All civilization seemed to be like that. Even his father, who was prepared to observe the rules and respected them, had never thought it would prove this confining. With each new rebuff, each new disappointment he seemed to shrink more and more within himself. His betrayal by Ramirez had been only the beginning.
There were other incidents, far more subtle and destructive. Promises made to support Corteguay in its quest for independence from British and American political and financial domination. There were lines Dax had never seen before in his father’s face. There was a hesitancy, an uncertainness in his manner that marked the beginnings of old age. These last three years of failure had taken their toll.
Dax felt all these things, and at times he wanted to cry out to his father that this life was not for them, that they ought to return home to the fields and the mountains, to a world they understood. But the impulse remained bottled up inside him. He knew his father would not listen, could not. The determination to accomplish his mission, the hope that he might succeed still burned deep within him.
There was a soft knock at the door behind him. He turned. “Come in.”
The door opened and the Baron de Coyne entered. They had never met before. “I’m Robert’s father. You must be Dax.”
“I am, sir.”
“Where is Robert?”
“He should be back shortly, sir.”
“May I sit down?” Without waiting for an answer, the baron dropped into an easy chair. He glanced briefly around the room. “Things haven’t changed much since I was here.”
“I suppose not.”
The baron glanced over at him suddenly. “I suppose things rarely do change no matter how much we want them to.”
“I don’t know, sir.” Dax wasn’t quite sure of the baron’s meaning. “I guess it depends on the thing we want changed.”
The baron nodded. “Robert mentioned that you might be spending the summer with us.”
“I’m afraid not sir. But I’m very grateful to have been asked.”
“Why can’t you come?”
Dax felt the lameness of his answer. “I’m training some Corteguayan ponies for polo.”
The baron nodded solemnly. “Very commendable. I shall be most interested in what results you achieve. If you are at all successful it could prove of value to your country. It will show France that Corteguay can do other things besides grow coffee and bananas.”
Dax stared at him. These were almost the exact words his father had used. He felt his spirits begin to lift. If a man like Robert’s father felt this, perhaps things were not so bad after all. Perhaps there was still hope for his father’s mission.
6
Sylvie began to pick up the dishes, and Dax got up from the table. A moment later he went outside. Arnouil and Fat Cat leaned back in their chairs. Fat Cat began to roll a cigarette.
Arnouil was silent for a moment, then put the stub of a small cigar in his mouth. He didn’t speak until after Fat Cat had lighted his cigarette. “The boy is alone too much. He never smiles.”
The smoke drifted across Fat Cat’s face. He didn’t answer.
“He should not have stayed here and worked all summer,” the coach continued. “He should have gone with his friends.”
Fat Cat shrugged. “Are not the ponies shaping up?”
“More than shaping up. They were born for this game; they will revolutionize it. But surely his father must see that a boy should have fun.”
Fat Cat took the cigarette from his lips and looked at it. It wasn’t too bad for French tobacco. A trifle sweet perhaps, but not bad. “Dax is not like other boys,” he said carefully. “Someday he will be a leader in our country. Perhaps he will even become el presidente.”
“Even Napoleon was a boy once,” the coach replied. “I’m sure he did not allow his destiny to rob him of his youth.”
“Napoleon became a soldier by choice. He had not been a warrior since the age of six.”
“And Dax has?”
Fat Cat looked at the coach. He nodded silently. “When Dax was not yet seven el Presidente himself held the gun as Dax pulled the trigger that executed the murderers of his mother and sister.”
The coach was silent for a moment. “No wonder then the boy never smiles.”
***
The night was quiet and the air cool with the first breeze from the west as Dax walked down to the stable. The horses whinnied when they heard him coming, and he took the sugar he always kept in his pocket and gave them each a lump. Then he went into their stalls and stroked their necks gently. They whinnied again, a soft lonesome sound.
“We’re all homesick,” he whispered. They didn’t like the confinement of the stable. They missed the open corral.
“Dax?” Sylvie’s voice came from the stable door.
“I’m in here with the horses.”
“What are you doing?” she asked curiously, walking over to him.
He looked out at her over the bars of the stall. “I thought I’d come down and keep them company for a while. They get lonesome so far from home.”
She leaned against the bars. “Do you get lonesome too, Dax?”
He stared at her. She was the first person who ever had asked that question. He hesitated. “Sometimes.”
“Do you have a girl back home?”
He thought for a moment of Amparo, whom he had not seen in three years. He wondered what she was like now. Then he shook his head. “No, not really. Once when I was nine a girl decided to marry me. But she outgrew it. She was only seven herself and very fickle.”
“I have a boyfriend,” she said, “but he is in the navy. He has been away for six months, and it will be another six before he returns.”
He looked at her. It was the first time he had thought of her as a girl. Until now she was just someone around the stables, riding the horses and fooling around like anyone else. Except for her long hair there had seemed to be nothing feminine about her, no roundness visible in the man’s shirt with the rolled-up sleeves or tight dungarees. Suddenly he noticed the female softness of her.
“I’m sorry,” he said, without really knowing why he was, except that for the moment she seemed as alone as the horses or himself.
The horses whinnied again. He held out some lumps of sugar to her. “They want you to feed them.”
She took the sugar and crawled between the bars. The horses nuzzled against her, each greedy for his ration. She laughed as one of them pushed her with his nose and she stumbled back against Dax. Involuntarily his arms went around her.
For a moment she stared up into his face, her eyes on his, then abruptly he let her go. There was a hard, tight, almost painful knot in his stomach. His voice sounded harsh even to himself. “I guess they’ve had enough.”
“Yes.” She seemed to be waiting.
He felt the tightening in his groin, the pounding at his temples. He turned and started through the bars. Her voice brought him back.
“Dax!”
He looked at her, one foot still half through the bars. “I’m lonely too.”
He still did not move. She came toward him and laid her hand lightly on the hardness at his groin. With an almost frenzied moan of pain he pulled her toward him and all the tensions of his youth and loneliness burst into a shattering crescendo of flame.
Later he lay quietly in his room listening to the soft sounds of Fat Cat’s breathing in the other bed. The pain inside him was dissolved now. Suddenly Fat Cat’s voice came out of the darkness. “Did you fuck her?”
He was so surprised that he did not even try to evade the question. “How did you know?”
“We could tell.”
“You mean her father—”
Fat Cat laughed. “Of course. Do you think he is blind?”
Dax thought for a moment. “Was he angry?”
Fat Cat chuckled. “Why should he be? Her fiancé has been away for almost a year. He is aware that a filly in season needs servicing. Besides, she’s old enough.”
&nbs
p; “Old enough? She must be about my age.”
“She’s twenty-two. Her father told me so himself.”
Twenty-two, Dax thought, almost seven years older. No wonder she had made the first move. She must have thought him a stupid boy to wait this long. He felt the tightness begin again at his loins as he remembered how they had lain together. Abruptly he got out of bed.
“Where are you going?”
He turned in the open doorway. Suddenly he laughed. This was a new escape, a new kind of freedom. He should have discovered this long before. “Wasn’t it you who told me that once wasn’t ever enough?”
7
Robert came into the room just in time to hear his father say, “What do you need a swimming pool for? You have the whole Mediterranean.”
His sister Caroline pouted. And when she twisted her pretty little face into a pout everyone, including the baron, was affected. “It’s so gauche.” Her lower lip was quivering tremulously. “Everyone goes to the beach.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Papa!” Caroline sounded on the verge of tears.
The baron looked at her, then at his son. Robert smiled. He knew better than to take sides. His little sister had a way all her own.
“All right, all right,” his father said finally. “You will have your swimming pool.”
Caroline burst into a smile, kissed her father, and ran gaily from the room, almost knocking over the butler, who was on his way in. “Monsieur Christopoulos to see you, sir.”
“Excuse me, Father. I didn’t realize you were busy.”
The baron smiled. “No, Robert, don’t go. I shan’t be long.”
Robert settled himself into a chair in a corner across the library from his father’s desk. He watched the visitor settle himself. The man’s name had sounded vaguely familiar but he wasn’t much interested. He picked up a magazine and began leafing through it idly when something his father said caught his attention.
“Have you considered Corteguay?”
Robert looked up.
“Registering your ships there would be of more value than Panamanian registry.”
“I can’t see how,” the visitor answered in a thick Greek accent.
Robert worried his memory until the name came suddenly clear. Christopoulos. Of course; the gambler who along with Zographos and Andre controlled the syndicate that ran the tout va at all the casinos from Monte Carlo to Biarritz. He wondered what a gambler had to do with ships.
“In the event of war,” his father said, “Panama would be forced to declare herself on the side of the United States. Corteguay has no such ties. Not to Britain, not to the States, not to anyone. She alone of all the South American countries could maintain neutrality. She would run no danger of the loss of outside aid or financial support. These have already been denied her.”
“But in case of war the United States surely would make overtures to Corteguay. How can one be sure that such blandishments would be resisted?”
The baron smiled. “A clearly neutral fleet of ships based in the Americas, with the right to sail the seas free from attack by either side, would be more than worth its tonnage in gold. The beginning should be made now to ensure that neutrality.”
The Greek nodded thoughtfully. “It will be most expensive.” He looked down at his carefully manicured nails. “It is not easy to support an entire country.”
“True,” the baron replied quietly, “but that is exactly what must be done.” He got to his feet. The meeting was over. “My participation in such a project must be contingent on that.”
Christopoulos rose also. “I will inform my associates. Thank you for these moments of your valuable time.”
The baron smiled. “Not at all. It was my pleasure to sit across a table from you without a deck of cards between us.”
The Greek smiled also. “I have the feeling that without the cards I am rather a child in your hands.”
The baron laughed aloud. Christopoulos. The greatest tailleur in all the world was seldom given to flattery. “I shall be at the casino tonight to give you a chance to recover your confidence.”
“A bien tot.” Christopoulos shook hands with the baron and left.
The door closed behind him and the baron looked over at his son. Robert got to his feet. “Do you really think there will be a war?”
The baron’s face tightened imperceptibly. “I’m afraid so, though not right away. Five or six years, perhaps. But it must come. Germany is burning for revenge, and Hitler can only survive if he offers it to them.”
“But surely it can be stopped. If you see it this far in advance—”
The baron interrupted. “Not everyone agrees with me.” He looked at his son. “Why do you think you’ve been enrolled at Harvard, and your sister at Vassar?”
Robert did not answer.
“How is your polo-playing friend?”
“Dax?”
The baron nodded. “According to the papers his playing has swept the Continent this year.”
“Dax is fine.” Robert looked at his father. “Did you know he had been invited to play for France in the international matches?”
“Yes, but only as an alternate. He still is rather young, you know.”
“He’s seventeen. They’re just using his age as an excuse. They’re afraid of him.”
“Perhaps,” his father admitted. “They haven’t nicknamed him ‘Le Sauvage’ without reason. Costa is still in the hospital since your friend deliberately drove his horse into his to prevent his scoring.”
“Dax plays to win. He says there is no other reason for the game,” Robert said defensively.
“There is such a thing as gentlemanly sport.”
“Not for Dax. The polo field for him is like the jungles of his homeland. He says to lose there is to die. Did you know his father is the consul from Corteguay?”
“I had heard it. What is he like?”
“Very different from Dax, gentle and much darker. He has only one arm. Dax says the other was blown off by a bomb during an attempt on their president’s life.”
“Someday we’ll have to invite them both down,” the baron said casually. “I’d like to learn more about their country.”
***
Madame Blanchette herself opened the door. “Monsieur Christopoulos is expecting you.”
Marcel nodded. This merely confirmed what he had already guessed, that the syndicate was mixed up in more than gambling houses in France. He followed her through the small foyer into a small salon. The slim dark tailleur rose to his feet. “Monsieur Campion, thank you for coming. Please, sit down.”
He did not offer to shake hands, nor did Marcel press it. Marcel knew his place. He slipped into an easy chair, curious why the gambler had summoned him. He did not have long to wait.
“We understand that gambling in Florida is about to be abolished. We also have interests in Cuba and Panama but we were thinking, perhaps, of going into Corteguay. Under the right conditions, of course.”
Marcel nodded. He didn’t speak. On the surface it sounded legitimate but actually it didn’t make much sense. Corteguay was too far from the States to attract tourists. Cuba, just ninety miles off the coast of Florida, was all they really needed. But if that was what Christopoulos wished him to believe he would go along with it.
As if sensing this weakness, the other continued. “We realize, of course, that the United States and Corteguay are not on the best of relationships. But we are thinking of the future. Time has a way of altering circumstances. Ten years from now it could be another story.”
“True,” Marcel admitted.
“We have to take a long-term view in our business. Do you think that perhaps the Corteguayan government might be receptive?”
Marcel hesitated. “It is difficult to say.”
“The country is poor. Surely they would welcome the opportunity of sharing in the benefits we could provide?”
Marcel allowed himself a slight smile. “That is the cr
ux of the matter. Corteguay needs assistance now, not promises in the future.”
“Perhaps certain officials could be influential,” the gambler suggested. “I remember once having a discussion with the former consul, Ramirez. He seemed most interested.”
Marcel knew very well that Ramirez had accepted a hundred thousand francs from the syndicate on just such an assumption. Now he was convinced that this was all Christopoulos was interested in. There was no other reason for this meeting.
“Monsieur Xenos is not at all like the former consul.”
“Surely he would appreciate financial assistance. I understand he is still paying off certain large debts.”
Again Marcel nodded. “True. But Monsieur Xenos is that rarest of beings, an honest man, an idealist. The very thought of self-gain from representing his country would be repugnant to him.” He was silent for a moment. “Besides, he would be against any project which siphoned off even a fraction of the income of his impoverished countrymen.”
“We might forbid his countrymen entry as we do in some areas.”
“Then the benefits from your project would seem extremely dubious,” Marcel replied. “The consul would be well aware that there is no other possible source of return for your tables.”
The tailleur fell silent. After a moment he asked, “What sort of proposition do you think might interest the consul?”
The answers came readily. “Industry. Trade. Investment. Anything that would help Corteguay export its crops. Their economy is geared to their agriculture.”
“Might a shipping line prove of interest to them?”
Marcel nodded. “Very much so. Low-rate transportation for their exports would have great appeal.”
“I have a nephew in Macao,” the gambler continued. “He operates the casinos there. However, he also owns a shipping line, four freighters of Japanese origin. They are too often idle to suit him, and he has been looking for new markets. Perhaps I could interest him in the idea.”
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