Lissie, sensing they were talking about her, lifted her crimson, tear-splotched face. To hide her embarrassment for her screams, she said, “Nay.”
Honora accepted the oddly pitched Nay for snake, but few other people would have.
The young man did. “Snakes aren’t my favorite either,” he said enunciating carefully. He looked at Honora. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Alexander Talbott.”
Squiggles of light danced in front of Honora’s eyes. The heat, the metallic clamor, Lissie’s weight closed in on her and she thought that she might pass out.
“Hey, are you all right?” The concerned male voice seemed battered out of shape.
“N-no. I m-mean, yes,” she stammered, giving herself a moment to compose herself by setting Lissie down and straightening the white spaghetti straps of her sundress. “I’m Honora Ivory,” she said slowly. “And this is my daughter, Lissie.”
The glasses hid his eyes, but his mouth opened in shocked surprise and his cheeks drew in.
“Coincidences,” she mumbled.
Alexander took several breaths.
Then he bolted.
The top of his head brushed against a rainbow of dangling cloths, possibly blinding him, and he collided with a porter bent under a load of bright-blue pottery. The dishes fell and the hot air rang with the clamor of shattering plates and cups.
Alexander Talbott had disappeared.
A turbaned merchant had risen from his stool and was pointing a dye-stained finger toward Honora. The crowd in the alley stared at her. She fished out a wad of bills, with no idea of their value, thrusting them at the porter.
When they reached the car, Lissie scuttled inside. On the way to the medina she had bounced around in the air-conditioned Mercedes, talking excitedly about the donkey carts, Djemaa-el-Fna Square, the Koutoubia minaret, the veiled women whizzing by on motor scooters. Now she was silent, snuggling to the comfort of Honora’s side as they returned to the hotel.
It wasn’t until after the Mamounia’s doorman had bowed them into the mercifully cool lobby that Lissie spoke. “Why he run away?”
“Very good speech, Lissie,” Honora said, forcing a smile and waiting until they were in the elevator to kneel at the child’s level. “His name is Alexander Talbott.” She spelled the names in the manual alphabet. “Alexander is . . . well, remember, I’ve told you Auntie Joss and I have another sister?”
“When Grandpa talks about her, he says not to talk about anything to you or Daddy.” Lissie’s communication was a lively mingling of sound and the manual alphabet. “But you don’t mind my knowing Auntie Joss is my real mother, so why should you care about Aunt Crystal? Is he something to do with her, And?”
“Alexander.” She spelled out the name again. “He’s her son. My nephew, your cousin.”
Lissie, lacking older siblings to brag about at Prescott, a small, highly staffed private school for the hearing impaired, had informed her classmates that she had two cousins who were grown-up men. “Why he run?” she asked orally.
Honora shook her head, signing that she wasn’t positive. “I think he was surprised to find out who we were.”
When Curt returned for lunch Honora told him about snake charmers and the incredible, unbelievable coincidence that their rescuer was her nephew. “I’m afraid I blew it badly when he told us who he was.”
“He ran away,” said Lissie in her usual mixed media. “He crashed into a man carrying dishes and they spilled.”
“Now that is what I call an overreaction,” Curt said, signing a slightly different version to his daughter.
* * *
Lissie’s governess, Miss McEwen, a plump, middle-aged Jamaican with dark freckles covering her broad, café-au-lait face, had landed a plum of a job because of her knowledge of sign language. Honora took care of Lissie, and Miss McEwen’s responsibility was an occasional stint of baby-sitting.
At twenty to nine she was performing her function.
The Ivorys were waiting for the maître d’ of the Mamounia’s Moroccan-style restaurant, which was lit only by pierced metal lanterns. Glancing around, Honora spotted Alexander Talbott. Despite the dimness, he had on his shades: though he was facing in their direction, she couldn’t tell whether he saw her or not. She lifted her hand in a tentative wave.
He rose from his pillows, handsome and lean in his white dinner jacket, coming toward her.
“I really made an ass of myself this afternoon, didn’t I, Mrs. Ivory?” he said.
Honora was subtle enough to hear the hint of preparation in his apology, yet the nose with the tilt was the masculine version of Crystal’s, and there was something of her sister, too, about the lips, certainly in the bright hair. Unlike Crystal, though, he had inherited the Sylvander slender height.
My nephew, Honora thought, a blood knot tying within her. “Do call me Honora,” she said warmly. “And I was the one who behaved like an idiot. My only excuse is that the snake petrified me as much as Lissie.” She turned to Curt. “This is our rescuer, my nephew, Alexander Talbott. Alexander, this is Curt Ivory.”
“I owe you one, Alexander. I can’t thank you enough for rescuing my girls from the largest serpent in North Africa.” Smiling, Curt extended his hand.
Alexander’s dark glasses were fixed on Curt’s face. The harem-outfitted entertainer passed them, clapping her tambourine. Alexander continued to stare. Even taking into consideration the family feud and Curt’s being Talbott’s major rival, the younger man’s hesitation seemed disproportionate to Honora. Her heart began to thump and it seemed an endless stretch of time until he at last took Curt’s strong, squarish hand.
Honora, impelled to cover the awkwardness, said, “You really do look like Crystal.” Her voice went low. “Alexander, how is my sister?”
“Fine, absolutely perfect,” he said in a subdued voice. “Nobody believes she can be the mother of two aging lunks.”
Alexander had shifted a few feet on the beautiful old rug to stand farther away. Even more flustered, Honora heard herself effusing, “She always was so beautiful that it was unfair. And it’s terrific how she’s carried on with Talbott’s.” Though her praise was sincere, it came across as phony. “Alexander, will you join us for dinner?”
“I . . . uhh, what about a rain check? I’m expecting somebody.”
The maître d’ bustled over, ushering the Ivorys to a large divan by the window jalousies. Sinking into the low, soft pillows, Honora glanced over to where Alexander had been sitting. He was gone.
Curt followed her gaze. “So much for his big date.”
“Curt, we’re the enemy. He’s very young. Meeting us is hard on him.”
“I’d say a shade too hard.”
Because she had entertained this same thought, she said fiercely, “That’s not fair.”
“Agreed, when he found out his damsels in distress were his unknown aunt and cousin, he could have been quite naturally shook. But when he came over to talk to you it must’ve occurred to him he’d have to shake my hand.”
“Maybe he takes the rivalry harder than we do.”
“And what’s he doing here anyway? Talbott’s doesn’t have any Mideast projects.”
“Maybe he’s on holiday.”
“Maybe he likes a hundred-and-fifteen-degree heat,” Curt said acidly. “But wouldn’t you say wearing dark glasses in this coal mine is a bit Hollywood?”
“I like him,” Honora snapped.
A dark boy in a red fez approached them with the copper pitcher and bowl for handwashing. After the ritual, she sank into gloom. Her son—Curt’s son—would have been two years older than Alexander.
48
The following morning, Lissie—influenced by her brush with the snake—suggested staying at the hotel to swim.
As they emerged from the glassed entryway designated for bathers, Honora felt the heat clamp over her like a giant leech and she moved lethargically. Lissie, unaffected by the temperature, zigzagged from side to side on the broad, vine-shaded pat
h, stamping her clogs to leave footmarks on the recently raked earth.
The vast gardens of the Mamounia dated back to the seventeenth century, and Honora’s horticulturally trained eye took in the ancient, gnarled olive trees, the varieties of palms, the rose gardens—a vast harem of blooms ranging from white to palest coral to near-black crimson that spread their wilting petals to give off dense, odalisque perfumes.
Sun-worshiping, out-of-season French tourists rayed around the glinting blue pool while sweating waiters in long white jellabas carried them tall drinks from the open-fronted pavilion. Lissie dashed across the burning deck, arcing into the water, emerging in the center of the pool. Honora cooled off with the breaststroke she’d learned at age five on a summer holiday in Worthing, then sat under a blue and white umbrella, writing postcards. One to Joscelyn, who was living in Georgetown while working on the Washington Metro project, one to Langley, who had just returned from a vacation in Alsace, one with a view of the hotel’s ancient ramparts to Mrs. Mel Akers: Vi’s third marriage had taken, but at the beginning of the year Mel had died, leaving her a substantial bank account and a garishly furnished condominium overlooking San Diego Bay.
“Hi,” said a masculine American voice.
Alexander Talbott stood over her.
The brown, pale-haired length of his legs glowed with sweet-odored suntan oil, and over one broad, bony shoulder was draped a zebra-patterned beach towel rather than the Mamounia’s ubiquitous royal blue.
“Good morning,” she said, feeling genuine pleasure at the sight of her nephew. With a twinge of alarm lest he take flight again, she slid the postcards into her address book. “So you’re at the Mamounia, too?” That zebra-striped terrycloth made her remark rise questioningly.
“We have an apartment here. Not to brag, but it’s next door to the sacred Churchill Suite,” he said. “From those Olympic Gold Medal dives I’d say Lissie’s recovered from the great snake episode.”
“Not quite. She wasn’t ready to brave outer Marrakesh.”
“Smart girl. Thermometer’s up ten degrees from yesterday. Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all,” she said.
He looked at her.
“It’s too hot to write one more card,” she said, patting the chaise next to hers.
He stretched out, and they talked idly and easily about the comparative heat of the Sahara and the Mojave deserts until Lissie dripped her way from the pool. Alexander inquired how to say terrific diver in sign language. After a brief shyness, the child was animatedly teaching him to sign and spell. Honora, watching them, saw the Sylvander inheritance, the same long, fine bone structure. The heat sent the three of them to the pool, where they paddled on bright-blue inflatable rafts. Alexander kept on his mirrored glasses, Lissie continued her instruction.
When they got out, Honora said to her daughter, “That’s enough sun for one day.”
“No,” Lissie said, turning to her cousin. “No! I want to be with Alexander.”
He moved his hands, asking Lissie if she would like to go out with him.
“Are you sure you didn’t know the manual alphabet before?” Honora asked in astonishment.
“I’m a quick study,” he said. “Tomorrow, early, I’m heading for Djemaa-el-Fna Square.”
Honora signed this to Lissie.
The little girl smiled up at Alexander, flicking her hands in eager acceptance.
“What about you, Honora?” he asked, patently out of courtesy.
“I think you two can manage on your own.”
* * *
The following morning about eleven thirty Alexander returned Lissie—flushed and eager to recapitulate the hot, dusty wonders of Djemaa-el-Fna Square. Honora invited him to join them for lunch at the hotel’s enclosed veranda cafe. His swift acceptance proved him at loose ends. Honora couldn’t help remembering Curt’s question: what was Alexander Talbott doing in a Saharan city burdened with heat and crowded with the Pan-Arabic Conference? Her nephew’s charm and familial resemblance buried her reservations. After her ice cream Lissie went up to rest. Honora and Alexander moved to the indoor fountains, sitting in the high, peacock-backed chairs amid jovial groups of dignitaries wearing jellabas.
Alexander was well read in a broad swathe of authors: he knew the repertoire of nineteenth century Italian opera, of which she was an ardent aficionado. Although this cool, splashing place was hardly bright, he again kept on his dark glasses. A minor affectation, especially in so young a man, and in Honora’s mind one that helped knock down his inhuman sheen of perfection.
The next two days he spent with her and Lissie, either by the pool or sight-seeing. Honora began to hear the sound of cymbals and trumpets. Surely this friendship heralded a reconciliation for the Sylvander sisters.
* * *
At eleven o’clock, shortly after Curt had left to attend yet another meeting, a note was delivered to the Ivory suite, where Honora sat reading. (Lissie and Miss McEwen were lunching with Fuad’s granddaughter and her nurses: it would have breached etiquette had Honora gone.) The envelope was addressed by hand to Mrs. Curt Ivory. With curiosity Honora slit the paper and pulled out the note.
Honora, if it’s not asking too much, could you have lunch with me in the apartment at one thirty? Alone. Alexander.
Honora rang immediately. There was no answer on his phone so she left a message at the desk that she would be delighted to accept Mr. Talbott’s invitation.
* * *
The Mamounia’s air conditioning was not as frigid as in an American hotel. A delightful chill lapped around Honora as she stepped inside the Talbott apartment, which obviously had its own unit: white silk curtains stirred, and the sparse furnishing added to the impression of coolness. Three low, ultramodern couches were set apart Moorish style in an alcove. A taboret held a silver wine cooler, crystal goblets and an earthenware dish covered with a conical lid.
Alexander led her to the central couch. “I ordered a b’stilla sent up.”
“How did you guess it’s my favorite food?”
“Masculine intuition.” He shook out a heavy damask napkin for her. “And Lissie told me.” He lifted the cover and steam burst upward. Using three fingers of his right hand in the Arabic way, he skillfully broke apart the round pigeon pie, destroying the diamond mosaic of cinnamon and powdered sugar. He turned the platter toward her—they were eating as the natives did, without dishes or cutlery.
Honora took the jagged piece, closing her eyes to express her pleasure at the first ambrosial bite. Delicate golden flakes drifted onto her napkin. “There’s no pastry this light anywhere,” she said.
“They drop small pellets of dough until the griddle’s covered with a fine tissue and before it browns they peel it onto a plate. One hundred and four layers of pastry go into a b’stilla for twelve.”
“Is there anything you don’t know?”
“I go through these periods when peer-group socializing is like a hair shirt. One time we came here and I hung around the kitchens—that’s where I picked up my Arabic. In case you’re interested, the b’stilla recipe for twelve calls for three pounds of butter, thirty eggs, six pigeons, a pound of almonds, and I can’t remember how much ginger, pimentos, onions, saffron, coriander and sugar.”
Honora sensed, as she had several other times, that he’d prepared this speech, so her smile was a trifle forced. “I doubt if I’ll fix it anyway,” she said. “It sounds a teeny bit complicated.”
He concentrated on filling their glasses with chilled Pouilly-Fuissé.
“You really are unique, Honora,” he said. “I never knew anyone before who actually doesn’t have a mean side—or see anyone else’s.” He sipped his wine. “I have something deeply Freudian going with Mom, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing her faults. She’s vain, materialistic—”
“Alexander—”
“—and totally different from you. I mean, I never believed in that word ‘lady’ before. But you are one.”
It seemed to Honora
that the thermostat had gone berserk and the cold air rippled with chilly drafts. She knew something bad was about to happen, but she had no idea what it was. “Alexander, let’s change the subject.”
“Me,” he continued after a beat, “I have unexorcisable demons. I do what’s necessary to get what I need.”
“Your father was a very dominant man,” she murmured, then flushed. Until now they had avoided the mention of Gideon.
“He wasn’t my father.”
She peered at Alexander, seeing her distorted, diminutive reflections in his mirrored glasses.
“Gideon Talbott wasn’t my father,” he repeated. The quietly spoken words seemed to boomerang within the alcove. “I’ve known who my natural father is since I was fourteen, but I didn’t meet him until this week—”
Honora heard the words but her brain refused to accept their meaning. She was on her feet, the napkin slithering to the carpet. “That’s enough!” she cried. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
“—he’s Curt Ivory.”
“If this is your idea of a joke—” she cried. She was holding out her shaking hands with the palms toward her nephew, a gesture that could be construed either as pleading or barring.
“Why do you think I was so shook at meeting him?” he demanded.
“An act,” she said vehemently. “I could see it, he could see it. You were putting on an act.”
“Jesus, an act? You prepare yourself, but coming face to face like that—an act? In the medina, when I gaped, then took off, that was an act. Of course I knew who you were. And ever since I’ve been playing you and Lissie. But when I met him, that was no act. My brain went white and flat, as if somebody had wiped away the electrical impulses. There I was for the first time standing next to him and I couldn’t think.”
Honora couldn’t think, either, and a strange little sob welled from her. “Why are you telling me this?”
“My demons, aunt, my demons.” The youthful planes of his face sagged with misery. “The thing I regret is that you’re a super lady.”
“Whatever Crystal told you, she’s a liar!” Honora burst out.
Too Much Too Soon Page 36