“What should he do?”
“I advised him to go in quietly. At his age he’ll wind up at a desk job anyway. Then after he’s in, a discharge could be arranged for him. But Marcel won’t. He won’t listen.”
“What will happen then?”
Hadley looked across the desk. “If Marcel keeps on like this he’ll destroy himself. The one thing you can’t beat in this country is public opinion. He’s already identified in the public’s mind as a draft dodger.”
Dax got to his feet. “You must be very busy. I won’t presume on any more of your time.”
Hadley watched him to the door. “Dax?”
Dax turned. “Yes?”
“You’re a strange man, Dax. We’ve spoken much about business, but never once did you mention Caroline.”
Dax shrugged. “What was there to say?”
Hadley met his gaze steadily. “In my own way, you know, I loved her.”
“So did I,” Dax answered quietly. “Also in my own way.”
“She was not for you, and evidently not for me either.”
Dax did not speak.
“Have you seen her or heard from her?”
Dax shook his head. “No; from what I hear she is still living with her father in Paris.”
“I have not seen her either,” Hadley said, a curious note of sadness in his voice. “Is it too late for me to apologize for what I have done?”
Dax looked at him silently for a moment before he answered. “There’s no reason for you to apologize. Perhaps it’s both of us who should apologize to Caroline.”
James Hadley stared at the closed door for a moment, then picked up the telephone on his desk. Perspective, he thought, everything was a matter of perspective. Jeremy’s decision to abandon politics, Marcel’s to fight the draft board. Even Dax’s viewpoint about Caroline.
His secretary’s voice in his ear interrupted his train of thought. “Yes, Mr. Hadley?”
What had he picked up the telephone for? “Oh, yes,” he said aloud, remembering. “Get Joe Kennedy for me.”
***
Sue Ann and Dania were in Dax’s apartment at the consulate when he got in from the airport. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What are you two doing here?”
“We came to take you out to dinner,” Sue Ann said.
“Not me.” Dax crossed the living room to his bedroom door. “I’m staying in tonight and going to bed early. I’m leaving for Japan in the morning.”
Sue Ann grinned. “Then we’ll stay and have dinner with you. You don’t think we’d let you spend your last night before going off to war alone, do you?”
“I have a lot to do. Papers to sign and that sort of thing.”
“You go right ahead,” Sue Ann said quickly. “We’ll just make ourselves comfortable, and I’ll call a caterer to send up a divine dinner.”
Dax stared at her. “Exactly what do you have on your obscene little mind?”
“Obscenities, what else?” Sue Ann’s expression changed swiftly to a look of mock horror. “Do you know what I found out last night?”
“No.”
“Dania is twenty-seven years old. She’s been to bed with more than a dozen men and she’s never once had an orgasm. Isn’t that terrible?”
“It all depends.” Dax looked at Dania. “How does she feel about it?”
Dania met his gaze evenly, her face impassive.
“Well, I think it’s horrible. When I heard about it I knew just what I had to do. Once, just once, she has to have a real man.”
Still looking at Dania, Dax said, “Maybe she’s queer?”
“Not a chance, I’ve been with enough dikes to know.”
Dax turned to Sue Ann, “And where do you expect to be while all this is going on?”
“Right here, honey.” She grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. And I’m not selfish, there’s more than enough for the both of us.”
***
“She’s passed out,” Dax said, rolling over on his side and looking up at Sue Ann.
“So would I if I’d waited twenty-seven years for my first orgasm.” She made a face. “I don’t know what took her so long, though. You were banging her for more than an hour. I came three times just watching. I was beginning to think you’d never get her over the hump.”
She reached her hand down. Her expression changed swiftly and a hunger came into her face. “You’re still hard!”
Suddenly Dax’s private telephone began to ring.
“Now who the hell is that?” Sue Ann asked in an annoyed voice.
Dax reached for the phone. “We’ll see.”
“Who is it?” Sue Ann whispered.
Dax covered the receiver with his hand. “Marcel.” He moved his hand. “Yes?”
“Is Dania there with you?”
“No.”
“She is with you!” Marcel shouted accusingly. “I checked everywhere. She has to be with you. I just heard her whispering.”
A withering look crossed Sue Ann’s face. She took the telephone from Dax’s hand. “Marcel, this is Sue Ann. Don’t be an idiot, and please stop bothering us! We’re in bed.”
Calmly she dropped the telephone back on its cradle. “That ought to hold him,” she said in a satisfied voice. She looked down at the sleeping Dania. “I don’t know what she sees in that greedy little bastard.” She reached for him again. “You’re amazing. Nothing distracts you, does it?”
He shook his head.
She settled back against the pillows. “You know, in a way I’m glad we’re kind of alone. I thought it would be kicky, you know, the three of us together. But after a while I found myself getting jealous.”
“It was your idea,” he said, moving over her.
“Not yet,” she said, her hands on his shoulders, pushing him down. “Eat me a little. You know how I love it when you eat me.”
4
There were perhaps a thousand ways Dax could have died in Korea but not one of them was in battle. The closest he was ever allowed to the front lines was at the officers’ club in Seoul, where once a week they gathered to look at the newsreels about the progress of the war flown in from Tokyo. For fifteen months he sat at a special desk in GHQ, in charge of liaison with the Latin American forces. But there was very little for him to do. There weren’t any Latin American forces.
At first he would report promptly at eight o’clock and spend a full day at his desk doodling on a yellow pad of paper. At five o’clock he would return the yellow pad neatly to the empty drawer of his desk and lock it. Then he would walk over to the officers’ club to have a drink and listen to the latest gossip. At seven he would go to dinner, and by ten he was usually in bed.
Once a week he would present himself to the assistant to the Chief of Staff and inquire whether there was any news about the availability of his troops, and each week the answer would be the same. After a while he stopped coming to his desk every day. Once a week was enough. And if he missed a week now and then, no one seemed to care.
He moved from the officers’ quarters and took a small house out near the officers’ country club. Each morning and afternoon now found him on the golf course. In three months he had brought his game down into the low seventies.
One afternoon after almost six months in the new house, he came home unexpectedly. The sound of voices came to him from behind the house and, curious, he strolled around to the back of the house.
Fat Cat was standing in the center of a group of women, a bored expression on his face. The women were all jabbering at once.
“What’s going on here?”
At the sound of Dax’s voice Fat Cat jumped, and the women immediately fell silent, hiding behind him.
Dax looked at them, then at Fat Cat. “What do they want? What are they doing here?”
Fat Cat’s voice took on the ingratiating tone he always used when he had got himself into something he didn’t want Dax to know about. His round face had the innocent look of a cherub. “Don’t you recognize them, excellency?
”
“No, I don’t, who are they?”
“They are our servants.”
“Our servants?” Dax turned to look at them. They giggled and tried to hide, one behind the other. He turned back to Fat Cat. “All of them?”
“Yes, excellency.”
Dax looked at them again and counted. “But there are eight of them!” It was only a four-room house—his bedroom and Fat Cat’s, a combination living and dining room and a kitchen. “Eight,” he repeated, turning back to Fat Cat. “Where do they all sleep?”
“Here, excellency.” Fat Cat led him around another corner of the house, the women trailing along behind them.
Against a wall of the house there was a kind of lean-to. The roof was thatched, and on the open side there were curtains made of old burlap bags. Dax parted the curtains and peered inside. On the ground were seven neatly made straw pallets. He let the burlap curtain fall and straightened up. “But there are only seven pallets.”
Fat Cat began to look unhappy. “That is all they need.”
Dax stared at him. He knew the answer almost before he had asked the question. “Where does the eighth one sleep?”
Fat Cat didn’t answer. His face turned slightly red with embarrassment.
“Well?” Dax asked, staring at Fat Cat. He had no idea of letting him get off that easily.
“You see, excellency, that was what we were talking about.”
“No, I don’t see.”
“Well”—Fat Cat took a deep breath—“they were arguing about whose turn it was to sleep in the house.”
“With you?” Dax asked coldly.
“Yes, excellency.” Fat Cat hung his head for a moment. “You see, three of them are already pregnant. The others feel I am not being fair if I do not let them have their turn.”
“I think I need a drink,” Dax said. He walked around to the front of the house and went inside. He took off his cap and sank into a chair.
A moment later Fat Cat was at his side. “A nice tall cool gin and tonic, excellency,” he said in a soothing voice. He put the glass on the table next to Dax’s chair and started back quickly toward the kitchen.
Dax’s voice stopped him. “Get rid of them!”
Fat Cat’s voice was injured. “All of them, excellency?”
“All of them!”
“Couldn’t I even keep the two best ones?” Fat Cat wheedled. “It’s not healthy for a man to live alone in this climate.”
“No,” Dax said flatly. “In case you don’t know it, we’re attached to a foreign military force. We could both be court-martialed and shot for what you’ve done. There isn’t anyone who would believe that you could run a harem right under my nose without my knowing about it!”
He picked up his drink and sipped at it. “I can’t even believe it myself.”
It was not until seven months later, after MacArthur had been summoned home, in 1952, that Dax was summoned to the office of the new Chief of Staff. The weather had been freezing along the Inchon Valley and the casualties heavy in the face of the new drive by the North Koreans and the Red Chinese.
The assistant to the new Chief of Staff smiled at him. “At ease, Colonel, I think I have some good news for you for a change.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Commander-in-Chief wishes you to confirm to him that your force, which has been held in reserve, has now received its training in the use and care of the new weapons.”
“I can confirm that, sir. I received a dispatch from my president just last week. Over two thousand of our soldiers have been trained in the new weapons and are ready to be called.”
“Good. I will inform the Commander-in-Chief of your confirmation. He will forward a request to have your troops shipped out at once.”
“With your permission, sir, I would like to send a diplomatic dispatch to my president direct. I wish to alert him of the request.”
“Good, you have it. I was hoping you’d do that, it should speed things up. Your men should be ready to embark the minute the orders arrive.”
But two days later Dax was back with a cablegram from el Presidente. White-faced and silent, he handed it to the aide.
PLEASE INFORM COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF MY DEEP REGRETS. DUE TO EXPIRATION OF ENLISTMENTS LESS THAN FIFTY OFFICERS AND MEN NOW TRAINED IN USE OF NEW STANDARDIZED WEAPONS. IMMEDIATE STEPS BEING TAKEN TO TRAIN NEW ENLISTERS. YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED WHEN QUOTA IS FILLED.
EL PRESIDENTE
The aide looked at Dax. “It looks like someone’s been playing politics with you, Colonel.”
Dax did not answer.
“Do I have your permission to show this to the Commander-in-Chief?”
“Yes, sir. And may I request a favor of the Commander-in-Chief, sir?”
“What is it?”
“I feel my usefulness here is at an end,” Dax said through tight lips. “I request permission to be relieved of my duties.”
The old aide stared at him for a moment. “I suppose that would be best,” he said thoughtfully. “You’ll have your permission in the morning.” He held out his hand. “I’m sorry, Colonel.”
Dax took his hand. “I am too, sir.”
***
It was a war without secrets, and the news was all over Seoul in a matter of hours. Even the North Korean radio announced that the Corteguayan president had refused to send troops to fight in an imperialistic war of aggression.
Dax sat at a table in the officers’ club alone with a half-empty drink. He lit another cigarette and stared moodily down at the table. Occasionally a friend would come over with a word of sympathy, but since they didn’t know what to say, mostly they left him alone.
Then an American Marine major came in. He was only back a few hours from the battle lines. His clothes were still dirty with the mud of the field as he walked up to the bar and ordered a drink in a voice still used to making itself heard over the rumble of war. The other soldiers gravitated around him, eager to hear the latest.
“Man, it was a bitch!” He drank his drink hurriedly and ordered another. “I lost almost half the men in my command. Those damn slant-eyes just kept on comin’ an’ comin’. I never saw so many of the yallow gook bastards in my life.”
The major turned, his elbows on the bar, and looked around. Then he noticed Dax. He stared at him for a moment and, without lowering his voice, asked of no one in particular, “Is that the colonel who comes from a whole country of chickens?”
A silence suddenly fell over the room. Dax looked up and met the Marine’s eyes steadily. He had been around long enough to understand the play on words. Slowly he got to his feet. He counted out the money for his drink and placed it carefully on the table, then walked up to the major at the bar.
“I envy you the battle from which you come. Perhaps it gives you the right to say such things, Major,” he said quietly, “but I don’t envy you the ignorance out of which you speak.”
After a moment the major’s eyes lowered, and Dax turned and walked out of the club. The next day he was in Tokyo. Less than a month later he was on his way back to New York. It was almost two years from the day that el Presidente had sent him out as head of an army that never existed.
5
Sergei sat behind his desk, his eyes thoughtful, his hand toying with the gold letter opener. He looked at Irma Andersen, then at the man sitting in the chair beside her. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment’s silence, “we’re doing well enough here. I wouldn’t like to upset the apple cart, as you Americans say.”
Irma snorted derisively. She spoke rapidly in French, too rapidly for the American sitting next to her to follow. “You’re an idiot, Sergei! You gross two hundred thousand a year, maybe net seventeen thousand for yourself. You call that enough? Lakow is offering you millions!”
“But here we know what we can do,” Sergei replied. “America, that’s another story. It’s a different kind of business entirely. Wiser and smarter men than I have lost their shirts in the mass market. Besides, how do I know
what it might do to our business here? We could lose it all if our customers decided we had become too common, too ordinary.”
“But copies of your dresses are sold all over America now, and it hasn’t made the slightest difference.”
“Copies, that’s something else. Our prices are maintained. Not everyone can afford an original, and the royalties are not bad. But we would surely lose all that if we went into a straight twenty-to-fifty-dollar line.”
“It’s not just the dresses,” Harvey Lakow said, “it’s everything. A complete new way of life for the American woman. The Prince Nikovitch name will be on everything. A complete line of cosmetics and perfumes. Lingerie. Sport wear, from bikinis to ski clothes. Even husbands won’t be forgotten. We’ll have men’s toiletries as well as ties and sport shirts. I don’t think you quite realize what this could mean. We’ll have an investment of over five million before we see a single sale.”
Sergei still hesitated. “If the idea is so good, why haven’t any of the other houses gone for it?”
Harvey Lakow smiled. “Because we haven’t asked them. We asked you.”
There was no doubt in Sergei’s mind that Lakow was telling the truth. Amalgamated-Federal was the largest association of department stores and women’s-wear shops in the world. There were over a thousand outlets in the United States alone, ranging from the largest of department stores in the big cities down to medium-size quality shops in a variety of smaller towns.
“If you could have anyone you wanted, why me?”
“If I may speak bluntly?”
“Go ahead,” Irma said, “the truth won’t kill him.”
Lakow turned back to Sergei. “Once we had decided on what we are temporarily calling ‘Paris in Your Home,’ we began to look around for the one house we thought would best suit our needs. The older, better-established houses were immediately rejected because we were convinced they were too set in their ways. Then we considered for a while taking one of their designers and building him up. But that seemed hardly practical. It was Dior’s name that was known, not the designer’s. We were looking for a name that any American woman would immediately associate with Parisian couture. That’s why we decided on you. Oddly enough, it was my wife who brought up your name. I’ve learned to trust her judgment, she has very good instincts. She pointed out that although you were a comparatively new house you had survived for over five years, and thanks to Miss Andersen’s column and others, you are in some ways more widely known than almost all of the older houses. Besides, my wife said she met you once and that you seemed a bright, capable young man.”
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