Submission

by Harrison Young

  With this confession, my weary Prospero rolls onto his side and puts his head in my lap. I stroke the muscles between his shoulder blades where tension accumulates. After a minute, he falls asleep.

  Why Mrs. Baxter shot the Zaathi no one claims to know. Perhaps she worked for America’s spy agency, they say. Or for the Saudis. They have not pressed her husband on the matter, which is humane, and his bank has transferred him back to New York.

  I admit that I did not like the American girl, brave and convenient though she was. I cannot help blaming her. Again, Abdulrahman’s is the best account. He and Philip had been standing on top of the ruins for quite a while, and they were getting pretty jumpy. Philip evidently saw some movement near the base of the hill, well in front of their own lines, in a place where enemy troops trying to creep up on them would naturally assemble, in consequence of which he had taught his mortar crews the exact settings for putting shells there. This is apparently standard practice. There was the sound of a couple of shots and Philip said to Abdulrahman he thought he ought to investigate. Abdulrahman said, why don’t you just fire the mortars, but Philip said he didn’t want to spoil the surprise. Philip hopped off the bit of ruin they were standing on and ran down the hill. At the same moment the Zaathi forces began moving forward.

  After a few minutes, Abdulrahman heard Philip on the radio, ordering the mortar crews to “fire for effect,” which means a rather thorough bombardment. Abdulrahman made the mistake of looking at the mortar crews. They obeyed Philip’s order immediately. While the shells were in the air, the Zaathis swarmed into the hollow, and when Abdulrahman looked back in that direction, he couldn’t see what had become of Philip. He didn’t know about the girl at that point. Abdulrahman says the scale of the carnage made it necessary to resort to a mass grave.

  It is getting late. The rain outside has stopped, but there is no moon. It is impossible to see the loch. The room we are in is full of vague shapes, which if I were a child would be monsters. And perhaps are. I suppose I could turn on a lamp, or call for a servant to do so, but I prefer not to wake Mubarek. I know how to think in the dark. I have had a lot of practice.

  If you live on a cold planet, you learn to make do. The Scots make a game of it. They bathe in patience. For example, you are not supposed to shoot a stag while he is sitting down. I know this from listening to the keepers. It is a matter of some importance to them, professionally. You are supposed to just lie there in the rain, at the end of your stalk, staring down the barrel of your rifle, “waiting his pleasure.” Which can take hours. When he gets up you kill him.

  For a real sportsman, though, that is not the point. The point is the hardness of the quest. Those who understand this sometimes just let the stag walk away, according to the keepers, when it finally suits him to do so.

  My father’s business, at the end, was something like this. Dealing with bombs, and the strange people who leave them. Success was when nothing happened. And the absurd pressure of the work was an end in itself. I suppose I got my instinct for survival from my mother, poor woman, and my talent for surrender from my father. Astonishing that such antithetical chromosomes produced in me an instrument for making so many men happy.

  Sex, my profession, has never been hard – or not for me. I know it is for many. Philip among them. What I find hard is truth. And the truth is that Philip did not love me. That was why I was able to help him. What we did didn’t count. I was able to let laughter come in. I do not think someone he cared about could have done that for him. He has powerful defences. But I failed, it seems, in persuading him to refuse pain.

  Allahu akbar, as they say. I miss Philip. I would have expected him to visit me in my sleep, like a demon lover, but he does not. So perhaps God is using him somewhere else. Mubarek has done his best to convince me that the two of them are dead, but instinct tells me otherwise. I hope he will be all right with his murderess.

  About the stag again. Do you suppose he knows he is being watched? Knows at some subliminal level? And becomes the grave creature he is because of it? We are all of us watched, of course. From heaven. Death is only a question of style and timing.

  Style was what my father had. The newspapers called it courage, but they were wrong. My mother was the courageous one, as long as she could manage it. My father fitted so perfectly into the groove of his own destiny that there was nothing to do but marvel. I suppose what got to me about Philip was the way he struggled a bit with the role he was so obviously designed for. Splendid and yet unsure. It is our flaws that give us purchase on each other.

  God, I know, is present. And His most ironic manifestation is desire, which makes us both angels and fools. I know this from my work. It is the whole lesson of my life, I suppose. I became a whore and made men whole. I sought corruption, and became a metaphor for grace. When He has time, I will be ready for the real thing.

  I suppose He is waiting for me to forgive the American girl. And my father. And myself. Waiting for me to accept that there are outcomes I cannot control. I will have to work on that part.

  43

  God’s plan brought Philip to Scotland in October. He parked his car on the last rise and walked down the road to the big house that looked out over Loch Fyne. It was a beautiful afternoon. And being an infantryman, he supposed, he wanted to approach on foot.

  Mubarek opened the front door as he mounted the steps to the porch. They went into a sitting room with two pianos in it.

  “Would you like a drink? I keep alcohol in the house. It is the custom here.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Mubarek gestured to a chair and they both sat down. “You’ve been well?”

  “Thank you. Yes. And Your Majesty?”

  “The same. And thank you for the courtesy, but I am Sheik Mubarek now.”

  “To others, perhaps, but not to me.”

  “How is my son?”

  “Very well. I went back to Alidar for the first time last week. He is busy, which he likes. He listens to his prime minister, which is smart. I believe he intends to marry Raheem Faloom, which will make her brother family. Perhaps he will agree to remain prime minister longer. But you must know all this. Ibrahim told me you correspond.”

  “We do. He writes each week. But letters do not tell you everything.” Mubarek paused. “Does he still think his father a lazy fool?” That was an awkward question, because the answer was basically “yes.” Philip hesitated.

  “Then my plan has worked,” said Mubarek.

  “I suppose Arthur’s plan worked too,” said Philip.

  “We never discussed any of it, you know,” said Mubarek. “I just asked him if he had a lawyer who had been a soldier.”

  “To find the ‘lady assassin?’”

  “He didn’t ask why.”

  “He’s like that,” said Philip. Then an idea occurred to him. “Did you know who she was?”

  “I saw her coming out of the Hilton one morning as I was going in to give a little talk to the European ladies who help at the hospital. She looked radiant. I said to myself, here is a young bride who is finding her new duties intensely agreeable. But no one comes to Alidar for a honeymoon. So I asked Isa if he knew who she was. He said he had seen her at Elliot’s restaurant, when he went there with messages. Elliot told me that she came frequently, that her husband was away a lot, but that she never flirted with the other regulars. I asked myself, why does she not help at the hospital? The sight of her would cheer everyone up. Then I remembered what else had happened the morning I saw her, and the thought came to me that if the rumours were true, and we did have a ‘lady assassin’ at work in Alidar, the person to catch her would need to be an attractive man. That became my pretext.”

  “But you said you didn’t tell Arthur why you wanted me.”

  “I didn’t tell myself either.”

  “Fawzi,” said Philip.

  “I suppose my son’s account of ‘Dr. Maloof’ troubled me.” Mubarek paused. “You also showed Ibrahim how to defeat Suleiman. I had
not counted on that. That turned out to be very important. My son is right, you know. I leave too much to God.”

  “Some people feel that way about Arthur,” said Philip.

  “And you?”

  “I begin to understand him. He has taught me how to understand myself. By explaining nothing. I went away. For the first few months I avoided all conclusions and waited to see what would become obvious.”

  “And something did?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re here,” said Mubarek.

  The old king turned and looked out the window at the loch. It was raining a little, though the sun was still out.

  “Cassandra will be happy,” he said finally.

  “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs. Working on her Arabic.”

  “You didn’t tell her I was coming?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell her I was alive?”

  “You might not have come.” His Majesty rose. “But I will call her now.”

  Philip walked back up the hill with Cassandra. She clung to his arm.

  “Is she dead?” she said.

  “Yes. I checked.”

  “I thought you ran down the hill to save her.”

  “Well, I did, but I stopped.”

  “You killed her on purpose.”

  “It occurred to me that if she was willing to shoot Maloof, as she had just done, eventually she would shoot me. Or you. Also, that was my job.”

  “Getting rid of her.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not an easy job, Philip.”

  “No.”

  “Is that why you went away?”

  “Part of the why.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “To the woods. Rocky Mountains. Pretty complete wilderness. I know some people from my time in the army who have a cabin there.”

  “And?”

  “Eventually I called Arthur and said if he didn’t offer me a partnership I’d kill him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “If I didn’t accept he’d have me arrested.”

  Cassandra waited for him to go on.

  “I said I needed to think about it.”

  “And?”

  “I couldn’t think about anything but you.”

  “Likewise.”

  Time to go home, sir.

  They walked in silence for a few minutes.

  “What I need to confess,” said Philip, “is that it was not hard, killing Mrs. Baxter, in the end. I made it hard, as I have always made things hard. I refused to see what she was. I pretended to love her. And I almost managed to die with her.”

  “Yes, I could see all that.”

  “Sorry to be so slow,” said Philip.

  “Don’t let it happen again,” said Cassandra.

  It occurred to Philip, as they got to the top of the hill, that the king would be watching them. So, to leave no doubt where things stood, he took Cassandra in his arms and kissed her. She kissed back. Then they got in the car and drove away. Allahu akbar.