The Ansaris, although somewhat shocked, nonetheless agreed to the conditions and asked to see Masud. Atiya brought both children into the room. Masud and his sister held hands. He greeted his grandparents in halting Pashto and Arabic. He had learned a few phrases of welcome in both languages and they beamed with pride. Haley, introduced by her formal name Hallah, wasted no time in waddling up to the small, slight woman and climbing into her lap, patting Madame Ansari’s shoulder as if in comfort. Masud extended his hand in European fashion.
“Are you my other grandparents?” he asked, smiling slightly.
“Yes we are,” they responded almost together.
“My Daddy is in paradise,” he began, then seeing the shocked look on their faces continued somewhat hesitatingly, “He was a soldier. When I grow up I’m going to be a doctor and play with my little boy. I don’t like paradise if it keeps daddies.”
“Masud, your Daddy would have loved you. You remind me of him when he was a little boy. Would you like to stay with us and see where he was born and where he grew up one day?”
“I’ll have to ask Haley. If she says it’s alwight, then we will,” he replied and immediately began chattering incoherently to his little sister who giggled in response.
“What language is he speaking?”
“They have their own language, Madam,” said Atiya, answering the question.
“It seems as though she really understands him.”
“Trust me, she does,” Emily broke in, “I’ve seen them do this many times before.”
“Well, do you have an answer for your grandfather?” The older man asked.
“I think we can do that, Grandfather.”
“That makes me very happy, my son.”
“I’m Mummy’s son but I can be your son when I’m with you, if that’s alright with Mummy.”
“Oh Masud, you’re lovely, you really are,” his mother picked him up and spun him around, kissing him until he fell into fits of giggling.
“My dear daughter, you have done so well alone. I am proud of you and believe me when I say that we both grieve over our son’s negligence and harsh treatment of you.”
Smiling up at her children’s nanny, Emily said, “My greatest help has been Atiya, who is going to take her finals soon and return to Afghanistan. I wondered if you could help her get a good position near Kabul and her family. ”
“You can rely on our help, Atiya. You have done well for our daughter, Amina and her children. Both of them. Perhaps we can visit tomorrow and show you and the children around Paris. Afterwards, we can meet for dinner, this time at our suite in the Embassy and perhaps we can take a tour of the rest of the building as well. What is it my dear, have we offended?”
“No but our Consulate has advised me not to leave the children in any foreign embassy without my being there. These very troubled times for many countries and we are all at risk, even in the Afghan Embassy. I’m sure you understand.” Emily added with almost diplomatic professionalism.
“In that case, lunch in our apartment perhaps on Sunday and afterwards we are going to the British Embassy for an afternoon function. You have no problem with that surely? We can, I’m sure, arrange for all of you to accompany us. Will you do that? If so, my assistant, Mr. Hasim Shah will make the arrangements.” Masud Ansari turned to his wife, “My love, maybe you can introduce him to Atiya. He is single and is considered attractive. You tell me this all the time.”
“Excuse my husband, Atiya. He has no tact!” They all laughed, said their goodbyes and arranged to meet the next day.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
The following day Aunt Jack and Emily took complete advantage of their time alone in Paris. After a few quick telephone calls Emily was whisked off to see friends in the city. She was thrilled to meet her aunt’s friend Maria Callas, now living somewhat reclusively in a beautiful apartment on Avenue Georges Mendel. Emily was enchanted by the uncommonly lovely woman who talked about her recent visit to New York where she had taught a Master Class at Julliard School of Music. As a teenager in 1964 Emily had seen Callas as Tosca in London’s Covent Garden. She had been so overwhelmed by Callas’ performance that she had wept through the entire third act. When she related this to the aging diva Emily had expected laughter, but instead the great soprano expressed her feeling that all too often life has even greater tragedy than opera. This was a woman, Emily thought, who embodied everything that was powerful, yet Emily sensed that within Maria Callas was a terrible sadness that could never be overcome. She knew that Callas lost the great love of her life, shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis by his marriage to former American First Lady Jackie Kennedy. Her aunt had told her that Onassis still kept in touch with Callas, and that his emotional cruelty knew no boundaries. He was, Aunt Jack, had said, the proverbial bad penny. He returned when one least expected it.
Her caretaker, an austere woman named Bruna, the obvious keeper of all the secrets brought in coffee and pastries and Emily noticed that the opera singer had a taste for rich desserts. “I lost weight and still he vanished,” Callas said turning to Aunt Jack, “Men are very treacherous, my dear child, and truth is often stranger than fiction. Not one month after he married her, he was at my doorstep, bemoaning how much money she spent. I should have laughed in his face. But no,” she said dramatically waving her beautiful hands, “I took him back. We shared a common heritage. It is almost as if we are inseparable; loving yet cruel dual spirits. I can see that perhaps you have loved like that.”
“No, Madam. I have not and I’ve never played the ‘tragedienne’. I don’t think I’m capable of loving someone to that extent. If I am hurt, then I have to leave and there can be no return. The cost to my spirit is unimportant in relation to the cost of my pride,” Emily answered truthfully.
“Your niece is most resolute, my dear Yacouta. Are you both going to the British Embassy tomorrow? After all it celebrates the 32nd Anniversary of the D-Day Landings. It is a time to pay tribute to the sacrifices of those soldiers who gave us all back our live all those years ago. The Duke and Duchess of Kent will be attending as well as Prince Charles. A dear boy, he loves the opera. Now there would be a fine husband. I should think. He’s sensitive but has an intriguing dark side.”
“In answer to your question Cherie, we are going. In fact Emily and I must shop for suitable clothes. Early evening is always so difficult.”
“Madame Callas, will you perform tomorrow?” Emily asked hopefully.
‘It is possible. If I do, what would you like to hear?”
“Catalini’s ‘Ebben Ne andro lontana’ from La Wally,” Emily replied without hesitation.
“Good heavens, and I thought you weren’t a hopeless romantic,” The diva said with a knowing smile, “Perhaps we are more alike than I thought.”
Emily flushed with pride, as Callas, La Divina had been her idol since childhood.
“But on the subject of clothes, black is always acceptable,” Callas responded, “Velvet and pearls for you Emily, not too old, still with the sophistication that you need to impress.”
“Surely, Madam, I am not the pearls and velvet type.”
“Oh my child, all women are the pearls and velvet type! It is a question of which pearls and whose velvet. Come here!”
Emily followed her into a luxurious bedroom suite. Callas took from a purple velvet box a single link of cream colored pearls with an exquisite diamond clip to close them. “Take these and wear them tomorrow.”
“Madam. They’re beautiful! I couldn’t borrow them. What if something happened?”
“They’re yours to keep, Emily. If anything goes wrong, it’s your loss and not mine.”
Emily was thrilled. Bruna returned to remind Madam Callas that it was time for her to rest for the busy evening ahead. Emily and Yacouta, wishing not to outstay their welcome bid their goodbyes until the following day.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
They visited Le Clerc’s to buy cosmetics, stopping at rue des Frances Bourgeois as well
as the rue de Seine where Emily found, as her new benefactress had suggested a short, snappy long sleeved fitted dress in black velvet. It was both very simple and very chic.
“But my hair, Aunt Jack. What do I do with the hair?”
“You make an appointment with the Hotel Salon to sweep it up from you neck and show off those glorious pearls. It is not a problem my dear. After all, Emily, it is the Paris Ritz.”
When they returned to the hotel Atiya and the children were waiting, each child held a new stuffed animal and Atiya, a new Polaroid camera and a stack of photographs. The Ansaris, she said, had been wonderful. The children were both sleepy and overexcited, making it easy to say a quick goodnight and pack them off for their bath and bed.
Aunt Jack made an appointment with a hair stylist for the following afternoon. Atiya had asked whether she could have the morning off as she had an appointment with the young man the Ansaris had spoken of. He had been exactly as described by Humera Ansari, devout, polite and very attractive. Emily was delighted!
The following day it was apparent that Atiya had obviously been enchanted by Mr. Hasim Shah and it was clear that they would be keeping in touch when she returned to Afghanistan. The potential is there, Emily thought sadly, for an arranged marriage. “What an awful society,” she thought aloud, “Women don’t stand a bloody chance, do they?”
“Emily, in Muslim culture,” her aunt broke into her absent minded musing, “women are completely protected, particularly from themselves. There is a positive side! Their needs are completely met, their households are run efficiently if there is more than one wife following and they are allegedly worshipped and adored. When the veil is removed they do not submit and pray for England. They enjoy themselves, trust me. And they can work around the negatives if they have the right nature.”
“Obviously, I do not have the right nature.”
“Well, telling your husband to get bent probably was inappropriate, considering he is from a culture that still uses the horse for basic transportation. You knew this when you married him! Honestly, what did you expect? The peacock throne and Alan Alda? He is no exception in Islamic Culture”
“My father is not like that.”
“Your father would be, if he were in Egypt or Morocco. He is conditioned, is he not?”
“Fair enough, Aunt Jack. But what of Atiya’s dreams, her hopes, her future?”
“That, Emily, is entirely up to Atiya. She has freedom of choice. She is not westernized, she is Afghani. It would be a good match.”
“Alright, Alright. I understand. But it’s still abhorrent!”
“So are the slums of Liverpool, London and Paris. But it is still a question of choice.”
“Where she lives isn’t the issue. How she lives is what’s in question. She’s a doctor or at least she will be.”
“And she still can be, but on different terms. Anyway, take a shower. Go start getting ready. We’ll be late for our appointments. We can talk with Atiya when we return.”
Emily returned to the suite several hours later. Her makeup had been professionally applied, her nails manicured and her hair was swept up into a sleek chignon with not a loose curl in sight. The difference was amazing. She was a different person and with the change came a certain sophistication that she had never before managed to possess. She had, as her English grandmother would have said, “come into her own.”
Her aunt looked stunning in a black silk mid-calf suit with a long jacket and a crimson silk shawl draped over one shoulder. She wore a diamond starburst pin and matching earrings.
“Smashing, absolutely smashing, Emily. Let me put La Divina’s pearls on you. I can’t believe she gave these to you.”
“She’s incredible, but so sad. He must have crucified her. What a bastard. She obviously had no idea that he was moving in on Jackie Kennedy.”
“You’ve got to be kidding. The cruise Jackie went on while he was with Maria, the one with her sister. Rumor has it he slept with her sister as well. He’s a real alley cat.”
“No!” Emily was shocked. “Really?”
“He’s interested only in enhancing his stature. He grew up poor as did Callas. They have an understanding,” Aunt Jack went on, “He called Maria a ‘Pop Singer’ in public. The greatest soprano in the world and he called her a ‘Pop Singer’. She gave up her voice for love of this man. She sacrificed her career for that twerp. It is unimaginable! You saw her yesterday. Good grief, even pushing fifty she is still beautiful. She is semi-retired, wealthy and can still have any man she wants, but she lives for him.”
“The all consuming passion,” Emily replied, “Love is a very dangerous commodity.”
“Take my advice, my dear. Marry someone who is not your all consuming passion. That type of love is like living with a fatal disease. It will kill you in the end. Marry for friendship or camaraderie, great sex can be learned, but as for that fatal passion, leave it before it kills you.”
“Trust me, Aunt Jack. My next relationship will be with something with four paws and a bushy tail. That way I can be assured of total adoration with or without the veil.”
Atiya burst in to tell them that their chauffeur driven Mercedes had arrived.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
They entered the British Embassy’s spectacular Salon Vert and were approached immediately by Colonel Archie Beresford accompanied by his wife and her son, Wilfred de Crecy. Emily was awed by the majestic beauty of the room, the ornate gilt scrollwork of the walls, the gold couches and chairs with plump velvet cushions and its focal point, the most amazing chandelier she had even seen. In the farthest corner was a Steinway grand piano.
“Just right for a highland fling, don’t y’think?” A voice with Scottish accent spoke from behind, making her spin around in surprise. He was staring at the piano.
“Hello, I’m…”
“Yes, I am aware,” said a giant of a man, “You’re the lovely young widow, everyone keeps trying to introduce me to, but as soon as I arrive, you leave the place with your warder.”
“I was about to say, ‘I’m Emily Desai’ but as you already know that, it’s a big bloody waste of time isn’t it and I’m divorced actually although I may well be a widow. I rather like the notoriety of divorce personally.”
“My name is Harrison Cowan.”
“Do you play piano?”
“Christ, no! They’ve got the big fellas here for that this evening. Paris’ reigning diva, Madame Callas is here with her own accompanist and a spare, Ivor Newton, who is at least eighty-two, as well as Robert Sutherland who is here turning the pages. Both of them are brilliant but nonetheless it’s been said that Sutherland fears dying while she is performing. I do mean fear. The dramatic Madame Callas would put the fear of God up most mere mortals.”
“Nonsense,” Emily reprimanded him, “She is all too human. I met her for the first time yesterday. While she’s not everyone’s favorite aunty, she was altogether wonderful to me.”
“You met her? In person? God you’re honored. She doesn’t see people at all these days.”
“Stick around, maybe I’ll introduce yah,” Emily said in her best Mae West impersonation.
“So what are you doing in Paris, Emily Desai?”
“Actually, I don’t really know. Running away probably. It’s what I do best.”
“Would you like to join me for a sherry or something stronger?”
“Scotch please. Glen Livet, no ice.”
“Pretty tough drink for a young girl. No ice did you say? Brave for a sassenack.”
“Sassenack?”she replied, “Bloody cheek!”
“Aye, Miss Emily Desai,” he smiled in response, “I believe we’ll get along famously.”
They walked together to the bartender where Cowan ordered their drinks. As trays of canapés were passed around he managed to finagle sufficient smoked salmon and cucumber to ward off their growing pangs of hunger. They discussed careers. He told her he was in security and had corrected her misunderstanding of hi
s terminology when she thought he meant finance and investment. He provided security systems and people for embassies, politicians and visiting dignitaries. He was also a computer software designer and he felt very strongly that this was the only working environment to be in. Just one decade from now, he told her, our lives will be governed by computer programs. Everything will be automated and it will be a most exciting adventure for mankind. They discussed new concepts in weapons, which Emily found fascinating and the potential of autonomous vehicles, but it was the discussion of new advances in robotics that captured Emily’s imagination. “Picture that,” he suggested, “machines that think for themselves.”
Emily was thoroughly enjoying this man. He was perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, black hair streaked with grey, with a cunning smile, a thick bushy beard and eyes twinkling with mischief. His build was powerful with broad shoulders and he was exceptionally tall.
“Do you live in Paris?” she asked him.
“Good grief, no,” He looked at her incredulously, “I live in America. In fact I am an American. I’ve lived there for over ten years. I was a guest lecturer at MIT and I stayed on after I inherited some property in Maryland. I had family there already, you see. My wife died a few years ago and my children and I now live on the Chesapeake Bay. A beautiful place, I might add; not quite Edinburgh, but lovely in a different way.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Sean Connery?’
“Yes. Actually, he did! I told him he looked like me and he agreed to remain clean shaven forever. Would you like to go out to dinner sometime?”
She willingly agreed.
Suddenly the room exploded in great applause as Maria Callas entered, her hand held by a tall younger man, both followed by her elderly accompanist. She acknowledged their acclaim and looking directly at Emily smiled and announced that tonight she would sing an excerpt from Alfredo Catalini’s “La Wally”. Emily mouthed the words “Thank you,” and the pale, solitary figure in midnight blue velvet enhancing her sad dark eyes nodded her head in acknowledgement.
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