,” she said, not looking at me. She had a thoughtful expression on her face, and I waited for what was on her mind.
Finally, she said, “I’m not buying any rugs. I’m selling.”
“The market’s not too good,” I told her, “but for rugs like those in that pile — ” I shrugged.
She looked at me directly. “The market’s as good as the customers are. I’d like you to sell those rugs for me on commission. I’ll furnish the leads.”
“We’ll be glad to try.”
Her voice was subdued. “I want you to sell them, not the firm.” She paused. “You see — the customers will be mostly women.”
I frowned, and shook my head. I said, “That isn’t very clear.”
She chuckled. “Don’t be so modest. Lee, there’s a mirror right down at the end of the room. Don’t be naive.”
I must have been blushing like the village virgin, for my face was hot, my collar tight. And where had she learned my first name?
I said, “I think I know the kind of dealer you mean, Miss Lynne. We wholesale to some of them who sell rugs that way. I don’t think I’d want to — ”
She interrupted. “You’ve sold Henri Ducasse some rugs. Or rather, given them to him on consignment, haven’t you? And he pays you after he sells the rug.”
Ducasse was a Frenchman who specialized in the window trade. I nodded.
“Do you realize the kind of money he was getting for your merchandise?”
“I’ve heard of a few deals.”
“Well, Henri’s aging. He’s beginning to get that mummified look. He’s not the go-getter he was.”
“And you think his shoes would fit me? You’d like me to become one of those — ” I shook my head. “I don’t know what to call him.”
“Call him smart,” she said softly. “And call him rich. Because he’s both of those.”
What she was suggesting wasn’t actually dishonest. In any bundle of rugs there are exceptional pieces and some of them have brought fabulous prices. Orientals, as Papa claimed, were works of art, and who can put a fair price on that? They’ll bring what the traffic will bear. But this — social selling.
I said, “I’ll get the man up here to pick up the Bokhara.”
“You haven’t answered me, Lee.”
I looked at her and realized I’d be seeing a lot of her if we worked together. I didn’t think it would be possible to see too much of her. The more the better.
I said, “I want some time on it,” and stood up.
“Get your man,” she said. “Take the Bokhara along. Perhaps you’d better wrap up that prayer rug inside of it. It’s not the kind of piece to show just everybody, is it? It’s too valuable to be advertised that way.”
I went down and got Selak and brought him up the back way. I helped him move the furniture in the dining room. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off Miss Lynne. All the time we were working he continued to glance at her almost hungrily.
I brought the prayer rug out and laid it in the center of the so-called Bokhara.
Selak forgot Miss Lynne existed. He knelt, to feel the velvet texture of the small rug. In Armenian, he said, “One of the old ones. No rugs like this today. One of the old ones.”
“One of the old ones,” I agreed. “What kind, Selak?”
He started to answer, and then his eyes got crafty. I might be buying this rug. He wasn’t going to build it up in front of the seller. He shrugged, but the admiration was back in his eyes.
“Kashan — ?” he said.
Maksoud had lived in Kashan. It was like calling a Rembrandt an Amsterdam.
When he’d shouldered the rugs and left, Claire asked, “Why did he stare at me like that? He gave me the shivers.”
I smiled. “He’s a great admirer of quality and beauty.”
Her answering smile was thin. “You’ll do, Lee.”
I wanted to reach out and grab her. I wanted to get her reaction to that. I wanted to do a lot of things that wouldn’t be good business or good manners. Instead, I said, “I’ll let you know about — about the deal.”
She put a hand on my arm. “Come back, tonight. There’ll be somebody here I want you to meet.”
“I’ve a date this evening.”
“Break it. It will be worth your while. After tonight, you can decide. I think you’ll decide in my favor.”
I could smell her perfume and her face was close, lifted up to mine. I like to think there’s no hay in my hair, but I felt like Selak, at the moment.
“All right,” I said. “About eight?”
“Eight it is.”
The door closed, and I was walking down the carpeted hall to the elevator. Her perfume was still with me, but probably only in my mind. What did she want? Besides money.
In the station wagon Selak waited. “Keghetsig,” he said, which is as close as I can come to the American spelling. In any event, it means beautiful.
“Beautiful,” I agreed. “Both the rug and the girl.”
He nodded.
I was no child, despite the way my father treated me. I was no child, but I had a child’s sense of guilt as I got back to the store.
Papa was busy with a customer as we drove around in back to unload the rugs. Selak kept the Bokhara in the washroom; I brought the smaller rug into the store.
I opened the safe and then decided to let Papa see the rug before I put it away. He would see it eventually, anyway; there wasn’t any reason to try to hide it from him. Nor was there any reason I should feel involved in whatever history it might have. It was only the damned, unreasonable sense of guilt.
Selak came through from the back, carrying the Sarouk, as the customer left.
“So she didn’t want it,” Papa said.
I shook my head.
He started to say something, and then he saw the rug near the safe. He came over to stare at it. He knelt to study, to finger it, to turn it over. He was murmuring in Armenian too low for me to hear.
Then he looked up. “Levon, where did you get this?”
“She had it. The customer. She wants to keep it in our safe.”
He said reverently, “I have seen many rugs, but never one like this. Where did she get it, Levon?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
His voice was sharper. “Who is this woman? You think I wouldn’t know if there was a rug like this in town? How long has she been here? Who is she?”
“Her name is Claire Lynne, and she lives in the Prospect Towers.” I told him about some of the other rugs I’d seen, the antiques and the semi-antiques.
He shook his head and looked down again at the prayer rug. “Silk warp and weft. Wool pile. Kashan, antique. But these Arabian letters?”
“Why don’t we ask Sarkis?” I suggested. “Sarkis can read Arabic.”
He nodded. “Sarkis can read Arabian. But for now, Levon, I don’t want anyone to know we have this rug in the safe. The Marines, we should have, to guard this rug.”
Carefully, he put it away, while I went over to get down a couple books from the shelf above his desk.
In one, I read: The Ardebil
Carpet was the lifetime work of the greatest of all Persian weavers, Maksoud….
And in the other: It is estimated that it took ten weavers more than three years to weave the famed ‘Ardebil Carpet’, credit for which goes to Maksoud, the weave master, who supervised….
Both books were considered authentic. There was no reason to be sure he hadn’t woven the one now in the safe. There aren’t more than three or four rugs in the world signed by their creator. If this one was genuine….
“Books,” Papa said. “What are you going to learn about this business from books. Can you not see, can you not feel a masterpiece? Do you have to look everything up?”
“I was looking up the Ardebil Carpet,” I said.
He looked at me strangely, his head tilted. “Ardebil — from the mosque, you mean? You think — Maksoud — ?”
Selak came in from the washroom, then, looking troubled. I heard the word “Bokhara” and “blood” but the rest was too garbled for me.
Papa nodded. “A Bokhara will bleed. They must be washed carefully, Selak. Careful, you must be.”
Some more I couldn’t understand, and then the two of them went back to the washroom.
It was quiet in the shop. Outside, on the street, people went by, traffic went by. But it was unusually quiet in the shop.
When Papa came back in, his eyes were grave. “A Bokhara will bleed. But not blood it won’t bleed, Levon.”
Chapter Two
“BLOOD?” The word kept running through my mind, blood, blood, blood …
He nodded. His face was tired, his shoulders sagging. “What has happened today? This woman, these rugs, this rug in the safe. Levon, there is more than you’re telling me.”
“No, there isn’t. I’ll know more, after tonight. I’m going up there, tonight.”
He was frowning. “The dance is tonight.”
The Junior League of the A.G.B.U. was throwing their monthly dance. I said, “I know it.”
“The big one. The Spring Informal. You aren’t going with Berjouhi?”
I shook my head. “Maybe I can get there, later. Sam will take Berjouhi and I’ll meet them, later, maybe.”
Sam was Sarkis’ boy and my rival. And Berjouhi? She’s a lovely, fiery girl. I’d been going with her, more or less, for three years. If the folks had had their way, we’d be married.
My father shook his head. “You promised you would take her? You are going to break your promise?”
The only answer to that was his own weapon, the one he’d taught me “Business first, Papa,” I said.
He opened his mouth to answer and then clicked his teeth. He sighed and went over to look out the huge plate-glass window at the traffic going by. Over his head, in gold letters on the window, I saw the sign. Nazar Kaprelian and Son — Oriental Rugs.
He went to his desk and put the ledger away. He took his hat from the hook above the desk. “You can lock up. I’m going home.”
Hurt, he looked. His little boy was getting out of hand. I’m only twenty-six. I’d only had two years in the Pacific; I wasn’t big enough to take care of myself.
Well, maybe I wasn’t.
When he left, I went back to the washroom and told Selak, “Don’t start any more rugs. It’s almost time to go home.”
I set the alarm system, and waited for the buzz. By the time it came, Selak was waiting, and we went out to my little Chev convertible.
His eyes were reminiscent. “Keghetsig,” he said again, softly.
To which I agreed with a nod. He could have meant the rug, or he could have meant the girl; I agreed on both.
At home, Ann was helping Ma get dinner ready. She’s a year older than I am, and not married. She’s got a good job and her own car and, I guess, the memory of Carnig Andrikian. Carnig was killed at Normandy.
She said, “What’s this I hear about you’re not going to the dance, tonight?”
“So? What did you hear?”
“Are you going?”
“No. Sis, no talks about that. I’m a big boy, now.”
“You’ve called Berjouhi?”
“I will.”
She shook her head, her dark eyes puzzled. “You get away with murder. I know six boys who’d like to take your place with Berjouhi. How do you do it, Handsome?”
“With mirrors. What’s for dinner?”
“Sarma.” She grabbed my wrist. “Lee, what’s Papa so sad about?”
“Business, probably. It stinks. And it’s a generally sad time, you know. Ann, don’t play the heavy sister, not this evening. I don’t remember ever interfering in your business.”
“Okay,” she said, and patted my cheek. “You’re a slob, of course, you know.”
“I know.”
At dinner, Papa had little to say. Ann and Mom got into a discussion on new living-room drapes and they carried the conversational load.
After dinner, Papa said, “A game of tavlu, Levon?”
“Okay,” I said.
It’s called backgammon in this country, but the old country gang still call it tavlu. Also, they don’t use a cup to throw the dice, a point I insisted on, tonight.
“You think I would cheat, Levon?”
“No, of course not. But you get too many double sixes.”
“That’s the dice.”
It was an old argument; there are more sixes than any other number, they claim, and play accordingly. They get them, and it isn’t due to manipulation. Psycho-kinesis, Armenian style.
As we set up the board, he said, “I’ve been thinking about that Bokhara. I’ve seen that rug before. I’ve been trying to remember where.”
His memory was unbelievable, even for ordinary pieces.
I kept my eyes on the board. “Maybe — Henri Ducasse had it?”
“Him — ? He never owned a rug in his life.”
“But made a mint selling them.”
“Selling them how? Kissing old maid’s hands and who knows what else? Him, that Ducasse. He’s no credit to the business.”
I didn’t argue. We played tavlu.
He played a sound game, making no mistakes, covered all the time, making all the traditional routine moves. The only thing his game lacked was daring. I beat him three straight.
Which didn’t prevent him from telling me, “You play a dangerous game, Levon. As you get older, you will be more careful.”
“I won,” I said, smiling at him.
“You were lucky.” He folded the board carefully and put it in the bookcase. “You be careful, tonight, Levon.”
“I will.”
I went into my room to dress. There wasn’t any reason I shouldn’t wear the clothes I’d worn all day. This was strictly business. I wore my new gabardine suit and my best oxford shirt. I wore a tie of rich and simple dignity.
I was, I realized as I knotted the tie, also wearing a smirk, and I left that back in the bedroom before going out.
Papa’s gaze covered me over the top of his Mirror-Spectator. He said dryly, “You will remember the firm’s reputation, Levon. You will make no promises for the firm before you talk to me.” He went back to his reading.
I didn’t answer him; he didn’t expect an answer.
It was a warm night, a false summer night, and the moon was almost theatrical. The Chev’s tappets seemed to be humming, as I cut over to Prospect.
The Prospect Towers were alive with light; the white brick reflected the moon’s glow and the full-length windows on the top floor were like a battery of beacons against the sky.
Over at the Parkleigh Hotel, the party would just be getting under way and I felt a moment’s regret. At the Spring Informal, all the gang was usually there, and I hadn’t seen them all together for a long time.
Across the street, a broad, poorly dressed man stood under the shadow of a budding maple tree. For a moment I stared that way, for I thought he looked like Selak. But he didn’t leave the shadow, and I couldn’t make out his face clearly from here. There’d be no reason for Selak to be up at this end of tow
n.
As I waited outside Claire’s door, I could hear music inside. It was Aram Khachaturian’s Saber Dance, a number that had once enjoyed a juke-box vogue. The timing was too pat; I had the feeling I was a fly on the fringe of a spider’s web. Though I couldn’t remember any spiders who looked like Claire.
She was wearing something misty in a pale green, something not shadow-proof, nor designed to hide anything it shouldn’t.
“You’re on time,” she said, her smile warm and friendly
“Always,” I told her.
We went in, and she asked, “Recognize the music?”
“Strauss, isn’t it?” I answered.
She sighed. “And all the work I went to.” She chuckled. “No, it’s not Strauss, Lee.”
A man was sitting on one of the armless love seats, and he rose as we entered. Tall and gray-haired, but the hair looked prematurely gray. For the face was unlined, the clothes youthful. He could have been thirty or sixty. I knew he wasn’t thirty.
It was Carl Lieder, a man we had frequently dealt with, another of the social salesmen, another Henri Ducasse.
“Good evening, Lee,” he said. “How’s your father?”
He extended his hand, and I took it. I said, “He’s worried about business, as usual. And tonight, he’s worried about me.”
Claire went over to turn off the record player. Lieder asked, “About you? You’re in trouble, Lee?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but I’m young and innocent and don’t know Khachaturian from Strauss. And here I am, in the major leagues.”
Lieder frowned. Claire laughed.
Lieder said, “I don’t quite follow you, Lee.”
“Yes, you do,” I said. “And I want you to admit it before we go any further. If we’re going to sell some rugs, we should understand each other, first.”
Carl Lieder looked at Claire, and now they were both smiling. He said, “I underestimated you, Lee. Let’s all sit down, shall we?”
We all sat down, neat and cozy.
Lieder looked down at his hands, and up at me. “You’ve seen those rugs in the other room?”
I nodded.
“They need to be very carefully sold,” he went on. “They aren’t something to just — dump on the market.”
Bloody Bokhara Page 2