Lemon in the Basket

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Somewhat. Somewhat,” said Jaylia restlessly.

  Tamsen said intuitively, “I think you’re homesick for Alalaf.”

  “How did you know?” said Jaylia. “This is so lovely, so comfortable, so free, and so safe. And here I am, beginning to feel as restless as a—as a snake!”

  Tamsen laughed. “This is all you say. It just doesn’t happen to be your life-style.”

  “No.” Jaylia was glowing with the pleasure of having been understood. “Saiph is restless, too. Locked up in those four walls. We are going to bring him here, very soon. That should be helpful.”

  “Here?” Tamsen felt alarm. “But is this safe enough?”

  “Why, it should be easier. After all, this is not a public building. Besides, they can’t allow him the solarium. Here, he can have the sun. Ah, but you must keep on coming, Tamsen, or he won’t like it at all. I warn you, he is capable of assuming that you belong to him.”

  “He may be right,” said Tamsen solemnly. “I am going to have a fit of noble proportions when he goes away home.”

  Jaylia moved her head slightly, in sympathy, but said nothing.

  “I’d better go home, now.” Tamsen rose, and the Princess rose, draped herself in a towel, and led her through the house, chatting all the way. Tamsen simply could not help liking this girl. The Princess, towel-clad, stood on the front portico to wave her off, as if they had been old chums.

  Maggie’s car was coming in. “Oh, Tamsen,” said Maggie, driver-to-driver, as they paused on opposite paths, “I’ve been shopping all afternoon with Lurlene. You’re not leaving?”

  “I must feed a husband. I’ve had a lovely time with Jaylia.”

  “Oh, good, then,” Maggie approved. “Hasta la vista.”

  Tamsen drove on, feeling humble and happy. Maggie was doing the healing things, of course. Tamsen really need not shoulder the whole world, at her age.

  The truth was, Duncan was not for Jaylia, and Jaylia was not for Duncan, and they knew it very well. And Tamsen knew it, too.

  12

  There had been a cooling off, or at least a scarcity of news, in Alalaf. Affairs there had either stabilized or were straining in an impasse. Reports that nothing was known to have changed faded to small inside paragraphs, if any. And the Little Prince, being out of danger, was no fun anymore, either.

  When they moved Saiph, on the following Thursday, quietly by ambulance and rather late at night—the two guards riding with him, as hidden as he, and no sirens wailing—there was nobody lurking about whose business it was to notice anything odd.

  Saiph was delighted with his new quarters. He sat up in the four-poster in the guest room over the east wing and poured out questions about the customs of the natives, as typified in an authentic native dwelling. Jaylia and her maid continued to inhabit the west wing. Inga had a bed in the spacious dressing room, off Saiph’s room, built back-to-back with the Judge’s similar arrangement. Maggie solved the problem of the two guards by charming those lately much relaxed young men into agreeing with her. One of them was stationed under Saiph’s window and balcony. The other was at the bottom of the back stairs. If and when they wished to sleep, there were beds for them over the garage.

  After all, Secret Service men were not only on the front door, but all around the perimeter of the property.

  So the establishment settled down to be a fortress in which to entertain and enjoy their convalescing guest. Only Tylers came in and out: the Doctor, often; Phillida, from time to time; Duncan, only now and then. Tamsen made the long drive every day.

  She had set aside her worries about Rufus. She had no time for them, anyway. Saiph was frisky as a squirrel. Soon, soon, he would be going home. There had been no softening assurances that Tamsen must, of course, go there to visit him. No one had been cruel enough to pretend that this would ever happen.

  “I have got to have a baby!” she concluded. “A boy. A girl. Two of each. Lots of babies!”

  Duncan said he agreed, but whoa … one step at a time, did she mind? After all, a poor schoolteacher, he. They mustn’t forget that every darned one of those babies would, one day, need a college education. They should figure for future financial breathing spaces. He was only half kidding, and she knew it. He and I, Tamsen thought, have the same life-style, by gosh!

  When somebody made the discovery, three days later, that the boy was no longer in the hospital, there was a bit of a flurry. Boy Prince spirited away. The Judge shut this up firmly by stating the truth to the press at once. The house endured a brief siege, and then this flurry died away.

  Lurlene saw it in the paper. “You see this, Rufus?”

  Rufus had seen it.

  “Yah, we get to read it in the paper,” she grumbled. “I guess little old Tamsen gets in.”

  “I could get in,” he muttered.

  “That’s right,” said Lurlene bitterly. “We are her children. We’re welcome, and always will be. Nyah! Nyah! Nyah!”

  Shopping with Maggie the other day had practically given Lurlene the jitters. While Maggie had bought (with the back of her hand, like) three different costumes for herself, very sure of which would suit, Lurlene had finally bought one suit for fall. And when she got it home it didn’t do a thing for her. Lurlene felt she had been brainwashed, or something. So O.K., it was real nice of Maggie. So O.K. So what?

  She got up and went into another room. Rufus had a new toy. He didn’t know she knew about it. She didn’t want to know about it officially. She was thinking now—and nobody could say she didn’t try to be understanding and all—that Rufus might feel like playing with it this minute.

  Sometimes she didn’t want to stay in the room with him, these days.

  Well, she felt sorry for him. God knows, she felt sorry. You could say one thing, he wasn’t any chaser. He was hers alone. But honestly, I mean, how sorry can you feel? she thought. Rufus could be damned stubborn, and that wasn’t her fault. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to let her baby him, or anything. Or get out of here, for instance, and go someplace else where his folks couldn’t bug him, if that was what was bugging him. Well, O.K. God knows she had tried. She would have liked to be sure how much insurance he was carrying (she forgot) but she was too superstitious to ask anybody, right out. Besides, it might not look so good—some day.

  She stood at her sink and she thought, Tragedy! Here we got tragedy! And his own folks paying more attention to some kid, that’s nothing but a foreigner.

  It didn’t occur to her that she might have said something to Maggie about what strange thoughts she kept thinking these days. They didn’t tell her one damn thing anymore, did they? Well, could be they’d feel sorry for that before too long.

  Rufus’ new toy was a gun. Lurlene didn’t know exactly what he was figuring to do with it.

  On Monday burst the headline. AL ASAD TO L. A.

  Then followed the speculations. The King is coming! What does this mean? Is he flying into voluntary exile? Is he, in effect, abdicating? Will the mysterious Dhanab appear and take over? Or has the military given notice? What, then, of the Prince?

  Or, must a suspicious old ignoramus see with his own eyes the fact of his grandson’s good health and kind treatment in the U. S. A.? Must he carry back his eyewitness account to stop the flow of the deep-running rumors still current underground? (The boy is dead. The boy is lost. The boy will never return.) Did the King himself half believe these legends?

  The King was deep. The King was narrow. The King was driven. The King was driving. The King had a political ax to grind. The boy was an excuse. The King was coming.

  The visit was a Good Thing, because Al Asad must succumb, at once, to the obvious superiority of the American way. The Russians wouldn’t like it if he did. The Egyptians wouldn’t like it, either. The Americans wouldn’t like it, if he didn’t. What were the Communists going to think?

  The King was presumptuous. Twenty-eight American professors were not out of his jail yet. There would be a strain put upon those
responsible for his safety. Everybody knows that L. A. is full of fanatics. The King must have a strong reason for putting his royal foot into such a city. Placards were being printed already, rumor said, for some impassioned pickets.

  Could a Head-of-State be denied entrance? Protocol? Would the White House send a greeter? Courtesy? Yes. No. Maybe. Alalaf was too tiny to matter much. Alalaf was a symbol, of great importance, because it was so tiny.

  Duncan was sputtering away one morning. “Why doesn’t it occur to anybody that an old man just might feel like paying a sick-call on his only grandson? The King has got the money. He can spare the two days. The box-boy at the market can take a little trip, if he’s got the money and can spare the time. Why must deep and devious motives always be suspected and analyzed, and re-analyzed? Why do we keep on trying to figure out what the Communists are going to think, if they were to think that we thought they thought.… This world is getting so damned foxy you can’t draw a simple breath. Whew! Why don’t we figure out what we think, period?”

  Tamsen was laughing at him. “Al Asad is stuck with his own lifestyle,” she told him. “By the way, what do we think?”

  “Damned if I know,” Duncan confessed. “But that old rascal is up to something.”

  Then they both laughed.

  The Judge said, “Maggie, darling, do you know what I think?”

  “No, dear. Not at the moment.”

  “Let me see. His Majesty arrives early in the morning, on Wednesday. He goes, with entourage, to the hotel, I suppose, first. Then we can expect him here to see Saiph.”

  “Yes,” said Maggie. “I agree that this should be top priority.” She was looking mischievously solemn.

  “And he flies off again, or so we understand, on the following noon. Which leaves …”

  “Yes?”

  “Wednesday evening. I think that perhaps we should entertain on Wednesday evening with a small reception. Or a medium-sized reception. A very select group of people.”

  “Oh, do you, William?” she said with wifely respect. He wasn’t fooling her, of course.

  “I think,” the Judge continued, “you ought to ask a dozen or more of the very strongest egos in show business.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, people much too busy at projecting their own images to notice certain other quiet guests, whom I shall invite, if you don’t mind, dear?”

  “The peacocks?” Maggie said. “I’m sure I can produce a dozen or more from the neighboring hills. And incur the undying enmity of some others.”

  “In a good cause.”

  “I’m sure. But will the King like the idea?”

  “We shall ask him,” the Judge said, who privately expected the King to like it very much. “Now, do you suppose it is possible to invite these guests on the contingency that the King will agree? If not, no party?”

  “I should certainly think that to be quite possible.” She was serene. “It won’t matter if there is no party. The invitation will be the prestigious thing.” Multisyllabic words, with equally suitable double meanings, wouldn’t melt in Maggie’s mouth.

  The Judge patted her. He couldn’t help it. “It should be one of those very formal, strutting, all-dressed-up and showing-off parties, where nobody sits down.”

  “Like a pavanne,” mused Maggie. “Of course, William. But the peacocks will tell the newspapers,” she warned him. “It is inherent in their natures.”

  “Yes, I know,” the Judge said. “But there is no way to prevent publicity. The King won’t blink an eye without someone assessing the dire significance.” The Judge chuckled. “We shall not, of course, ask for publicity. In fact, we shall mildly deplore it. From modesty.”

  “Of course,” chimed Maggie.

  “So we shall attract it.”

  “And we shall saw the lady in half, before their very eyes,” said Maggie merrily.

  13

  On Monday morning the house was in a mild frenzy of preparation. Everyone (except the Judge, who was off conferring somewhere) was very busy. Kasim was in the pantry, having volunteered to “lift things down.” Hayyan, although within clear sight of his small master, was helping the gardener with the back lawn. Sam was washing acres of windows. Phillida’s Chloe, who was on loan for the duration, was being taught by Hilde “where things were,” since all refreshment was to be produced from this kitchen, without benefit of catering.

  Maggie and Jaylia were sitting in the lanai, discussing the King’s tastes. He would drink nothing at all, Jaylia warned, and he most probably would not eat, either. But there were certain foods that might be offensive in his very nostrils. And, of course, alcohol …

  “Oh, dear!” Maggie explained that this reception would follow the pattern of a cocktail party, simply because this was the only kind of party the natives really understood. But if it must be a cocktail party, without any alcohol, Maggie anticipated much drunkenness.

  Jaylia was looking amused, but puzzled, when Sam came away from his tasks to announce that the guards had just let Mrs. Rufus Tyler through.

  “Oh, have they?” Maggie went to greet Lurlene.

  Lurlene said at once, apologetically, “Gee, Maggie, I guess you’re awfully, awfully busy.”

  “We are busy,” agreed Maggie, “but not ‘awfully.’ Come on back. I don’t think you have met Jaylia, have you, dear?”

  Lurlene had put on her new fall suit, the one Maggie had helped her choose. She followed Maggie into the lanai and looked around for this princess. There was a young woman sitting there whose golden legs were bare below a pair of white shorts, whose blondish hair was wound in careless profusion around her head. Lurlene found herself being presented, and was compelled to bridle and gawk. She managed to recover and produce her politeness, hold out her hand, and say, “Well, I’m certainly glad to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” The hand in her own was cool, and only briefly there.

  “You must excuse my costume,” said Jaylia, “but Aunt Maggie is an absolute slavedriver. It’s work, work, work, all the time, around here.”

  Lurlene, still inclined to gawk, could not find one word in her mouth to say to this. She blinked and looked away, out to the terraces. “Oh,” she craned her neck. “Is that the Little Prince?”

  They had set Saiph out in the sun to toast. Oiled and martyred, he was lying on his back, his eyes closed. Inga sat beside him, reading aloud.

  “Would you like to come and meet my little boy?” Jaylia said. She slid the screen without waiting for an answer. Lurlene followed her.

  “Saiph, here is another Mrs. Tyler.”

  Saiph dragged up lazy lids.

  “Say, I’m certainly glad to meet you,” blurted Lurlene. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  This was a remark that suggested no reply. Saiph made none. He smiled, sleepily. Inga’s voice had politely stopped. Lurlene felt lost. She felt as if she were on some kind of spot. She turned her head, and there stood this foreign-looking fellow, leaning on a bamboo rake, his brilliant eyes just practically glaring at her. Much startled, she turned, saying, “Listen, I don’t want to bother anybody, honestly. You go ahead, whatever you were doing.” She went blundering back into the house.

  Maggie, who was wearing a comfortable-looking pale cotton frock, sat at a card table with lists before her and a pencil touching her lips. She looked up and smiled. “Isn’t he a charming little fellow?”

  “He sure is,” gushed Lurlene, thinking to herself, What’s so charming? Just a skinny little kid who thinks he’s so great he don’t even have to say “hello” to common people.

  Maggie said, “That does look well on you, Lurlene.”

  So? She had noticed what Lurlene had on. (Finally, thought Lurlene, soured by her own awkwardness.) “Well, that’s one reason …” she began craftily.

  “Sit down, dear.”

  Lurlene sat down and the dumb skirt hiked up. She tugged at it. So she had a little extra on her hips. So what? “I just happened to be coming over this way,” she said ne
rvously, “so I thought, Why don’t I go and ask Maggie? I mean, what are we supposed to wear? I mean, to the reception for this king? I mean, I thought to myself, why don’t I ask Maggie?”

  Jaylia’s lazy voice said behind her, “Black tie, isn’t it, Maggie?”

  Lurlene jumped. She didn’t know whether she ought to stand up when a princess came in or not. This character didn’t look anything like a princess to Lurlene. But Jaylia slid into another chair at the card table, and wound those bare legs around each other.

  “Isn’t it ridiculous?” sighed Maggie. “But William says some of the men will be more comfortable.” (Less conspicuous on the streets, had been the Judge’s thought.) “And if, as a free people, we chose to array ourselves improperly, this must be taken as symbolic of our independence. So, there being no dinner, the men will wear dinner jackets. Tell Rufus, dear.” She smiled at Lurlene. “Let me see, the ladies? Hm, I should think a long dress. Not too dec … not too low at the top, mind. Not too voluminous, either. Narrow, don’t you think? Something … oh … rather simple. Dark perhaps? After all, if summer comes, can fall be far behind?”

  Lurlene was swallowing hard. It was O.K. They were invited.

  “I’m not wearing dark, Maggie,” Jaylia said, looking mischievous.

  “You,” said Maggie severely, “are living out of eleven suitcases and will, I’m sure, be forgiven. I wonder, Lurlene … Had you thought of consulting Phillida? She’s good at clothes.”

  “Well, I … no …” (Lurlene darn well wasn’t going to consult Phillida, the big old ex-dress designer.) “I thought I’d rather ask you, Maggie.” Lurlene fawned. She couldn’t help it. She was nervous. “Oh, say, what time? I mean, when are we supposed to come? Wednesday night, right?”

  “We are not quite sure yet,” said Maggie pleasantly. “It will depend on His Majesty’s wishes. And, of course, you realize that if he does not want a reception, there won’t be a reception?”

  “Oh, well, sure.”

  “Why don’t you and Rufus plan to come along a bit ahead of what-ever-the-hour-turns-out-to-be?” said Maggie kindly. “Being family, you can chat with our earlier guests. By the way, Jaylia dear, I keep forgetting to ask you. Will the King speak English?”