Lace II

by Shirley Conran

  “Do you like it?” She heard Abdullah’s voice behind her.

  Pagan looked embarrassed and uncomfortable. She didn’t know whether Abdullah was planning to share her suite.

  Abdullah grinned. “I shall be in the next suite … if you need me. Sadly, there is no billiard room in this hotel. Space is at a premium in Venice.”

  * * *

  The following morning, as Pagan waited by the two black-and-white-striped mooring poles of the Cipriani jetty, she clutched at Abdullah’s arm. “Look! You were wrong!” A golden gondola bobbed toward them, over the scummy green water.

  Abdullah said, “As a matter of fact, it’s yours. I hope it’s not too ostentatious for you.”

  Under the golden, arched canopy, sitting on the faded, purple cushions, Pagan gazed up at the naked, golden backside of Neptune, as he wielded his trident over the poop of the boat. To her disappointment, this glorious vessel was motorized, with a spluttering engine more appropriate to a fishing smack than a ceremonial barge.

  The gondola chugged down the Grand Canal between boats delivering coal, Coca-Cola, Japanese tourists, and gangs of workmen to their appropriate destinations. They passed pink-and-ocher baroque palaces, tidemarked by water, with ferns twisting their bricks apart, and cobwebs veiling their patchy, peeling plaster.

  “Don’t ask the gondolier to sing Santa Lucia,” murmured Abdullah, “because it is a Neapolitan song and he will grind his teeth.”

  Pagan sniffed happily, “I love everything about this place, even the smell.”

  “The smell is decay and water rot, which smells fascinating so long as it is not in your home.”

  Later they landed and explored a little of the town on foot, but as soon as they left the large, crowded streets for the narrow, winding alleys behind them, Pagan looked puzzled and stopped. “All these alleys look the same. I’m confused.” One of the bodyguards stepped forward and muttered a few guttural words to His Majesty. They followed the man until they again found themselves at the small wrought-iron bridge where the golden gondola awaited them. Abdullah said, “Although Venice is such a small town, it’s very easy to get lost here. It’s a well-known hazard. All the bridges and buildings look different according to whether the tide is in or not. The streets are a twisting maze, so you can’t look back and get a sense of direction.”

  Abdullah then insisted that Pagan do some shopping in the shops round St. Mark’s Square. She was measured for a pair of silver snakeskin shoes and then chose a classic shoe in red. Abdullah said, “They’re very elegant. Order them in every color they have.” He waved his hand at the excited young shoemaker and strolled out of the shop, as Pagan mused, “What on earth will I do with twenty-seven pairs of pumps?”

  By the time they were drinking their lunchtime Bellinis (the mixture of champagne and peach juice that was invented in Venice), the bodyguards were also guarding a second launch, laden with a complete set of calf luggage, with golden clasps, twenty meters of handmade lace, which Pagan planned to keep for Sophia’s wedding dress, and more clothes than Pagan had ever possessed in her life, including three antique Fortuny dresses, in coral, brown, and dark green, and an opera cloak in canary yellow silk.

  * * *

  They spent an unforgettable afternoon in bed.

  * * *

  “Your Majesty, this is the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, the very cradle of Western democracy, where the Great Council of Venice met to elect representatives to the governing committees.” Pagan and Abdullah obediently followed the curator’s finger with their eyes, as he pointed up to the painted ceiling, where the nacreous light from the lagoon outside played on the rich colors of the panels. “Notice the frieze of the seventy-six Doges, the painting of Paradise by Tintoretto, and here the Apotheosis of Venice, by Veronese.”

  “Cradle of democracy!” muttered Abdullah, amused. “How can they make such a claim when Renaissance Venice was a corrupt state, run by spies and assassins, with dungeons, daggers, and poison.” He and Pagan were both tired, after hours of pacing through the richly ornamented palace, followed at a respectful distance by Abdullah’s two bodyguards. Pagan’s neck ached from looking at the sumptuous stuccoed ceilings and her feet were sore from the hard marble floors.

  “At least only the Venetians elected their rulers,” Pagan argued.

  “They elected them from the aristocratic elite. That is not a free election in the democratic sense,” Abdullah corrected her.

  Stung by his patronizing tone of voice, Pagan retorted, “Five hundred years ago, Venice was still more democratic than Sydon is today. Your Council of Five isn’t elected by a free ballot of all your citizens.”

  “Pagan, don’t be stupid. Democracy can only operate in a country with literacy, a good standard of living and no endemic corruption. The average citizen of my country would vote for anyone who promised him two goats and a bracelet for his wife.”

  “Then why don’t you do something about it?”

  “You know that I’m trying.” Abdullah’s voice was frosty.

  “I think you’re happy as a benevolent despot,” Pagan snorted.

  “Democracy doesn’t insure a healthy state. Good government does that.”

  “In a democracy, wealth isn’t in the hands of a few tribal clans as it is in Sydon.”

  “That is a foolish remark.”

  “Oh, don’t be so bloody pompous!” Pagan snapped, turning crossly on her heel. She strode through a doorway into yet another immense room. Hearing footsteps behind her, she turned to see that one of the Royal bodyguards was following her, while Abdullah, as if nothing had happened, was talking to the guide. Being a Royal tourist was worse than being a schoolgirl, Pagan thought irritably, you were never allowed to walk alone. After only one day, she found it oppressive. She started to walk faster. She was damned if she was going to be nannied.

  As the Doge’s Palace had been closed for their visit, Pagan moved with increasing speed through the empty rooms to the staircase which led down to the courtyard. But, as she dashed under the triumphal arch of the Palace and out into the crowded Piazza San Marco, she could hear the bodyguard clattering down the steps behind her.

  Damned if I’m going to let Abdullah’s bloody sheepdog round me up, she thought angrily, darting through a small herd of German tourists.

  Seeing the restaurant where, that morning, they had drunk Bellinis, she ran blindly into the back and opened the washroom door. But it turned out to be the kitchen door. Pagan hurried past astonished waiters and cooks, past crates of fruit and vegetables, to the exit at the end of the room. Outside, she found herself in a small, smelly alleyway where the rosy evening sunlight reached only the highest balconies that overhung the dustbins of the restaurant.

  Pagan darted into a doorway and peered round it at the restaurant kitchen door until she was sure that the bodyguard had not followed her. Then, jauntily, she set off down the alley, intending to go back to their hotel.

  But, although they had explored the city by gondola that morning, Pagan suddenly realized that she had no idea where she was or the address of her hotel. No problem. Venice is a small town. When she found a canal, she could walk until she saw a water-taxi, then ask him to take her to the Cipriani.

  Getting lost had never worried Pagan. However far she wandered as a child, she had always been able to find her way across the Cornish moorland, back to Trelawney. In fact, she rather liked not knowing where she was, Pagan thought, as she turned into another alleyway; life seemed full of delicious, unexpected possibilities when she was lost. I wonder why I like surprises and hate routine, Pagan mused, as she considered whether to cross a carved stone bridge to her left or to plunge into the maze of alleys on her right.

  At the top of the arched bridge, Pagan stopped and watched the dirty gray canal below, crowded with boats of every kind. She could also see the landing place, where the little launches—taxis of the town—were taking on passengers. She moved toward it, but when she had nearly reached the landing, Pagan changed
her mind. An hour of freedom in Venice was not something to be squandered, just because your feet hurt. She turned and strolled in the opposite direction.

  Seeing an enormous wooden door ajar, Pagan walked inside, and found herself in an incense-scented church. Unlike the magnificent churches that she had visited with Abdullah, which were more like picture galleries than places of worship, this was a working church. Dressed in black, several old women were praying; the statue of the Saint, Anthony of Padua, was encircled by half-burned votive candles. An array of gold and silver tinfoil images were pinned to the wall, messages of thanks to the saint who had granted the prayers of worshippers. The tinfoil hands, feet, arms and legs, were for healed injuries; tinfoil babies were from once-childless couples; tinfoil hearts with crowns, roses, or ribbons around them were from newlyweds. These people don’t hide what they want, thought Pagan. That’s one of the differences between the English and the Italians.

  The huge door creaked as she squeezed through it, into fading daylight. As Pagan turned around the corner, she heard the door behind her creak again, then light footsteps on the steps. Pagan suddenly realized that those steps had been much too quick for the arthritic old ladies in the church. The pearly light of the Venice evening was fading fast, as Pagan hurried back toward the canal. Only she hadn’t been walking toward the canal, she discovered. She stood in front of a narrow waterway with houses rising straight out of the dark water. Suddenly, she recognized a fall of asparagus fern from a first-floor balcony down the path on her left. Aha, she’d noticed that this morning; she was on the correct route.

  Again she set off, confidently. Again she heard the light, stealthy footsteps behind her.

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder, her heart starting to thump, as she realized that it was some time since she had passed anyone in these narrow alleys.

  The footsteps also stopped. Pagan started to hurry between the high, crumbling walls.

  She stopped again and listened. The light pitter-patter of footsteps behind her stopped again.

  Pagan spun round. The road curved behind her and she could see no one, but she was certain that someone was following her and, suddenly, Pagan was frightened.

  Darkness was falling and, as she began to run, Pagan thought, it’s not Abdi’s bodyguard, I’m sure I lost him. Perhaps it’s a mugger? I’ll go back to the church and ask one of the old women to help me. No one will mug me in a church. She ran faster.

  As she scuttled down empty lane after empty lane, blindly turning corners at any faintly familiar sight, Pagan realized that she had no idea where she was. And as she ran along the crisscrossing labyrinth of dank alleys, the footsteps behind her grew louder and closer. Pagan stopped helplessly at yet another crossroads.

  Suddenly, a powerful hand grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around.

  It was Abdullah.

  With relief, she threw her arms around him. “I thought you’d never catch up!”

  “Why were you running?”

  “I thought someone was following me,” she said, unwilling to admit that she had been frightened.

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “No. Where are we?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.” He put his arm around her. “You know you’re in the most confusing city in the world.”

  “I think we’re near the fish market.” Pagan wrinkled her nose.

  “The whole of Venice smells of that watery, rotting smell,” Abdullah dismissed her suggestion.

  Around the corner, they found themselves in the deserted fish market.

  “At least we know where we are.” Triumphantly, Pagan pointed. “There’s the canal! Now, all we have to do is find a water-taxi!”

  Abdullah looked at her tired face, drew her to him and kissed her.

  “I’ve been hoping you would do that all day.” Pagan wound her arms around his lean body. “It’s so nice to be without your bodyguard chaperones.”

  “You should be used to them by now.” Abdullah brushed her eyebrows with his lips.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to them; they make me feel claustrophobic. I’m so glad I managed to throw them off.”

  Abdullah pulled back, alarmed. “I sincerely hope you have not thrown them off.” He quickly looked around. “If they aren’t behind us, then we must return to the hotel immediately.”

  They hurried on. As they crossed the wet market cobbles, Pagan heard the stealthy noise of following feet. Again, she felt a twinge of panic. “Abdi, I think someone is following us. Maybe the bodyguards are catching up, after all?”

  “Nonsense, Pagan, it’s just the echo of our own footsteps. You always hear that in Venice, the sound ricochets around all the little alleyways.”

  “Yes, of course,” Pagan’s voice was doubtful. There were footsteps behind them, coming from the deserted market buildings.

  Pagan and Abdullah had almost reached the canalside, when, from a side street, two young men stepped out and blocked their path.

  Abdullah pushed Pagan into a doorway with one hand and, with the other hand, he seized one of the men around the neck, grappling for the pressure point, through which he could make the man unconscious.

  There was a dull glint of metal as the second youth opened a switchblade and circled the two struggling men, looking for his chance to attack.

  “Run, Pagan! They’ve got knives!”

  Abdullah slipped on the slimy stones and fell, losing his grip on his opponent, who fell with him.

  Pagan was no longer frightened. She felt calm and almost elated, as she whipped off her high-heeled shoes and flew at the attacker on the ground, when he tried to get up. With her metal-tipped stilettos, Pagan lashed at his head. As the second man lunged forward, Abdullah seized his knife hand, and then, with an agile heave, he threw both the attacker and the weapon into the canal.

  As Abdullah whirled to help Pagan, the second youth managed to dodge her blows and started to run along the canalside, chased by Abdullah. The mugger ran fast, but he was unlucky. As he rounded the next corner, he blundered straight against the broad chests of Abdullah’s bodyguards.

  “You’re carrying a knife as well!” Pagan gasped to Abdullah. “Goodness, you fight dirty.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “All Kings fight dirty,” Abdullah panted. “When you are a King,” he added, adjusting his tie, “you must always fight to win.”

  * * *

  That evening, they had dinner on the terrace of their suite, looking at the blazing lights of the Piazza San Marco across the lagoon. Abdullah waited until the silver tray of coffee had been removed, then he leaned forward to Pagan, who was wearing her dark green Fortuny.

  Abdullah said, “Shut your eyes.”

  She heard his chair scrape against the stone flags as he rose, then she sensed that he was standing behind her. She felt his hands lift the hair from the back of her neck and place something warm and heavy on her collarbone, as Abdullah murmured, “I hope that by now you’re old enough to accept a necklace from me.”

  Pagan rushed to the huge Venetian glass mirror in the salon. A necklace of platinum links, scattered with emeralds, lay against her pale, freckled chest.

  In the mirror, she saw Abdullah approach and hold her shoulders. He started, “We worked well as a team this afternoon.…”

  “You’re not just a pretty face,” Pagan allowed.

  “You aren’t as tough as you think you are,” Abdullah grinned.

  “Yon really were protective.”

  “You really were aggressive,” Abdullah said. “Can’t we be together for longer than two days?”

  Pagan suddenly felt nervous. “I don’t know.”

  “Would you spend the rest of the summer at my place in Cannes?”

  “I don’t know,” she stalled.

  “If I invited Maxine and Charles, would you come?”

  “I’ve never thought of Maxine as a chaperone before.” Abdullah’s insistent black gaze made Pagan feel as if her
guts were dissolving. “I think that would be…” She had intended to say impossible, but heard herself say, “Wonderful!” As she said it, bursts of falling green and pink stars were reflected in the water from a fireworks display on the other side of the lagoon.

  Abdullah held Pagan’s bare shoulders and turned her toward him. She closed her eyes and turned her face up to him, expecting a kiss, but instead, Abdullah said earnestly, “Listen to me, Pagan. I have to explain to you about Sydon. The Fundamentalists are getting help from the Communist bloc, and if I can’t defeat their guerrillas soon, I’ll have a full-scale war on my hands. I can’t defeat them without American arms and aid, and at the moment I can’t get help from the Americans.”

  Pagan hadn’t expected a political lecture. “I know that modernization has brought you problems,” she said, hiding her disappointment.

  “Another of my problems is the women of my country.”

  “In what way?” Pagan asked, without much interest at that moment, in the problems of other women.

  “In every way. It has been far harder for the women, than for the men, of my country to become part of the modern world. In the old days, when they lived behind the veil, they were completely dependent on their men, but also completely protected. Independence frightens them, but they cannot cling to the old ways forever.” A burst of golden sparks cascaded across the sky, as he added, “They pity Western women, struggling along without male protection.…”

  “But they don’t!” exclaimed Pagan.

  “Under Koranic law, a man is obliged to support all the women of his household. A Western man can discard his wife, with very little responsibility. So a Western woman does not always have the absolute security that she thinks she does.”

  Thinking of her divorce from her first husband, Pagan could only nod, as Abdullah continued, “Nevertheless the younger women of my country are starting to question some of our traditional ways.”