The Adventurers

by Harold Robbins

  Dax took out a thin brown cigarette and lit it. “You know,” he said somberly, “the early years here did him no good either. The previous consul had left a mess and my father cleaned it up. He paid all unpaid bills himself, even though it broke him. To this day he doesn’t know that I know that everything went to pay those bills—our home in Curatu, his savings, everything he had. The only thing he did not touch was our hacienda in Bandaya, and that was because he wanted me one day to have it.” He dragged deeply on the cigarette and let the smoke trickle slowly from his nostrils.

  “I never knew that,” Robert said.

  Dax grinned wryly. “If that scholarship at De Roque had not turned up like a miracle, I’d have attended public schools. As it was, my father deprived himself of things he needed so I would be dressed properly and there would be gasoline enough in the car so Fat Cat could drive me home for the weekends.”

  Robert de Coyne looked at Dax. Strange that none of them at the school had ever guessed it. There were some poverty-stricken ex-royalty there but everyone knew who they were. They were there because they brought social standing to the school. But Dax was South American and everyone assumed that South Americans were rich. They owned tin mines and oil wells and cattle ranches. They were never poor.

  Suddenly, many of the things that had happened during those early school years became clear to him. For example, the incident toward the end of that first week at school. Thursday afternoon, between the last class and dinner. Free time. In back of the gymnasium. They had stood in a small semicircle around one of the new boys.

  His dark eyes had looked at them impassively. “Why do I have to fight one of you?”

  Sergei Nikovitch looked around with an expression of disgust. “Because,” he explained patiently, “next week we have to draw lots to see whose room you will share for the remainder of the school term. If you do not fight, how are we to know whether to accept you or reject you?”

  “Do I also have the same right?”

  “Only if you win. Then you can choose your roommate.”

  The new boy had thought for a moment, then nodded. “It seems stupid to me but I will fight.”

  “Good,” Sergei said. “We shall be fair about it. You can decide which one of us to fight, that way you will not have to face someone bigger. But you are not allowed to choose anyone smaller.”

  “I choose you.”

  Sergei had a surprised look on his face. “But I am a head taller than you. It would not be fair.”

  “That is why I chose you.”

  Sergei shrugged hopelessly. He began to take off his jacket. He looked around at the others as Robert de Coyne had gone up to the new boy.

  “Change your mind,” he had said earnestly. “Fight me instead. I’m your size. Sergei is the biggest and best fighter in the class.”

  The new boy smiled at him. “Thank you. But I have already chosen. This business is stupid enough as it is. Why make it worse?”

  Robert had looked at him in surprise. That was the way he had always felt, but this was the first time he had ever heard anyone dare to say it. Still, it was the custom. He felt an instinctive liking for the new boy. “Whether you win or lose I shall consider myself fortunate if I draw you for a roommate.”

  The new boy looked at him with sudden shyness. “Thank you.”

  “Are you ready?” Sergei called.

  The boy slipped out of his jacket and nodded.

  “You have your choice again,” Sergei said. “La boxe, la savate, or free-for-all.”

  “Free-for-all,” the other said, only because he wasn’t quite sure what the other two meant.

  “Bien. It is over when one of us gives up.”

  Actually it was over before that. It was also the finish of that custom at De Roqueville School. It all happened so quickly that it ended while the boys were still waiting for something to happen.

  Sergei had reached out his arms in the conventional wrestler’s position and begun to circle the new boy, who turned with him, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Then Sergei grabbed for him, and the other’s movements became a blur of speed. The flat of his hand struck aside Sergei’s outstretched arm and as that arm fell limply to his side, the new boy struck again. He seemed to half-spin, which gave his flattened hand additional power as it lashed into Sergei’s ribs. There was barely time to see the expression of surprise on Sergei’s face as he doubled over, then the other circled behind him and hit him at the base of his skull with the knuckles of his closed fist. Sergei crumpled to the ground.

  The new boy stood over him, then turned to them. They stared back unbelieving. This one wasn’t even breathing heavily. They watched him go back and pick up his jacket from where he had folded it neatly on the ground. He started to walk away, then turned.

  “I choose you for a roommate,” he said to Robert. Then he glanced at Sergei, still lying silently on the ground. “You’d better get help for him. His arm is broken and so are two of his ribs. But he’ll be all right. I didn’t kill him.”

  ***

  The doorman at the Royale Palace was an imposing sight. A tall man, six foot seven in his boots, his high Cossack hat made him seem even taller, and the pink and blue uniform with the golden epaulets and braid across the chest gave him the appearance of a general out of a Franz Lehár operetta.

  And he ran his post at the hotel entrance like a general. The luggage racks were neatly folded away in a hidden corner and woe betide any bellhop who neglected to replace them in that exact manner. His stentorian heavily accented voice had been known to summon a taxi from as far away as three blocks.

  It was said about him that at one time he had actually been a colonel in the Cossacks, though this was never proved. All that was known was that he had been a count, a distant cousin of the Romanovs, and one wintry day in 1920 he had appeared full blown in the hotel doorway. He had been there ever since. Count Ivan Nikovitch was not a man to invite confidences or even discussions of a personal nature. The sight of the saber scar, half hidden in his cheek by the thick, carefully trimmed black beard, was quite enough to discourage that.

  Just now he sat awkwardly in a chair much too small for him and studied his son, propped up in the bed. There was no anger in him, not even sympathy for his son, only annoyance. “You were stupid,” he said flatly. “One never fights an opponent who does not know the rules. One can get killed that way. Rules are made for your own protection as well as the enemy’s. That’s why we lost to the Bolsheviki. They didn’t know the rules either.”

  Sergei was embarrassed. That hurt even more than the pain. The ease and speed with which he had been beaten, and by a boy little more than half his size. “I didn’t know that he didn’t know the rules.”

  “All the more reason you should have explained them to him,” his father replied. “That alone would have so confused him he would have been easy for you.”

  Sergei thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think he would have ignored them.”

  A sound of voices came through the open window. The boys were coming out of the classrooms. Count Nikovitch rose from his chair and went over to look down at them.

  “I would like to see this boy,” he said curiously. “Might he be among them?”

  Sergei turned his head so that he could see through the window. “There, the dark boy walking alone.”

  The count watched Dax cross the field to the next building without even a curious glance at the other boys. When he disappeared into the building Count Nikovitch turned back to his son.

  He nodded his head. “I think you are right. That one will always make his own rules. He is not afraid to walk alone.”

  ***

  The next year Dax and Robert had moved to the main dormitory, where they would remain, moving only from the top floor down to the first, year by year, until their time at De Roqueville would be over. Now they were “older” boys, as compared with the younger boys, who lived in another building. That was how they had be
en joined by Sergei. The older boys were lodged three in a room.

  It was a policy of the school based on a belief that three was a more productive number than either two or four. Four in a room generally wound up two against two, and two in a room was not economical. Dax and Robert had barely begun to unpack their things when a knock had come at the door. Robert went over and opened it. Sergei stood there, his valise in hand.

  It was hard to tell which of them was more surprised. Sergei checked the room slip he still held in his free hand, then the number on the door. “This is the room, all right.”

  He put his valise down in the center of the room. They stood silently watching him. “I didn’t ask for it, you know,” he said. “My own roommate dropped out and le préfet assigned me here.”

  They still didn’t speak. Since the fight Sergei and Dax had always managed carefully to avoid one another.

  Suddenly Sergei smiled. There was warm vitality in that grin. “I’m glad we don’t have to fight for this one,” he said in mock relief. “I don’t know whether my bones could take it.”

  Robert and Dax glanced at each other; the beginnings of an answering smile came to their lips.

  “How are you in literature?” Robert asked.

  Sergei shook his head. “Not good at all.”

  “Math, physics, chemistry?”

  A woeful expression crossed Sergei’s face as he shook his head to each in turn.

  “What are you good at then?” Robert asked. “Those are the subjects we need most help in.”

  “I don’t know,” Sergei confessed. “They’re my weak ones too.”

  “History, geography, government?” Dax asked.

  “I’m not very good at those either.”

  Dax glanced at Robert, a secret smile in his eyes. “We need a roommate who can teach us something. You don’t seem to be of much use.”

  “No, I’m not,” Sergei answered sadly.

  “Isn’t there anything you can teach us?”

  Sergei thought for a moment, then his face brightened. “I know seventeen different ways to masturbate.”

  As one, the other two put their hands over their heads and salaamed to him. “Welcome to the club!”

  5

  The black Citroën limousine pulled to a stop at the edge of the polo field and Jaime Xenos got out. He looked across the field at the tangle of riders and horses and squinted his eyes. “Which one is Dax?”

  “He’s with the ones wearing the red and white caps,” Fat Cat said. “See, there he is.”

  A horse broke from the tangle and came racing down the side of the field. The slender boy swinging the mallet nursed the ball along the ground in tight careful strokes, never allowing it to escape from his control.

  An opposing rider came diagonally across the field, and Dax turned his mount swiftly and hit the ball across the field to a teammate. He in turn passed the ball far down the field, where Dax stroked the ball between the goal posts without one member of the opposing team near him. He wheeled his horse and rejoined his team in the center of the field.

  “Monsieur Xenos?”

  The consul turned. The voice belonged to a thin wizened man who smelled of horses. “Oui?”

  “I am the polo coach, Fernande Arnouil. I am honored to meet you.”

  Jaime Xenos nodded. “My pleasure.”

  “I’m glad you could come, your excellency. You have been watching your son?”

  “For just this moment. I must confess I do not know the game.”

  “It is understandable,” the coach replied apologetically. “It is unfortunate but in the past few years the game has lost in popularity.” He gestured toward the car. “And I believe the success of that little vehicle to be the major contributor to the decline.”

  Xenos nodded politely.

  “Young gentlemen no longer learn to ride. They are more interested in learning to drive. That is why when such a young gentleman as your son comes along it is important that his talent be developed.”

  “He is good then?”

  Arnouil nodded. “He is like a throwback to the old days. Your son was born to this game. It is as if he came into the world with his feet already in the stirrups.”

  “I am proud.” Dax’s father looked across the field. Another play was developing and in the forefront was Dax, guiding his horse with his knees as he fought to retain the ball.

  “He realizes he can’t keep it,” the coach explained. “Observe how he passes the ball to his teammate on the opposite side.”

  Dax swung low off the saddle and hit the ball back through the legs of his own horse. The teammate picked it up quickly and raced off the field as Dax decoyed part of the opposing team along with him.

  “Beautiful!” The coach turned back to Dax’s father. “You are wondering why I asked you to come?”

  The consul nodded.

  “Next year your son will be sixteen. He will be eligible to play in regular interschool competition.”

  “Bien.”

  “But in order to be eligible,” the coach continued, “he must have his own horses. It is a strict rule.”

  The consul nodded. “And if he does not?”

  Arnouil shrugged in a typical Gallic fashion. “He cannot play, no matter how well qualified.”

  Jaime Xenos looked across the field. “How many will he need?”

  “At least two,” the coach replied, “though three or even four are preferable. A fresh horse for each chukker.”

  The consul still did not look at the coach. “How much is such a horse?”

  “Thirty to forty thousand francs.”

  “I see,” Xenos replied thoughtfully.

  The coach squinted at him shrewdly. “If it is difficult for you to locate such horses,” he said diplomatically, “I could perhaps find a sponsor with several to spare.”

  Xenos knew what he meant. He forced a smile. “If you think it worthwhile,” he said, “my son shall have his own horses.”

  “I am pleased that you should feel so, your excellency. You will not regret it. Your son will become one of the great players of our time.”

  They shook hands and the consul watched as the bow-legged little man walked down the field. The consul was aware what Fat Cat was thinking. He got back into the car wearily and waited until Fat Cat slipped behind the wheel. “Well, what do you think?”

  Fat Cat shrugged his shoulders. “It is only a game.”

  Dax’s father shook his head. “It is more than that. It is a game only for those who can afford it.”

  “Then that lets us out.”

  “We cannot afford to be out.”

  “We cannot afford to be in,” Fat Cat retorted. “There are many more pressing demands.”

  “In a way Dax could become a symbol of our country. The French can help us.”

  “Then tell el Presidente to send the hundred and sixty thousand francs for the horses.”

  The consul looked at him, then smiled suddenly. “Fat Cat, you’re a genius.”

  Fat Cat didn’t know what he was talking about. He studied the consul in the rear-view mirror.

  “Not the money, horses,” Xenos said. “Those wiry pintos with feet like mountain goats ought to be perfect for this game. I’m sure el Presidente would be happy to send some.”

  ***

  The coach caught Dax as he came out of the locker room after the game. “I just spoke to your father,” he said. “He assures me you will have your own horses next year.”

  “He did?”

  The coach nodded.

  Dax’s eyes swept down the field. “Is he here?”

  “At the end, near the gate.”

  But Dax had already seen the car and was running down the field. His father got out of the car and embraced him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” Dax asked.

  His father smiled. Dax was growing. He was up to his shoulder now. Another year and he would no longer be able to look down at him. “I wasn’t sure that I could.”

 
; “I’m glad you did.” It was the first time his father had ever come to the school.

  “Is there a place we could go for tea?”

  “There is a patisserie in the village.”

  They got into the car. “The coach told me that you said I would have my own horses next year.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are we going to get the money?” Dax asked. “We can’t afford it.”

  The consul smiled. “El Presidente will send us four mountain ponies.”

  Dax looked at him silently.

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  There was such a look of concern on his father’s face that Dax did not have the heart to tell him that good polo ponies required years of training. Instead he reached over and took his father’s hand. “That’s wonderful,” he said, squeezing it tightly.

  ***

  “Don’t be a fool,” Sergei said. “Spend the summer with us at Cannes. Robert’s father has a villa there and a boat.”

  “No. I have to work with the horses if they are going to be any good by fall.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” Sergei said positively. “You’ll never make polo ponies out of those mountain goats.”

  “Coach thinks I’ve got a chance.”

  “I don’t see why your father just doesn’t buy regular ponies. Everybody knows you South Americans are lousy with money.”

  Dax smiled to himself. If Sergei only knew the truth. “It would be a good thing for my country if they turned out well. Perhaps, as my father always says, it would convince Europeans that we can do other things besides grow coffee and bananas.”

  Sergei got to his feet. “I’m going down to the village. There’s a new waitress at the patisserie. Want to come along?”

  Dax shook his head. There were other things he could do with five francs. “No, I think I’ll bone up for the exams.”

  He sat quietly at his desk after Sergei had gone. It was three years now that he had been in France. He felt a restlessness, and got up and went over to the window. He looked down at the rolling lawns and neat gardens.

  A wave of sudden homesickness swept over him. He longed for the wild untouched mountains. Everything here was too neat, too orderly. There was no excitement in discovering a new path, a new way to come down from the mountains. Here there were always set roads to follow.