I love everything and everyone right now.
“. . . Archbishop Gagnon was concerned for his safety,” Dad tells his guest as I arrive at the table.
Hassan stands, pulling out my chair, his smooth brown face filled with courtesy and respect, as I sweep my dress against the back of my legs and settle into my seat. No matter my attraction to women, I, much like my father, appreciate a real gentleman. Dad’s drunken nod continues far too long as he eyes Hassan up and down approvingly. The Arab looks sharp in his slim black suit, loafers, no socks, and expensive watch. His patchouli scent reminds me of Nic’s masculine cologne. I’m confused, unsure of what’s going on between them, if anything.
Who is he? What does he do? What does he want with Dad?
I’ve learned very little about Hassan tonight, although it’s obvious he and my father have many mutual contacts in the Middle East. They toss around unfamiliar names and anecdotes as I smile politely, enjoying my clams casino and the grand dining room. So far, I’ve learned that Hassan seems to spend quite a bit of time in Rome, speaks Arabic and Italian, and, like Dad, understands Latin. Maybe it’s his limited English, but Hassan is very reserved, unlike Dad, who as usual does most of the talking.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I jump in, trying to hijack Dad’s cruising of Hassan and get the conversation rolling again, curious about an archbishop “concerned for his safety.”
“My dear, you could never be an interruption,” Dad insists.
“I think is very truthful.” Hassan smiles.
He clearly understands English better than he speaks it. I take a sip of my red wine, the bold flavor swishing in my mouth as I muster the nerve to interject.
“Who is Archbishop Gagnon?”
Dad looks at me, then straightens his silverware, brushes the tablecloth as if there might be crumbs, despite the fact that we haven’t eaten our main course or touched the breadbasket, and besides that, no waiter in this joint is ever going to let a single crumb sit on the impeccably set table.
“A good man, Canadian bishop, he’s been in Rome now for . . .”
“Since Humanae vitae,” Hassan adds with a scholar’s certainty.
“Yes, starting with Pope Paul VI—he’s been running the Pontifical Council for the Family—many years now in Rome.”
“Why would he be unsafe?” I press.
“I told you Christine would be taking over for me at Holy Pilgrimages one day.” Dad gives Hassan a wink, as if to say she’s one of us, it’s safe to tell her. “Toward the end of his papacy, Paul VI had Gagnon look into some concerns the Holy Father had inside the curia, wanting to weed out some problem cardinals and others involved in things the Vatican prohibits . . .”
“What kind of things?”
Dad hates when I interrupt, but doesn’t scold me for a change. Maybe Hassan is a calming influence.
“Freemasons,” Dad explains. “When the archbishop completed the report, the dossier was put in a safe until the Holy Father could look at it . . . but it was stolen.”
I wait. Nodding, wanting more.
“So the pope never saw it?”
“He died,” Hassan says.
“And the next one was murdered . . . John Paul I never had a chance,” Dad adds.
Dad and Hassan shake their heads.
“Deus lo vult!” Dad proclaims, as if that explains everything.
I feel clueless in their world of Vatican hierarchy, Latin, and stolen dossiers.
“Someday I must write the book,” Dad muses.
Hassan clears his throat, eyes Dad, then looks across the room as a few middle-aged men, olive-skinned and stone-faced, walk toward our table. They pass by—giving Hassan a long stare—and then zero in on Dad. Nobody flinches.
One of the men bumps into my chair, hard, prompting Hassan to reach toward me, to ensure I’m okay. His strong warm hand on my bare shoulder feels good.
I am okay. It wasn’t intentional. Or was it?
Hassan calls toward the men, saying something in Arabic, I have no idea what, but it sounds harsh. Then again, all Arabic sounds a bit aggressive to my untrained ear.
“Bloody Jews,” Dad spews quietly.
The three men are gone, and Dad signals to our waiter.
“Are you ready to order, Sir John?”
“Not quite, s’il vous plaît, but my glass seems to have a hole in the bottom,” Dad teases.
“Mine too.” I play along and reach for Hassan’s wineglass, holding up his glass, pretending to examine the bottom.
“Yours looks fine, Hassan,” I say sarcastically.
We all laugh as the waiter pours the wine. I look to the door, still curious about those men. After the waiter leaves, I have to ask, “Dad, were they Mossad?”
Dad smirks. Is that pride across his face?
“Christine, your father tells me you have much intelligence of the world, and I can see he is true,” Hassan notes.
Dad nods vigorously.
“Too bloody smart for her own good!”
Dad leans in and kisses my lips. Alcohol reeking from him, his moist skin wets mine. I’m embarrassed at his drunken attention. It’s one thing when we are alone, but Dad’s sloppy, exaggerated love gets weird in front of strangers. Hassan takes my hand and squeezes it, less fatherly. Looking at his brown eyes, thick dark eyebrows, I smile. He smiles back—only a few crow’s-feet. His curls of black hair have no gray. I’d say, if Dad’s sixty, and I’m twenty, Hassan’s probably in his early forties. I like being the baby bear of this group, a familiar role I find intoxicating, as long as I’m getting the right kind of attention. For as long as I can remember, I’ve gotten a rush running with the grown-ups.
Over espresso Dad suggests we head to the Lost and Found, getting assurance from his guest that he’s up for dancing. I conclude Hassan is definitely gay, otherwise Dad wouldn’t suggest a men’s bar. After all the alcohol we’ve consumed, I have no idea how the hell we are going to bump or grind—we’ll have to hold each other up or pray the caffeine kicks in. Dad and I wait for the valet while Hassan heads upstairs to his room to drop off his sport coat. Often Dad has overseas guests stay at the University Club, which has about sixty private hotel-like rooms, although you have to be a man to stay here, still no women allowed except in the dining room.
Somehow, I drive us in Dad’s convertible—Hassan in the passenger seat—out of the circular driveway, down Sixteenth Street, through downtown D.C., and into the rough-and-tumble projects of Southeast. Between Dad’s lazy eye and the fact that he’s a horrible driver—drunk or not—there’s no choice but for me to drive. Dad’s been known to back into poles and cars in the parking garage beneath his office building. Although he’ll argue with Mom or most anyone who insists on driving when he’s blotto, he actually seems to like that I drive, happily getting into the backseat.
Inside the club, Dad, Hassan, and I stand at the bar. Still in need of energy, I tell Dad I’ll have a Coke.
“A Coke? You mean a Coca-Cola?!” Dad finds it absolutely deplorable when people have the opportunity to drink alcohol and they don’t.
Fortunately, he’s too drunk to yell at me for not drinking.
Dad hands Hassan a vodka cocktail, plops a hundred-dollar bill on the bar for the boyish bartender, and stumbles—nearly sideways—to the men’s room. Watching him, I get the familiar knot in my stomach but home in on the pounding beat instead. For a Wednesday night, there’s a decent crowd. Mostly men, as usual. Hassan moves closer to me, leaning in, so he doesn’t have to shout.
“All of your family is beautiful?” He stares at me.
I think I know what he means, so I laugh—never really knowing how to handle a compliment. Mom usually makes up a reason why the praise anyone gives her isn’t true, so maybe that’s where I learned to throw away flattery. In fact, most of us Worthington girls handle a flattering remark like a hot potato.
“You want to dance?” I shout, diffusing thoughts of Dad, hoping he’s not facedown in the toilet
or face-to-face with a stranger.
Hassan and I head to the dance floor. Shutting my eyes, I settle into the bass, hands in the air, spinning in circles, the lightweight hem of my dress swirling freely, the air-conditioning refreshing on my dull head. I feel hands around my waist and am pulled by Hassan, my cork sandals supporting my weight evenly, against him. For as long as Donna Summer belts, I let the handsome Arab do as he wants with me, knowing we are hidden from my father’s eyes, packed into the middle of the flashing dance floor. Reds, blues, yellows blink beneath our planted feet. We dance easily and playfully together.
In the car, as Dad sings show tunes in the backseat, I focus on the potholed roads in front of me, always eager at closing time to get out of this dangerous neighborhood. My buzz is still alive, but I’m glad to be a little more clearheaded—the adrenaline from the dancing helped—for the drive home. Dad insists on being dropped off at the office, drunk enough to believe he’s capable of getting an early start without going to bed. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know he’s going to be facedown in faxes and paper clips in less time than it takes to say the rosary. We drop Dad at the office, making sure he gets inside the building safely, and I speed off for the short, familiar drive to the University Club.
“Sir John never stops,” Hassan says, laughing.
“Yeah, he makes me tired and I’m only twenty,” I joke.
“You are not twenty? No, much older.”
He seems genuinely surprised.
“Have you known my father a long time?”
Hassan nods.
“But you aren’t a travel agent, right?”
Hassan shakes his head, smiling.
As I pull up to the valet, I fumble to shut off the music and turn to Hassan, laughing at myself. All at once, he leans in and kisses me on the lips, his hand on my thigh. I pull away, aware of the valet opening my door.
“Come inside, I show you my room.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, wondering if that’s even allowed.
Unstable, I get out of the car, attempting to feign sobriety for the valet and hiding my guilt for actually wanting to go up to Hassan’s room. I drop the keys into a white-gloved hand, but somehow they land on the cement.
“I’ll be right back, I just need to pick up something,” I lie, slurring a little.
We walk into the lobby, and an attendant by the door smiles. I fake like we are heading for the dining room, and at the last minute, pivot toward the elevators.
As we wait, I lean against Hassan for support, staying hidden, out of sight of the front desk. I’m not sure if he knows women can’t be in his room, but he doesn’t seem to care.
Hassan opens his door, turning on a table lamp. Holding the wall, I enter the dimly lit guest room, feeling a little queasy. The wallpaper design looks blurry; the light fixture refuses to stop swaying. The small room holds a single bed and little other furniture, not nearly as impressive as the common areas of the building. More University than Club. Hassan walks toward the bathroom, dropping his wallet and emptying his pockets on the dresser. “Maybe they bring some drinks for us,” he suggests.
I move over to the chest of drawers, wobbly, grabbing the corner of the dresser, hoping the room will stop spinning if I just hold still. My eyes rest on a pile of papers, folders, a mess of coins, a leather case—unzipped—and a key chain with what looks like a coat of arms—something familiar. The Vatican coat of arms? Like Dad’s. Curious, I flip open a folder; again there is a coat of arms at the top of the pages. I lean in for a closer look, but Hassan opens the bathroom door, startling me. I stumble back, arching against the dresser.
“Do you need . . .” He points to the bathroom, picking up the phone.
“Yes,” I say, inching my way to the door.
A loud knock stops us both. Hassan, holding the phone, hollers, “Yes?”
“Mr. Hassan, it’s the manager,” a man calls from the hallway.
I know we’re in trouble, so I slip into the bathroom.
Sitting on the toilet, I hear the manager explain their policy—no women allowed in the rooms. And Hassan’s apology. He’s either a good actor, or he really didn’t understand the no-chicks thing.
“No women allowed anywhere but the dining room,” the manager says loudly.
I leave the bathroom, spotting the manager at the door prepared to escort me out. Thankfully, the room has stopped spinning—maybe the fear of authority has sobered me up—but either way, Hassan insists on walking me to the car, despite my assurances that I’m fine. He offers me his arm down the hallway and in the elevator, where the three of us ride silently to the lobby. The tall jerk sees us to the front door.
“You’re welcome anytime in our dining room, accompanied by a member,” he chides.
Fuck you and your clams casino.
Hassan leads me to the car, which the valet has left parked off to the side of the entrance, letting me know the keys are inside. Opening the door, Hassan eyes my bare legs as I steady myself into the driver’s seat, then comes around and slides into the passenger seat. Before I can start the engine, he pulls me toward him, raising my dress, and gets on top of me. We make out, his breath fresh from a mint he must have snuck while I’ve been blurry. I wish I had one. His smooth skin feels soft and warm against mine. Almost girl-like. Reaching down and unzipping, he pulls out his penis. I touch it—not as big as I’ve experienced, but he’s hard, and I’m turned on by the danger of it all. Neither of us seems to care that we are in the driveway of the University Club, we’re so completely distracted by getting into a comfortable position so he can fuck me.
It’s fast and mechanical, and after one long last kiss, he’s out the door.
“I don’t believe you are twenty.”
Pulling up my underwear, I feel my wetness, even though he’s the only one who had an orgasm. I make sure the passenger seat is clean, aware that I’ll be turning over Dad’s car when I drive myself to work. The thought of sitting at my desk at Holy Pilgrimages in less than five hours brings dread. Working there has its pros and cons. Right now, I just can’t think of any pros.
Rolling down all the windows to keep myself alert for the drive home, I notice the valet attendant smiling at me. He probably watched the whole thing. I feel ashamed, but too tired from the long night, and alcohol, to dwell. Pulling out of the driveway, I turn on the radio to the soul station and listen to Marvin Gaye singing into the night.
* * *
A month later, Dad takes me to Tandoori Gardens, an expensive Indian restaurant off K Street, filled with mostly well-dressed businessmen and a few women. I’ve never eaten Indian food and had no idea they start their lunches with vodka. I reach for the puffy bread as Dad pours us both another shot and returns the icy bottle to the gold bucket on our table. Dad pulls the white handkerchief out from his breast pocket and taps his moist forehead, as I consider my second shot of vodka on top of last night’s lineup of White Russians at the piano bar where we spent the evening.
“Have you given any thought to where you’d like to travel this summer, young lady?” Dad says casually.
The lure of another trip gives me goose bumps. Like my dad, I feel drawn to adventure, but also to the finer things. I lean over and kiss his clammy cheek, neither one of us quite cooled off from our muggy walk across town.
“Um, well, I didn’t know . . . I was going somewhere.”
“It’s important that you see the world, particularly if you’re going to be taking over the office someday.”
I play along with his vision of my future. There’s no reason to tell him I find Catholic tourism as boring as watching professional bowling. There’s no reason to share my real feelings about mass, confession, visiting churches with Mom, saying the rosary every night after dinner, celebrating the bland Passover meal on Holy Thursday, or any of the trappings of Catholicism, frankly. It doesn’t feel like the moment.
I want to live and work somewhere exciting. Exotic, sexy places, not just Catholic ones. I adjust my
snug sundress and down the shot of vodka. Once I get over the burn in my throat, a looseness flows through me, a smile blooming on my face.
“You’ve not been to the Holy Land, am I right?”
“No,” I say, not liking his suggestion.
“Well, you must get to Jerusalem.”
Dad looks around for our waiter while I gather my nerve.
“How about that cruise—the one that’s part of your Egypt tour?”
Dad laughs, shaking his head.
“So you’d like to cruise the Nile, Queen Nefertiti?”
I nod, hoping he doesn’t give me a lecture on selfishness.
“You are your father’s daughter,” he says, beaming.
11
Desert
Royal Jordanian Airlines is a client of Dad’s, so the luxurious first-class service and unlimited cocktails make for a comfy twelve-hour flight from New York to Amman.
Dad decided we would fly to Jordan for a few days, since he has some work there, before I head off alone to Cairo and he travels to Rome for an audience with the pope and meetings with Archbishop Magni.
“Dad, what’s your favorite thing about the Middle East?” I ask, adjusting my tray table.
He stretches his arms behind his head, something he never really does—as if he were lying on grass stargazing. I sip my vodka tonic through a tiny black straw. The weight of the cut crystal feels at home in my hand.
“The desert. There is nothing quite like the desert.”
I consider what could be so special about miles and miles of sand that isn’t the beach.
“I’d be afraid of getting lost there.”
“Getting lost is the best part,” he says dreamily.
His eyes practically roll up into his head, as if reaching for memories.
Hiding Out Page 10