Lion Eyes

by Claire Berlinski

  “What’s that?” asked Sally.

  “Wollef,” said Arsalan and I simultaneously, with great relief. Scratch, scratch. Soil came flying out from under the bed. “Well!” I said. “Looks like he’s feeling right at home! Who wants more lasagna?” Scratch, scratch. A lot of soil came flying out.

  Lynne’s coat was on top of the bed. She looked at the flying clumps of soil. Her skin, pale to begin with, turned white as the interior of a radish. “No, thanks,” she said weakly. “I’m fine.” Wow, I thought. If a little bit of used kitty litter skeeved her out so much that she lost her appetite, I really wouldn’t want to be there when Sam explained how the rest of their romantic weekend in Paris was going to go down, so to speak.

  “I’ll have some more,” Imran boomed cheerily, holding out his plate. “It’s delicious.” Scratch, scratch. I put another large helping on his plate. “More wine, too, please. Did I tell you that I bedded an ex-nun the other day? A more virginal middle-aged woman you could not imagine. Sadly she’s ‘fallen in love’ ”—he made mock quotation marks in the air—“so playful pokes are now aus-geschlossen. ”

  “A nun, Imran?” I said. “A nun?”

  “An ex-nun. She orgasmed very easily, especially when I taught her to breathe slowly and deeply into the pleasure, diaphragmatically. I would guess this is why she ‘fell in love’ so deeply and quickly. She mistook my devotion to her orgasm for devotion to her. A shame.”

  Lynne looked stupefied. Sam looked revolted. Sally looked fascinated. Imran dug into his meal with relish. “Mmmmm,” he said. “Well done with this lasagna, really. It’s just lovely.”

  • • •

  “I coated the cylinders of my Jag in polytetrafluoroethylene last week,” Imran offered the table. “It’s been noticeably quieter and more economical since. Almost thirty to the gallon.”

  “Really?” said Arsalan. “That’s Teflon, isn’t it?” I noticed that we needed more wine; I got up to get some from the kitchen. Sam was looking miserable. Lynne was still sneezing. Wollef was still scratching.

  As I reached the kitchen, I overheard Sally. “Arsalan,” she said brightly, “I understand you’re an archaeologist. That is such a coincidence.”

  I froze at the kitchen door. I had an impulse to run back to him and shout, No! Don’t talk to her! I stood there with the empty lasagna tray in my hand, listening.

  “It is?” said Arsalan.

  “Yes, it’s such a coincidence, because I really need an archaeologist’s advice.”

  “Why; will you be needing to be mummified?” Arsalan asked politely.

  “I’m sorry?” said Sally.

  “I’ve just never heard anyone say they really needed an archaeologist’s advice before.” He sounded more curious than suspicious—and, alas, he sounded flattered.

  “Yes,” said Sally, “it’s such a coincidence—and especially because you’re from Iran. I’m so glad I ran into you this evening. I just found out this morning that I’m going to be managing a fund earmarked for Iranian archaeological conservation projects. I could really use your thoughts about the projects that would most benefit.”

  “A fund for Iranian archaeological conservation projects?” His voice registered surprise. “What kind of fund?”

  “We received a bequest from an anonymous donor. I suspect it’s probably a wealthy Iranian American. The donor asked the State Department to manage it, and since of course we don’t have an embassy in Iran, we’re going to manage it from Turkey.”

  “That’s odd; why would he give it to the State Department? Why wouldn’t he ask UNESCO to manage it? Or give it directly to a university?”

  “You know, I don’t even know who he is, so I couldn’t tell you exactly, but I can tell you that it isn’t that uncommon. In our country, many people don’t really feel comfortable with the United Nations. For some Americans, it has a bad reputation—you know, for corruption, mismanagement, that sort of thing. And perhaps he didn’t want to be in direct contact with Iranian universities. Maybe he’s someone who has a troubled relationship with your government. Maybe they wouldn’t be allowed to accept money from him directly. That would be my guess.”

  “And you’re going to be deciding where the money goes? How much money is involved?”

  She certainly had his attention now. I felt helpless, as if I were watching a bus stall on the railway tracks as the train came barreling down. I wondered if she’d thought of that approach herself or if the idea came from headquarters. I was still standing frozen at the kitchen door with the lasagna tray in my hand. “There’s an initial bequest of $25,000, to be renewed annually if he’s satisfied the money is being used appropriately,” she said.

  Is that all he’s worth to you? I thought, and then realized that by Iranian standards, that was a lot. Waving too much money around, I supposed, would arouse suspicions—not just Arsalan’s but those of everyone around him. I looked at his face. He looked serious and thoughtful, but not dubious. “Is there any particular kind of project you’re looking at?” he asked.

  “Well, the donor specified that he’s particularly concerned about historic sites that are threatened with flood damage. Because of the dam projects, you know. He knows time is running out for those salvage operations. So that’s his priority.”

  Arsalan nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, of course. Yes, certainly I can make some recommendations. I—”

  Sally interrupted. “That’s wonderful! I’ll tell you what: I don’t have all the papers here with me. I’d like to show you the brief I’ve received with the donor’s precise specifications. But fortunately, I brought them with me—I wanted to read them on the plane. They’re back in my briefcase at my hotel room. Can I invite you to have lunch with me tomorrow so I can show them to you?”

  “Well—” Arsalan glanced at me. “Tomorrow’s quite a busy day—”

  “Just coffee then, perhaps? Somewhere convenient for you?”

  “I suppose I could do that.”

  “How would eleven o’clock work for you?” asked Sally. “Do you know the café at the Musée Guimet? Would that be convenient?”

  “Of course, sure.” How sensible, I thought. No one would find it odd to see Arsalan visit the Asian art museum.

  “Wonderful. I’m so glad. How wonderful that I ran into you. What are the odds of that?”

  I caught Arsalan’s eye. He smiled at me. It was a warm, trusting smile.

  She did it, I thought as I put the serving plate in the sink and filled it with water so the lasagna wouldn’t stick. Quite effortlessly. The mission of the dinner party was accomplished. My role was over. I’d done my duty to my country.

  I found another bottle of wine and came back out. Arsalan was chatting with Sam. Lynne was wiping her nose.

  Sally was sitting quietly. Her head was bowed, her shoulders sloped, and her hands crossed primly in her lap. But the corners of her mouth were turned up in an enigmatic little smile.

  • • •

  “Then, forty-seven days after entering the tomb, Lord Carnarvon died in agony at the Hotel Continental in Cairo,” Arsalan said to Lynne and Sam. He had placed his hand on my shoulder again when I sat down. Lynne was still sneezing and sniffling. Sam had brightened a bit; he seemed to be listening to Arsalan with interest.

  “My suggestion is that you tell your father the truth fully and calmly in simple sentences,” Imran said to Sally. “No melodrama—just facts, figures, wishes, and needs.” Sally nodded thoughtfully.

  “In 1972, Dr. Gamal Mehrez, who was the Director-General of the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, insisted that he didn’t believe in the curse,” said Arsalan. “He said, ‘All my life, I’ve had to deal with tombs and mummies. I’m surely the best proof that it’s all coincidence.’ ”

  “Needs are legitimate and okay when they’re not neurotic, and yours are not neurotic,” said Imran.

  “But four weeks later, as workers were moving the mask to transport it to London, Dr. Mehrez dropped dead of circulatory failure,” said Arsa
lan.

  “Wow,” said Lynne, squeezing Sam’s hand. “That’s so weird.”

  We had emptied nearly seven bottles of wine. Sally, I noticed, had started knocking it back as soon as she concluded her business with Arsalan; she and Imran had been discussing her father ever since. I hadn’t known about the subtle way her father had tried to undermine her self-esteem.

  I got up to try to rescue the dessert. I could hear laughter from the table, punctuated by sneezing. I threw out the egg whites that hadn’t whipped properly, washed the bowl, and separated a fresh batch of eggs. Sometimes egg whites won’t whip if there’s a particle of oil in the bowl. Perhaps that had been the problem. I tried beating them again, this time with a fork. I had been beating them for a few minutes when Arsalan came into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

  “I’m trying to get these to whip up,” I said.

  “Let me help,” he said, his voice low. My hand was on the fork. Standing behind me, he put his hand on top of mine.

  “Hullo!” boomed Imran. “Just looking for a top-up. Don’t mind me. Is the wine in the fridge?”

  “Yep,” I sighed. Arsalan removed his hand, stepped away from me, and leaned against the counter. “Help yourself,” I said.

  “Don’t mind if I do. You know, I quite fancy her!”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Sally. She takes good responsibility for her emotions. I do wish her breasts were a bit bigger. She has Protestant breasts. Oh well, can’t have everything. Anyway, you two carry on. Cheerio!” He left without closing the door again.

  I looked at Arsalan. “She’s married,” I said. Then I heard a loud, indignant meow.

  “Well hello! You’ve come out!” said Arsalan. Wollef was looking up at him. He began rubbing against Arsalan’s legs.

  “Hi, kittycat,” I said, reaching down to stroke him. “How are you feeling?” Wollef meowed again—loudly and insistently.

  “He’s hungry.” Arsalan picked him up and cradled him, stroking his belly. Wollef stretched out in his arms like a human infant and began purring.

  “Didn’t he like the tuna?” I stroked Wollef’s head.

  “I don’t know. Usually he likes fish. Maybe he doesn’t want to eat so close to the litter box?”

  “We could try feeding him in here. Hold on.” I went over to the bed and fished the tuna out from underneath it.

  Sam flagged me down on my way back. “Do you mind if I take some more of that ibuprofen?” he asked.

  “Of course not. Help yourself. You know where it is.”

  Sam got up. Lynne caught my eye and quickly motioned for me to take his empty seat, putting her finger against her lips to indicate I shouldn’t say anything. I sat down, still holding the tuna fish, wondering what she wanted. She looked buzzed. “Hi,” I said softly. “You doing okay?”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” I said, thinking that Arsalan was waiting for me in the kitchen. Imran and Sally were deep in conversation. “Your father needs to hear that to keep growing and developing as a man,” Imran was saying.

  “You and Sam are pretty close, right?” Lynne asked me, sotto voce.

  “I guess, sort of—why?”

  “Is he attracted to me?” Her eyes were a bit wild. She was definitely drunk. I looked at the kitchen. I did not want to be having this conversation. Arsalan stepped out with Wollef in his arms, saw me, and brought him over; I thanked him mentally.

  “Hi, Wollef,” I said gratefully. “You must be starving.” I put the tuna on the floor beside me. Arsalan set Wollef down. Wollef sniffed the tuna, turned up his nose, and began rubbing against my leg, then Lynne’s.

  “Oh, no, go away, kitty,” said Lynne. “I’m allergic to—” She began sneezing violently, her whole body racked with spasms. She patted the table, looking for something with which to wipe her nose, but couldn’t find anything. She sneezed again in a projectile explosion, getting snot all over herself. She got up and rushed to the bathroom. I couldn’t stop her.

  We all looked at one another in horror.

  Seconds later, the screaming began.

  • • •

  “Her anger management skills are execrable,” said Imran primly, shaking his head disapprovingly after Lynne slammed the door behind her.

  “Here, put this on it,” I said, handing Samantha the package of peas I kept in the freezer to put on my shin splints.

  “Thanks.” She looked stunned. “I don’t understand why she didn’t knock. Why didn’t she knock?”

  “Almost certainly because at some level she knew the truth already,” said Imran.

  “She certainly sounded surprised,” said Sally.

  “Well, she might not have known the details of the truth. But I’m sure she knew she was being deceived,” said Imran.

  “Do you think?” said Sally.

  “Oh, yes. We usually do,” said Imran. I looked at Sally.

  “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t think she was that great,” I said. “She seemed really high-maintenance.”

  “She didn’t seem at all like Voltaire,” Arsalan agreed.

  “You told him that?” Samantha looked at me accusingly. “Did you keep anything I told you to yourself?”

  “Well, no, actually.” I didn’t see any point in lying now. “I’m sorry. I have no excuse. I personally would never trust me with a secret. I mean, I wrote a book called Loose Lips. Hell, most of my friends don’t even invite me to surprise parties anymore.”

  Sally’s face froze.

  “Of all the ways for her to find out,” said Samantha despondently.

  “Samantha,” I said, putting a hand on her shoulder, “I am absolutely certain—one hundred percent certain—that no matter how she’d found out, it wouldn’t have changed anything. Also, you would never have had the nerve to tell her. It had to happen this way.” Everyone else nodded in agreement.

  “If I’d only told her right from the start.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” Sally said firmly. “She would never, ever in a million years have slept with you.”

  “Yeah, come on,” I agreed. “You heard the way she said coochie. ”

  “Highly gynophobic,” Imran offered.

  “Although she might not have been quite so angry if you’d told her a bit sooner,” said Arsalan. “Wollef, no! Get away from that!” He walked over to scoop up the cat. “Here. If you’re hungry, have some tuna fish.”

  “We need to clean that up,” I said. We all looked at one another. I hated to make Samantha do it; she was already so upset, but it was sort of her fault.

  “At least it’s mostly on the tile and not the carpet,” said Sally sensibly.

  “Yeah, but that tomato sauce will stain. So will the red wine.” I waited for Samantha to volunteer, but she was staring glumly into space. I went to get a bucket and some detergent.

  “I ruined your party,” said Samantha when I returned. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said.

  “I feel so awful,” she said.

  “Well here.” I handed her the bucket and the paper towels. “Clean that up. It will make you feel much better.”

  • • •

  “Thank you so much,” said Sally at the door. “I had a lovely time.”

  “Are you going to be okay?” I asked Samantha.

  “I think I’m all right now,” she said, sniffling a bit. Imran had been helping her work through her grief for the past half hour. He was magnificent in a crisis.

  “How are you going to get back to the hotel?” I asked Samantha.

  “I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

  “Where’s your hotel?” Imran asked Sally.

  “Up in the Sixteenth, by the Arc de Triomphe.”

  “What a coincidence! So is mine. Shall we share a cab?”

  “Oh, what a good idea,” said Sally, flashing him a flirtatious rabbity smile.

  We all exchanged handshakes and cheek-kisses. I told Samantha to call
me in the morning. I wished Imran good luck finding the shaving brush he needed. “It was a wonderful meal,” said Sally before they headed for the elevator. She was weaving just a little on her sensible navy consular pumps. “Kudos.”

  I closed the door. I was alone with Arsalan. Wollef was sleeping on the futon, snoring softly. A half bottle of red wine was left on the table. The candles had burned low, dripping wax in pretty patterns over the winelights, casting flickering shadows on the wall.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  . . . a fascinating peek into a world that most of us know very little about, and it reads like truth . . . like the writer has very accurate and intimate knowledge of her subject . . . or if not, then she’s an even better writer than we realize . . .

  —Customer review

  of Loose Lips on Amazon. com

  I’m starving,” I said.

  I’m “Me too. Ravenous,” said Arsalan. The sun was beginning to come up.

  “There’s nothing to eat but leftover lasagna.”

  “Can’t we call room service?”

  “Good idea. Have them send up some fresh-squeezed orange juice, some croissants?”

  “Scrambled eggs, toast, hash browns—”

  “They have hash browns in Iran? How do you know about hash browns?”

  “I don’t, actually. I’ve always wondered what they were.”

  “They’re fried potatoes. Grated, fried potatoes.”

  “That’s all? I thought they’d be something more American.”

  “What could be more American than that? They’re delicious.”

  “I’ve had fried potatoes before, though.”

  “Have you had blueberry muffins? That’s very American. Bacon, sausages—”

  “No pork.”

  “You don’t eat pork?”

  “How revolting! You do?”

  “Sure. But we can have them send up a steak this time instead.” “All delivered on a tray with a rose. I’m really starving. Should we go out?”

  “I don’t think anything’s open yet. You want some leftover lasagna?”