The Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  “Agreed, Matron,” said Christopher, laughing.

  On arrival at Heathrow they checked their baggage on to the charter flight, selected two nonsmoking seats, and, finding they had time to spare, decided to watch other planes taking off for even more exotic places.

  It was Christopher who first spotted the two passengers dashing across the tarmac, obviously late.

  “Look,” he said, pointing at the running couple. His wife studied the overweight pair, still tan from a previous vacation, as they lumbered up the steps to their plane.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume,” Margaret said in disbelief. After hesitating for a moment, she added, “I wouldn’t want to be uncharitable about any of the offspring, but I do find young Malcolm Kendall-Hume a …” She paused.

  “‘Spoiled little brat’?” suggested her husband.

  “Quite,” said Margaret. “I can’t begin to think what his parents must be like.”

  “Very successful, if the boy’s stories are to be believed,” said Christopher. “A string of secondhand garages from Birmingham to Bristol.”

  “Thank God they’re not on our flight.”

  “Bermuda or the Bahamas would be my guess,” suggested Christopher.

  A voice emanating from the loudspeaker gave Margaret no chance to offer her opinion.

  “Olympic Airways Flight 172 to Istanbul is now boarding at Gate Number Thirty-seven.”

  “That’s us,” said Christopher happily as they began their long march to their departure gate.

  They were the first passengers to board, and once shown to their seats they settled down to study the guidebooks of Turkey and their three files of research.

  “We must be sure to see Diana’s Temple when we visit Ephesus,” said Christopher, as the plane taxied out onto the runway.

  “Not forgetting that at that time we shall be only a few kilometers away from the purported last home of the Virgin Mary,” added Margaret.

  “Taken with a pinch of salt by serious historians,” Christopher remarked as if addressing a member of the Lower Fourth, but his wife was too engrossed in her book to notice. They both continued to study on their own before Christopher asked what his wife was reading.

  “Carpets—Fact and Fiction, by Abdul Verizoglu, seventeenth edition,” she said, confident that any errors would have been eradicated in the previous sixteen. “It’s most informative. The finest examples, it seems, are from Hereke and are woven in silk and are sometimes worked on by up to twenty young women, even children, at a time.”

  “Why young?” pondered Christopher. “You’d have thought experience would have been essential for such a delicate task.”

  “Apparently not,” said Margaret. “Herekes are woven by those with young eyes that can discern intricate patterns sometimes no larger than a pinpoint and with up to nine hundred knots a square inch. Such a carpet,” continued Margaret, “can cost as much as fifteen, even twenty, thousand pounds.”

  “And at the other end of the scale? Carpets woven in old leftover wool by old leftover women?” suggested Christopher, answering his own question.

  “No doubt,” said Margaret. “But even for our humble purse there are some simple guidelines to follow.”

  Christopher leaned over so that he could be sure to take in every word above the roar of the engines.

  “The muted reds and blues with a green base are considered classic and are much admired by Turkish collectors, but one should avoid the bright yellows and oranges,” read his wife aloud. “And never consider a carpet that displays animals, birds, or fishes, as they are produced only to satisfy Western tastes.”

  “Don’t they like animals?”

  “I don’t think that’s the point,” said Margaret. “The Sunni Muslims, who are the country’s religious leaders, don’t approve of graven images. But if we search diligently around the bazaars we should still be able to come across a bargain for a few hundred pounds.”

  “What a wonderful excuse to spend all day in the bazaars.”

  Margaret smiled before continuing. “But listen. It’s most important to bargain. The opening price the dealer offers is likely to be double what he expects to get and treble what the carpet is worth.” She looked up from her book. “If there’s any bargaining to be done it will have to be carried out by you, my dear. They’re not used to that sort of thing at Marks & Spencer.”

  Christopher smiled.

  “And finally,” continued his wife, turning a page of her book, “if the dealer offers you coffee you should accept. It means he expects the process to go on for some time because he enjoys the bargaining as much as the sale.”

  “If that’s the case they had better have a very large pot percolating for us,” said Christopher as he closed his eyes and began to contemplate the pleasures that awaited him. Margaret only closed her books on carpets when the plane touched down at Istanbul airport, and at once opened file number one, entitled “Pre-Turkey.”

  “A shuttle bus should be waiting for us at the north side of the terminal. It will take us on to the local flight,” she assured her husband as she carefully set her watch ahead two hours.

  The Robertses were soon following the stream of passengers heading in the direction of passport control. The first people they saw in front of them were the same middle-aged couple they had assumed were destined for more exotic shores.

  “Wonder where they’re heading,” said Christopher.

  “Istanbul Hilton, I expect,” said Margaret as they climbed into a vehicle that had been declared obsolete by the Glasgow Corporation Bus Company some twenty years before. It spluttered out black exhaust fumes as it revved up before heading off in the direction of the local THY flight.

  The Robertses soon forgot all about Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume once they looked out of the little airplane windows to admire the west coast of Turkey highlighted by the setting sun. The plane landed in the port of Izmir just as the shimmering red ball disappeared behind the highest hill. Another bus, even older than the earlier one, ensured that the Robertses reached their little guesthouse just in time for late supper.

  Their room was tiny but clean, and the owner much in the same mold. He greeted them both with exaggerated gesturing and a brilliant smile that augured well for the next twenty-one days. Early the following morning, the Robertses checked over their detailed plans for day one in file number two. They were first to collect the rented Fiat that had already been paid for in England, before driving off into the hills to the ancient Byzantine fortress at Selcuk in the morning, to be followed by the Temple of Diana in the afternoon if they still had time.

  After breakfast had been cleared away and they had cleaned their teeth, the Robertses left the guesthouse a few minutes before nine. Armed with their car rental form and guidebook, they headed off for Beyazik’s Garage, where their promised car awaited them. They strolled down the cobbled streets past the little white houses, enjoying the sea breeze until they reached the bay. Christopher spotted the sign for Beyazik’s Garage when it was still a hundred yards ahead of them.

  As they passed the magnificent yachts moored alongside the harbor, they tested each other on the nationality of each flag, feeling not unlike the “offspring” completing a geography test.

  “Italian, French, Liberian, Panamanian, German. There aren’t many British boats,” said Christopher, sounding unusually patriotic, the way he always did, Margaret reflected, the moment they were abroad.

  She stared at the rows of gleaming hulls lined up like buses in Piccadilly during the rush hour; some of the boats were even bigger than buses. “I wonder what kind of people can possibly afford such luxury?” she asked, not expecting a reply.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Roberts, isn’t it?” shouted a voice from behind them. They both turned to see a now-familiar figure dressed in a white shirt and white shorts, wearing a hat that made him look not unlike the captain in the “Birds Eye” commercial, waving at them from the bow of one of the bigger yachts.

  “Climb on board, m
e hearties,” Mr. Kendall-Hume declared enthusiastically, more in the manner of a command than an invitation.

  Reluctantly the Robertses walked the gangplank.

  “Look who’s here,” their host shouted down a large hole in the middle of the deck. A moment later Mrs. Kendall-Hume appeared from below, dressed in a diaphanous orange sarong and a matching bikini top. “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Roberts—you remember, from Malcolm’s school.”

  Kendall-Hume turned back to face the dismayed couple. “I don’t remember your first names, but this is Melody and I’m Ray.”

  “Christopher and Margaret,” the schoolmaster admitted as handshakes were exchanged.

  “What about a drink? Gin, vodka, or … ?”

  “Oh, no,” said Margaret. “Thank you very much, we’ll both have orange juice.”

  “Suit yourselves,” said Ray Kendall-Hume. “You must stay for lunch.”

  “But we couldn’t impose …”

  “I insist,” said Mr. Kendall-Hume. “After all, we’re on vacation. By the way, we’ll be going over to the other side of the bay for lunch. There’s one hell of a beach there, and it will give you a chance to sunbathe and swim in peace.”

  “How considerate of you,” said Christopher.

  “And where’s young Malcolm?” asked Margaret.

  “He’s on a scouting vacation in Scotland. Doesn’t like to mess about in boats the way we do.”

  For the first time he could recall, Christopher felt some admiration for the boy. A moment later the engine started thunderously.

  On the trip across the bay, Ray Kendall-Hume expounded his theories about “having to get away from it all … . Nothing like a yacht to ensure your privacy and not having to mix with the hoi polloi.” He only wanted the simple things in life: the sun, the sea, and an infinite supply of good food and drink.

  The Robertses could have asked for nothing less. By the end of the day they were both suffering from a mild bout of sunstroke and were also feeling a little seasick. Despite white pills, red pills, and yellow pills, liberally supplied by Melody, when they finally got back to their room that night they were unable to sleep.

  Avoiding the Kendall-Humes over the next twenty days did not prove easy. Beyazik’s, the garage where their little rental car awaited them each morning and to which it had to be returned each night, could only be reached via the quayside where the Kendall-Humes’ motor yacht was moored like an insuperable barrier at a gymkhana. Hardly a day passed that the Robertses did not have to spend some part of their precious time bobbing up and down on Turkey’s choppy coastal waters, eating oily food, and discussing how large a carpet would be needed to fill the Kendall-Humes’ front room.

  However, they still managed to complete a large part of their program and determinedly set aside the whole of the last day of the vacation in their quest for a carpet. As they did not need Beyazik’s car to go into town, they felt confident that for that day at least they could safely avoid their tormentors.

  On the final morning they rose a little later than planned and after breakfast strolled down the tiny cobbled path together, Christopher in possession of the seventeenth edition of Carpets—Fact and Fiction, Margaret with a tape measure and five hundred pounds in travelers’ checks. Once the schoolmaster and his wife had reached the bazaar, they began to look around a myriad of little shops, wondering where they should begin their adventure. Fez-topped men tried to entice them to enter their tiny emporiums, but the Robertses spent the first hour simply taking in the atmosphere.

  “I’m ready to start the search now,” shouted Margaret above the babble of voices around her.

  “Then we’ve found you just in time,” said the one voice they thought they had escaped.

  “We were just about to—”

  “Then follow me.”

  The Robertses’ hearts sank as they were led by Ray Kendall-Hume out of the bazaar and back toward the town.

  “Take my advice, and you’ll end up with one hell of a bargain,” Kendall-Hume assured them both. “I’ve picked up some real beauties in my time from every corner of the globe at prices you wouldn’t believe. I am happy to let you take full advantage of my expertise at no extra charge.”

  “I don’t know how you could stand the noise and smell of that bazaar,” said Melody, obviously glad to be back among the familiar signs of Gucci, Lacoste, and Saint Laurent.

  “We rather like—”

  “Rescued in the nick of time,” said Ray Kendall-Hume. “And the place I’m told you have to start and finish at if you want to purchase a serious carpet is Osman’s.”

  Margaret recalled the name from her carpet book: “Only to be visited if money is no object and you know exactly what you are looking for.” The vital last morning was to be wasted, she reflected as she pushed open the large glass doors of Osman’s to enter a ground-floor area the size of a tennis court. The room was covered in carpets on the floor, the walls, the windowsills, and even the tables. Anywhere a carpet could be laid out, a carpet was there to be seen. Although the Robertses realized immediately that nothing on show could possibly be in their price range, the sheer beauty of the display entranced them.

  Margaret walked slowly round the room, mentally measuring the small carpets so she could anticipate the sort of thing they might look for once they had escaped.

  A tall, elegant man, hands raised as if in prayer and dressed immaculately in a tailored worsted suit that could have been made in Savile Row, advanced to greet them.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said to Mr. Kendall-Hume, selecting the serious spender without difficulty. “Can I be of assistance?”

  “You certainly can,” replied Kendall-Hume. “I want to be shown your finest carpets, but I do not intend to pay your finest prices.”

  The dealer smiled politely and clapped his hands. Six small carpets were brought in by three assistants who rolled them out in the center of the room. Margaret fell in love with a muted green-based carpet with a pattern of tiny red squares woven around the borders. The pattern was so intricate she could not take her eyes off it. She measured the carpet out of interest: seven by three exactly.

  “You have excellent taste, madam,” said the dealer. Margaret, blushing slightly, quickly stood up, took a pace backward, and hid the tape measure behind her back.

  “How do you feel about that lot, pet?” asked Kendall-Hume, sweeping a hand across the six carpets.

  “None of them is big enough,” Melody replied, giving them only a fleeting glance.

  The dealer clapped his hands a second time and the exhibits were rolled up and taken away. Four larger ones soon replaced them.

  “Would you care for some coffee?” the dealer asked Mr. Kendall-Hume as the new carpets lay unfurled at their feet.

  “Haven’t the time,” said Kendall-Hume shortly. “Here to buy a carpet. If I want a coffee, I can always go to a coffee shop,” he said with a chuckle. Melody smiled her complicity.

  “Well, I would like some coffee,” declared Margaret, determined to rebel at some point in the vacation.

  “Delighted, madam,” said the dealer, and one of the assistants disappeared to carry out her wishes while the Kendall-Humes studied the new carpets. The coffee arrived a few moments later. She thanked the young assistant and began to sip the thick black liquid slowly. Delicious, she thought, and smiled her acknowledgment to the dealer.

  “Still not large enough,” Mrs. Kendall-Hume insisted. The dealer gave a slight sigh and clapped his hands yet again. Once more the assistants began to roll up the rejected goods. He then addressed one of his staff in Turkish. The assistant looked doubtfully at his mentor, but the dealer gave a firm nod and waved him away. The assistant returned a little later with a small platoon of lesser assistants carrying two carpets, both of which when unfolded took up most of the shop floor. Margaret liked them even less than the ones she had just been shown, but as her opinion was not sought she did not offer it.

  “That’s more like it,” said Ray Kendall-Hume. “Jus
t about the right size for the living room, wouldn’t you say, Melody?”

  “Perfect,” his wife replied, making no attempt to measure either of the carpets.

  “I’m glad we agree,” said Ray Kendall-Hume. “But which one, my pet? The faded red-and-blue, or the bright yellow-and-orange?”

  “The yellow-and-orange one,” said Melody without hesitation. “I like the pattern of brightly colored birds running round the outside.” Christopher thought he saw the dealer wince.

  “So now all we have left to do is agree on a price,” said Kendall-Hume. “You’d better sit down, pet, as this may take a while.”

  “I hope not,” said Mrs. Kendall-Hume, resolutely standing. The Robertses remained mute.

  “Unfortunately, sir,” began the dealer, “your wife has selected one of the finest carpets in our collection, and so I fear there can be little room for any readjustment.”

  “How much?” said Kendall-Hume.

  “You see, sir, this carpet was woven in Demirdji, in the province of Izmir, by over a hundred seamstresses, and it took them more than a year to complete.”

  “Don’t give me that baloney,” said Kendall-Hume, winking at Christopher. “Just tell me how much I’m expected to pay.”

  “I feel it my duty to point out, sir, that this carpet shouldn’t be here at all,” said the Turk plaintively. “It was originally made for an Arab prince who failed to complete the transaction when the price of oil collapsed.”

  “But he must have agreed on a price at the time?”

  “I cannot reveal the exact figure, sir. It embarrasses me to mention it.”

  “It wouldn’t embarrass me,” said Kendall-Hume. “Come on, what’s the price?” he insisted.

  “Which currency would you prefer to trade in?” the Turk asked.

  “Pounds.”

  The dealer removed a slim calculator from his jacket pocket, tapped some numbers into it, then looked unhappily toward the Kendall-Humes.

  Christopher and Margaret remained silent, like schoolchildren fearing that the headmaster might ask them a question to which they could not possibly know the answer.