He had a sick feeling of disappointment. From the way they were laughing and talking, they seemed to know each other fairly well. His hopes of finding someone they both knew to introduce them were dashed. One couldn’t very well ask the President of the United States to introduce one to a girl. Besides, he too had heard some of the stories about the President. It seemed he was quite a man with the ladies.
As he watched, the music ended and they started from the floor. Immediately, they were surrounded by throngs of people. Photographers were taking more pictures. Then the President turned to the girl. Smiling, he said something to her. She nodded and the President turned and started away. The crowd followed him and a moment later the girl was standing almost alone.
He took a deep breath and went up to her. “Miss?”
She was even more beautiful up close than she had been from a distance. “Yes?” she asked politely. Her voice was low and slightly Western in intonation.
“How did it feel to dance with the President of the United States?”
“That’s a strange question.”
“What’s your name?”
“Are you a reporter?”
“No,” he answered. “Do you know the President well?”
“You ask a lot of questions for a man who says he’s not a reporter.”
He smiled. “I guess I do. But I can’t think of any other way to keep you from walking away.”
For the first time she looked directly at him. “I can,” she said. “Why don’t you ask me to dance?”
CHAPTER 11
Her name was Jordana Mason and she had been born and raised in San Francisco. So he’d been right about one thing. She was a California girl. Her father and mother had been divorced when she was a child. Both parents had since remarried but relations were good between them, and Jordana was in close touch with her father even though she lived with her mother. She was nineteen years old, a junior at Berkeley and one of the organizers of the Students for Kennedy Movement, which was the reason she’d been invited to the inaugural.
She had caught the candidate’s eye at a rally in San Francisco. His press people had made a big thing of getting photographs of him with the students and he had promised her that if he won she would receive an invitation.
She was not naïve enough to believe that he would remember the promise. She was sure that there were more important things on his mind. So she was surprised when invitation arrived in the mail one morning.
Excitedly, she called her mother. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
Her mother was cool. The whole family was solidly Republican.
“I hope they have provided a chaperon,” her mother said.
“Mother,” Jordana said. “This is 1960, not 1900. I’m a grown girl. I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can, dear,” her mother said smoothly. “But have they arranged for a good place for you to stay? And who is paying for your airfare?”
“I’m supposed to take care of all that myself. The invitation is only for the inauguration. And it says I’m to have a place on the same stand with the President.”
“I still don’t like it,” her mother sniffed. “I think you’d better discuss this with your father.”
She called her father at his office in the Civil Center. He was no more enthusiastic, but he did understand how much it meant to her. He cautioned her about Kennedy’s reputation, even though he knew that she could take care of herself. Besides, now that the man was President, he was sure that he would change his ways. He agreed to buy her ticket but he wanted her to check again with her mother to see if she knew some friends with whom she could stay. The hotels in Washington were notorious dens of iniquity, filled with all kinds of Southern and black politicians and foreigners who were trying to promote something. In the end they found out that all their friends were Republicans and that Jordana would be better off staying in a hotel than letting one of them know that one of their own family had gone over to the other side.
All this Baydr learned during the first dance. After the number was over, he led her in search of an empty table where they could sit and talk. They found one in a small room off the main ballroom. The waiters were scurrying about frantically trying to fill the orders that came at them from all directions.
Baydr solved the problem simply. He caught the eye of the maître d’ by waving a hand in which he had concealed a ten-dollar bill. A moment later a bottle of Dom Pérignon appeared at their table.
“That’s expensive,” Jordana said. “Are you sure you can afford it?”
“I think so,” Baydr said noncommittally. He raised his glass. “To the most beautiful girl in Washington.”
She laughed. “How would you know? You haven’t seen all of them.”
“I’ve seen enough.”
She sipped the wine. “This is delicious. They say California champagnes are as good as the French but they’re not like this.”
“California champagnes aren’t bad.”
“I’ll bet you never drank any,” she accused.
He laughed. “I went to Harvard, then spent a few years at Stanford.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a businessman.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “You seem kind of young for that.”
“Age doesn’t matter much in these times,” he said. “Kennedy is only forty-three and he’s President.”
“You’re not forty-three,” she said. “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” he said, refilling their glasses. “When do you plan to go back?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t go. Now that I’ve gone to so much trouble to find you, you can’t vanish so quickly.”
She laughed. “I have to be in school on Monday.” A puzzled look crossed her face. “What do you mean you went to so much trouble to find me?”
“I saw you this afternoon at the inauguration ceremony. I couldn’t get you out of my mind so I decided to attend every one of the balls until I found you. I was sure you would be at one of them.”
“Honestly?”
He nodded without speaking.
She looked down at her glass. “I have to go back.”
“But not tomorrow,” he said. “There’s the whole weekend before you have to be back.”
“It’s freezing here. I’ve never been so cold in my life. I haven’t got clothes for this weather.”
“We can take care of that. We can leave for Acapulco tonight. It’s warm there.”
“Is there a plane leaving this late?” she asked.
“There are always planes.”
“That’s crazy,” she said, smiling. “Besides, how can I be sure that I’ll make a connection to San Francisco. You know those Mexican airlines.”
“I’ll guarantee it,” he said confidently. “What do you say?”
She looked at him skeptically. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“Of what?”
“Why you are doing this. You don’t even know me.”
“It’s one way of getting to know you better.”
She met his eyes. “What are you getting out of it?”
He returned her gaze evenly. “The pleasure of your company.”
“That’s all? Nothing else?”
“Isn’t that enough?” He laughed. “I’m not a sex maniac if that’s what you’re thinking. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”
“But I don’t even know your name.”
“We can fix that.” He took his card from his wallet and gave it to her.
She looked down at it. “Baydr Al Fay. MEDIA Inc., 70 Wall Street, New York,” she read aloud. “MEDIA—what does that stand for?”
“That’s the name of my company,” he said. “Middle Eastern Development and Investment Associates.”
“You’re not American?”
“No. Did you think I was?”
“I thought you were Jewish,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. The way you look I guess.”
“Many people make the same mistake,” he said easily. “I’m an Arab.”
She fell silent. Again she looked at the card.
“Is there anything wrong?” he asked quickly.
“No. I was just thinking, that’s all.” She looked up at him. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“There’s always a first time for everything.”
“Can I think about it and let you know in the morning?”
“Of course you can, but it would really be a shame to miss a whole day in the sunshine.”
She hesitated again. “Do you really mean it? There are no strings attached?”
“Absolutely no strings.”
She raised the glass of champagne to her lips and emptied it. “My room’s upstairs in this hotel. I’ll go upstairs and pack. I can be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“Good,” he said, signaling for a check. “That will give me time to make a few phone calls and arrange for the flight. We can pick up my things on the way to the airport.”
It had begun to snow again as the limousine slowly made its way to the airport. Jabir sat silently on the seat next to the chauffeur, smoking a cigarette.
“I hope we won’t be late for the flight,” she said.
“We won’t,” Baydr said.
“Do you think the weather might keep us from taking off?”
The airport was practically deserted as they walked through. Jabir and the chauffeur were behind them with the luggage. “I don’t see any passengers,” she said as they walked toward the departure gate. “Are you sure there’s a plane?”
“There’s a plane.” He smiled.
It wasn’t until they were on the ramp, climbing up the steps into the Lear Jet, that she realized they were boarding a private plane. She paused on the top step and looked at him.
He nodded reassuringly.
The steward was waiting just inside the door. “Good evening, madame. Good evening, Mr. Al Fay.” He turned to Jordana. “Let me show you to your seat, if I may.”
He led Jordana to a comfortable reclining chair and took her coat. He then leaned across and fastened her seatbelt. “Are you comfortable, madame?”
“Very, thank you.”
“Thank you, madame,” he said and walked away.
Baydr sat down next to her and fastened his seatbelt. A moment later the steward was back with a bottle of Dom Pérignon and two glasses. At a nod from Baydr, he filled the two glasses and went forward again.
Baydr raised his glass. “Welcome aboard The Star of the East.”
“You didn’t tell me it would be your own plane,” she said.
“You didn’t ask me. You only asked if I were sure there would be a flight.”
She sipped at the champagne. “This is good. You know a girl could get hooked on stuff like this.”
“I can think of worse.” Baydr smiled.
The plane began to move out toward the strip. She reached for his hand automatically. “I always get nervous at takeoff.”
He smiled, holding her hand gently. “There’s nothing to worry about. I have two very good pilots aboard.”
She glanced out the window into the falling snow. “But they can’t see very much.”
“They don’t have to,” he said. “It’s all worked by radar and instruments.”
There was a surge of the jets; a moment later they were airborne. When they were above the snow and clouds high in the star-filled night, she turned and saw that her hand was still in his. She looked at him. “You’re a strange man,” she said softly. “Do you do things like this often?”
“No,” he said. “This is a first time for me too.”
She was silent for a moment while she took another sip of her champagne. “Why me?” she asked.
His eyes were as blue as the night sky. “I think I fell in love with you the moment I first saw you.”
The steward came back, refilled their glasses and disappeared. She sipped at the wine, then suddenly laughed. She saw the puzzled look on his face. “I just had the funniest thought,” she said.
“Tell me.”
“In all the movies I’ve seen, the sheik comes riding in from the desert, sweeps the girl up on his white charger and gallops off into the night. In a way isn’t that what you’re doing?”
“I should hope so,” he smiled. “You see, I intend to marry you.”
CHAPTER 12
They were to be together for three years before they were married. And that was only after the birth of their first son, Muhammad.
During those three years they were inseparable. Wherever he went in the world, she went with him. Except when he returned to the Middle East. There she would not go.
“Not until we are married,” she said. “I will not be treated as a concubine.”
“We can be married,” he said. “Under Muslim law I am allowed four wives.”
“Fine,” she said sarcastically. “Marry three other Arab girls.”
“That’s not the point, Jordana,” he said. “I don’t want to marry anyone else. I want to marry you.”
“Then get a divorce.”
“No.”
“Why not?” she asked. “You don’t love her. You never see her. And divorce is simple for a Muslim, isn’t it? You said so yourself.”
“We were married by the Prince’s command. I would need his permission to divorce and he would not give it so that I could marry an unbeliever.”
“Baydr, I love you,” she said. “And I want to be your wife. But your only wife. Do you understand that? That’s the way I was brought up. One wife at a time.”
He smiled. “It’s not that important really. It’s just the way you look at it.”
“Okay, then,” she said with finality. “That’s the way I look at it. I won’t change.”
He didn’t answer. Actually he was not that anxious to get married again. Not that there were other women. There had been very few since he had been with her. And then only on those rare occasions when they happened to be apart. When they were together, he never felt the need for another woman.
At first, her parents had been aghast at her actions. It was not until Baydr placed substantial brokerage accounts with her stepfather that they began to come around. After that, they would sometimes have dinner with her parents when they were in San Francisco. But the dinners were always private family affairs. No one wanted to explain that Jordana was living in sin, especially with an Arab.
Baydr bought a villa in the south of France and they spent as much time there during the summers as they could. Jordana studied and became proficient in French. She loved the Riviera. It was gay and bubbly and everyone was there for a good time. People cared nothing about your private life. Only that you had the money to enjoy it.
During the winter, they lived in New York and vacationed in Acapulco, where he bought the house in which they had spent their first weekend together. Occasionally they would go skiing but since he disliked the cold, she couldn’t persuade him to go very often. Every three months Baydr returned home for two weeks. While he was away, Jordana would visit her family in San Francisco. But always when the two weeks were up, she would be there to meet him in New York or London or Paris or Geneva or wherever he had to be on business.
Only one time when he came into the apartment in New York she was not waiting to greet him. “Have you heard from the madame?” he asked the butler, who took his hat and coat at the door.
“No, sir,” the butler answered. “As far as I know, madame is still in San Francisco.”
He waited all day for her to arrive and finally, after dinner that night he called her mother’s house in San Francisco, Jordana answered the telephone.
“Darling, I was beginning to worry,” he said. “When are you coming home?”
Her voice was tired. “I’m not.”
“What do you mean, you’re not?” The shock crept into his voice.
“Just
what I said. I’m twenty-one and I have to do something with my life. I’m not coming back.”
“But I love you.”
“It’s not enough,” she said. “I’m tired of living in limbo. I think two years of that is enough for any girl. It’s time I grew up.”
“Is there someone else?”
“No. You know better than that. There has been no one else since you.”
“Then what is it?”
“Would you believe that I’m just tired of the way we’re living? Tired of playing at being Mrs. Al Fay when I’m not.” She began to cry.
“Jordana.”
“Don’t try to talk me out of it, Baydr. I’m not like the Arab women you know. I just can’t accept it. I have a mind of my own.”
“I won’t try to talk you out of it. I just want you to think it over.”
“I have thought it over, Baydr. I’m not coming back.”
He felt the anger rising within him. “Then don’t expect me to come running after you,” he said. “I did that once.”
“Goodbye, Baydr.”
The telephone went dead in his hand. He looked at it, then slammed it down angrily. For a few minutes he stared into space, then he picked up the telephone and called again.
This time it was her mother who answered. “May I speak with Jordana, please?” he asked.
“She ran up to her room,” her mother said. “I’ll call her.”
Baydr held on until her mother came back on the telephone. “She said she doesn’t want to speak to you.”
“Mrs. Mason, I don’t understand what’s happening. What’s the matter with her?”
“It’s quite normal, Baydr,” she said calmly. “Pregnant girls are usually quite excitable.”
“Pregnant?” he shouted. “She’s pregnant?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Mason said. “Didn’t she tell you?”
***
Seven months later, he stood at the side of her hospital bed. His son lay in her arms.
“He looks exactly like you,” she said shyly. “The same blue eyes.”
He remembered what his father had once told him. “All newborn children have blue eyes,” he said. “We’ll name him Muhammad.”
The Pirate Page 20